Page 66 of Vanquishing the Viscount

She should have asked that question first. How selfish of her to let her concerns for the child be overridden by her desire for its savior.

“Oh, what a nuisance for you,” Jemima was saying. “Can your gown be rescued?”

“It’s only mud. If treated quickly, I’m sure it won’t stain. Now run along and speak to George before he disappears into his room and doesn’t come out until dinnertime.”

After Jemima’s departure, Emma sat down on the bed, staring at James’s jacket. After a moment, she reached out to stroke the beautifully finished fabric. It was strange to find the jacket cold to the touch and inanimate. Without its wearer, it was no more than a limp piece of cloth. She brought the collar up to her face and breathed in, inhaling the spicy combination of scents that made her think only of James.

There was something heavy in the breast pocket. She felt its familiar oval shape, pulled it out, and opened it.

The portrait sketch he’d made of her, all those months ago, was still there. All this time he’d kept it, nestled against his heart. How often had he taken it out and looked at her likeness and thought about her?

She was inundated by a flood of guilt. How could she have mistaken his motives so? It all began to make sense now—why he’d wanted to hold her when he was ill, why he’d decided to buy Tresham, why he had his mother take her up and restore the name of her family.

It had all been done for her. Not by chance, not from gratitude, but out of love.

Not only that, but his heart had remained true, even though he hadn’t shown it outwardly. He might be handsome, but he wasn’t fickle, and he wasn’t faithless. He was nothing like Elias Hartley, Earl of Overcrich.

There was no studied charm, no artifice about James. His word was his bond. He would never dream of toying with a woman as Elias and Charles had toyed with her. Everything he’d done had been dictated by his heart. A heart that could—and should—be hers, if only she could find a way to make amends for how she’d treated him.

Any last traces of doubt that she loved him were scattered to the four winds. A powerful feeling uncoiled deep in her belly, tugging at her like an invisible cord that joined her to James. It had lain there for months, getting gradually stronger, but so subtly she’d barely noticed its growth. So much had happened to distract and confuse her, yet all the while there’d been this connection with him—if only she’d had eyes to see it.

It was as much as she could do not to march straight into his room and demand he marry her, there and then. It was imperative she seize the first opportunity to tell him she was ready to love him back. She’d take the jacket to him right now and make sure he understood that she’d never cared for, nor encouraged Charles.

Standing outside James’s door, the jacket clasped against her breast, she knocked gently. Anticipation made her heart pound like a steam hammer, making her disappointment all the more poignant when the door was opened by James’s valet. He took the jacket from her with a polite expression of thanks, informed her that the viscount was taking a rest, and closed the door again.

Curse it! Now she’d have to wait until dinner. But her mind was made up—even if she had to drag him into a cupboard to tell him of her feelings, she’d do it.

Dinner was held early that night because luncheon had been so truncated. The two girls involved in the boating incident were brought before the dinner guests and apologized very prettily for being such a nuisance. They thanked their saviors so charmingly that it brought a tear to the eye of everyone, even the Countess of Rossbury.

James and George were both seated next to Colt Hoare at the head of the table, like medieval nobles on either side of their king. They were feted by one and all. Their plates, like cornucopias, were never empty, and their glasses were refilled as if by magic.

Even when the meal was over, Emma found it impossible to get near James. Everyone was queuing up to praise his Herculean exploits, despite his assurances that it had been no trouble whatsoever. Sometimes he sent her a speaking look above the heads of his admirers, and she smiled back as encouragingly as she could, willing him to see her love reflected in her eyes.

There was no musical interlude after dinner. Emma joined the ladies, but the night was too hot for much activity. Mostly they just sat about, chatting and fanning themselves as they waited for the gentlemen to join them for a hand or two of cards.

It would have been perfect if she could have joined James’s table, but alas, the hero of the day was so popular he was instantly corralled by his host and his proud parents. Emma had to settle for a game of whist with George, the elderly general, and the mother of one of the boating accident girls—who really should have been put to bed with a generous dose of laudanum, as she was too unsettled by her experience to play her hand properly.

The longer Emma had to wait for access to James, the greater her frustration grew. Of course, she couldn’t help being jealous of all the admiring glances cast his way. Since his anticipated engagement to Belinda Carslake had failed to happen, he was once again fair game for all the matchmaking mamas and simpering debutantes.

Each time her need for him became too immense, Emma reminded herself he’d carried her portrait next to his heart for months. That had to count for something. He had also sacrificed a longstanding friendship over her.

And he’d already asked her to marry him—even though, much to her disappointment, he hadn’t repeated the offer.

Was it because they’d never found themselves alone? Or did he have no intention of asking her again? Her heart quailed at the devastating thought.

At last the interminable evening was over. She went upstairs arm in arm with Jemima, tasting the bitter gall of defeat. She hadn’t managed to do anything more than exchange “good nights” with James.

She lay on the bed, eyes wide open, wound up like a clock with a stuck pendulum. There was nowhere for all her pent-up energy to go, and her mind refused to shut down.

Once again, Jemima had no such difficulty. The young girl’s breathing was gentle and regular, and not even Emma’s continued tossing and turning disturbed her slumber.

Finally, Emma realized there was only one thing she could do.

And it needed to be done quickly, before her bravado deserted her.

She must go to James and pray he wouldn’t send her away.

Chapter Forty