Page 54 of A Foolish Flirtation

Emmie strove to hide how taken aback she was. She had not known that his own parents were also divorced. On impulse, she slipped her hand into his, squeezing his fingers. He looked surprised, lifting their grasped hands to regard them with a strange expression on his face before shooting her a quick smile.

“Come along,” he said, leading her out of her bedroom, still clasping her hand in his. “All the rooms down this corridor are yours,” he reiterated, opening first a door which was another entrance to her dressing room. Wordlessly, he closed it again and opened another which revealed a large bathroom decorated in elaborate mosaic style tiling and dominated by a large claw-footed tub.

“I took a bath in here last night. Is it just for my use?” she asked, quite startled. He nodded. “Well, it’s a far cry from the communal bathroom in Winkworth Street,” she remarked, making him smile.

The next door led to a large private sitting room lavishly populated with black lacquered furniture, Oriental in style. “This is where you write your letters, receive your own personal guests etcetera,” Jeremy said, leading her into the middle of the room.

Emmie gazed around in wonderment. She had never seen a room quite like it. There were elaborately painted cabinets filled with little jade curios, a large ormolu bureau, a six-paneled screen decorated with samurai warriors and many gilt chairs inlaid with mother-of-pearl which looked impressive, if not exactly comfortable to sit in.

On the walls hung oil paintings of exotic birds, flaunting highly colored plumage, and two deep purple chaise longues were set on either side of the fireplace. Overall, the effect was so intimidating she could never imagine relaxing in such a room.

“It’s, well, all very beautiful, but rather imposing somehow.” She was tempted to lower her voice. It almost felt like she was intruding into someone else’s space.

Jeremy flashed her a wry smile. “Wait till you see the state rooms downstairs.”

This was far from reassuring, but she attempted to rally. “What a pretty little table,” she said, glancing down. It had a charming chinoiserie effect, though now she looked closer at it she fancied it was a decorated tray set on a stand.

“Apparently, it’s an opium table,” Jeremy said dismissively.

“Oh!”

“Disregard the furniture,” he said. “You can have it all done out as you like.”

Emmie paused. “But what would you do with it all?”

“Stuff it in the attics I expect. I think Teddy has a fondness for the cabinet of curios. He might have that.”

“I see,” she said doubtfully, though all she really saw was that money was no object to Jeremy Vance. Suddenly, she remembered the furniture she already owned. “I have that furniture on its way from Bath,” she reminded him. “Do you suppose it will have arrived already?”

“I’ll ask.”

She glanced about the room, trying to imagine it emptied of all its treasures and filled instead with the leftovers she had preserved from her days in Porchester Square. She felt a terrible conviction it would not be an improvement.

“I’m not even sure that my father’s old things would look well in here,” she admitted in a rush of confidences. “He liked solid respectability when it came to furniture. It’s all terribly cumbersome and rather ugly.”

Jeremy laughed. “If that’s how you feel about it then why, pray, did you bring it with us?” he asked, quite reasonably.

Emmie bit her lip. “I suppose it was sentiment really. Some of it has been with me since I was a child. My father must have paid a good deal of money for it at one time.”

“So, you are sentimental, are you, Ballentine?” A strange smile played about his mouth, and he sounded more curious than censorious.

“I suppose I must be.” She thought briefly of the rosewood box she owned and its shaming contents from the past and swallowed. “About some things at least.”

“What sort of things?” he asked, looking intrigued. “Apart from ugly furniture.”

“Actually, I do not think I am particularly sentimental,” she said decisively. “Pinky collects clutter like you would not believe, dried flowers, tickets, painted cards, all sorts of ephemera. I have been a good deal more disciplined over the years to prevent such accumulation. Really, I have only ever preserved the odd letter here and there.”

“Whose letters?” he asked casually. “Stockton’s?”

Emmie gave a dismayed gasp. The wound was still fresh, and it felt like he had unexpectedly poked it. “I used to preserve Humphrey’s letters, yes,” she admitted with careful dignity. “However, when I learned of his perfidy, I consigned them to the fire. I felt I had no right to keep letters from a married man.”

“Very right and proper,” Jeremy responded at once. “I now have yours to him in my possession by the way.”

“In your possession?” she repeated blankly.

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Naturally, I demanded them when I returned your ring. It is customary, I believe, in such events as a broken engagement.”

Emmie’s thoughts whirled. A hundred questions sprang to her lips. What did he say? How did he look? She did not dare utter any of them aloud. As it turned out, she did not need to.