Page 20 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl
Chapter 8
Andrew sat rigidly at the tea table. Emmeline was sitting beside him, and he could not help the fact that his gaze moved to her regularly, watching her as she talked and sipped her tea and interacted with the guests. She was so beautiful.
He let out a long, slow breath. When she walked into the chapel, he had stared at her in astonishment. She had been pretty when she burst into the study at Bradwood House—all red, fiery curls and those determined green eyes—but with the white dress and long, straight veil accenting her fine posture, she was nothing short of breathtaking.
“...and I chatted with Mr Stanhope at the Glenfield...Andrew?” Neville murmured.
“What?” Andrew demanded, a little gruffly. He had not been listening to Neville at all, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He’d been staring at Emmeline.
“I was just saying I was chatting with Stanhope. The fellow who suggested we invest in rope. Remember?” Neville asked patiently.
“I remember,” Andrew replied seriously.
He tried to focus as Neville continued, but in truth, he could not stop himself from gazing at Emmeline. Her sweet lips were damp from the tea, and his body heated with a longing that he had forgotten he could feel. She was beautiful, and he desired her too. He blushed as he recalled watching her alight from the coach, her tall, slender body swaying slightly as she walked.
He gazed at her intensely. She was talking with her cousin Amelia, and her expression was intense. It was the liveliest expression he had seen on her face all day. For most of the morning, she had seemed subdued and scared.
It is a lot to get used to, he reminded himself firmly. It’s as big a step for her as it is for me.
It was undoubtedly big for her, but she did not have the pain that he had to reckon with. She did not believe she was cursed, he was sure, and she did not have to fear hurting all those that she loved.
“Lord Rilendale?” Lord Bradwood inquired across the table.
“Yes?” Andrew blinked. Again, he had been lost in thoughts of her. He tried to focus on what Lord Bradwood was saying.
“Mayhap we should take a jaunt after tea, all of us? A turn about the grounds would be welcome after sitting so long.”
“Mayhap.” Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He did not favour the idea of walking with the guests around the garden—it was terribly overgrown, and he was embarrassed enough about it as it was, without having to reveal each overgrown, ill-kept part.
“Good. Grand,” Lord Bradwood murmured as if Andrew had replied in the affirmative.
Andrew looked down at his plate, feeling annoyed. It was bad enough that he had to suffer having the guests here at all, intruding on his silence and his worries. He should also not have to troop around the garden with them.
“Andrew, my dear?” It was Grandma, sitting just along the table from him. Andrew’s heart twisted. She had insisted on attending the wedding and the tea, though she was still not fully recovered. She had chosen a grey gown and widow’s cap, and she looked sweetly lovely. He smiled at her, his heart lifting. She was happy.
“Yes, Grandma?”
“Could you pass the buns, please?” she asked, gesturing to a tray near his lefthand side. The cook had worked overnight to prepare a suitable tea for them, and there were foods on the table that Andrew had not seen for a long time. The delicious-looking buns with their thick icing made his stomach grumble hungrily.
“Of course.”
He passed them to Grandma, wincing as he had to lean over to where Emmeline sat. His hand brushed her arm and he tensed, heat flooding his body.
“There,” he said swiftly, passing them to Grandma. She accepted them, chose one and then he had to put the tray back, an exercise which made him tense as he had to bend close to Emmeline again.
“Tea?” she asked him, leaning close.
“Beg your pardon?” he asked tensely.
“Would you care for tea?”
“Oh.” Andrew blinked. He could barely think. She was sitting so close and all he could think of was the sweet lavender scent of her hair and the kiss that still lingered in his mind. He had kissed her swiftly, but only because he had thought she would be afraid. He had longed to press hislips to hers and kiss her properly, and that would surely repel her. “Um. Yes. Please,” he added, feeling heat flood his cheeks.
He did not often blush visibly, and he was grateful.
“Of course,” she murmured and poured him a cup. He sat tensely, watching her gracefully tip the pot and put it on the table again.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly. He could barely think. All he could think about was the frightened look in her eyes when she gazed at him.
