Page 18 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl (Marriage Mart Scandals #2)

“Now, Grandson, you need to listen to me, just occasionally,” Grandma said, teasing but insistent. Andrew, sitting at her bedside, could not stop smiling.

“Yes, Grandma,” he agreed at once. He would have agreed to anything she suggested—she had woken during his morning visit, and she was not only awake, but lively and more lucid than he had seen her since she hurt herself.

“You must tell her, Andrew. It’s no good only telling me, you know.” Grandma grinned at him. Andrew’s heart filled with love as he stared at that beloved face. Her skin was soft, touched by the morning sunshine and her eyes were bright.

“I know,” he said with a small smile. “But it is not easy, Grandma.”

“Emmeline is a dear girl,” Grandma said firmly. “I see no reason why you should not tell her precisely how you feel.”

Andrew sighed. It was not that he did not trust Emmeline. He wished he could explain to Grandma how frightened he was that he would cause something bad to happen to Emmeline by getting close to her. The more he came to love her—and he could not deny it to himself anymore; love was what he had experienced in the past—the more he feared that.

“It is not as simple as that, Grandma,” was all he managed to say.

“I see no reason why not,” she said, her face set in that prim expression she sometimes wore when she argued with him, and he was being obtuse.

Andrew just smiled. He was so happy to see his grandmother awake and full of life.

“You’re probably right, Grandma,” he admitted gently.

“Well, there you are!” Grandma held his gaze, her lips lifting teasingly. “Do you see? You already agree.”

Andrew laughed. “I do. Are you sure I cannot fetch you some tea?” he asked her. Her maid, Philipa, had told him Grandma had not eaten much that morning.

She shook her head. “I’ll take tea later, dear,” she assured him. “Right now, I want to read my book. Might you pass it to me on your way out?”

“Of course,” Andrew agreed, glancing at the low table by the door. It was so wonderful to see her doing such characteristic things like reading again. She had always been an avid reader, though she preferred novels or essays to poems. The poetry collection was entirely his mother’s.

Emmeline’s face when he had given her the poetry book was something he would never forget. Like the feeling of her satin-soft skin against his lips when he kissed her hand.

“It’s Tuesday, yes?” she asked.

“Um, yes,” Andrew replied, surprised. “Indeed. Why?”

“Because the gardeners are to tend to the flowerbeds today. You mentioned it a week ago. Do you not recall?”

“Yes!” Andrew beamed, delighted. “You remembered long before I did.”

“Well, it is fortunate I reminded you,” she said primly.

Andrew laughed. “Quite so. I ought to speak with the butler about it,” he said with a grin. “I’ll fetch you your book on the way out.”

“Please do, Andrew,” Grandma replied. She shifted on the pillows and Andrew went to the door, fetched the book and passed it to her. It was a collection of selected philosophical essays.

“Thank you, Grandson,” Grandma said appreciatively.

“Of course. Take care,” Andrew answered and took her hand in his, clasping it briefly. Her skin was warm but not hot and he was sure that was a good sign.

He went out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

“Cousin!” Ambrose greeted him as he walked to the drawing room. Andrew tensed.

“Good morning, cousin,” Andrew greeted him lightly. The truth was, he found himself increasingly frustrated by the cousins’ extended visit. While he didn’t encounter them often throughout the day, they were always present at mealtimes and tea. He couldn’t help but imagine how grand it would be to have the house to himself and Emmeline, enjoying a quiet tea time with just the two of them. Instead, the cousins had lingered for over a week, and their presence had begun to weigh on him.

“How is Grandma faring today?” Ambrose asked, his brows lowering in a frown.

“She’s much improved,” Andrew said slowly.

“Oh?” Ambrose looked confused. “She was in quite a poor state yesterday when I sat with her. She barely opened her eyes. I was certain she would not wake today. ”

Andrew’s own brow lowered in a frown. “She was very lucid,” he told him slowly. “She spoke with me quite clearly.” She had recalled events from before her injuries and she was reading a book of Francis Bacon’s essays. She had a sounder mind than anyone he knew.

“Oh?” Ambrose sounded as though he could barely believe him. “She was so weary yesterday. Her speech was muddled—it was most distressing to witness.” His gaze was worried.

“That is strange,” Andrew replied.

“I took the liberty of calling for the physician. He has agreed to visit upon the morrow.”

“What?” Andrew shot an angry look at his cousin. “That was not necessary.”

“I apologise,” Ambrose said thinly. “But she is my grandmother as well, and I acted as I deemed proper under the circumstances.”

Andrew could see the anger in Ambrose’s gaze, and he understood at once. He and Lydia had been elbowed out during Father’s lifetime due to the disagreement between his father and their own. Ambrose was right—they were Grandma’s grandchildren after all. He did not wish to continue the feud. Much as he disliked Ambrose, he was still his cousin.

“I apologise,” he said at once. “I spoke hastily. If you saw fit to summon the physician, I cannot but be grateful you did so. And if the physician visits her tomorrow, it will surely put your mind—and mine—at rest,” he added carefully. If the physician came in and found her reading Bacon's essays and remembering things quite clearly, he would surely understand she was cured.

“Good. I am glad you see things as I do.” Ambrose’s reply was cool.

“Indeed,” Andrew said lightly. He did not wish to argue. He was too happy to argue. He had Grandma’s permission to confide his feelings in Emmeline—more than permission. He had to.

He grinned to himself. He would have done so anyway, but her insisting on it made him find courage. He went up to his room, where he hastily checked his appearance in the looking glass. He had chosen a navy-blue velvet jacket, and his high-necked shirt was tied with a simple cravat—he had never liked the frothy, overdone fashions many men favoured at Court. He adjusted it a little, checked that his hair was still neatly brushed and went to find Emmeline.

As he had expected, she was in the drawing room .

“Good morning?” he called from the doorway. She had taken to sitting in there, and he had wanted to ask her what she was doing often on his way past—he had just never found the courage. Lydia had been in there with her once or twice and he did not want to ask her in front of Lydia. He didn’t understand why, but his relationship with Emmeline was something fiercely private; something only Grandma was allowed to comment on or witness.

Her head whipped around in surprise. Her thick red hair was arranged in a chignon, most of it spilling out of the bun on the back in an array of untidy curls. He grinned to himself. With her green eyes wide with surprise, her red curls tumbling in disarray around her face, she was as pretty as a picture.

“Andrew!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t hear you walk in.”

“I was quiet,” Andrew said smilingly. “I was afraid I would disturb you.” He tried to crane his neck to see what she was doing, but she covered the page on the table in front of her with a square of blotting paper.

“I take offence,” she teased, “at being sneaked up upon.”

He laughed; her bright, quick reply making him want to tease her a little too. “I ought to be quieter next time,” he answered. “Then you will be unaware, and so cannot reprimand me.”

Her brow lifted, a smile brightening her face like a candle. “I will hear you,” she warned playfully. “I have very good hearing.”

“I am a very good sneaker.”

They both laughed.

Her gaze held his and he drew a breath. Her smile still lingered, and she was beautiful.

“I wanted to ask you,” he said, his throat suddenly tight because of shyness, “if you might have a moment to take a walk about the grounds with me.”

“A moment?” Emmeline asked. She did not sound like she did not wish to, however. “Yes. I would be pleased to go outdoors.”

“Good.” Andrew inclined his head. His heart was thudding in his chest. “I am glad.”

He waited as she stood up and went to the door and followed her downstairs.

The garden was cool—a slight breeze blew, and the clouds were scudding along. The sunshine broke through now and again, and it was promising to be a fine day after all. They walked silently for a moment or two without talking.

When they were about ten yards from the house, Andrew cleared his throat.

“I trust you find Rilendale manor to your liking?” he asked.

Emmeline nodded. “It is pleasant,” she replied.

“Good.” Andrew paused. They had wandered out of sight of the house, near a bench under the tall, spreading pine tree. He cleared his throat. “Emmeline,” he began slowly. “I wanted to ask you something.” He had thought about the question all night and most of the morning. It was what he had asked Grandma about.

“Yes?” She sounded curious. “What is it?”

“I wanted to ask why you chose what you did,” Andrew said in a rush. “Why did you choose to replace your cousin Amelia? Why did you choose...this? Us?”

She gazed up at him. He thought for a moment that she had been upset by his question.

“I chose this because of how Amelia and I have always helped each other,” she began slowly. “But not just that,” she added swiftly. “It was not just for Amelia.”

“No?” He swallowed hard, heart soaring. Already, that was a different answer to the one he had expected. He had been frightened that it was, in fact, solely about helping her cousin, and that she viewed the whole thing as a great and noble sacrifice—marrying a man who was not part of the Ton , who was whispered about and reviled, who had no fortune any longer.

“No,” she said swiftly. “I will tell you why, but, first, allow me to say that I did not know you then.” Her green eyes, holding his gaze, sparkled brightly.

“No.” He frowned, but she smiled.

“I did not know how pleasant you are,” she completed the sentence.

“Oh.” He smiled and a flush crept onto his cheeks.

“I did not know,” she continued. “I chose this—us—because of Mama.”

“Mama?” He frowned, confused. He had barely exchanged a word with her mother—how was it possible she had anything to do with the decision?

“I chose it because Mama could not take me to London for another Season, but it was not just that. She would have—but I could not bear it.” She looked down and her lower lip wobbled as though she was struggling to hold back her tears.

“What is it?” Andrew asked at once.

“It’s the Ton . The Season. Everything. It seemed as though everything I did was wrong. Like everything about me was wrong. Like I should just disappear.” She sniffed, tears starting to fall.

“What?” Andrew exclaimed, shocked that she should feel that way. She shook her head, still crying, and he reined in his outrage and surprise.

“It was not as though anyone said it directly, but I was always getting sideways glances and having people whisper about me. I don’t know if you have ever been at a party and seen people whispering and known it was about you?” she asked. He nodded.

“I have,” he said at once. He had hated the Ton for that, too—everyone was always watching, assessing everybody else.

“I have experienced that often. And I never even made friends, not really. And Papa...” she started sobbing and Andrew reached for her hand.

“Shh,” he murmured gently. “It’s all well.” He reached for his handkerchief and passed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She wiped her eyes and continued. “Papa...he told me that I should never stop being as I am. That I should not allow them to dim my light. I should be myself and continue to shine.”

Andrew took a deep breath. She was crying again, and his heart twisted. He wished for a moment that he could have known Emmeline’s father. He sounded like a good man.

“Good,” he said softly. “He was right.”

She frowned.

“He was right,” Andrew continued, his heart thudding in his chest. “I would not wish you to be any other way. I can only admire you as you are. You are brave and bold and full of life. You are bright and witty and kind. I admire you as you are. You light up the lives of so many. Please never dim your light.”

His voice was rough with feeling, and he swallowed, finding it hard to breathe.

She was staring up at him, her green eyes wide and round with amazement, her mouth half-open in a sweet expression of shocked surprise.

He could not resist anymore. He bent in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. His arm moved instinctively, drawing her closer for a brief moment. He shut his eyes, savouring the warmth of her presence and the light, floral scent that clung to her.

She gasped and his eyes flew open. A wave of realisation washed over him—what had he been thinking? His longing had nearly driven him to overstep entirely, and shame flooded him at the thought. His arm dropped to his side, and he straightened abruptly, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

She never even said she liked you , he reminded himself angrily. She had said he was pleasant. That was all. Nothing in that suggested she wished to be kissed by him, to be held.

“I should...I should return to the house,” he stammered.

She looked confused and his heart twisted painfully. He had scared her. He had moved faster than he should. He had forced himself on her after he had sworn not to.

She did not recoil from your touches and kisses before; a small part of his mind reminded him. He could not afford to let it speak its sense—he had to run. If he stayed there a second longer, he would do things he knew he should not. His desire was like a fire he was struggling to hold in check. Soon it would consume him.

“I should go inside,” he repeated, cheeks flushing. “I promised the butler I would check some things,” he added. “Accounts. My apologies.” He made a wry face, trying to elicit a smile, but she was just staring at him with those same wide, frightened eyes and he turned away and walked as briskly as he could to the house.

“Dash it,” he said under his breath. Why was someone not here to advise him? Neville, Grandma—they could help him with this foolishness. And yet neither of them was there. Neville was two miles away, and Grandma was still too ill to bother with anything that might worry her.

He hurried upstairs, stalked past the drawing room where the cousins were having morning tea, and raced to his chamber. He shut the door and sat down heavily on the bed. He needed time to think.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted to the silent room.

He had no idea what he was doing, too much idea of what he wanted to do, and no idea at all how to tell Emmeline, who was far too frightened to hear him.