Page 34

The following day, John called upon his fiancée once again to escort her to Vauxhall Gardens for an afternoon promenade.

He had thoroughly enjoyed himself at the races the day before—and not just because both he and Emma had won two hundred pounds apiece in betting on the horses.

No, just being in Emma’s presence was enough for him.

Being privy to her small, secret, private smiles and being included in the joke behind her laughing eyes was enough.

She had loosened up considerably after he proposed they approach this arrangement as friends.

Of course, what he truly wanted was to be so much more than friends.

But it was well-known that Emma’s marriage to Lord Renfrew had not been a happy one for her, and no one in society could argue that becoming a widow at twenty-two was probably the best thing that could have happened to her.

Ever since, she had been far lighter in her affect and tone, yet she had never overcome the distance that seemed to separate her from others, as if she were trying to protect herself.

Even the rumors of her taking lovers suggested that she kept them at arm’s length.

And so, John knew he must content himself with merely befriending the object of his desire for so many years.

In truth, he was already glad he had suggested such a thing.

If nothing else, it was apparent that the older, wiser Lady Emma was not the blushing Miss Hart of eighteen.

John had been delighted by her highly improper—and whispered for his ears only—jokes at the racetrack, as well as her display of knowledge regarding exactly who was seducing whom within the ton .

But now, as he walked beside Emma through Vauxhall Gardens a mere two days after their engagement, her hand lightly on his arm, she was again distant and cold.

Oh, she was sociable in all the right ways, of course.

She received congratulations on their engagement with pleasure.

Offered polite, knowing smiles of acknowledgement to her and John’s mutual and less-reputable acquaintances.

Held her head high and ignored the more conservative ladies who loudly talked about her finally marrying again and hopefully settling down for good, giving up her more scandalous habits, such as cards, smoking, flirting, and—worst of all—writing novels.

No, she was present in the gardens, but her mind was on the far side of the globe.

After they passed yet another group of well-wishers, John drew her down an empty walk surrounded by tall trees. Once in the shade, he felt her exhale slightly. “Where are you today, my lovely Lady Emma?” he asked in a light, teasing voice.

“I’m sorry. I fear I am a dreadful companion today,” she said, shaking her head. “I have been… thinking too much.”

John laughed. “Can one ever truly think too much? Is it not a mark of humanity to overthink things? And what, pray tell, are you so desperately drowning in thoughts about?”

“Love.”

The one word was an arrow to his heart. Love?

Love whom? Did we just speak to one of her rumored former lovers?

Is she thinking of one of them, possibly regretting not choosing them for this charade instead?

He glanced sidelong at her, but detected no blush of affection on her cheeks.

Just cool, calm cognition. This could mean so many things.

Clearing his throat to cover his momentary mental stutter, he asked, “And what of it?”

To his surprise, she halted in her path and asked, “Why did you never marry?”

John choked on the very air he breathed.

He affected a cough and looked around for some savior.

Fortunately, there was a little stone bench nearby, and he drew her toward it.

Sinking down beside her, her skirts soft and fluttering against his breeches, he marshaled his thoughts.

“I suppose because I never met the right lady.”

Emma scoffed. “I fail to see what right or wrong has to do with it. People marry the wrong person every day.” At that, she looked away, her countenance turning hard and cold.

It also had the effect of sending her crooked nose into profile.

It had been perfectly straight when John first met her all those years ago. Before her marriage.

For a moment, helpless rage choked John, but he suppressed it.

It was a quiet echo of the dark, burning fury that had twisted his guts whenever the married Lady Emma Renfrew had appeared in society with obviously caked makeup over a cheekbone or eye.

Wearing long-sleeved dresses when it was far too hot to do so.

Everyone in the ton had known what was going on in the Renfrew home, yet no one had done a thing.

Not even John. He had just washed his anger down with strong liquor and a pretty face.

He still burned with shame at his inability to do anything.

But now, the perpetrator was in his grave, and Emma was alive and well and sitting beside him. Free.

John pushed these dark thoughts aside and focused on the woman before him.

“There was a young lady,” he finally allowed.

Startled, Emma turned back to look at him, her eyes wide with surprise.

He continued, “I was desperately in love with her, but could never find the words. I was young, you see, and not yet at ease in the world. And so, she slipped through my fingers. Married another. And thus, you see the rake before you today.”

“So, you became a scoundrel, breaking hearts throughout society, because you were disappointed in love?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “That seems horribly unfair, especially since you admit it’s because of your own failure to act.”

He grinned, turning the full force of his charm on Emma.

“It is, indeed. But I am an imperfect being. I suppose a thousand years ago, I would have taken orders and become a monk or simply practiced the arts of courtly love as a knight, serving my lady from afar. Alas, we live in more decadent times, so my only recourse was becoming a scoundrel.”

Happily, she seemed amused by his little speech. She laughed, then asked, “Do I know the lady who is unwittingly responsible for breaking your heart—and so many others’?”

John’s heart thundered in his chest. The words were on the tip of his tongue: She is sitting before me .

But he didn’t dare utter them. He feared they would send this whole, magical, too-perfect endeavor crashing to the ground, leaving nothing but the taste of ashes in his mouth.

And so, instead, he did what any good rake would do.

He smiled knowingly and tapped the end of his nose with his forefinger.

“Ah, ah! You know I would never truly compromise a lady. No, her name and her role in my sad history must remain yet a secret,” he said, affecting a light air.

She matched his gravity and responded with a playful, “Of course. I would never dream of compromising a lady in such a way.” Her voice grew soft as she asked, “I trust she was very beautiful?”

“The loveliest lady I ever saw,” he answered honestly, his words coming out lower than he intended. His eyes on hers were hot; he knew it. Her own eyes widened, and then, she broke the contact and looked away. The weight pressing on his chest eased.

“Well, I am sorry for you both that it did not work out,” she said, shifting slightly in her seat. “Love and marriage are both fickle things, and neither guarantees a happy resolution.”

John couldn’t help himself. He reached out with delicate fingers to brush her chin and slowly, gently, turned her head to face him again. Her blue eyes were downcast and wouldn’t meet his.

“Lady Emma… Emma… I will never harm you. That, I can swear.” He didn’t have to say more on the subject. They both knew what he alluded to.

She nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “I know. I appealed to your friends for a complete sketch of your character before I ever approached you. They were happy to depict all your worst flaws.”

Amused, he asked, “And what, pray tell, did my friends accuse me of?”

She shrugged. “Exactly what I expected. Cards. Drinking. Carousing. Flirtation. Mild seduction.” At last, she lifted her eyes and met his gaze. “But never violence. If anything, your friend, Lord Keyes, accused you of being a happy, friendly, overly familiar drunk.”

John chuckled and made a mental note to send Lord Keyes a bottle of wine as a thank-you gift for assassinating his character most accurately.

They settled into a comfortable silence then, and John felt a kind of calm, unassuming acceptance settle over him. He could stand beside the lady he desired. He could be her friend. He could protect her. Even if she never loved him as he loved her, he could bear that. His was a sweet torture.

“John—”

“Emma—”

They both spoke at once, tripping over each other. Laughing, he urged her, “You go first, my lady.”

She smiled and nodded once before her mirth faded. “I’m sorry that you’ve been disappointed in love. Perhaps it is a sign that we are well-matched in this endeavor. If our hearts cannot be engaged, it will make this so much more pleasant.”

“Is your heart elsewhere engaged?” he asked before he could stop himself. The words choked his throat, but he had to know.

“No. I simply do not believe I can ever love again. Not after…” She trailed off, her gaze becoming distant. “I was under an illusion when I married Lord Renfrew. A youthful illusion. I knew nothing of the world, of marriage, of love. Now, I recognize just how blind I was.”

Relief warred with residual anger in John’s gut. Does this mean there is hope? Or that my cause is hopeless? He didn’t know. Still, he pressed ahead, determined to say something. “Love does not necessarily exist within marriage, just as love can exist outside of marriage.”

She smiled and nodded in understanding.