Chapter 14 #2
War and imprisonment had denied him the comforts of a woman’s arms. Aye, that realization hit him like a brick. Horror-struck by his thoughts, after all Emma had done for him and his family—though he wasn’t privy to knowing how—he wanted more for her than words could describe.
He grumbled to himself and started to leave, fearing he might say or do something impolite, demeaning himself further.
That would only make matters worse. He loved Emma.
He always had. In fact, he’d assumed that she’d wait for him, that they would always be together, in some form taking her for granted.
What good had that done either of them?
She deserved better.
They were different now. He wasn’t the same man he’d once been. He was marked, an ogre, his body covered with scars. What woman found a monster attractive? What woman chose a man pierced by guilt and despair?
“Sir Christmas!” The hurt and surprise in her voice pulled him up short. “Please, don’t go. Stay.”
Damn me. The last thing I want to do is hurt her feelings. I’ve lost faith in miracles.
“Emma.” He retraced his steps. “Pardon me for intruding.”
“Your presence,” she said, “is a gift in and of itself. Please. Stay.”
The servant to her right motioned for the others to follow her lead. They moved as one to the door, the youngest among them releasing a giggle.
Curiously, he watched them go, incapable of understanding the female brain. What was so funny? Why didn’t the sight of him—his pitiful weakness, eternal damnation, and haggard appearance—disgust them?
“Do come in,” she pleaded. “Sir Christmas, you used to enjoy dressing the house during the Yuletide. Your mother told me all sorts of stories—”
He put his hand up to stop her. “Please, do not speak of her. Not yet. I am only beginning to adjust to the fact that she and Noel are gone.”
“Of course.” She nodded, a sad expression overtaking her features. “What would you prefer to talk about?”
His body responded, his legs moving as if by their own accord. Before he knew it, he stood before her wondering what the hell he was doing there. “I—” He fought for the right words to convey his despair, his tongue thick and unwilling to oblige. “Why did you never marry?”
“Because I love you, Chris,” she said softly, the tenderness in her tone piercing his hardened heart. Demmed organ!
“Still?” he asked numbly taken aback. “After all this time, after all that has happened?”
“Still.” She went to the window and adorned it with garland. “There have been others, just as you predicted at the last ball we attended.”
Blood raced through his extremities. What did she mean? “Others?”
She cut a length of ribbon, created a bow, and festooned the garland. “If you recall, Lord Lyddon, and your cousin, Mr. Townsbridge.”
“I warned you about Lyddon.”
“Yes,” she said sadly, “you did. But the baron still pursues me with an audacity that’s baffling.”
He mumbled, “Curse him with the pox.”
She turned and regarded him with the sternest expression. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘He’s as crafty as a fox.’” Her raised brow expressed disbelief. He changed the subject before she could inquire otherwise. “Has anyone else caught your fancy these past five years?”
“My—” She spun to face him, ribbon and holly dropping from her fingers to the floor. “Your cousin has shown an interest in me, though I doubt it is for the reasons you believe. He simply seeks to inherit Milne Manor and the viscountcy.”
Thinking about his cousin made Chris turn green with envy.
The man had doted upon his aunt for nefarious reasons.
Not for the fact that he cared about her, but because of her husband’s wealth.
With no children to occupy her days and nights, Reginald saw an opportunity to earn easy money.
That was how he’d been as a youth and how Chris imagined he still was.
If Reginald could get his hands on Milne Manor, he wouldn’t need to grovel on his hands and knees to his betters.
A title could take a man a long way, but it didn’t change the man.
She quickly changed the subject. “You cannot know how much delight your company gives us. Your presence here is miraculous.”
Her gaze met his, her eyes dancing in the candlelight. She was remarkable. Why was she still at Milne Manor? Why wasn’t she dressing Claverfield? He understood she was his father’s ward, but surely, she had a life of her own to live, suitors, reason to be in her own home.
She was twenty-seven. Why wasn’t she married with a babe on each hip, beyond his reach?
Miracles were wasted on him.
She glanced away when he failed to respond. “I cannot confess to knowing what you’ve been through all these years. All I know is that you are finally here with us, able to share the season, and for that I am extremely grateful.”
Frustrated and bewildered, her vulnerability in the moment nearly undid him. “Why are you dressing this room?” he asked a little more harshly than he intended. The last thing she required was for him to take her into his arms and kiss her soundly. She deserved better, and he would prove it to her.
“You are finally home.” After a few tense moments, she met his stare, her eyes inquisitive and caring, not appalled by his behavior or fearful. “I sought to encourage a festive mood to the room that once brought you joy.”
“My father told me this room was off limits.”
She nodded, neither timidly nor tamely, twirling a length of gold ribbon between her fingers as if there was nothing he could say or do that would ever change her mind. “This is for you, Sir Christmas.”
Touched by her efforts but unsettled by her return to formally addressing him, he said, “Perhaps, for the sake of all that is good and just, things should remain as they were, for my father’s sake.
” Knowing so little about the situation, he dared not to do anything that would jeopardize his father’s health.
Passions of the mind were just as deadly as a broadside.
She straightened her spine, her supple, full mouth thinning with censure. “Lord Astley-Milne has seen his share of hardships. But now, fortune has smiled upon him. You are home, where you belong. And . . . that deserves to be celebrated when there has been little to rejoice for far too long.”
The passion and conviction in her voice nearly crushed him. While he’d been reeling with guilt, there had been times that he’d forgotten to think about what the years had cost his loved ones, especially his parents.
“And you?” he asked. “Why are you here?”
Emma walked toward him, almost floating as if in a dream.
She reached out for his hand, sending a shocking spark through his entire being as she led him to the settee and sat down beside him.
“Your father took me in when my parents became ill. When they” —she raised the back of her right hand to her lips— “didn’t survive, one dying within a day of the other, he made a generous offer. He asked me to be his ward.”
Bollocks! This wasn’t anything he didn’t already know.
What he didn’t understand was why she’d agreed to such a thing.
She would have been young, but not young enough to need a wardship.
He’d bought a commission at nineteen. He’d seen other men return home to find their beloved properly turned out and happy with another man.
Surely, she would have been better off without the wasted years she’d been forced to bear waiting for him.
So, why did she do it? “You were of age,” he said matter-of-factly. “You could have married to ensure you were provided for rather than take care of my father.”
Her brows furrowed, and she drew back the hand he still held as if she’d been truly insulted.
Her lower lip began to tremble. He fought to keep from taking her into his arms and kissing her soundly to prove she’d done the right thing.
Except she hadn’t. He wasn’t worth all she’d endured.
If only he’d known the path his betrothal would take her along when he’d asked her to marry him.
“What are you saying?” she asked, her voice cracking with emotion.
He took her hand in his and held her gaze, willing her to understand that which he couldn’t.
“I am sorry for all that has happened. I feel responsible. The thought of you, safe and happy, living your life while . . . I . . . well, that was an image which kept me sane.” He looked about the room, taking in the splendor she had created. “This kept me going.”
She touched his cheek, smiling. The intimacy, so close to his mangled face, caught him off guard. “No matter what I experienced after my parents passed, nothing could ever make me as happy as the knowledge that you are safe does.”
“But you could have had a family by now . . . children.”
She shook her head, her pouting lips more alluring than ever before. Did she blame him for the missed opportunities of marrying or having children? A crushing weight settled over his chest making it difficult to breathe. Anticipation filled him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“I had more important things on my mind,” she said firmly.
Their gazes locked, her heat seeping into him, reminding him how long he’d been without a woman’s touch.
Her voice, proud and regal, compelled him to kiss her lips.
And by crock, he didn’t have the right. He hadn’t earned her love.
He never would. He’d seen too much. His code of ethics, his very soul tested beyond persuasion.
And yet . . . he could not stop the flood of desire overtaking him like a tide before a storm.
“Important things?” he asked huskily, his tone deeper and more passionate than he intended.
“Yes.” Her breathless reply fed his longing. He wanted to hear the word ‘yes’ from her lips over and over again, especially when she was beneath him.
They drew together, their mouths but a whisper apart.
He knew this was wrong. He knew he should retreat, instead of taking advantage of Emma’s sympathy.
But he didn’t care. She was here, now. Real.
Not a figment of his dreams or imagination.
Her touch stirred feelings inside him he’d bolted away.
And damn me, I’m a monster for not being able to deny them.
Her warm breath saturated his skin as he drew close, pleasant and minty. He longed to taste her, explore her mouth, hear her call his name—
“Miss Clavering?”