Chapter 14
Faster.
Vincent’s arms shredded the water, his feet kicking in rhythm as he sluiced down the fifty-foot pool, his breath held in until the whole of him was burning.
He’d taken to the pool six nights a week since the stitches had been set.
The wound had healed into a tight, silvery line that pulled whenever he overreached, and the muscle beneath it was still weak in ways that infuriated him.
A sword felt wrong in his hand now, his grip unsteady after the fifth parry.
Climbing anything higher than a staircase left him winded and shaking.
The water was the only place his body did not fight him, and so he swam, punishing lap after lap, dragging himself back toward the man he’d been before the Ballard incident.
The Phantom will have to wait a little while longer.
Tonight, though, it was not only the wound driving him into the water. He had so much vigor to work off… because of little Miss Emma.
He came to the end of the pool and instead of pausing to breathe as he should, gasped in a lungful and kicked off the stone wall, propelling his body through the water again.
God knew he wanted to grab her and shake her to see sense or kiss her senseless.
Which one, which one…
She was not one of the typical young ladies who, in his presence, lost their ability to waggle their tongue. Most ladies lost focus when they were in his vicinity, or they went above and beyond to try to ingratiate themselves with him.
Emma was neither.
She speaks and sees me as any other normal man, and I like that.
Finally, he came to rest at the edge of the pool and slicked his hair from his eyes. The lamps in the bathhouse—modeled after the ancient Roman bathhouses—reflected from torches flickering on the cavernous marble walls as he contemplated his next move with Emma.
There was a boating outing in two days to a little isle in Sands End that he knew this Ashton would be taking her to, and he’d be damned if she didn’t let him hear his explanation then.
“This time, I need to explain it all,” he swiped the water from his face. “I’ll let the cards fall as they may after that.”
Diving in again, his arms plowed through the water harder, faster, as if he could somehow outrun his past self and get away from the sodding disaster that he had once been.
She had to understand his mindset ten years ago; the grief he’d felt for his brother, the shame of his father’s lost wealth, and the rashness of being twenty.
Frustration twisted his insides as he cut through the water; he didn’t know what perturbed him more; seeing Emma favor the Spaniard over him or how badly he wanted to show her he was not the same bastard he’d been back then.
Wanting to kiss her does not hurt either, because devil and damnation, I want her. I want her to be mine.
He swam until his limbs felt numb, and there, he let himself float; he wanted to kiss Emma again as much as he wanted air.
When— and how— had she gotten under his skin so quickly?
It was not purely guilt that drove him to get Emma on his right side; for the first time in a long time, he truly desired a woman to stay with him longer than a toss in the sheets.
But is now the time to veer off course? I need to get justice for Father and Benjy. Should I not focus on that first?
Custor was still out there, untouched, the last and worst of the three. And the mask that could get Vincent to him was gathering dust in a drawer because a hired knife had nearly put him in the ground.
He could not have both. He knew that. The Phantom demanded a man with nothing to lose.
Pushing up from the ledge, he stepped out of the pool, slicking his hair away from his eyes again as he reached for his robe, waiting for him on a bench.
“She will listen to me this time,” he muttered while rolling his neck. “I’ll be damned if I don’t get it done this time.”
“That’s it!” Charlotte plunked a platter of plum cake and fruit tarts in front of Emma. “Something is perturbing you and I want to know what it is.”
Peeking up from the book in her lap, Emma’s stomach twisted. She should have anticipated this outcome coming from Charlotte when she had invited her for a weekend stay at her home.
Forcing the most confusing look on her face, Emma asked, “Why do you think something is wrong?”
“Because not once have I heard you wax poetic about Lord Ashton’s charms!” Charlotte nearly shouted. “Half the ladies from Dowager Ophelia’s tea party can speak of nothing else—they are all champing at the bit to dance with him or at least have his attention.”
“And I am sure they are wondering why someone like me has both,” Emma sighed as she reached for a tart.
“Indubitably,” Charlotte replied as she cut into her cake. “So, will you tell me what is worrying you. You are my friend, Emma, nothing you say will pass my lips.”
Dropping the tart on the platter, Emma mulled over what to tell Charlotte. Certainly, her friend would not judge her or make her feel less than for not only her confusing actions but her conflicting emotions too.
She sighed. “Well… I saved a man’s life and then he kissed me and then he turned out to be the Duke of Highminster who happens to be the very man who ruined my family’s life,” she said succinctly.
Charlotte, to her credit, simply nodded. “Tell me more.”
With her heart lodged somewhere far back in her throat, Emma told her friend the whole sordid tale, from the night he’d saved her from the footpad in the rain, to sewing his injury the night of the ball, and to him coming to her home in the middle of the night.
Charlotte was quiet for a moment. “A stab wound. At his own ball. And he refused a physician.”
“Yes.”
“That is passing strange, Emma. Men of his rank summon physicians for a splinter.” Charlotte turned her teacup slowly. “Whatever he was doing that night, he did not want anyone to know about it.”
Emma had not considered that angle before, and the thought unsettled her.
“And then, I went to his house,” she finally admitted, her gaze down on the amber depths of her tea. “Well, one of dozens, I assume. He—” she puffed out a breath, “—offered to get James the help he needs with a private tutor—”
“That’s wonderful!” her friend exclaimed.
“—financed by him as an apology for what he did so many years ago and to honor his late brother who died of another health condition,” Emma explained on.
“I am willing to swallow my pride and accept his help if for James’s sake…
just have him leave me alone so I can be courted by Lord Ashton in peace. ”
Nodding along, Charlotte sagely put in, “And do you truly prefer Lord Ashton?”
Emma eyed her friend as if she’d suddenly lost her senses. “Why wouldn’t I? He is perfect, and Grandmama is so elated when he sends his cards.”
“Sounds like your dear Grandmama likes him more than you do,” Charlotte said.
Now Emma was sure Charlotte was losing her mind. “How in heaven could you think that? Ashton is objectively the better choice than that… that—that dunderhead!”
Snickering, Charlotte dropped a dollop of milk in her tea. When Emma huffed, Charlotte shook her head wryly, “Emma, I do not know if you were listening to yourself, but you’ve shown more emotion speaking about Highminster in the last hour than you’ve shown about Lord Ashton all month.”
Pursing her lips, Emma replied, “That’s because he infuriates me!”
Setting her cup to the side, Charlotte folded her hands primly. “Humor me for a moment, dear. Close your eyes, and think of either man’s face. Tell me which pops into your mind first.”
Emma was about to try, then threw up her hands in frustration.
“It’s futile,” she sighed, “he lives in my head all day and haunts me at night. He wants to explain why he had taken the last of my father’s money, but I don’t think there is any explanation he could give to explain away such cruelty,” she pressed on, her eyes straying from the wide mullioned window to Charlotte’s side. “I’d rather him let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Do you not think it will put the mystery about the situation to bed?” Charlotte asked pointedly. “It may not be a comforting explanation, but at least you could receive some closure.”
Pouting, Emma grumbled, “Sometimes I hate that sound mind of yours.”
Laughing outright, Charlotte patted Emma’s hand, “You still have Harriet to immerse you in the world of torrid romance novels and tantalizing fairy tales.”
Rolling her eyes, Emma bit back her smile. “That is true. I’ll take Hattie’s amusingly fallible approach to life over yours.”
“I am just happy to be the voice of reason in our circle,” Charlotte giggled. “Now, more tea?”
Sunlight glimmered over the waves at the line of the Thames, splintering the dark waters into faceted shards. On the aft deck of his yacht, Vincent diligently searched through the crowd below for Emma and found her near the ramps.
Under a rich blue boot length coat styled à la militaire with lace epaulets—his lips ticked up—he realized her coat was half belted. Underneath it was a pristine ivory dress that, trimmed with lace, looked exquisite on her slender frame.
Her hair had been fashioned into a smart chignon that kept the tender length of her throat bare, and in his mind’s eye, he envisioned the perfect necklace for it: a pearl-studded choker with a diamond in the middle.
Now, where did that notion come from?
As bothered as he was by the incongruous thought, he nodded to his footman. “Go get her.”
From the shadowed side of the yacht, he watched as she followed the footman up the ramp and over to him, her face a twist of confusion, until they rounded a corner and she spotted him.
“Lord Ashton, thank goodn—” She turned, and her words died on her lips. Instantly, her gaze hardened. “What are you doing here and where is Lord Ashton?”
“He is not coming,” Vincent said plainly.
Her jewel-toned irises narrowed to shards. “Why?”
“Because I told him not to,” Vincent replied. “You and I need to speak without him being in the middle.”