Chapter 17
“Think for a second,” Cillian answered Emma’s question as Vincent held his silence.
“If His Grace professed that you were to be his wife—especially with one party in far dire circumstances than the other, people shall bat eyes. Unless you set up a united front, they will dig and dig and snoop and find something to cause an even greater scandal.”
“And what greater scandal could there be than the one already brewing?” Emma narrowed her eyes.
Cillian drummed his fingers on the tea table, his eyes shifting shrewdly between the pair. There was something about this man that tickled the back of Vincent’s mind. Why did he look so familiar?
“How you met, for example. Everyone in the Upper Ten knows His Grace is the more reclusive type—forgive me, Sir, but you scarcely attend your own socials. So how is it that you met?” Cillian put forth.
“And how is it that while being courted by this other gentleman, a Marquess, if I understand correctly—” he gave Agnes a questioning look to which she nodded, “—that you are now His Grace’s wife-to-be?
And then living apart after announcing marriage?
Some unscrupulous individuals of the ton—not I, of course—may follow the line of reasoning and mistake you for a secret paramour to the duke. ”
Ruffling his hair, Vincent replied, “He… may have a point there, Emma.”
“But…” she hesitated. She hesitated in agreeing as a deep part of her felt that being in close quarters with Vincent would be hazardous to her emotions. As she cast the idea over her mind, she saw the sense in it. She shook her head again, “It makes sense, I suppose.”
Inclining his head, Cillian asked, “Did you meet today?”
“No,” Emma said. For a moment, he wondered if she would tell her deepest secret. “We met when Lord Windham took me to the races. His Grace invited Lord Windham and me to go to the isle with him, and unfortunately, I, being all fingers and thumbs, managed to fall overboard.”
Tsk-ing, Cillian reached for his tea. “And I thought James here was the clumsy one.”
“Am not!” James said hotly.
“Of course not, cousin,” Cillian teased with a smug smile.
Like a lightning strike, the realization shot through him. He’d seen Cillian at Whites that night, the very night he had mocked him for winning a paltry five thousand. He’d said something about his cousins that night—what was it?
“—are you going to share your winnings with your family?” a man asked.
“Not this time,” Cillian murmured with one hand stuck in his pocket. “I need to clear a few debts first, and my cousin and his family are all right for now. His grandmother is taking care of them at the present.”
This was the family he’d been speaking of—and decided to neglect. What was he doing back in London then?
Did Emma know that he had won that money? She had not mentioned it, so he was leaning toward thinking the lad had not spoken a word of it.
“Are we agreed then?” Agnes asked.
Emma gave in, “I’ll go pack my things.”
“I’ll help you, dearest.”
As the two went off, Vincent asked, “Cillian, is it? What is your business in town?”
“I manage farmland, but I’m trying to expand into moving commodities across England to Scotland and even the Irish Isles,” Cillian said, shifting his teacup to the side. “Others have attempted it before. The difference, of course, is that I have the sense and the means to do it properly.”
“I see,” Vincent murmured, keeping an eye on the stairs. “You went to school for this, yes?”
“Four years, Cambridge,” Cillian replied.
“I also traveled the Americas to speak with a few men there who made conveyances all throughout the south—invaluable insight, as it happens. A greater title would have eased my entry considerably, the best players in that arena being what they are, but one works with what one has. Though I…”
Vincent had long since stopped listening. The man was extraordinarily fond of his own voice. Left to his own devices, Vincent suspected he would still be holding forth come Christmastide with no audience but the furniture.
Soft steps descending the stairs soon had him looking up to see Emma’s grandmother coming down. “Emma is almost finished. Your Grace, may I ask you a favor?”
“Any person whom Emma holds in high regard has my attention and my goodwill both,” Vincent replied chivalrously.
Agnes’ face did not shift from the soft expression. “Earlier, when you introduced yourself, I had my suspicions about your name and title. Emma has confirmed them since.”
Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but she held out her hand, stopping him.
“I know what history lies between you and my son. And I have made my peace with it—that is not why I am here speaking to you now.” Her voice was gentle but carried a great deal.
“I am an old woman, Your Grace, and I have watched that girl carry more than any person her age ought to.
She has never once complained. Not once.
“I humble myself here to ask you to please do right by her. Whatever the ton says, whatever vitriol comes of all this—please do not let her face it alone.”
From the corner of his eyes, Vincent saw Cillian’s face darken in curiosity and realized that this cousin did not know the reason for his uncle’s financial demise.
“I give you my word,” Vincent replied as Emma emerged from the staircase, covered in a very familiar dark cloak, while holding a bag at her side. Curiously, she was still wearing his clothes, and a savage possessive streak ran through him.
She set the bag down on a chair. “I have enough for a few days.”
James’ face fell. “You’re really leaving? So soon?”
“I—I…” Emma paused, then crossed over to him. “I won’t be gone forever, James. I only need a little time to decide what to do next.” She reached for his hand, giving it a small, firm squeeze. “I would not leave you and Grandmama alone. You know that.”
Vincent looked away, feeling very much like he was intruding on a private moment.
Whatever he had expected of this errand, it had not been this—the strange gutting sight of a boy trying very hard not to show how frightened he was of being left alone.
Something in that feigned bravado was achingly familiar.
It reminded Vincent of himself ten years ago.
Quietly, he redoubled every promise he had made to himself on the way here.
Emma wrapped her arms around her brother and hugged him tightly. Vincent’s eyes dropped to the floor.
He thought of Benjamin. The last time he had held him was the night before he’d gone back to Cambridge for the spring semester, Benjamin thin and pale but laughing at something, he could not even remember what now.
Two months later, Vincent had stood at a graveside with mud on his boots and a hollowness in his chest that had never entirely filled.
His father had not come. For years, Vincent had not forgiven him for it.
But standing here now, watching Emma hold her brother like she could keep him safe by sheer force of will—watching her love him so plainly and so fiercely—something shifted.
His father had not stayed away out of indifference.
He had stayed away because he could not bear to look at what his guilelessness had cost. Because some griefs are too large and too shameful to be witnessed.
It had taken Vincent far too long to understand that. He was beginning to understand it now.
James nodded. “Come back soon.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Vincent said fiercely. To Agnes, he assured, “And I will hold onto my promise.”
All through the exchange, Cillian was silent, and while it all felt a touch too calculated, Vincent fixed his attention on Emma. “Shall we?”
She drew the cowl up. “Let’s.”
“Where should I send the gift I promised you?” Cillian finally spoke. “Here or to His Grace’s home.”
Emma paused. “Here would be best.”
He dipped his head. “I wish you both the happiest.”
As they stepped out into the gathering dusk and into the carriage, he noted, “You don’t believe him in the slightest, do you?”
“Ordinarily, I would not,” Emma replied as the vehicle set off. “But for now, I think he’s being sincere. The man is a pretentious wiseacre, and he is fastened to the patriarchy like dried mud to a pig—”
A laugh punched itself out of Vincent’s throat.
“—but in this instance…” she paused. “…I think he meant it. I do not know if he’s miraculously grown a conscience, or if he is seeing the gravity of the situation and has put his biases to the side.”
Giving her an assessing look, Vincent asked, “Did he ever tell you he won five thousand pounds at White’s a few weeks ago?”
Emma’s mouth dropped, and shock marred her face white. “What? H—How do you know that?”
“I was there,” he replied, tactfully withholding how he had mocked the man. Something told him she would not be too receptive. “At the card tables. I overheard him say he needed to clear off a couple of debts in favor of helping his family. I had no idea that you were his family.”
She shook her head, “It does not surprise me. Cillian is as selfish as they come.”
Drumming his fingers on his seat, Vincent said, “Speaking of money, at least now we do not need any sham or roundabout way to get your family the help they need. James will still be taken care of, and as for you, I’ll set up an account that you can access at any time—with a fifty-thousand-pound investment. ”
“Fifty—what?” Emma gasped. “No.”
“Yes,” he put in firmly. “And you will not stop me.”
A yawning emptiness seemed to swell within Emma and threatened to swallow her—what Vincent was proposing felt… exploitative. Logically, she knew she was not doing anything of the sort, but it still felt like it.
Vincent did not seem to realize her state as he was still speaking, “—we can get the banns published for three weeks, or we can go for the special license.”
Emma felt ill. The reality crashed over her.
Was this going to be her life now, married to a man who did not want her for her but was only pressured because of their shared past and a scandal?
Would there be no love ever in her life?
It seemed so. Her life had long been cold and empty, and after a few weeks of hope, it seemed to be continuing to no end.
“Vincent—”
“—I suppose St James will do for the wedding, but after that, we can share separate lives. You’ll have your quarters, a weekly stipend, a carriage of your own—”
“Vincent—” she choked out.
His eyes sharpened, and in the next moment, he pulled her from her seat and onto his lap. Cupping the back of her neck, his thumb and forefinger rubbed small soothing circles into her skin.
“Breathe, Emma,” he murmured calmly, his warm breath fluttering over her cheek. “Slowly in and slowly out. Do it for me, three times.”
As she breathed in and out, his hand slipped from her neck down to her back. The heat of his hand burned through her clothing, but the warm scent coming from his skin and the solid bulk of his body grounded her.
Eventually, she blinked back the black spots peppering her vision and pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” he whispered. “I can understand how overwhelming this is.” Pausing, he gently pressed, “What made you panic? Do you know?”
“It—it started with your offer for the money, but then…” she breathed shakily, “…this wedding feels like I am entrapping you in a marriage you do not want.”
Vincent did not stall on soothing her. “I would scarcely qualify it for a hardship marrying you, Emma, and you certainly did not entrap me.”
“But—but I did,” she whispered. “Not intentionally, but I was foolish, and I ran away from you to my detriment and forced you to rescue me… for a second time.”
He reached out to flick the carriage curtain to the side and pulled away. “We are almost to my father’s cottage. We’ll go to Arundel House a few weeks after the banns have been read.”
“Is that necessary?” she asked.
Turning away, he replied, “I thought it might be best to take you out of the public eye while I got things in order back at Arundel. I promised your Grandmother I would shield you from the worst of the brewing storm. You’ll have a skeleton staff at the cottage—it’s located in a nice, quiet part of the country. ”
“You won’t be with me?”
Vincent gave her a comforting smile. “It will only be two or three days, pet. I promise.”
Craning her head to look at him, she asked, “Did you ever want to marry? And tell me honestly.”
He exhaled heavily. “Not at this time, no. I had many… things, prioritized before marriage. And even when I was ready, I was not seeking a love match. I’d be fine with a cordial relationship over breakfast and begetting an heir.”
Emma swallowed. “Did you never imagine love in your life?”
“No,” he replied. “Most ton marriages have nothing to do with love; it’s more inclined to preserving rank, fortune, and connections.”
“None of which I have.”
“And none of which you are hell-bent on seeking out either,” Vincent said firmly. “You are not like the other ladies who are only searching for financial security and a title. I imagine you are one of the precious few who dreamed of marrying for love.
“I know you don’t want this marriage, and that… and that you did not want me, Emma, but at the end of this, you will be better off from it.”
Emma frowned. “At the end of this?”
How is it you can speak so easily of the end of our marriage before it has even begun?
He avoided her eyes the rest of the way as the carriage cantered down the lane to the cottage house.