CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Emily woke feeling lighthearted and giddy as she replayed her kiss with Francis in her mind. Though she had come to terms with the fact that it would never be more than just a kiss, she still felt a strange, newfound sense of connection with him. She wondered if he felt the same way.
Getting up, she threw on her dressing gown and seated herself in front of her vanity table to carry out her morning routine. A maid assisted her with her hair, after which Emily attended to her more personal needs. She then dressed in a light pink muslin dress with small embroidered roses at the hem, finishing with a spray of rosewater across her chest.
It surprised her how quiet the house was. There were, after all, five people living there in total—not taking the staff into consideration. When she entered the dining room, however, she found that nobody else was there, and that the plates on the table were untouched. She was—not entirely to her surprise—apparently the first one to have risen.
It was quite pleasant in a way, she realized. She would finally be able to sit and read the paper in peace as she savored her breakfast. Bacon and eggs had always been her favorite. She’d been most fortunate to indulge in them throughout her stay in Francis’s home. Once the cook had found out how much she loved them, she’d insisted that Emily have them every day.
Pouring herself a cup of tea, she rang for Parker, who arrived within minutes, carrying her food with him on a tray “Good morning, Miss Emily,” he told her with a strained smile.
“Good morning, Parker,” she replied. “I’m sorry to point this out to you, but it seems that there’s a place missing.” The butler regarded her blandly. She would clearly have to spell it out for him. “We are five and there are only four places set.”
“You’re quite right, Miss Emily—so there are.”
There was a long, pregnant silence as he stood watching her. “Well, why on earth is that, if I may ask?” Emily’s voice was filling with aggravation at the butler’s all-too-butlery persona. She wanted answers.
“His lordship has gone out of town. He will not be dining at this table for the next few days. That is why there are only four places set instead of five.”
Emily could scarcely believe it. Francis had left, just like that, without a single word of goodbye to her.
Lifting her chin in hopes of hiding the tremendous disappointment that welled inside her, she thanked Parker for the piece of information, then turned her attention toward her plate. There she sat—long after Parker had left the room—staring at her untouched food, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and questions.
Why did she suddenly feel so damned wretched? She told herself that she didn’t even like the man. Then why did she care? She knew the answer to that one: she cared because she was lying to herself in thinking she did not like him. The truth was that she had come to like him very much . . . too much.
She felt that somehow they had bridged the gap that had lain between them for so many years, and had finally begun to get along. But it was so much more than that. It was as if she’d glimpsed the real Francis—the Francis that had hidden himself away beneath layers of anger, sorrow, and pain. She had found that his eyes could still sparkle and that his lips could still smile, and she realized then—with a pang of guilt—why she had despised him for so long.
When they were children she had loved that smile—the way one corner would edge upward into a cheeky smirk before spreading into a wholesome grin. They had been two of a kind back then—boisterous, teasing, and full of joy for everything that life had to offer. Adrian and Kate had both been more reserved somehow, often embarrassed by Emily’s sudden bursts of laughter or Francis’s playful mockery of everyone and everything.
A sudden smile pulled at her lips as she recalled how scarlet both Kate and Adrian had turned when Adrian’s cook had prepared a caramel pudding for them. The plates had arrived, each with a plump mound of a pudding that had been thoughtfully adorned with a single cherry on the top. “Well, I don’t think I need to tell you all what that looks like,” Francis had exclaimed with marked amusement as Kate’s hand automatically flew to her breast. “I’m sure you can see it for yourselves!”
The truth was, he had been the only one who had truly understood her, and now he had abandoned her, leaving her alone with a sense of humor that no one else would ever understand or appreciate as well as he had—not even Adrian.
And then another pang hit her. Had she thrown herself into love of Adrian in order to battle her own grief at the way in which Francis had suddenly changed? It was absurd. But what if it was the truth? She’d never understood what had caused such a drastic change in his personality. It wasn’t for lack of asking, but he’d grown gruffer each time she’d brought it up, slowly withdrawing from the world around him until he was just a shadow of the boy she’d known and loved.
Loved.
Emily’s heart leapt at the very idea of it. She’d hated him—despised and loathed him—for shutting her out and turning her away. And over the years she’d forgotten the source of her hate until all she’d known was how little she liked his company, his mere presence, and very existence. And it was all because she’d felt betrayed—because she had loved him.
Emily gasped in horror at the self-admission. What the devil was she to do now? This wasn’t at all what she had planned for.
There was only one thing for it—Francis must never know how she felt about him. He was not one who would ever offer her his heart and soul—he was too gripped by whatever darkness it was that held him. Though he had kissed her—and quite passionately at that—she knew she ought to take it for what it was: a momentary lapse in his better judgment. She would not allow herself to think otherwise. That sort of stupidity had hurt her once before. In a way, she thanked Adrian. He had shown her that a kiss need not, by any means, lead to the altar.
A sudden bubble of laughter spread to her limbs as she pictured a sour-looking Francis speaking his marriage vows as he silently regretted ever having kissed her. She had best keep her thoughts and feelings to herself, for she had no intention of trying to leg-shackle a man who until recently seemed to detest the very sight of her.
“Have you been up long?” Beatrice asked as she entered the dining room, her hair neatly wrapped in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a plain white linen dress, accented by a yellow ribbon that glowed about her waist.
“I suppose so,” Emily replied as she looked at the cold food upon her plate. “I suppose I was brooding.”
Beatrice arched a brow as she took a seat across from Emily. “About anything in particular?”
“Not really.” She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not important.” Then, taking a sip of her tepid tea, “Did you sleep well?”
“Blissfully so.” Her sister smiled, a dreamy look still heavy in her eyes.
“And Claire? I trust she’s still fast asleep?”
“Oh yes,” Beatrice chuckled. “Heaven knows that girl is a renowned sleepyhead. I’m sure she’ll be down soon though.”
“Good morning, ladies,” Jonathan said as he made his appearance.
“Oh, good morning, Mr. Rosedale,” Emily smiled as her eyes strayed to her sister’s flushed cheeks. Beatrice merely nodded an embarrassed greeting from behind her teacup while Emily did the best she could to contain her curiosity.
“It appears that Francis has gone out of town,” Jonathan told them. “He left a note for me—doesn’t say when he’ll be back.”
So it had been a spur-of-the-moment idea, Emily thought. She couldn’t help but wonder if it had anything to do with her, but she soon determined that was ridiculous and pushed the thought aside. “Did he say where he went or why?” she found herself asking.
“He went home,” Jonathan told her. “To Dunhurst Park. He didn’t say why.”
“Oh,” Emily whispered, so softly that nobody heard her. “Do you know when we might expect him?”
“I do not, though I imagine that he shall return as soon as possible. He would not leave his guests alone for an extended period of time, I assure you.”
As Jonathan left them again in order to return to his work, Beatrice lowered her teacup with a shaky hand.
“Why, Bea, I do believe that you are smitten,” Emily told her.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Beatrice muttered. “I simply like the man—that is all. He’s . . . nice.”
“The whole world can see that that is clearly not all,” Emily expressed. “I can’t imagine anything ever being as red as your face was when he said good morning.”
“Dash it all—was I that obvious?”
Emily laid her hand on top of her sister’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Not to worry. I don’t believe he noticed—he seemed rather caught up in Francis’s sudden departure.”
“A bit odd, that . . .” Beatrice mused. “I wonder what the hurry was.”
“Me too,” Emily told her.
I do hope that it wasn’t because of me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Where is she?” Francis’s voice was filled with rage as he flew up the steps of his home at Dunhurst Park. He had ridden without pause after receiving the urgent message, finally arriving three hours later.
“In the drawing room, sir,” the housekeeper told him in a fluster as she rushed to keep up with him. “She’s been shouting all manner of abuse at the servants. A number of them won’t have it any more—they’ve threatened to leave—and I . . . well, I’m inclined to follow their lead, though I do beg your pardon, sir.”
“For the love of God, Mrs. Reynolds, how long has she been here?”
“Since yesterday afternoon, sir—she slept in the library,” Mrs. Reynolds told him, looking thoroughly perplexed. “We tried sending her away, but she wouldn’t have it—insisted we contact you immediately, or else. I didn’t know what else to do, what with Parker being away and all.”
“One day and half of my staff is already threatening to resign? I never took her for anything less than a cankerous shrew, but . . .” His words trailed off. “She must have been trouble, indeed, if even you have become eager to leave.”
“I do apologize, sir. I surely hope it will not come to that.”
“As do I, Mrs. Reynolds, as do I,” Francis bit out as he strode down the hall and into the drawing room.
“What do you want?” Francis’s voice sliced through the air as he regarded the woman who sat so elegantly on the silk brocade chaise. Her auburn hair was knotted at the nape of her neck, while fashionable ringlets framed a face that was, indeed, quite pretty. She wore a white dress with wildflowers embroidered along the hem and a hat on her head, adorned with a green satin ribbon.
Francis’s eyes were cold as ice, his mouth drawn tight over gritting teeth. Oh, how he longed to be rid of her.
If she detected his wrath, she pretended not to notice as she smiled at him sweetly. “Ah, Francis—at last. I have so been looking forward to seeing you again. Please, won’t you come and join me?”