Chapter 30
Halfway through the picnic games, while the ladies tossed painted hoops and the gentlemen began turning lawn bowls into a matter of national pride, Emma wandered toward the hedge maze.
Passing beneath the clipped arch, the noises of the Garden party faded behind her.
She could not go on this way.
She was falling in love with Vincent.
The truth sat there, impossible to dress up in prettier language, and it hurt worse for being so plain.
She loved him—the same man who destroyed her family yet made every effort to see her safe and provided—and the struggle of keeping herself apart from him had begun to pull at her heart, stitch by stitch.
“If only I could go back in time and stop myself from sending that silly letter, what might have been…” Emma whispered as she met another dead end and spun back with a frustrated sweep of her skirts.
Finding the heart of the maze at last, she came upon a marble fountain of Bacchus surrounded by his merry satyrs and Maenads, all naked limbs, wicked mouths, and grape-heavy garlands.
Just perfect.
Sitting on the fountain’s edge, she smoothed her gloves over her knees and tried to compose her thoughts.
How would Vincent react if she told him?
Would he reject her outright… or might he make an effort to accept it? Could he possibly even… heavens, what foolishness… return her feelings?
A week ago, she might have even believed it. He’d been an affectionate and wildly passionate husband—enough to make this foolishness bloom in her own heart, and now…
Now I don’t know what to do.
Her chest felt as hollow as the coal mines in the Midlands. She needed to speak with Ashton and tell him to stop; explain to him her reply was meant to be an earnest rebuff, and that she intended to stay with her husband, regardless of whether he reciprocated her feelings or not—
“Forgive me, I saw you leave the lawn and couldn’t keep myself from following.”
Emma twisted around and—Oh God, this was bad.
“Lord Windham.” Rising too quickly, her skirt snagged on the fountain, and she tugged it free. “I have been meaning to speak with you, b-but not here. I must go at—”
“Please don’t go. Not yet.” His hand darted out, hovered a breath near her sleeve, and dropped so wretchedly bare, Emma almost pitied him. “I’ve made a damned mess of it. I know that. But give me five minutes before you walk away from me forever.”
“…Whatever for?” she asked warily.
“For the truth.” His color rose, staining the soft fairness of his face.
“I was wrong to brag at White’s. I was drunk, angry, and heartsick, which is no excuse, but there it is.
I never should’ve let your name cross that card room.
But the rest of it—wanting you, wishing I had spoken sooner, thinking of you as my wife before Highminster ever came between us—that was no lie. ”
“Lord Windham—”
“I have a house in Espana,” he blurted, inching nearer. “If you so wish it, Emma, we could be gone before anyone thinks to look beyond Dover. By this time tomorrow, you could be free of all this.”
Emma shook her head wildly, the words lodging first in her throat. “It’s not possible…”
“Why can’t it be!” he implored. “Tell me plainly. Are you even happy in this marriage?”
For one breath, all the noise from the picnic seemed very far away.
“I am,” Emma said finally, and as the words left her, something inside her stopped trembling. “And no, not because a priest recited the words. Or because London was watching to see me stumble, or even because of the scandal I thrust into our lives. But because I chose him without ever realizing.
“I chose Vincent. Foolishly, maybe. Hastily, yes. But I would choose him again, and again, and had someone else saved me that day from drowning, I still would have only ever chosen Vincent.”
Windham stared at her.
“I made a grave error in answering your letter. I was confused, and hurt, and foolish enough to think his offer of freedom meant I should have gentled my words to you. I know now. I want my husband.”
The blow landed quietly. His face lost its open hope first, then the rest of its color.
“So… that is your answer,” he mumbled.
“Yes.” Emma stepped back before pity could make her weak. “I—I am sorry, Lord Windham. Truly. But this ends here.”
“Emma, wait—”
Gathering her skirts, she was ducking out of the fountain square before he could finish, and hurried through the hedge corridors, turning left by the broken urn, right where the yew had grown thin enough to show a stripe of lawn beyond it.
Glimpsing the opening ahead, Emma slowed, dropped her skirts, and at the clipped arch, feigned nonchalance as she burst into the picnic area.
She was barely a few steps away from the maze when Windham came bursting out and snatched her arm—at the worst possible time.
A horde of young ladies and their mamas had arrived to tour the maze, all their bright chatter dying the instant they saw his hand on her sleeve.
Emma froze, unable to move.
In that dreadful second, her life flashed before her eyes.
“Your Grace?” one matron asked, her gaze cutting from Windham to Emma, “what is going on here?”
Before Emma could find a single word, Vincent barged through the crowd.
“Emma, I’ve been—” His eyes landed on Windham’s hand on her wrist, and the words died on his tongue. “What the devil are you doing?”
Her relief at seeing him fizzled when fury so intensely contorted his face into that of a beast.
“We only spoke in passing,” Windham tried to explain, releasing her at once. “And she left—”
Cutting between them, Vincent snarled, “I’ll kill you for touching my wife.”
“Vincent—”
“It was reflex,” Windham said, tipping his chin up, his gaze daring, jaw stiff. “She left before I could apologize.”
“And just what gives you the right to speak to her at all?” Vincent grated, his voice dropping dark enough to hush the nearest fan.
Fear burgeoned through Emma—no longer for herself, but for him. The guests were all looking at him with piqued brows, whispering behind fans, not bothering to hide their malicious delight.
“Stop this,” she whispered fiercely. “Both of you.”
“No. I was going to apologize for my drunken ramblings at White’s,” Windham said, pride dragging him straight to Bedlam. “But now I don’t think I shall.” Looking past Vincent to Emma, he added, “My offer of marriage still stands if you decide to leave—”
The gasps had barely rent the air in two before Vincent’s fist landed on Windham’s jaw, sending him spiraling to the left.
Paralyzed, Emma felt the encasing ice of horror nail her feet to the ground as the marquess rounded and came back with a punch that Vincent easily blocked before driving his fist in a crushing blow to the man’s gut that folded him.
The shout of pain snapped Emma out of her paralysis, and she dashed over, grabbing Vincent’s arm before he swung again.
“Stop this,” she said urgently. “Please, for god’s sake, stop this. Nothing happened. He—”
“Touched you.” Vincent’s eyes were dark enough to make the spring day feel suddenly thin. “No man puts hands on you and keeps them without my permission.”
His intensity shocked clean through her, but still she held on, fingers digging into his sleeve, insisting, “Please, stop.”
Black spots were peppering her vision as her stomach began to lurch. She knew if she looked around to see the gleefully scandalized faces around them, she would faint. The pyre of social disgrace was already set to burst into flame.
“Let’s not do this here,” she pleaded. “I’ll explain everything once we are in private. Please.”
Windham was finally getting up to his elbows when Vincent spun around and stalked from the gathering, giving no look to the men and women staring holes into the side of his neck. Feeling sick to her stomach, Emma hurried after him, fearing for his mental state.
He strode to the carriage lined up at the gate.
Their driver startled from his shade beneath the trees and came running as Vincent wrenched open the door, the lacquered panel shuddering under his hand.
Emma had barely reached him before he caught her by the waist, lifted her into the equipage, and sprang in after her.
Leaning out, he gave the order for the townhouse, then dropped back onto the squabs, yanked off his obsidian coat, and tore at his cravat.
“If that man comes within fifty feet of you, I will murder him,” he snarled, and by the glint in his eyes—a look she’d never seen there before—Emma knew he meant it.
“Nothing happened for you to fight him! As soon as he entered the clearing, I told him I regretted sending that letter. I asked him to stop spreading rumors. I tried to leave. I—I didn’t think he would follow me.”
Her chest was stinging with brimming pain, eyes burning with unshed tears now.
“But he did follow you,” Vincent muttered, “and he looked ready to whisk you away to god knows where.”
“I wouldn’t have let him,” she protested, leaning forward while her hands twisted the navy silk of her skirts into hard knots.
“This—this horrid distance between us, I hate it. I hate all of it! You look at me as though I’ve already gone, and I sit here like a ninny, trying to guess which word won’t make everything worse. Why can’t we just talk?”
“Because there is nothing to talk about, Emma!” he snapped.
Her mouth closed so quickly, her teeth clacked.
In the flickering dimness of the closed carriage, she saw with shock the raw sheen in his eyes and rigid clench of his jaw. She felt as if the rug had been ripped out from under her; she had never pictured him thus. She had never known this side of Vincent even existed.
In this moment, he was not so powerful or level-headed or indifferent as he claimed.
He was hurting. Because of her.
The carriage was trailing down St. James Street when Vincent suddenly reached for his discarded coat and rapped hard on the roof.