Little Blair’s tantrum that morning played back in Tess’s
mind. Beyond doubt, she’d spoiled that child. But how
could she not have done, with those tremendous eyes so
like her mama’s, and that imperious tone the child took
when she wanted her way — so contrary to her tiny stature
it drew laughter from Tess when she should have been
cross. So like Alicia when she was small....
Tess’s eyes misted. She tried blinking the tears away but
too late — a great big one rolled down her cheek. Oh, it
had been far too long a day. She should have stayed home.
Should have stayed in the country with Blair.
And how mortifying that someone might discover her
weeping, here in Vauxhall’s pleasure gardens. The walkway
blurred as she quickened her step to evade the glow of the
lanterns suspended from the elms.
“Oh!” Loose gravel rolled beneath her shoe. Her ankle
turned with a slice of pain. “Ouch. Oh...hang it.”
Limping, she groped for a tree trunk, a statue, anything
to catch her balance. Her fingers made contact with sleek
cloth that covered something quite solid beneath.
“Madam, are you hurt?” A male voice rumbled beneath her
fingertips. She pulled back with a start. “Do you require
assistance?”
Recognition, astonishing and inconceivable, closed a
debilitating fist around her. She gasped and might have
staggered off the path had the gentleman not placed a
steadying hand beneath her elbow. Her startled gaze met
cool gray eyes and the strong angles of chiseled features,
features with the power to trip the beat of her heart. Her
reply drowned in sheer incredulity.
“May I...” Then he, too, gaped. “Good heavens. That is to
say...”
“Good evening, Charles.” Her voice fluttered, as thin and
trembly as a moth’s wings.
He released her elbow. His hand hovered in the air
uncertainly before raking through his hair. “How...how are
you, Tess?”
“I’m — ah — quite well.”
“Are you sure? You seemed, I don’t know, distressed just
now.” He leaned closer, searching her face in the
shadows. “Still do, in fact.”
Good heavens, could he still read her so easily? Something
far too familiar — the starch of his shirt, his shaving
soap — curled beneath her nose and released a tumble of
conflicting sensations: warmth, affection,
happiness...heartache, loneliness.
Regret.
“I-I’ve twisted my ankle.” A faltering step backward put
space between them “It’s nothing really, already feeling
better. I should be on my way. My party will be wondering
where I am. Delightful to see you again.”
“Nonsense. You’re injured.” A firm hand girded the small
of her back, guiding her whether she will or no toward an
iron bench beside the walkway.
Within the crook of his arm, she marveled at how large he
seemed, how much more muscular than she remembered. She
felt impossibly small in comparison, as small and
uncertain as the day he left her, all those years ago.
Left her? Had he? Or had she been the one, ultimately, to
send him away with words that shattered both their hearts,
their dreams, their future?
“Sit a moment,” he said, “I insist. It’s been a long time,
Tess. You look...”
Older? Weary? Was he comparing her to the girl she’d been?
As they settled side by side his gaze caressed her. “You
look lovely.”
Ah. Suitable. Polite. But what more could she expect — or
deserve — than cold, common civility?
“And let me offer my belated congratulations. My mother
mentioned you’d married in one of her letters.”
“Did she?” And had the news wounded him to his very soul?
He nodded with a nonchalance that pinched her throat. Did
that nonchalance mean that...he, too, had married?
“Have you? Married, that is?” Her hands wrapped tight
around her reticule until something inside — her comb? —
snapped.
“Me? Good heavens, no.”
An irrelevant sense of relief swept through her. “I
married Walter Hardington,” she said, “but I was widowed
just over a year ago.”
“Oh, I...” His aplomb slipped a fraction. For the briefest
instant the boy she’d known peered out from the man’s
face. “I’m indeed sorry to hear it, Tess.”
“Thank you. I’ve only recently emerged from mourning.
Walter and I were wildly happy together.”
Good heavens, what on earth had made her add that? True,
she’d developed a warm affection for Walter, had been
infinitely grateful to him for offering a sense of haven
from a less than hospitable world when Alicia died. But
why pretend there’d been more?
Perhaps because her life might have been so very, very
much more, not with Walter but with Charles.
“He was a good man, this Walter Hardington?” “Oh, the best
of men. Solid and steady and true...” Charles’s face went
taut and she could have bitten her tongue. She’d once
accused him — wrongly — of lacking those very qualities.
Ah, but there had been so much neither of them understood
at the time. Swallowing a sudden urge to sob, she forced
herself to view his handsome features and see only the man
he was now, nearly a stranger.
But even in this she failed. The torchlight brought a
copper glow to his auburn hair, sparking a recollection.
She used to tease him about its being fiery red in the
sun, a charge he adamantly denied each time.
“Ah, but your ankle.” A roguish twinkle entered his eye, a
look she remembered of old. It set her on her guard,
albeit irrationally. Surely he wasn’t about to tickle her.
He slapped his thigh. “We must attend to it. Put it here.”
“Goodness, Charles, no. Really, there’s no need...”
“Come now. I’ve proved a fair medic when necessity
dictated.” To her utter chagrin he lifted the injured
appendage, bringing it to rest across his thighs. This
caused her bottom to rotate on the seat until she half
reclined in the most undignified manner against the arm of
the bench. “Now then. Does it hurt when I touch it here?”
Hurt? His fingertips, steady and firm, spread a quivery
sensation through her leg and sent a hot rush of
embarrassment to her cheeks. She shook her head mutely.
Couples strolling past turned their heads to gawk at her
questionable position. Charles acknowledged them with a
stern nod. “Sprained ankle here. Proceed with caution.”
Looking chastised for having been caught staring, the
group hurried along. Charles turned his attention back to
her injury. “How about when I turn it this way?”
She winced, though less from pain than because her skirts
slid upward to reveal her calf. He showed no signs of
noticing either her compromised state or her discomfiture.
“So I, er, understand you’re Captain Emerson now,” she
said in a weak attempt to make conversation, to pretend
his touch meant no more than a physician’s would.
“Past tense.” His palm slid up and down her inner ankle,
raising shivers no physician’s hands ever could and
sending her pulse for a tumble. “I’ve resigned my
commission.”
“Resigned?” She tried to appear unconcerned as her skirts
slipped another inch. Through her stocking and his
trouser, she felt the hardness of muscle honed from years
in the saddle. “Wasn’t military life wonderfully
adventurous?”
“I suppose.”
“You...er...served in India, yes? What was it like there?”
She hoped the question would distract him while she slid
her leg free.
He didn’t give her the chance. Inclining his head, he
cupped both hands round her ankle as if to trap it
there. “India is a place of contrasts,” he
said, “enticingly exotic in places, predictably tragic in
others. Its people know great opulence but even greater
poverty, with few if any bridges between. As soon as the
chance arose I left, ended up in the West Indies and
finally Australia.”
His face turned serious, a little sad. “The world is a
fascinating place to a young man’s eyes, Tess, but of late
I found myself pining for the ordinary, the familiar.”
So then, he’d come home for England, for the comforts of
home. Her gaze drifted to the flowerbed across the Walk.
As if his affairs were of little consequence, she
asked, “Have you been back long?”
“A week today, though I’ve yet to see my family. I thought
to surprise them with my homecoming but the surprise was
on me. They’re all scattered about the country just now.”
“How disappointing.”
He didn’t comment. His eyes strayed to her mouth,
lingering until her lips tingled with the remembered heat
of his kisses. His hand brushed absently along her shin,
fingertips all but disappearing beneath her hems.
This was all too much. Pulling upright, she swung her leg
from his lap and placed her foot safely on the
ground. “Much better now, thank you.”
She fully intended to stand and bid him good evening when
he said, “My father and brother established an
architectural firm a few years back. Perhaps you’ve heard
of it?”
Her mouth fell open for the briefest instant. “Emerson &
Son? Good heavens, I’ve always thought the name a
coincidence.”
Everyone had heard of Emerson & Son, whose talents were
revered only slightly less than those of the famous John
Nash. Why, with new streets and squares being developed in
London with astonishing speed, Richard Emerson’s star must
surely be soaring.
“I plan to join them,” he said. “I only hope they haven’t
grown too set in their ways to accept my intrusion into
the business.”
“Intrusion? They’re hardly likely to consider it that.”
Why would they? For so many years she’d have welcomed his
intrusion back into her life. She’d hoped for it, pined
for it so keenly she’d have accepted him under any
circumstances. Now...now it was too late. Her life had
changed in too many ways and besides, he hadn’t come home
for her, had he?
“Your family must have missed you terribly these ten
years.” She flexed her injured ankle, trying to wiggle
away the pain that lingered despite her assertion to the
contrary. “Such a long time to stay away.”
“I’ve been home occasionally, though never for long. There
wasn’t much to keep me here in London.” His hand went to
his chin, chafing lightly against his evening growth of
beard.
A shudder passed through her, a rippling awareness of how
his strong hands had once held her, caressed her, slipped
briefly between linen and lace to forbidden places, places
she had only ever intended to share with him.
His words suddenly struck her. He’d been home, and had
never once made inquiries into her welfare — she would
have learned of it if he had, someone in even her small
circle would have informed her. Under the circumstances
she supposed she shouldn’t have expected otherwise — he’d
left England to forget her — but even so the knowledge
stung.
“If you had little to come home to,” she blurted before
considering the wisdom — or lack — of her words, “perhaps
it was because you’d tossed your prospects away.”
“Did I?” he asked, low and even and maddeningly
unperturbed, “or was I the one tossed away?”
The question aroused years’-old guilt, and with it,
defensiveness. “It wasn’t me that ended our engagement.
You know it was my uncle’s doing.”
“Ah, yes.” His sardonic chuckle made her regret dredging
up the past. “Because an Emerson would never be good
enough to marry a James. Tell me, how is dear old Uncle
Howard?”
Tess felt the old shame rising in waves to scorch her
face. Charles’s father had been a merchant then, a middle
class commoner just beginning to invest in real estate.
Tess was the daughter of a gentleman and the great
granddaughter of an earl. The James family boasted a
pedigree encompassing nine generations. The Emersons were
upstarts who didn’t know their place. Or so Uncle Howard,
her guardian at the time, had argued.
“I never agreed with him. I didn’t care a fig about
pedigrees or trade or...“ Her throat closed around the
rest. After a decade, how could she look Charles Emerson
in the eye and claim their love had been all that
mattered, or renew the assertion that once she had come of
age she would have defied Uncle Howard and his lofty
notions. She had pleaded as much then, and he’d scoffed.
He had wanted her to run away with him, to forsake her
fortune, family and the life she knew. Oh, she might have
done without the money, and certainly without Uncle
Howard. But Alicia, still a child at the time, had needed
her. Surely Charles should have understood.
But no, her refusal sent him marching off across the world
with the king’s army. So like a man. They hadn’t the
faintest notion what it meant for a woman to disregard
convention and court scandal.
Ah, but we do, don’t we, Alicia?
Beside her, he sat stiffly, brow etched and brooding.
“Oh, Charles, surely after all these years, the past
should no longer have the power to hurt us.” It took an
effort to inject a ring of truth into the words.
His features smoothed. “No, and I certainly didn’t return
to England for the sole purpose of upsetting you.” He
offered his hand and, after an instant’s hesitation, she
took it. “Forgive me for being a cad.”
“You’ve been nothing of the sort.” Her fingers
instinctively tightened around his reassuring strength,
until she realized she was squeezing and released
him. “The important thing is that we’re both content with
the choices we’ve made.”
“Of course. How young and rash we were then.” He shook his
head as if at a distinct memory, though Tess couldn’t
remember a single rash moment beyond his urging her to
elope. “Too young to know what we wanted in life.”
“Indeed.” Sadness seeped like an ague through her. There’d
been no question in her mind, all those years ago, of what
she wanted. She looked away down the Grand Walk at happy,
chatting couples. She should have been among them, one of
them, but at some point she had swerved off the proper
path and ended up all alone, or nearly so. If only she’d
had some hint of the consequences, might she have avoided
that misstep?
“I’m sorry, but I must be on my way.” She stood, ready to
be off. Regret burned a painful rift through her heart;
she inhaled deeply and hoped the pain left her when she
left him.
“Give your sister my regards.”
She froze, her mouth hanging conspicuously open. Charles
merely stared back, unaware that he’d said anything amiss,
one eyebrow cocked in a quizzical way.
“Don’t you know about Alicia?” she finally managed in a
whisper. “Did no one send you word, not even your mother?”
“No, she never mentioned your sister.” Misgivings shadowed
his handsome face. “Alicia hasn’t been ill, I hope?”
“Alicia has lain in her grave these five years. She died
of lung fever.”
Charles paled. “Good God, Tess. I’m so sorry.”
Remorse nudged at her conscience for the abrupt way she’d
announced the news. Still, she longed to be away. She
should not have ventured to Vauxhall tonight. She should
have stayed home, alone, safe from the painful memories.
Only the shocked dismay on Charles’s face prevented her
pivoting on her good heel and fleeing.
“Forgive me for saying it as I did.” She placed a hand on
one straight, solid shoulder, meaning to console but
arousing another palpable memory instead. How well her
cheek had once known the strength of that shoulder, how
often she’d sought shelter there. “I know you were fond of
my sister. I remember how you used to let her cheat at
bridge.” This recollection almost made her smile. Tears
pulsated behind her eyes. “I really must go.”
“Tess, wait, I...”
His voice faded, lost beneath the hum of the crowd and the
airy notes of Handel. The harmonies of violin, harp and
pianoforte clashed with the uneven crunch of gravel
beneath her favored ankle.