Page 17 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl (Marriage Mart Scandals #2)

Emmeline tiptoed into Lady Rilendale’s chamber. It was mid-morning, the sunshine blazing through the curtains.

“I will sit with her,” Emmeline said gently to Philipa, Lady Rilendale’s trusted maid. The older woman nodded.

“Of course, my lady. I will go and wash her things.”

Emmeline nodded gratefully and went to sit by Lady Rilendale’s bed. Emmeline had slept deeply and woken with a clear head and, oddly, the first person she had wanted to talk to was Lady Rilendale. Of all the people at the manor, Lady Rilendale was the only one where there seemed to be a rapport. She was at least in some way similar to her mother. And she needed to talk to her.

She sat next to the older woman’s bed and gazed down at her. She was still asleep, but her breathing was noticeably deeper and more measured than it had been the night before. Her hair glowed softly in the morning light, the lines on her face lined with golden morning rays. Emmeline gazed down at her, feeling her heart twist with love at the sight of that tranquil, reposeful older face.

“Lady Rilendale,” she said softly, not wanting to wake the older woman, but still longing to tell her the news. “I had the strangest experience last night. I... I think I might be starting to feel something for your grandson.”

Lady Rilendale slept on. Emmeline’s heart twisted. She wished that she could confide her news in Lady Rilendale when she was awake, but in a way, it was easier and better to tell her when she was asleep so that she could not judge. Not that Lady Rilendale would judge her, or anyone else, for that matter. Emmeline was almost certain that she was fair and kind.

“I spoke to him in the library. He was different. More open. He was kind. He thanked me. He told me he appreciated me.” She let out a long breath. “He lent me a poetry book to read.” That had touched her. His mother’s things were clearly very precious to him, and yet he trusted her with them.

She saw Lady Rilendale stirring. Her lips moved, her eyes opening briefly. Emmeline tensed. She had spoken quite loudly, and she had not meant to wake Lady Rilendale. As she was about to apologise, the miracle of that fact hit her. Lady Rilendale was waking up .

“Lady Rilendale!” she exclaimed.

“Where am I?” Lady Rilendale murmured, opening her eyes. “What...where...” She tried to sit up, her voice full of concern, and then lay back on the bed, her eyes shut, wincing.

“You fell,” Emmeline explained gently. “You’re in your bedchamber,” she added. She had woken enough times from a deep sleep, unsure of where she was and a little disorientated. She could only imagine how Lady Rilendale must feel.

“I fell,” Lady Rilendale whispered. “I don’t remember.”

“I’m not surprised,” Emmeline said honestly. “You hit your head quite badly.”

Lady Rilendale grinned. Her eyes were shut, but her lips moved up at the edges in a brief smile. “Was it so bad that you think it has damaged my memory?”

“No. I think you might take time to remember yesterday, but it doesn’t seem as though you’ve forgotten much else,” Emmeline said quickly. “You hit your forehead,” she added, resting her hand lightly on where the bruise was. “It has quite a spectacular bruise. Can I show you?” she added, standing to go and fetch a mirror.

Lady Rilendale chuckled. “No,” she said, but Emmeline could hear how tired she was, and she settled down in the chair again. “I believe you.” Her voice was the merest whisper. Emmeline held her hand tightly.

“Would you like something?” she asked softly. Lady Rilendale had not eaten since the previous midday meal. “Tea, perhaps? Something to eat?”

Lady Rilendale shook her head. Her grip on Emmeline’s fingers tightened. “Just stay with me a while. Talk with me. I’m tired, but I am afraid to sleep. My head hurts,” she added, reaching up to touch the bruise.

Emmeline shifted on the seat, making herself comfortable. “Of course I will,” she said at once. “I’d be happy to.”

She thought about telling Lady Rilendale about her evening in the library, but with the older woman staring up at her, she lost some of her courage.

“I can tell you about my childhood in the countryside,” she proffered.

“Please do,” Lady Rilendale murmured. “I would like to hear of it.”

“Amelia was often with me at Ashmore, our country home,” she began. “We used to get up to all manner of mischief together. I remember when we stole pies from the kitchen. It was my idea, but Amelia got caught. She got into such trouble, so I had to tell the cook it was my idea. While I was talking, Amelia grabbed my arm and ran, and we both ran into the garden and hid.” She chuckled at the memory. The cook had not been quite as angry as she had been pretending to be, and at the sight of the two fleeing children, she had burst out laughing. Emmeline and Amelia had only found that part out later from Emmeline’s mother, to whom the cook had reported the incident with some amusement.

Emmeline looked over at the bed and saw a slight smile on Lady Rilendale’s lips. Her heart lifted. She racked her brains for another funny story.

“When I first started riding, my horse threw me into a patch of nettles.” She winced at the memory. That had not been very funny, but she recalled how her father had run to her at once. “Papa lifted me out of the nettles and kissed the sore places on my hands. Then he put me back on my horse and told me that he knew I could ride very well, that I had managed grandly with my first fall, and that I’d be even better now that I had some experience.” She sniffed, her throat tightening at the memory. If her father had not been so understanding, she might have been scared to ride again. Instead, she’d ridden around at a canter, so proud of her growing skills that she had not minded in the least about the burning nettle stings on her hands.

She swallowed hard. Lady Rilendale had fallen asleep—her eyes had closed, and the rhythm of her breathing had changed. She leaned back, watching her sleep. She did not stir or ask for another story, so Emmeline sat where she was, trying to figure out how to stand up quietly without waking her.

“How fares my mother?” a voice asked from behind her. She jumped and spun around to see Andrew in the doorway. His expression was serious but when his eyes met hers, they were bright, as though the same bubbling excitement that she experienced when she heard his voice.

“She’s sleeping,” Emmeline whispered. “I didn’t wish to wake her,” she added. Andrew’s voice had not disturbed her, so Emmeline decided it was safe to let the chair scrape on the floor and she stood up and went to the door. Lady Rilendale did not wake. Andrew smiled.

“Thank you,” he murmured, as they both stepped through the door together. “Your presence is comforting to my mother. I am grateful you are here. ”

“I did nothing,” Emmeline said, blushing furiously. “I am glad to sit with her.”

“And I am glad that you did,” Andrew said, lips lifting in a smile.

Emmeline smiled back and for a moment they stood together in the hallway, not speaking. Emmeline’s heart pounded.

“I am glad I bumped into you,” Andrew said consideringly. “I hoped you might have some time.”

“I do,” Emmeline said at once. Aside from sitting with Lady Rilendale, she had no plans.

“Good.” His gaze darted shyly to the floor and back. “I wanted to show you around the manor, if I may. My cousins are walking about the grounds, and we have the house to ourselves for an hour.”

“Oh.” Emmeline’s heart pounded. Her fingers twisted her skirt, a habit when she was excited. She made them be still. “I would like that.” “Good,” he repeated. He looked at her hesitantly, as though not sure how to start.

“I know all of the bottom floor,” Emmeline said with a small smile.

“Quite so. Especially the library,” he agreed.

They shared a smile.

“I will show you the gallery,” he began. “And... some other things,” he added mysteriously.

Emmeline’s heart lifted and she followed him as he walked up the hallway.

“This is where Grandma fell,” Andrew warned her as they went up a short flight of stairs that led from the second floor to a third. The stairs were wooden, and Emmeline winced as a board wobbled under her. Repairs were already underway in the dining room, but the craftsmen had yet to reach the upper floors of the house. They reached a long room where portraits lined the walls. Andrew went to the window at the end and drew back the velvet curtain, letting daylight pour into the dark space. She gazed around. Ten paces away, where Andrew stood, hung big oil portraits in gilded frames, showing faces strikingly like Andrew’s own on dark backgrounds. Closer to her were more recent paintings, the backgrounds lighter and showing scenery, such as Rilendale Manor, at the back. One of those showed two people. One was the image of Andrew but with a softer face and the dark hair and dark eyes of his cousins. The other was a woman with curly blonde hair and blue eyes. Her heart twisted. She knew they were Andrew’s parents. He was looking at a painting beside them.

“That’s Uncle Jasper. He was my father’s younger brother. He’s Ambrose and Lydia’s papa. I never knew him. He and Papa were not on speaking terms when I was born.” He drew a breath. “It’s a pity. He passed away a few years after Papa and Mama.”

“Oh. I can see the resemblance,” she said softly. The man in the picture looked just like his children, with the same dark hair and eyes and the same oval face as Lydia. He was handsome, but he reminded her of Ambrose, and he repelled her in the same way—there was something hard about his expression, something she could not bring herself to like despite his evident good looks.

“Mm. I suppose so,” Andrew agreed.

Emmeline sensed he was uncomfortable, and she went towards another painting.

“Who is that?” she asked. It showed a woman with a soft oval face and hazel eyes. She had a serene, gentle face and wore her soft honey-brown hair in an elaborate, padded bun on her head, some ringlets loose about her face as women had worn their hair forty or fifty years before.

“It is Grandma,” Andrew said with a smile.

“No!” Emmeline exclaimed delightedly.

“It is,” Andrew said, clearly pleased. “She was famously beautiful.”

“I can see that,” Emmeline said warmly.

She glanced at Andrew. He looked most like his father, but the shape of his eyes could have been from his mother or his grandma, she could not be sure.

“Come,” he said, going to the door. “There is one more thing I wish to show you.”

“Oh?” Emmeline hurried to keep up with him.

He took her down the hallway and paused at a door.

“This room has been locked for years,” he explained as he reached into his pocket and took out a key. “So, it might be quite dusty.”

Emmeline’s heart pounded as he unlocked the room. She stepped forward as he stood back for her and breathed in, smelling a dusty smell, but no worse than she had expected. Her eyes widened. It was fairly dark, a rosy light filtering through the thick velvet curtains. Andrew went to open one and she gasped in delight .

The room was a parlour, a small one, decorated with white flocked silk wallpaper and rose-pink velvet curtains. The furniture was upholstered with a rose-coloured brocade and the furniture was dark wood and elegant. A shelf of books was on one wall and the white marble mantelpiece held a few porcelain vases and statuettes. She gazed around in delight. The rest of the manor was either neglected or barren, but this part of it seemed filled with life. A thick layer of dust covered everything, but aside from that it was beautiful.

“It’s stunning,” she whispered.

“It was my mother’s.” Andrew’s voice was tight. “I thought that you should have it.”

“Andrew,” she breathed. She did not know what to say. He had found it hard to touch his mother’s poetry collection, had not done so for years, and yet here he was opening his mother’s private parlour for her.

“I thought you could use it,” he said with an attempt at lightness. “It seemed like something you would like.”

“I love it,” Emmeline murmured. She gazed up at him and he looked into her eyes. A shiver ran up her spine even as she approved of Lady Rilendale’s friendliness towards herself. Gently, he rested his hand on her cheek. His touch made chills flood her body.

“I am glad you are here,” he said softly.

Emmeline’s heart twisted. His expression was gentle, and his words sincerely meant. His voice was low and resonant, and it seemed to vibrate through every part of her.

“Thank you for giving me such a wonderful gift,” she said softly.

He said nothing, but his eyes lit briefly. He looked away.

“We should go to the drawing room,” he said coolly. “Ambrose and Lydia will be back any moment and we shall have no chance of a spot of tea on our own.”

Emmeline’s heart had sunken with the sudden return of his coldness, but at his comment about the tea she grinned.

“Good idea,” she said at once. She had not realised that their watchful presence disturbed him too. She giggled and he smiled.

Andrew locked up the room again and handed her the key. She held it tightly, the iron cool against her hand, and then they hurried up the hallway towards the drawing room.