The Marriage Bargain (14 page)
“I’ll wager there is a lot to be discovered,” Wolfe broke in. “I for one want to track down that Esmund fellow. He will come clean with me, I guarantee it.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Blake. “I suspect Wolfe will be much better at Bow Street ‘running’ than I.”
“Who is Esmund?” Emma asked.
“The fellow from the duel,” Spence replied.
The man who had been willing enough to shoot Spence dead—his only punishment, a trip to Paris.
“We shall have to chase him down, I suspect,” said Wolfe.
“A wasted effort.” Spence shook his head. “He’s naught but a fool. I’d prefer you have it out with my man of business.”
Blakewell raised his glass. “And so we shall.”
Emma sipped her wine, surprised at this sudden flight to London, coming so soon after she rang a peal over Blakewell and Wolfe’s heads. As much as she resented their presence, her feelings were confused at the prospect of them leaving, especially if she had caused it by her sharp words. How long would Spence last here without them? Possibly he would be in a great rush to join them as soon as he could tolerate the journey.
She said no more of it, and the evening progressed. The gentlemen did not tarry over their port after dinner, but joined her in the drawing room. The four of them even played at whist, until it was apparent Spence was fatigued. He was first to excuse himself. Emma watched his slow progress.
Alone with Blakewell and Wolfe, the awkward silence again descended, and it was not long before Emma bid them good night.
As she was walking from the room, she turned back. “Thank you again for my shawl.”
Blakewell grinned. Wolfe merely nodded.
In her room Emma excused Susan, saying she would get herself ready for bed. After the elderly maid shuffled out, Emma hurried to the door connecting her room with Spence’s. She opened it enough to see that a lamp was still lit. Spence, in his banyan, sat at the window, a glass in his hand.
The door creaked and his head turned.
“Emma?”
S
pence thought his eyes deceived him, but there she was, the lamp in her room casting a glow around her. He’d been thinking of her, wanting her to come to him, but not daring to hope for her.
She still wore the shawl. Wolfe, of all people, had known what would please her—Wolfe, whose bitterness toward women was well-known to his friends, even though the reason was not.
The rich hues of the shawl had brought color to her cheeks and brightness to her hazel eyes, turning them green. He remembered how her eyes glowed in the candlelight at dinner. He’d been happy to see her almost relaxed, almost enjoying herself.
“Come, Emma,” he said. “Come sit with me.”
She walked toward him. “I was uncertain you would be awake.”
He cocked his head toward the open window next to him. “I could not resist the night air.” Holding up his glass, he said, “I would offer you brandy, but there is only one glass.”
“There are more.” She crossed over to the red lacquer cabinet in the corner of the room and took out another small-stemmed glass. Returning to his side, she extended it to him and waited for him to pour.
“Did you inform Arjun you have abandoned his menu and returned to strong spirits?”
He could not miss her disapproving tone, but answered agreeably, “I have indeed.”
She accepted the brandy from him, but spoke crisply. “I wanted to speak to you.”
This would not be a pleasant conversation, he surmised, but he was determined to show her goodwill. “I am here to listen, Emma.”
She settled in the chair opposite him. “I will not keep you from your bed for long.”
Her mention of bed made his senses flare. He’d been remembering the comfort of her warm body next to him when he had been in a panic of the dark. But he had no right to desire a husband’s pleasure, not after failing her so thoroughly.
“What is it, Emma?” He took a sip of brandy.
She glanced out the window and twirled the stem of the glass in her fingers, the nut-colored liquid catching the dim light. Finally she turned to him and almost blurted out, “If you have required Lord Blakewell and Mr. Wolfe to leave on my account, I wish to tell you it is unnecessary.”
“What do you mean?”
She took a sip of her brandy. “You made it clear you and your friends have been inseparable since childhood. I will not be the cause of dividing you.”
Spence gave a low laugh. “I assure you, Emma, Blake and Wolfe and I go different ways when it suits us.”
“Still.” She continued to toy with her glass. “I have no right to dictate to you who stays at Kellworth.”
“I should think you have every right,” he countered. “Kellworth is more your home than mine.”
She frowned. “I am not the earl, Spence. The property is yours.”
He leaned forward. “I have brought you much unhappiness. I want to make it up to you, Emma. I want you to feel Kellworth is yours, that your wishes prevail here.”
“I did not wish your friends to be sent away on my account,” she stated firmly.
He put his hand over her fingers, stopping the twirling of her glass. “I need them to go to London for me, to find out what happened to the funds that were your due. I am still too much an invalid to attend to it myself.”
This was half-truth at best. The other half was that he needed to set things right with her. That duty was his alone.
She lifted her glass to her lips and his hand slipped away. “You try to convince me,” she murmured.
He attempted a smile. “Do you not realize I am determined to make up to you for the hardship you have endured?”
She blinked at him. “I realize you wish me to think as much.”
He took the glass from her hand, set it on the table, and wrapped his fingers around hers. “I will do anything for you, Emma. I owe you my life, after all. While I am here I am determined to do whatever I can for you. Tell me what you want and I promise to give it to you.”
“While you are here?” Her fingers tensed and she pulled them from his grasp. She stared at him a long time before standing and stepping over to the window, where the evening breeze blew a wisp of hair into her eyes.
“You made promises to me in the past, Spence.” Her voice again turned as cool as the evening air. “How am I to believe in new promises?”
He rose to his feet with an ease that surprised him. He stood behind her, putting his hand on her shoulder and bringing his lips close to her ear. “I will convince you I am sincere,” he murmured. “I will not hurt you again.”
Her scent filled his nostrils and it seemed natural to wrap his arm across her chest, making her lean against him, her curves warm and soft through the thin fabric of his banyan. She did not pull away, and he slipped his other hand around her waist, pressing her harder against his growing arousal. He nuzzled her hair, and before he could make himself think again, his lips tasted her tender skin. At this moment he wanted nothing but to be with her, to savor the delight of holding her in his arms and tasting her with his lips.
She gave a small, surrendering cry, and his still-healing body suddenly demanded a man’s pleasure. The thought of peeling off her threadbare dress and leading her to his bed drove all rational thought from his mind.
She released a long breath. “Am I to share your bed while you are here, my lord?” she whispered.
He gently turned her to face him. “You would be willing?”
She lifted her eyes to him and he felt her tremble beneath his hands. “If you require it.”
He searched her face, but she quickly looked away.
He would be a scoundrel indeed if he
required
her to make love to him. He carefully released her. “I’ll not force you, Emma. Have no fear of that.”
He braced himself with a hand against the wall between the windows, feeling weak again.
She lifted her chin in a brave gesture. “Do you require any assistance?”
“Assistance?” His mind was not quite working yet.
“To help you into bed?”
His lingering arousal made it painfully clear he ought not trust himself near a bed with her. He wanted to give her a reassuring smile, but failed. “I can manage.”
She took a step back and looked very much like the young, vulnerable girl he married. “I will bid you good night, then.”
He nodded.
She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and fled the room.
Emma made certain she was present to give Blakewell, Wolfe, and Arjun a cordial farewell. They left early, Arjun traveling in the carriage, the gentlemen’s trunks strapped to the top, Blakewell and Wolfe, on horseback. Emma was glad to see the horses go. They consumed even more than the gentlemen did. Although she supposed she did not have to worry about such matters at the present moment.
Spence also saw them off, seemingly unfazed by their departure. She’d not spoken to him all the morning, but when she looked upon him, she remembered the previous night, the warmth of his breath, the low murmur of his voice, the tenderness of his lips. Remembering disturbed her.
It was as if she’d been suddenly made of wax, melting under the heat of his touch. If he had led her to his bed, she would have gone willingly. The knowledge that she could be so pliant when he was near had shaken her.
At such moments, why could she not retain memory of how many times she’d cursed him, how many disasters she’d faced alone without his even knowing of them?
The carriage and riders turned the corner at the end of the long lane, disappearing behind the trees. Emma turned to go inside the house, planning to tend to her garden before the whole morning disappeared.
“What might I do to assist you today?” Spence asked her, joining her as she crossed through the large arched doorway.
She preferred weeds to his disturbing company. “There is nothing.”
“Help me learn of the estate, then,” he persisted. “Show me some of the repairs necessary.” He stood in the doorway so she could not easily pass without brushing against him.
She was impatient to make her way to the rear of the house, down the servants’ stairway to the door leading to the kitchen garden. “Mr. Larkin had best show you.”
She made the mistake of looking into his eyes, which crinkled slightly at the corners, as if she’d wounded him with her words. Why should she feel like the rag-mannered and churlish one?
His smile remained, though. “I shall ask Larkin, then.”
She moved to enter the house, but he put a stilling hand on her arm. “A message arrived this morning. Did Tolley tell you? The dressmaker will call this afternoon.”
“Dressmaker?”
“For new dresses, Emma. Order as many as you like.”
Again he roused a disorder of feelings. Was she to have new clothes at last, to wear to church without trying to disguise where they were patched and mended?
Her excitement quickly plummeted. “It would be better to know she can be paid before ordering dresses. Or did you charge your friend Wolfe to pay her bill as well?”
His grip on her arm tightened; then he dropped his hand. “There is money enough for a few dresses, Emma.”
She was not so certain.
They heard riders approaching and turned to see three men on horseback coming down the lane.
“Ah, the money from the bank at Maidstone,” Spence said as he walked out to the lane to greet them.
Emma watched transfixed as he led one of the men to the doorway. She hurriedly stepped out of the way when they entered the house.
Spence said, “Come with us if you like, Emma.”
She followed them into the library, where Spence completed the transaction and counted the money in the strongbox. He dipped a pen into ink and signed the messenger’s receipt, thanked the man, and walked him out the door. As soon as the men left the room, Emma hurried over to the box to look inside.
It was filled with coin and banknotes. She gasped. The sums were princely compared to the contents of her little money pouch, all that was left until the next quarter’s allotment.
Spence’s voice came from the door. “The bank in Maidstone seems assured of our credit.”
She looked up.
“Now will you cease your concern about my fortune?” He walked over to the desk and poured out one bag of coins.
Her worries were too much a part of daily life to be given up easily. “Bad tidings could still come from London.”
He pursed his lips. “Less likely now. News of one’s reversal of fortune travels quickly in the banking world, I expect. We shall proceed with some caution, but I believe it is safe to begin to set things to rights.”
Emma looked into his face, wanting to allow the glimmer of hope to catch fire, but afraid it would burn her in the end. His smile was easy, his eyes full of reassurance. In spite of herself she was beginning to believe he had not gambled Kellworth’s fortune away. She was beginning to believe he would restore it.
She glanced away, letting the coins run through her fingers. “We should pay the servants and workers their back wages first. Then the merchants in town. And the dressmaker would do better to measure Mrs. Cobbett and Susan and the maids for new clothes, before me.”
“No, Emma,” he said in a firm tone. “You shall be first in this.”
Emma never did tend her garden that day. The rest of the morning was spent discussing the use of the money. She and Spence went over her lists, deciding in a most amiable way whom to pay first and what of the many areas of neglect were of primary importance. In the afternoon Spence met with Mr. Larkin while the dressmaker measured Emma and showed her silks and muslins in a rainbow of colors. They examined the dressmaker’s fashion prints, and Emma could not help but be delighted with the pictures of pretty new styles. Perhaps she was more like her mother than she cared to admit, dazzled by the latest fashions. She could not deny her excitement at the idea of even one new dress.
She ordered three. A dress with matching spencer to wear to church. A new morning dress. A dinner dress. The dinner dress especially thrilled her, even though she felt frivolous to attach such importance to an item of clothing. She chose a deep rose silk to be trimmed with lace at the hem and neckline. The dressmaker promised the dresses in two weeks. It seemed an eternity to wait. What’s more, she feared Spence would be gone by then and, against all reason, she wanted him to see her in her rose dinner dress.