She winced. “Maybe not fishing.”
Daniel was back to pressing half-moon shapes into her blotter. “Lord Vale’s all right, but he doesn’t have a big rifle.”
Faint praise indeed.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she said softly.
She looked down at the papers scattered on her desk, at the instructions she’d been writing, and her vision blurred. She felt as if her heart were breaking. Damn Samuel for ever coming into their lives. For seeking her out at Mrs. Conrad’s salon that first day, for talking to her son so gently, for making her feel again.
She gasped at the thought. That was the real problem. He’d made her feel again, cracked the shell that had hardened around her emotions and left her defenseless and vulnerable. She was too raw now, her skin too soft. How long would this feeling last? How long before she could grow another shell? She looked at Daniel, her beautiful boy. He was growing so fast. It seemed like he’d been a tender little babe only yesterday, and today she worried for her furniture with his big shoes. Did she even want to shield herself from emotion again?
Impulsively, she leaned forward, her head nearly touching his. “It’ll be all right. It really will. I’ll make sure it is.”
One side of his face scrunched up in thought. “But can it be all right with Mr. Hartley?”
“No, dear.” She straightened and turned so that he wouldn’t see the sadness in her eyes. “I don’t think it can.”
“But—”
They both looked up as the door opened and Tante Cristelle entered the room. The old lady looked at her with a gaze that had always been too sharp.
Emeline turned back to Daniel. “I must speak with Tante now. Why don’t you see if those pear tarts are done yet? Perhaps Cook will let you sample one.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Daniel wasn’t happy at the dismissal, but he’d always been a good boy. He slid off the chair and made a half bow to his aunt before slipping from the room.
“That one missed you most severe while you were away.” The lines around Tante Cristelle’s mouth became more pronounced in her disapproval. “I do not think it is well that he is so close with you.”
This conversation was old, and normally Emeline might argue, but today she didn’t have the heart. She gathered her papers silently. Behind her she heard the thump of Tante Cristelle’s cane on the Persian carpet and then felt the old woman’s frail hand on her shoulder. She looked up into wise eyes.
“It is the right thing that you do tonight; never fear that.” Tante Cristelle patted her once—an extreme outpouring of affection—and walked from the room.
Leaving Emeline with eyes once again filled with tears.
BY THE TIME the carriage pulled up outside Sam’s town house, it had been dark for hours. A late start combined with a wait for fresh horses at one of the inns had made the journey back to London an overlong one. And then, once they had turned into the street where they lived, there had been an uncommon crush of carriages. Someone must be hosting a ball. As Samuel stepped down and turned to help Rebecca from the carriage, he realized that the lights were blazing in the house next to his. Emeline’s house.
“Is Lady Emeline having a party?” Rebecca asked. She hesitated before the steps. “I didn’t know she would be throwing one, did you?”
Sam slowly shook his head. “Obviously we weren’t invited.”
He saw her glance swiftly at him. “Perhaps she planned it before she met us. Or...or she might not have expected us back from the country so soon.”
“Yes, that must be it,” he said grimly.
The little witch was thumbing her nose at him, showing him that he had no part in her London life. He knew that he shouldn’t rise to the bait, but his hands had already bunched into fists, his legs twitching, ready to stride into her house and confront her. He grimaced. Now was not the time.
He relaxed his fists and held out his arm to his sister. “Shall we see if Cook can lay out a cold supper for us?”
She smiled up at him. “Yes, let’s.”
He led her up the front steps and inside, all the while aware of the house next door and the elegantly dressed guests arriving for Emeline’s party. He sat his sister in the dining room, ordered a simple supper, and was even able to make polite conversation while they ate. But his mind was elsewhere, imagining Emeline in her most elegant gown, her bosom glowing white and erotic in the light of thousands of candles.
After they ate, Rebecca excused herself, already yawning. Sam went to the library and poured himself a glass of French brandy. He paused and held the glass up to the light. The liquid shown translucent amber. When he was growing up, his father had drunk homemade spirits, bought from a family ten miles away through the woods. Sam had once taken a sip. The drink had been clear like water and hot, burning his throat as he swallowed. Had Pa ever drunk French brandy in his entire life? Maybe once while visiting Uncle Thomas in the big city of Boston. But it would have been an exotic thing, something special to be savored and thought about for days afterward.
Sam sank into a gilt armchair. He didn’t belong here; he knew that. There was too wide a gulf between the life he’d led as a boy and the life he led now. A man could change only so much in one lifetime. He would never fully fit into English society, and he didn’t really want to. This was the life that Emeline led. The beautiful town houses, the French brandy, the balls that continued until well past midnight. The ocean that yawned wide between her world and his—both metaphorically and physically—was too great a distance. He knew all that, had considered it many times before.
And it didn’t matter.
He gulped the rest of the brandy and rose with purpose. He needed to see Emeline. Worlds apart or no, she was a woman and he was a man. Some things were basic.
Outside his town house, he saw that the lights still blazed next door. Coachmen sat huddled on their perches, a few running footmen stood together, passing a bottle between them. He leapt up Emeline’s front steps and was confronted with a burly footman. The man made a move as if to block his path.
Sam stared at him hard. “I’m Lady Emeline’s neighbor.”
This was no invitation, of course, but the footman must’ve seen the determination in his eyes and decided the point wasn’t worth arguing. “Yes, sir.” He held the door open.
Sam crossed the threshold and immediately realized his peril. The hall held only a few servants, but the grand, curving staircase was crowded. He began making his way up the stairs, past loudly talking groups. Emeline’s ballroom was on the upper floor, and as he neared, the clamor became louder, the air heavier and hotter. He felt sweat start at his neck. He hadn’t been in such a crowded space since the Westerton ball, and there he had succumbed to his demons most ignominiously. Not here, he prayed.