Regina Scott (16 page)

Lord, I haven’t come to You in months. I’ve felt unworthy of Your notice, and I know I don’t deserve Your help now. But those men at the mine, the men working in mines all over England, I know You care about them. Show me how to solve this problem. Let my work be right this time.

Swallowing his fears, he turned the handle and let in the gas.

The box sat silently.

Nick stared at it. Could it be? Was the wick burning or had it sputtered out? Carefully, he lowered the metal shield on one side of the box. Behind the glass, the lamp glowed in a sea of flammable air.

He’d done it.

Thank You, Lord!
It worked!

“Nicholas?”

He hadn’t heard the knock on the door. Hadn’t noticed the tap of her feet on the marble floor. All he knew was that Emma was beside him, more wicks in one hand. The slight frown on her pretty face suggested she wasn’t sure he heard her even now.

“It works,” he said, and the truth of the statement made his voice unsteady. He waved an equally unsteady hand at the box. “Your wick worked, Emma. We did it.”

Her lips pursed in an
O
of wonder, eyes widening. It was the most natural thing in the world to bend his head and kiss her.

Joy and thanksgiving for having solved the problem had motivated him. A quick kiss to celebrate, to thank her, to acknowledge their shared victory had seemed only right.

But one touch to her lips, and he found he had no wish to stop. He still felt joy, but now it was the joy of having her beside him and the thanksgiving was for what she’d done to make his life complete. His arms came about her, sheltering her, holding her. He could feel her returning the kiss, trembling against him. It was as if she touched his very soul.

He’d faced the problem he had been attempting to solve. Now it seemed he faced another.

What should he do about these feelings for Emma?

Chapter Sixteen

E
mma had dreamed of her first kiss, how it might feel, how it might make her feel. But the touch of Nicholas’s lips to hers, the warmth of his embrace, was like nothing she’d ever imagined. Suddenly, for one moment, she was the most important person in the world, the center of his universe. Every sense, every breath, every heartbeat seemed attuned to his. She returned the kiss with equal measures of joy and thanksgiving.

He raised his head and gazed at her, smile tremulous, as if he’d felt the same way: happy and astonished and buoyant. Then he blinked, released her and took a step back.

“Forgive me,” he said, straightening his cravat as if to erase any trace of their closeness.

It seemed the natural philosopher found it difficult to accept his own feelings. Emma smiled at him. “No need to apologize.”

He ran his hand back through his hair, setting the raven strands on end. “I’m quite certain Society would disagree with you.”

Very likely, but she couldn’t care. Every part of her seemed to be tingling. “You didn’t take advantage,” Emma assured him. “I’m not protesting.”

“Perhaps you should be,” he murmured, dropping his gaze.

No! She would not see shame in their kiss. She admired him, and she thought he admired her. There was nothing evil in it.

“That’s quite enough,” she said and was pleased to see his gaze come up as if she’d given him hope. “You were overjoyed that your lamp worked. It was only logical that such joy find expression.” She bent to retrieve the wicks she’d dropped and closed the distance between them. “Perhaps you’d care to explain how you solved the problem.”

She thought surely the appeal to process would bring him around, perhaps result in a quarter hour’s lecture on the properties of flammable air, which would give them both time to regain some semblance of normal. She’d attempted to contact him yesterday, to tell him her suspicions about her foster father’s role in his downfall. He’d refused to answer her knocks. She’d brought the extra wicks this time, hoping they might help make amends for what she had to tell him. She was only relieved that his success made her confession unnecessary. Surely if he’d proved his work, the other natural philosophers would realize that the original mistake had not been his.

But instead of discussing his work, he laid a hand on her cheek, warm, sweet. “Thank you,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if he meant for the kiss or the fact that she hadn’t made more of it.

She knew she shouldn’t refine on his touch. She’d clearly been correct in her assessment—the kiss had arisen from the emotions of the moment. Very likely he would have kissed Mrs. Dunworthy had she been standing beside him at the time of his triumph. And she certainly had no wish to marry someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon.

But, oh, for one moment, how she wished it were otherwise!

So she stood and listened as he explained the steps he’d undertaken to allow the lamp to burn in the presence of firedamp without igniting the gas. She tucked away her feelings, reminded herself that she had a purpose and a place for which to be thankful. Told herself not to wish for the moon.

“Would you be willing to call me Nick?”

Emma blinked. Had she imagined that? But no. He was looking at her, gaze serious.

“I beg your pardon?” Emma said.

He smiled. “I suppose it is unusual, but ours seems to be an unusual companionship. I simply thought it would be more efficient and edifying if you were to call me by my given name as I call you by yours.”

Efficient? She saved a couple syllables. But he had also called the approach edifying, so apparently hearing her say a form of his given name pleased him at some level. Besides, she’d already been calling him Nicholas in her mind.

“Nick,” she said, trying it out, and one corner of his mouth turned up. “Somehow that doesn’t seem serious enough for a man of your studious pursuits.”

He shrugged. “As I said, it’s efficient.”

She couldn’t help her chuckle. “Very well, then. Nick it is. But not in front of the other servants. I wouldn’t want them to think you favored me.”

He took her hand, cradled it in his own, the touch pushing her emotions into the forefront once more.

“That’s truer than you know,” he said. “How could I not think of you kindly? You were the one who pointed me in the right direction. You were the one to create the proper wick. I could not have done this without you, Emma. Thank you.”

Tears heated her eyes. Such a little thing, being appreciated—just two little words. Yet it seemed as if she’d waited her whole life to hear them said so warmly. “I’m glad I could help,” she murmured.

“And Alice,” he continued. “I understand what you’ve been trying to do there, as well. You’ve brought me closer to my daughter.”

One tear trickled down her cheek. “She is the sweetest child. I knew it wouldn’t take much for you to realize that.”

“I only wish I knew a way to repay you,” he said.

The answer popped into her mind as clearly as a scene from one of her beloved books: her and Nick standing before an altar, the vicar giving them his blessing. The vision stunned her. Marriage? Was that where he was leading? She reached for the comfort of her dreams of the perfect family, but the lines of that dream were blurring. It seemed she yearned to hear something more than appreciation for a job well done. Three little words:

I love you.

Nick dropped her hand. “I will think on it.” He glanced at his lamp, still brightly burning inside the sturdy box. “Indeed, it seems I may have some time to consider other matters if this proves reliable. I’ll have to complete a few more trials, send word to Mr. Jennings to arrange the test.”

She’d lost him. Already his body was turning, his hands drifting toward his notes on the table before him. She felt the tears coming faster.

“It was no trouble,” she managed to say with a calm voice that betrayed nothing of her feelings. She set the wicks on the worktable. “I was simply doing my job.”

When he only nodded, she turned and fled.

Outside the laboratory, she pressed her back against the sun-warmed stone of the building, gasped in a breath. Why had she thought he meant anything more than appreciation? Why had she thought he might be different? She’d set out to court him for Alice, and time would only tell if she had succeeded. She shouldn’t expect him to lay his heart at her feet, as well. Much as she’d dreamed, much as she’d hoped, no one else ever had.

The men and women who had worked in the orphan asylum had been caring but always with the lingering sense that the children were there because of some deficiency. Even the name of the place—the Asylum for Deserted Orphans—suggested they were unwanted. If they had been loved—by a remaining parent, by a family member, by a friend of the family—they would never have been forced into the asylum. It had been as if, having no one to love them, they must therefore be unlovable.

Certainly Mr. Fredericks and his wife had gone out of their way to reinforce the notion with Emma and her foster bothers. They were less than the daughters born to the Fredericks; they were less than the few servants they had all but replaced. Certainly they were less important than the instruments and chemicals with which Mr. Fredericks conducted his experiments.

Her foster brothers’ behavior stemmed from the belief. If they were unlovable, better to stay with Mr. Fredericks and be fed than to take their chances on the rest of the world.

But she’d rejected the notion. She wasn’t unlovable. She was clever and kind. If no one had managed to notice, the worse luck them. Besides, she knew someone who loved her. She couldn’t remember her parents well, but she remembered the stories they’d told about a loving God, who cared for all His children, regardless of family, face or fortune. A God who had died to see her saved. Knowing she had His love, why did she suddenly crave another?

Emma took a deep breath and wiped her tears on her sleeve.
Thank You, Lord, for loving me when it seemed no one else would. I know You have a plan for my future. Perhaps the perfect husband is waiting at my next post. Perhaps I’m not supposed to marry at all. Help me see Your path and follow, wherever You lead.

* * *

Nick had a great deal to do to test the lamp. He started by making detailed instructions for the blacksmith and the glassblower and dispatching them to the nearest town for the pieces he’d need to test the lamp in the mine. He sent word to the house to take dinner without him. Then he compiled his notes into a single leather binder, suitable for review by others. He could hardly wait to prove that his ideas worked in a natural setting. Surely that would redeem him in the eyes of the Royal Society. In fact, he’d write to them that very day and invite them to send a representative to the mine to observe the test.

But first he needed to confirm a date. He could have written to Mr. Jennings as well, but he felt as if his body and mind were pushing him to move, to act. So, he had his horse saddled and rode to the mine.

Work had evidently returned to normal since Nick had last visited. Though one tunnel remained blocked, the miners streamed in and out of the others, and black smoke poured from the chimneys. Jennings must have seen him coming, for he met Nick part way and directed him to the mine office, which had also been returned to efficiency.

“I’ve a working prototype,” Nick explained when the two of them were seated on either side of Jennings’s squat desk. Nick took some solace in the fact that the surface was nearly as cluttered as the top of his own desk.

Jennings leaned back in his seat. “And I suppose you want to test it. We’re still recovering from the last explosion. I don’t want another.”

“It will work,” Nick promised. “I’ll carry it into the mine myself.”

Jennings raised his brows. “That sure, are you? Very well. What about this Thursday?”

Though Nick’s spirits rose at the thought, he shook his head. “Too soon. I’m hoping to bring observers from London.”

Jennings chuckled. “You are serious. A week from Thursday, then?”

“Perfect,” Nick agreed. He stood and held out his hand. “I appreciate your faith in my work.”

“Not so much your work as you,” Jennings returned, rising and shaking his hand. “My men are still talking of the way you rode to the rescue after the accident.” He dropped Nick’s hand with a grin. “And more than one’s been dreaming about your Miss Pyrmont unless I miss my guess.”

Nick felt himself stiffening and forced himself to relax. Why such a reaction? Emma was a fine woman. That other men had noticed only proved their intelligence. Yet he still remembered the feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her lips against his. Something about Emma—her encouragement, her challenges, her smile, the light in her changeable eyes—had called to him, from the moment he’d met her.

Still, his admiration of her did not give him the right to kiss her, he reflected as he rode back to the Grange. Certainly admiration didn’t account for the joy he’d felt having her in his embrace. In the same circumstances, another woman could well have demanded an offer of marriage. Emma was more pragmatic than that, thank the Lord. Nick had not made a good husband before. He didn’t think he had it in him to be a better one now.

Yet the desire to thank her, to show her how much he appreciated her efforts, persisted as he dismounted at the stables and handed the reins to a waiting groom. He seemed to remember his father giving out a gold coin to the staff at Christmas, but waiting six months was hardly satisfying, and he didn’t think Emma was motivated by gain.

He wanted something grand, something a woman would enjoy, something that involved Alice as well, and by extension Lady Chamomile. Something that would brighten Emma’s day, give her something to remember with pleasure.

Ah, yes.

The idea presented itself with clarity, and he strode toward the house, eager to get to work. To do his plans justice, he’d need some help. Convincing Charlotte might take a little effort, but he thought his best ally lay in another direction.

He headed straight for the kitchen to discuss matters with Mrs. Jennings. He had no doubt his cook would know exactly how to achieve his ends.

But he couldn’t wait to see how Emma liked it.

* * *

The next afternoon, Emma was seated in the rocking chair, watching Alice and Lady Chamomile play on the rug before the fire. She’d finished one more of the wicks and had started on another. It very much looked as if Nick would not need them after his success yesterday, but she wanted them to be ready just in case. She was a little disappointed he hadn’t joined them for dinner last night or breakfast this morning, but she supposed it was understandable given the circumstances. However, if she hadn’t seen him by dinner tonight, she would simply have to think about the next step in her courting campaign.

“Sit up at the table, Lady Chamomile,” Alice said. “You are a fine lady. You want to make sure everyone knows it.”

Emma smiled. “I think perhaps a lady is known for more than how she sits at a table,” she suggested, starting on the next row of the wick.

Alice abandoned her doll to come hang on Emma’s leg. “Is she? What else makes a lady?”

“A good heart for one,” Emma said, fingers moving. “Kindness toward others, a ready smile to help someone else smile.”

“You smile a lot,” Alice said.

Emma’s smile deepened. “I suppose I do. And why would I not smile being the nanny of such a sweet girl like you?” She bent and rubbed her nose against Alice’s.

Alice giggled as she pulled back. “I smile a lot, too.”

“Yes, you do,” Emma agreed. “And I’m very thankful for that.”

“Pardon me.”

Emma looked up to find Charles standing in the doorway. Seeing that he had her attention, the footman kept his gaze high, his tread measured as he approached Alice and bent to hold out a silver tray on one gloved hand.

“An invitation for you, Miss Rotherford,” he intoned.

Alice’s eyes were huge, and her little fingers trembled as she plucked the folded note from the tray. “Thank you.”

He straightened with a nod. “I was told to wait for a reply.”