Page 3 of To Tempt Lady (Victorian Outcasts #10)

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Anxiety never failed to torment Marcus every time he was about to see Lady Emma, but he discovered that, if he drank gallons of strong black tea, he became anxious a lot faster and a lot harder while needing the water closet more often.

The motion of the carriage driving him to her house didn’t help calm his nervous state. He shifted on the seat and glanced out of the window, dreading the moment he would see her, but at the same time, looking forward to it.

He would spend a few days in her house in Newport-on-Tay as Father and his associate, Sir Horace, did business with the earl, and Marcus had no idea how he would survive being so close to her. He would end up saying the wrong thing, and she would think he was an idiot.

What was worse was that from now on, he would meet peers more often than before. Social gatherings would be his life.

Father was the technical genius of the company, but Sir Horace had the connections, which the company needed to grow. He might not be as talented as Father in engineering, but he had many friends among the peerage and the House of Commons.

As part of the business, Marcus would need to mingle at balls and parties more often.

The mighty Thistle Hall was already visible at the end of the road.

The house of the Earl of Pembroke rose in all its Jacobean beauty—red bricks, shapely gables, oriel windows, and pediment doors.

As a civil engineer, he found its imposing style challenging, but the people living in it, one lady in particular, were more daunting.

“You’re too nervous,” Father said from the opposite seat. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m not nervous.”

He wiped his clammy hands on his trousers; his best pair of trousers, that is. He was wearing a brand-new dark blue suit with a matching fine waistcoat. The clouds were reflected in the shine of his shoes, so polished they were.

Father gave him a sceptical look. “You were fidgety on the train, but now you’re pale. You should talk to her.”

“Who?” He loosened the collar of his shirt, only to tighten it again, lest it give an untidy impression.

“Lady Emma, of course. Every time you see her, you seem to lose the ability to speak, move, and look human.”

“Do I?”

“She talks and talks to you, and you just stand there immobile and silent. She’ll get discouraged soon if you don’t talk to her.”

“I remember having a conversation with her about…” He drummed his fingers on his knee. The last time he’d seen Lady Emma, she’d talked most of the time.

“If you keep staying silent and brooding when you’re with her, she’ll think you don’t like her at all.”

Which wasn’t true. But it was true that he never spoke when he was with her while she never stopped talking. The result was that he knew a lot about her, but she didn’t know anything about him.

There were too many reasons to be nervous around her.

She was the daughter of an earl, and he didn’t find himself comfortable among peers; he would take a group of rowdy builders any day.

Also, she wouldn’t be interested in a recently graduated civil engineer whose ancestors had been farmers and serfs.

The shadows of the trees lining the drive blocked the view of the countryside and cast darkness in the carriage, turning his shoes pitch-black. Thunder roared in the distance as clouds gathered in the sky. Exactly what he needed, a dark omen.

The carriage slowed down once close to the entrance to Thistle Hall. Fuelled by the black tea, his heart gave a strong thump.

Father cast a glance at the sky. “Horace should already be here. I need to leave with him and the earl,” Father said. “You’ll stay here until I return.”

Staying at Thistle Hall alone was as appealing as paying bills. “But I want to come with you.”

“Not this time.” Father gazed up at the darkening sky. “I want you to write those bills to pay.” He patted his leather bag.

“Wonderful.”

“I couldn’t finish them all, and we won’t be discussing anything technical, only financial. You would be bored.”

He was about to protest when the carriage rolled to a stop.

A few words were exchanged between the coachman and the footman, and he wished to stay seated longer. He wasn’t ready to see Lady Emma.

“We’ll go together tomorrow morning when I inspect the Tay Bridge,” Father said. “You’ll enjoy yourself more if you stay here. And talk with Lady Emma.”

He would love to, but he wasn’t sure she would be interested.

The hedgerows and bushes in the front garden were so well trimmed and tidy that he instinctively ran his fingers through his hair to comb it.

The entry hall was a masterpiece in elegance and balance, resembling the beauty of the Pantheon’s dome, likely built when his great-great-grandfather was a baby, judging by the style.

Just a further reminder of how ancient Lady Emma’s family was.

His skin pebbled with goose pimples as another round of thunder boomed. He had to be allergic to aristocracy because he wasn’t such a coward when he was with commoners.

He checked that the soles of his shoes didn’t leave mud on the carpet.

“Sir Albert, Mr. Kingston, welcome. His Lordship and Sir Horace are waiting for you.” The butler showed them to a warm sitting room.

The temperature difference caused his blood to shoot to his face. His cheeks turned so warm he could fry an egg on them. He had to be the colour of a strawberry.

“Welcome.” The Earl of Pembroke shook Marcus’s hand. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

He bowed his head. “Very comfortable, my lord.” Aside from the knot of anxiety in his stomach and his constantly full bladder.

Sir Horace gave him a strong pat on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you here. Learning the trade on the field, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus craned his neck, searching the room for Lady Emma, but aside from them and a footman, there wasn’t anyone.

He had no choice but to sip yet another cup of tea as his father, the earl, and Sir Horace discussed the technical challenges of maintaining a bridge like the Tay Bridge.

The earl had been one of the investors who had financed that prodigy of modern technology, and Father’s company was responsible for the maintenance of the bridge’s structure.

That was what Marcus wanted to do—build safe and modern bridges, railways, and houses for the kingdom.

“The gusts of winds are so strong in the bay,” Father said, “and the sea currents add considerable weight to the structure.”

Sir Horace nodded. “The traffic of trains on the bridge has increased five per cent in the past two months.”

On other occasions, Marcus would pay complete attention to the conversation, but knowing Lady Emma was close started an annoying tingling on the back of his neck. Not to mention, he was going to burst if he drank one more sip of tea.

“Are you all right, Marcus?” the earl asked.

He shifted on his chair again. “I was wondering if I could leave for a moment, my lord. I need the lavatory.”

The earl nodded at the footman. “By all means.”

Marcus rose, a hand on his belly.

The footman opened the door for him. “Last door on the left side of the corridor.”

The corridor was a wide, long hallway, and he feared he wouldn’t make it to the last door. He sped up but stopped when a French door overlooking the garden opened and Lady Emma slid inside, accompanied by the roar of thunder.

His anxiety spiked. Her light green gown had the colour of budding leaves in spring and exalted her hazel eyes, making them look like amber jewels. But her smile upon seeing him was the most precious thing. It held the essence of her lively, happy personality.

He couldn’t recall a single time when she’d been sad or defeated. Surely, she had those moments, but with a bubbly energy like hers, she only spread happiness. He’d been greedy in taking her happiness.

“Marcus.” She bowed her head gracefully, and her blonde curls bobbed on her heart-shaped face. “How lovely to see you again.”

“My lady.” He bowed but not too low, lest his precarious situation turn unmanageable.

“You can call me Emma, as I told you the last time we met.”

He made a gesture with his head halfway between a nod and a head shake, not sure what to say.

“It’s getting cold.” She closed the door, blocking a cold gust. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Heavens, no!” Hell. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

He wished he’d been less harsh, but the simple mention of anything liquid to drink increased the pressure on his about-to-explode bladder. Not something he could mention to a lady.

Her smile turned into a flat line. “Fine. No tea then.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I apologise, but I need to go.”

“Don’t let me keep you. I’ll see you later.” Back straight, she marched towards the other side of the corridor.

Damn. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Do not worry.” She paused and gave him a graceful nod that could mean anything.

He strode to the bloody water closet, cursing the idea of drinking a lot of tea to calm his nerves.

After he finished, mentally kicking himself for his rudeness, he found Father, the earl, and Sir Horace in the entry hall with their coats on.

“Marcus.” Father wrapped a scarf around his neck. “We’re leaving. We should be here for dinner.”

“Make yourself at home,” the earl said as the footman handed him an umbrella. “Stewart will serve tea in the drawing room.”

Bloody tea again. Marcus bowed. “Thank you, my lord.”

A quick, cold gust whistled past when the footman opened the front door. The treetops swayed against the backdrop of a stormy sky.

“I could come with you,” he said.

Father donned his hat. “Stay here, warm and dry, and finish those bills. I’ll see you later.”

After the footman shut the door, Marcus made his way to the drawing room. Without Father and after his brief, disastrous encounter with Emma, he should go to his bedroom, but that would be rude. He looked out of the window, studying the weather.