Page 16 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl (Marriage Mart Scandals #2)

Andrew’s eyes fixed on Emmeline, who stood frozen in the doorway, her posture tense and her breath quick. She looked as though she might die of fear, her big green eyes wide and round, her body twisting towards the door as if she wanted to run. He reached for her, resting his hand on her shoulder.

“Shh. Emmeline. It’s just me,” he said gently. “Sorry. I did not mean to startle you,” he added with a smile. He had not thought about how much of a shock she must have had—she was in her night attire, and she must have come down to find something to read. She did not, evidently, expect anyone to be there.

“Andrew,” she breathed. She slumped forward. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“I imagine not,” he said, his lips lifting in a smile. She was dressed in a long silky nightgown in grey silk, and underneath it, she wore a long white nightdress that reached her ankles. The satiny fabric of the nightgown clung to her feminine curves. Her feet were in grey silk slippers. Her long hair was tied back with a ribbon, its long, red strands like fire around her shoulders. In spite of himself, a stab of longing hit him. She was so beautiful. Her skin was pearlescent in the lamplight, her lips dark red.

She still looked mistrustfully at him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly.

He grinned. “Me neither,” he admitted. “I came down to find something to read.”

“Me too.” This time, she did smile. His heart soared. She had such a lovely smile, genuine and warm, her lovely red lips revealing white teeth in a brief flash.

“What would you like?” he asked, his voice light with interest. “We have all sorts—some horridly dull, some shockingly racy. Not much in between.”

She giggled. It was a bright, happy sound and it lifted his soul. He had been too worried about Grandma to sleep, and that delightful giggle lit his heart, easing his fear.

“I don’t know what might be better. Something boring, to make me sleep, or something racy, to distract me. What would your recommendation be?” she asked archly .

He laughed. “The latter. When I can’t sleep, I read something racy. Nothing better than a bit of honest distraction and foolery to ease your worries.”

“Really?” Her green eyes sparkled with amusement and curiosity. “I would not have imagined you in favour of racy reads.”

“No?” he smiled. “Do I seem so boring, then?” he asked, then regretted asking. He knew her well enough to know she would tell him he was boring if that was her honest feeling.

She tilted her head, making his heart race. When she looked at him with that studying, considering look, it made him flush with warmth. Her gaze seemed to linger on his chest and shoulders, and he wondered, just for an instant, if she had anything like the desire he did. A prickle of longing traced down his spine.

“No,” she said after considering him carefully. “No, I do not think you are boring. Mysterious, yes. Difficult to understand, certainly. But not in the least boring.”

“Mysterious?” He couldn’t hide how much of a compliment that seemed like.

She looked at him steadily. “Yes. No matter how often we talk, I feel as though I know nothing of you. You are hard to fathom.”

“Something must be clear, surely?” he asked, feeling a little upset by her cold assessment. At first, it had sounded like a compliment, but now he was slightly affronted. Was it not plain to see how much he liked her? Was his fondness not very obvious?

She tilted her head again. “You are remarkably stubborn,” she told him.

He roared with laughter. “Is it that obvious?” he asked, delighted in spite of himself. His grandmother had always called him stubborn, and he had never quite believed her, so to hear the same word from Emmeline was a happy thing. He frowned, as the thoughts of Grandma returned him to his worries from earlier.

“I would say it’s rather obvious,” Emmeline said slowly. He saw her frown, too, and he wondered why.

“May I help you to find a book?” he asked, longing for her to stay just a little longer. He so rarely had the chance to talk to her with nobody else present—even less than usual now that the cousins had arrived. He had not expected to encounter her tonight, let alone in her nightgown. The quiet intimacy of the moment was a rare pleasure he was reluctant to let slip away .

“No. I should return upstairs,” she said slowly. “It is late.”

Andrew looked around, aching to find some other topic to discuss. “It’s not that late,” he commented, his gaze hastening to the clock on the mantel. “It’s only half-past ten,” he added, squinting at the hands, which were just visible in the wavering light from the fireplace.

She looked at the clock. “I should sleep,” she said, her voice weary. “We will both need our strength tomorrow to support Lady Rilendale.”

“Yes,” he whispered. His hand made a fist. “I don’t know if she will wake up,” he continued, his throat aching with emotion. “Dr Wainwright said he cannot say for sure that she will wake, or when.” He could not hold back his tears.

To his surprise, Emmeline rested a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, then relaxed at the soft warmth of her hand and took a deep breath.

“She will wake,” Emmeline said softly. “I am certain of it.”

Andrew shook his head, struggling not to cry. “I really wish to believe that,” he said as quietly as he could, though it was a cry of sorrow.

“We shall know in time,” Emmeline said softly. “I thought her breathing was already more restful when I looked in on her after dinner.”

“You think so?” His heart soared. He had checked on her before he retired to bed, but he had seen no real difference.

She nodded. “I do think so. I used to check Papa’s breathing. I could tell if he was in pain or not by how deeply and restfully, he breathed.”

Andrew bit his lip. “Thank you,” he said softly. Grandma’s illness had filled his mind, making him forget everything else for a moment. He had forgotten how recently she had lost her own father. “This must distress you greatly,” he added.

She took a deep breath. “It is different,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “I knew, somehow, that Papa was not going to recover. But with Lady Rilendale, I feel as though she is fighting,” she added slowly.

“She is a fighter,” Andrew said with a faint smile. He could feel tears in his eyes. He recalled how brave and strong his grandmother had always been and the memory made his heart twist.

“I thought as much,” Emmeline said softly. “I am certain that, if anyone can recover, it is she .”

“Yes,” Andrew agreed, his shoulders slumping with relief. He had not expected to feel any sort of comfort, but she offered him hope where no one else had. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She gazed up at him, her big eyes wide .

“I have hardly done anything,” she said in a quiet, confused voice.

He shook his head. “Quite the contrary,” he said gently. “You have done much. You have given me hope and comfort when I needed it most. I am profoundly grateful that you are here.” His voice trembled with emotion as he spoke.

She gazed at him in surprise, and he stepped forward, unable to hide how deeply she had moved him. He reached for her hand and pressed it to his lips. She tensed, and he hesitated a moment, but she relaxed, and he kissed the back of her hand. He could smell the soft floral scent of her, and it made his senses swim. Her skin was like satin, cool and soft under the touch of his mouth. He recalled how much he had longed to kiss her as he helped her up onto her horse just those few hours ago. He remembered how he had watched her riding and how his heart had soared to see her.

He gently released her hand.

She was staring up at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted in an expression of surprise.

His heart raced, his body flooding with desire so strong he could almost not control it. He made a fist and took a deep breath, fighting with himself not to kiss her. He did not want to get that close, to risk that the curse—which might have been the cause of Grandma’s injuries—would hurt her too.

“Perhaps we should...” he began, wanting to say that perhaps it was time they went upstairs to bed. As he spoke, a floorboard creaked in the hallway. He tensed and spun around. Another sound drifted in from the hallway, a muffled footfall as though someone was trying to move quietly. “Who’s there?” he shouted, hurrying to the door.

He hurried into the corridor, but there was not anyone to be seen. At the end of the hallway, where a long, curtained window looked out onto the darkened garden, the velvet drapes swung as though stirred by the breeze of someone walking swiftly past. But there was not a sign of anyone to be seen.

Andrew shivered.

“Who’s there?” he called again.

Nobody answered, and he walked to the end of the hallway, then turned and went into the entranceway and looked up the stairs. Nobody was on the stairwell and the upstairs floor was in darkness.

He looked around briefly, feeling puzzled, and then returned to the library .

“Who was it?” Emmeline asked. Her voice was low and shaking with fear. He took a steady breath.

“I saw no one,” he said slowly. “I suspect it was one of the servants—Pearson, perhaps. He may have wondered who was in the library but chose not to intrude.” He hoped his words would ease her mind.

She relaxed visibly, her posture slumping. “Probably,” she murmured. He gazed at her concernedly. Her face was very pale, her lovely green eyes ringed with grey.

“You should retire,” he said gently. “We are both tired.”

“Yes,” Emmeline whispered. “Yes. I am tired.”

He gestured to the door. “Come, then. You go on up. I shall put out the candles and bank the fire, and then I’ll follow.”

“Vey well,” she murmured.

“You never chose a book,” he said lightly, trying to comfort her. She still seemed jumpy and frightened, and he did not like to think of her restless and scared, unable to sleep.

“Do you have any poetry?” she asked.

He nodded. “My mother...” he faltered; his throat suddenly stiff with feeling. “She was very fond of poetry,” he managed to say, avoiding a dangerous wobble to his voice.

“I would not wish to borrow one if it is very dear to you...” Emmeline began.

He shook his head. “Please, read them. No one else does.” He forced his tone to be light, but in truth, it was the first time he had considered anyone touching the possessions his mother had left behind. Whole cupboards of her things stood locked up because he could not bear to get rid of them and he could not bear to let anyone else do it either.

“Thank you,” Emmeline answered.

He watched her go to the shelf he had indicated, taking one of the candles off the table so she could use it to see. She held it high, shining a light on the rows of books that had been his mother’s private collection. He watched her slender hand reach up to the brown leather-bound poetry volumes and take one down.

“Milton. I know some find him overly solemn, but I enjoy his sonnets.”

“They are indeed thought-provoking,” he said with a faint smile.

“They are,” she agreed.

She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and searching, and he held his breath. She stood just two paces away, close enough for him to catch the faint, floral scent of her hair. His chest ached with the weight of emotions he dared not express, his hands curling slightly as though they might reach for her of their own accord.

Her gaze lingered for a moment longer, a quiet intensity passing between them before she turned and stepped softly through the doorway.

“Goodnight, Andrew.” Her tone was a soft whisper like the rustle of silk on silk.

Then she turned in the doorway and walked into the darkened hall.

He stood where he was, speechless, for a moment or two. Then he went to the mantel and put out the lamps. He stood a moment in the darkness, lost in the bliss and confusion of all that had happened.

Then he turned and went up to his bedroom, thinking that he would not possibly manage to sleep.