the desk clerk asked, taking the phone back.
“Nope. Just an old friend.” She felt her face grow warm. “A pen pal, actually. We’ve never met before.”
“Ah.” He nodded, and gave her a commiserative smile. “You look nervous.”
“I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life.” The words came out in a rush.
“You needn’t be, a lovely girl like yourself.” He gave a quick smile and said very seriously, “Your friend will be very happy when he sees you, I’m certain.”
Chapter Two
Emma went back to her room, buoyed by the desk clerk’s compliment. Yes, perhaps he was just being nice. It was his job, after all. But he had such an honest face that she allowed herself to believe him. A lovely girl like yourself. Your friend will be very happy when he sees you, I’m certain.
She returned her thoughts to work and sat down on the bed to take her notebook out of her bag. As she leafed through her notes from the day, she realized that she’d been so distracted that she hadn’t even written complete sentences. She’d been more consumed with anticipation than she’d realized. Now she’d have to rewrite all the notes before she forgot what they meant. With a sigh, she looked at her watch and hoped she’d have at least a little time after she’d finished to get ready for dinner.
The task took a little more than an hour, and when she was finished her hand was aching, but her purpose in coming had been reinforced. Part of her had been so eager to meet John that she’d let the goal of going to the earl of Palliser’s estate slip to the back burner. Now she remembered just how important it was.
When she’d first seen John’s photo of the earl’s Sheldale House garden on Guernsey, she’d been so surprised she nearly spilled her hot coffee in her lap. For nearly three years she and her boss had been researching natural alternative painkillers for arthritis and had narrowed it down to Schilus mucre, or St. Paul’s Heart, a very rare plant related to Barren Wort, which was itself a rare English plant.
Yet there, plain as the grass in John’s picture, was what looked like a large patch of St. Paul’s Heart. They’d examined the photo closely and determined that it looked very similar. Then funding for the research had run low and they’d been forced to turn their priorities elsewhere. Until a month ago, that was, when a new benefactor had donated nearly one million dollars to them for medical research. Emma had volunteered to come to the symposium and stay on using her vacation time in hopes of researching the plants and conditions at Sheldale House.
It was a goal she shouldn’t lose sight of, no matter how excited she was about meeting John. In fact, she might even need John to help her with it. Much as she hated to do it, if she didn’t hear from the earl soon—like on her way out the door this evening—she was going to have to ask John if he could pull any strings to get her permission to visit Sheldale House. Heaven knew she didn’t want to do it. After their initial correspondence, she’d tried to keep business out of their relationship, but if she explained to him how important it was, maybe he would want to help. That thought boosted her optimism considerably.
She set her notes aside and went to the cupboard for a towel so she could get showered and ready for dinner. She bathed quickly and dried her hair. After trying three different “meeting John” outfits, she finally settled on a simple yellow sundress, cut in a classic forties’ style that created the illusion of a narrow waist thanks to a full skirt. It wasn’t one of her new “going to London” outfits, but it was an old favorite that she felt comfortable in.
Her hair, as usual, was proving to be a problem. It fell halfway down her back in a thick tangle of auburn curls. After trying several possibilities, she finally decided to let it hang in wild curls about her shoulders. Luckily all the latest fashion magazines were heralding that look as “pre-Raphaelite fabulous,” which she supposed was a good thing. She brushed some color on her cheeks and lips, the way the girl at the drugstore had taught her, and went downstairs to wait for John.
She went to the front step and sat in the balmy evening air, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of London. The sky was deepening blue, with streaks of lipstick pink stretching across the horizon. Some of the birds in the leafy green trees were singing new songs, unfamiliar to Emma.
A small blue car pulled up outside the hotel. That, Emma realized as she looked at its tiny dimensions, must be what they call a Mini. There was a man in it, alone. Her heart tripped. It was almost certainly John. The time had finally come.
The man got out of the car and walked toward the hotel. He was tall, with a lean, muscular build. His dark hair, just a bit longish at the collar, gleamed in the amber evening sunlight, bringing Sir Lancelot to mind.
But nothing could have prepared her for the exquisite dignity of his face or, more specifically, her heart-pounding reaction to it. Even from a distance, she was struck by the masculine square jaw, and the sensual perfection of his curved mouth. His cheekbones were strong and noble-looking without being so high as to be “pretty.” As he drew closer, she could see that his straight dark brows framed pale, intelligent eyes. Eyes that made her feel, for one irrational moment, that she was home.
“Hello,” he said, nearing her.
“Hi,” she said, but it sounded like a question. Was it him? Was it really him?
He stopped before her and cocked his head slightly to the side. “Emma?”
She gave a slight nod—the best she could do, considering the fact that his looks had practically paralyzed her—and only then realized that she’d been holding her breath.
He smiled, extending his hand. “I’m John Turnhill.”
It was him. Had she ever even imagined he would be so handsome? That old familiar self-consciousness about her own looks resurfaced. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand.
He held her gaze easily as he took her hand in his. “You are exactly as I imagined.”
Something about the way he said it put her at ease. She believed him, and it was okay. “Am I?”
“Exactly.” He let go of her hand and they started to walk side-by-side to the car. “So how do you like London so far, Emma?”
“I really love it,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear her thundering heart. It had to be nerves, she told herself. After all, this was John. She knew him already, there was nothing to be nervous about.
“Good. I’ve chosen a little place for dinner just around the corner in Hampstead Heath.” His voice was low and rich, with a perfectly measured English accent. That part of it was as she’d imagined. “I hope you like French food?”
He had once mentioned in his letters wanting to take her to the famous Thames Gate Restaurant. Had he changed his mind? She had the unwelcome thought that perhaps he was embarrassed to be seen with her since she wasn’t beautiful. But he wasn’t like that, she knew he wasn’t. It was probably just because he was on a budget, like she was. It was all well and good to say you wanted to take someone to a fancy restaurant, but it wasn’t so easily done. “Yes, I love French food,” she said. “That sounds great.”
“I realize it’s not typically British, but the food is quite good, and it’s in one of London’s most Dickensian spots. I thought you’d prefer that to boiled potatoes in the business district.”
