Page 60 of Vanquishing the Viscount

“I see I’m just in time. Is there room for my box on the boot? It’s not very big.”

George!

How on earth had he managed to secure an invitation to join them? She was delighted. With him in their company, she wouldn’t feel nearly so alone. She smiled as he climbed into the conveyance, tipped his hat to the earl and countess, and seated himself between Lady Rossbury and a rosy-faced Jemima.

James followed last. After placing his hat on the shelf, he sat next to Emma. It was a blessing he hadn’t sat opposite, for then she’d have had to spend the whole journey avoiding his gaze. As it was, it was torture having him so physically close…but so cruelly distant in attitude.

As the coach lurched off on its journey to Stourhead, she was achingly aware of him—of the long legs encased in perfectly polished Hessians, of the strong, capable hands that rested against his muscled thighs. How she wanted to take his hand and hold it against her cheek! How she longed to press her lips to his knuckles and tell him she loved him, that Charles had never meant anything to her, and that he must trust her.

The torture became even more poignant when James started naming the landmarks of interest along the way. He angled toward her, leaned forward, and pointed out the window. The breeze wafted the smell of his spicy cologne over her, mingled with the musky scent of his soap and shaving cream. As he leaned across, pressing against her, a heat radiated from his body that set her cheeks afire.

Wretched man! Was he doing it on purpose, as punishment for telling him about Charles’s kiss?

Finally, when their surroundings resolved into rolling green countryside with nothing of note to describe, he settled back in his seat. The gap between them seemed to fill with chill air, and she sighed and fiddled with the tassels on her reticule.

Once or twice she risked a sideways glance, but his gaze was shuttered and his expression cool. Indeed, no one observing him now could ever imagine the wicked glint in his eye when he’d sucked her finger or the passionate tremor in his body when he’d kissed her.

He was everything an English aristocrat should be—remote, proud, unobtainable.

Suddenly, he took her hand and pressed something into it. She turned with a small gasp but received a warning frown. Pulse racing, she schooled her face to nonchalance and tucked the folded paper surreptitiously into her glove.

Hope sprang afresh. If he was sending her secret messages, he must still nurse some feelings for her.

Mustn’t he?

After giving her the note he became more relaxed, making the rest of the journey less of a trial. For him. But for her it had the opposite effect. The little piece of paper felt as if it were burning a hole through her flesh, and she feared she might be frazzled to a cinder long before she ever had a chance to read it.

Luckily, their coach made good speed, and soon they were rattling over the graveled driveway toward Stourhead, the estate of Sir Richard Colt Hoare, their host.

The building was relatively new and very impressive—even the normally imperturbable Earl and Countess of Rossbury appeared excited. As they drew up in front of the elegant facade, Emma experienced a rush of pleasure. This was her first house party in years, and she couldn’t wait to meet the fascinating Richard Colt Hoare—a man well-known for his scholarly abilities, his antiquarian interests, and his superb collection of books.

Even if there was nothing else to please her here, she could find solace in the library.

James descended from the carriage first. He reached up to hold Jemima around the waist, swinging her to the ground as if she weighed nothing at all. Emma’s heart leaped in anticipation, but his treatment of her person was much more respectful—and cold. He just gave her his hand to help her down the steps. Even through the barrier of her glove, she felt the heat of his touch like a bolt of electricity that made her nerves sizzle. She looked up to see if he was similarly affected, but his expression gave nothing away.

Soon they were all disembarked, and a bevy of servants swarmed around them, collecting parasols, hat boxes, bags, and mantles, and then they were ushered out of the harsh August sunlight into the shadowy atrium of Stourhead House.

They were greeted by their host, shown to their rooms, and treated to some light and very welcome refreshment—all of which activities seemed to take hours.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Emma finally had a moment to herself to read James’s note.

The paper trembled in her fingers as she opened it, and her heart thundered fit to deafen her. But the note was depressingly brief.

Four o’clock, Rhododendron Walk.

That was all it said.

Whatever was the time? Her pendant watch proclaimed it to be half past three—a fact confirmed moments later by the confident clanging of a long-case clock on the landing. Only half an hour to go, and she had no idea where the rhododendron walk was.

There wasn’t a moment to lose.

Grabbing up a pencil, she jotted a quick note to Jemima to say she’d gone out to take the air. Then seizing up her parasol and bonnet, she chased out in search of a servant to direct her to the rhododendron walk.

Her heart was too full of expectation over her tryst with James to appreciate her surroundings. She barely noticed the beauteous grandeur of the gardens, the well-tended paths, or the range and variety of young trees. Nor did she stop to enjoy a view of the lake, which glinted teasingly at her through gaps in the foliage.

When she reached the rhododendron walk, she saw the unmistakable erect figure of the viscount swinging a walking cane abstractedly at a thistle. She slowed her step, lifted her parasol to shade her face, and stepped forward as unhurriedly as she could manage.

James ceased his fidgeting as soon as he saw her and strode in her direction, hailing her with the words, “Good afternoon, Miss d’Ibert. An admirable spot, is it not?”