he would.
“Very well, I shall wait to visit him, but not for long,” she conceded reluctantly, turning away and peering out the window to keep from looking at Nicholas. The very sight of him stirred emotions she had believed well conquered years ago.
She jumped when his strong hands clasped her shoulders. Hands she remembered all too well. Hands that had caressed her face, threaded through her hair, held her close against him, fingers flexing, tempting, making her wish…
“I promise on my honor that Josh will be hale in no time. Have I ever lied to you?”
With that question, fury suffused her body and she whirled on him, breaking his hold on her shoulders. She shoved against his chest with both hands. “Yes!” she hissed. “Yes, Nicholas, you have lied, by deeds if not words! How do I know you are not lying now? How could I ever trust you to care for my little brother when you had no thought to care for me?”
“I never lied to you. I regret that you cannot forgive me for leaving the way I did,” he said curtly, “but I tell you again, I was left with no choice. And once I was gone, it was necessary that I stay away. For both our sakes.”
Emily took a deep breath, her lips firmly closed on the words she would have spat in anger. Necessary, he said. Necessary, because he had always been betrothed to another woman, long before he had kissed Emily. Necessary, because he feared she would expect more than he could have righteously offered. Necessary, because he did not and never had loved her.
He stepped closer and touched her face. In horror and fascination, she watched his mouth lower to hers. Only at the last moment, did he place the kiss upon her cheek instead of her trembling lips.
Oh, sweet heaven, the gentleness, the heat of that mouth. It had been so long since he had touched her, held her. His tantalizing scent clouded her mind and his breath warmed her face. Fire rushed through her veins, obliterating all caution. He had not changed. She had not.
“My dearest Emily,” he whispered, breaking the spell he’d woven as effectively as if he had doused her with a bucket of icy water.
She shoved him away. “Dearest, is it? Get out of this room, Nicholas. Do it now!”
He had the audacity to look surprised. “What the devil is wrong with you, Em? I only meant to—”
“I know exactly what you meant to do!” She backed away, her arms crossed over her chest, wishing they could shield her heart. The foolish thing had barely begun to mend from the last time he broke it.
Though he turned to go, he faced her again when he stood in the doorway. “You have no cause to fear me, Emily. I would never do anything to cause you further pain.”
She remained silent, far from certain she believed him, and unwilling to lie about it. Though Nick’s intention would never be to inflict any deliberate hurt upon her, Emily knew he could do so without even trying, maybe without even knowing.
He searched her eyes for her answer and seemed to find it there. “I did care for you then, Emily. And whether you can accept the truth or not, I still do.”
There was little she could say to that. He might still desire her. But hunger was a common thing for a man to feel toward any female. Even if Nick did not recognize the difference, she now knew better than to confuse desire with true caring. At least he said nothing of loving her.
Without further words, he went out of the room and gently closed the door. She heard his measured footsteps on the stairs and felt as bereft as she always did when deprived of his company. That had not altered at all, unless she counted the fact that the deprivation cut even more deeply now.
With Nicholas residing continents away, it had been somehow easier to accept that he did not love her. How was she supposed to bear it when they were living under the same roof?
No matter how much she wished it, there seemed no way out of this conundrum. Though she wanted nothing more than to sneak back out the gardener’s gate with her brother and double her efforts to forget Nicholas Hollander, she knew that she and Joshua had no recourse but to remain here until the quarantine was over.
Emily straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Running is the coward’s way,” she muttered vehemently to herself, pounding one fist soundly into the opposite palm. “And you, Emily Loveyne, have never resorted to such behavior in your life. Where is your courage?”
She had overcome the snide remarks and polite censure of the whole village of Bournesea, as well as that of the old Lord Kendale, when she was hardly more than a girl out of short skirts. Never once had she doubted her eventual success in that endeavor.
Now she was a woman with the blinders of first love torn away and a much better understanding of people in general. Of men, in particular. Clearly, she could stand what she must and weather this storm, as well.
There was certain to be one, she realized. No one in the entire county would ever believe she had spent a whole fortnight in this manor with the man she once adored without surrendering to his charms.
It would likely take her more than seven years this time to convince them of her innocence.
Emily used the bellpull, after all. During the hours alone in the countess’s old chamber with nothing to read but a well-thumbed book of poetry, she grew desperately bored.
One could only dwell so long on the ramblings of Byron. Was this what Nicholas’s mother had endured day after day? Lying abed, pondering the rather pointless meanderings of a dissolute poet? Small wonder she always seemed so glad to greet the vicar and his tagalong.
Emily recalled the occasions she had come here with her father while the countess was alive. Lady Elizabeth’s dark beauty had always left Emily awestruck, as had the woman’s unguarded opinions expressed so openly to a man of God. Many of Emily’s own views of life were colored by that ready candor.
She had also noted that when her father led them in the requisite parting prayer for improvement of the lady’s health, the countess neither bowed her head nor closed her eyes. Once she had even winked and smiled at Emily who had been sneaking a look up at her.
Though they had rarely spoken to one another, the motherless Emily had imagined a bond between them.
“Well, here I am again, my lady,” Emily said aloud to the room where the countess had breathed her last. “Best lend me some of that wry humor of yours. I feel I might need it when this little visit with your esteemed son is over.”
Byron’s little book, lying forgotten on the edge of the mattress suddenly slid off and hit the floor with a thump. A chill ran up Emily’s spine. “Thank you, that is quite enough to set me laughing,” she muttered. “Keep your humor to yourself now.”
Lord, here she was imagining ghosts and talking to the dearly departed. If half a day in this place had her speaking to the walls, she could only imagine how she would be faring after two interminable weeks of it.
Unlike some women who said they could not touch a bite of food when in distress, Emily craved chocolate. At the moment she would have wrestled someone to the floor for a cup of the stuff. And cakes to go with it.
It had grown dark outside. For the third time in less than an hour, she gave the intricately braided cord a firm yank, imagining a bell jangling somewhere below. With all of the servants gone to London, she doubted there would be
