Chapter 4
Emma didn’t dare look at the duke—couldn’t bear being in the same room with him—alone, at that.
She couldn’t imagine what could have possessed everyone to simply abandon her so rudely.
She hoped the duke would leave too, but instead he ventured within the drawing room, his footfalls echoing woodenly upon the floor as he made his way across to the hearth.
On the Aubusson carpet, he halted beside her, and she swallowed convulsively, not daring to look higher than his boots.
She daren’t respond to his presence. Instead, she examined her book thoroughly despite that she knew every inch of every page already.
“That was quite a touching tale,” he remarked after an uncomfortable moment of silence.
Slowly, Emma peered up to find him skimming his long, lean fingers along the ribbons and tinsel that stretched the length of the mantel, examining it, the male strength in his hand a direct contrast to the delicate strips of satin cloth and brittle foil.
The candles burning upon the mantel cast alternating light and shadow upon his profile.
He lifted up a cherub and then replaced it at once.
“Yes, well”—she swallowed convulsively—“I would have thought you would have long since gone, Your Grace.”
He sighed, turning to face her, his hands locked behind his back. “No doubt you will be pleased to hear I will be leaving first thing in the morning.” His lips curled in that sardonic manner he had, except that this time she wasn’t tempted to brush her fingers across to coax a smile in its place.
And yet, she tried, but couldn’t tear her gaze away. His eyes were so hypnotic... like before, somehow pleading with her, making her believe he needed her somehow.
Well, she refused to acknowledge it.
She lifted her chin slightly. “I should have been significantly more pleased to have learned you’d already gone,” she said honestly, and stood to face him, dropping the book into Andrew’s chair.
She wanted to say more, wanted to ask what she had done to cause him to set her aside so resolutely, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter a word in that vein.
“Now if you will pardon me,” she said, flustered.
“We’re in the midst of a holiday celebration, and I have matters to attend. ” Turning, she hurried for the door.
He had the audacity to chuckle at her back.
Emma halted and turned to face him, insulted by his mirth, only when she did, she had the sense that his laughter had been at his own expense, not hers, and she found herself once again confused.
He shook his head, as though in self-disgust. “Do I frighten you so much you must rush to leave every time you find yourself in my presence?”
Emma lifted her chin. “Frightened, Your Grace? I think not.” She shook her head. “I simply have nothing left to say to you.”
He advanced upon her suddenly, and she took a step backward. “No?”
“N-no,” she affirmed, though she wasn’t precisely certain whether it was in answer to his question or a desperate plea that he keep his distance.
“You’ve changed,” he acknowledged, taking another step toward her.
“And you haven’t,” she returned, withdrawing another foot.
He shook his head as though in puzzlement and said as though bemused, “I don’t remember you being so impertinent.”
“What did you expect? That I should lie down and weep for the rest of my days simply because you chose not to honor our betrothal? Well, sirrah, I am heartily sorry to disappoint, but I will not!”
He shook his head again. “To the contrary... although you may find this difficult to believe, I’m quite pleased. I never intended to wound you, Emma.”
Emma flinched at his intimate use of her name.
His voice was soft—too soft—reminding her of the danger of venturing too close to the man; he radiated warmth, but like the sun, if you happened too near, he consumed.
“Well, then, Your Grace,” she said, far more comfortable with formality, “you may rest assured that you did not. As you can see, I am quite well, thank you very much. So now you may leave Newgale in good conscience. You are free to go,” she said again.
His face screwed suddenly, his blue eyes shadowing. “Am I?”
Emma didn’t fool herself into believing he actually regretted what had come to pass between them. If his life was in disorder it was certainly no concern of hers. Nor was it any less then he deserved. “Of course,” she assured.
He took another step closer, his smoky eyes boring into hers. “I take it that you are ultimately pleased with the outcome?”
Pleased?
Emma nearly choked on the word. “Delighted,” she replied. And unable to bear the sight of him a second longer, she swallowed and once again turned to leave him. “Now if you will excuse me, Your Grace.”
To her shock, Lucien caught her by the sleeve, and Emma flinched at his touch, yet turned once more to face him, though the instant she peered into his tortured eyes she wished she hadn’t. They were so filled with concern for her that she thought she might truly weep.
She couldn’t bear his pity.
“Please tell me why you seem so aggrieved,” he entreated. “Tell me why you cannot bear even to look at me.”
Her hands began to tremble and her eyes misted. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. But I am not aggrieved,” she denied fervently. “If anything, I am quite angry, you see.”
“Because of the broken betrothal?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I have already said quite enough.”
His blue eyes challenged her. “Tell me once more, Emma,” he demanded softly.
The sound of her name upon his lips again sent a quiver racing down her spine. Freeing herself from his grasp, Emma said a little hysterically, “Because you don’t belong here, and you shouldn’t have come!”
His brows lifted a little at her declaration.
“Not to put too fine a point on it,” he remarked, nodding.
“Very well, Emma.” He sighed and some unnamed emotion flickered in the depth of his eyes.
For the briefest instant, Emma thought she saw again that same wounded look that had once made her so willing to love him.
But she didn’t fool herself into believing it this time.
The duke was no more wounded than he was compassionate.
If anything, he was feeling guilty for what he was about to do to her life—and not without cause.
She swallowed convulsively, loathing that she was trying so desperately to release him from his guilt, when he well deserved to feel remorse—and more.
The ton would have a time with the news of her broken betrothal.
She couldn’t imagine the speculation—the cruel jokes at her expense.
Still, she proposed, “You owe me nothing, Your Grace. Now if you will only pardon me at long last, I wish you Godspeed and a good life.”
Lucien nodded, releasing her finally.
“Godspeed,” she offered once again, more firmly this time, nearly choking on the word, and then she turned from him and left.
“Farewell, Emma,” he said.
Emma didn’t turn again, nor did she stop until she reached her room. The finality of that single word pursued her all the way through the house.
Once within her bedroom, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, straining to catch her breath.
God help her, she had done it. She had well and truly done it.
She’d said good-bye and had meant it with all her heart and soul.
She’d freed him, and had still managed to retain her dignity.
Later, perhaps, dignity alone might seem a cold bedfellow, but this minute it seemed like all the world.
It was something to build upon, she knew. .. and perchance all was not lost.
It was not unheard of to find a husband at twenty two, she told herself.
And she had her dowry still. Quite a neat little sum it was, and if the scandal to come did not ruin her entirely, then perhaps one day she would still find that dream she so craved—a husband who loved her and children she adored.
Someday, but for now she was content to simply hold her dignity intact.
Without it, she might as well lie down and weep. And weeping was something she refused to do.
Nevertheless, she was feeling quite bereft at the instant, and her heart felt tattered besides. Her eyes stinging with tears she would not shed, Emma undressed for bed and then lay down to count her blessings. She fell asleep with visions of Lucien dancing in her head.