Page 61 of If I Loved You
She squared her shoulders against his clearly displeased expression.
Her breath caught, two calamitous events in one day nearly unraveling her—the matron’s unforgiveable folly and now the return of Zachary. If she’d questioned at all if she’d missed him, if she’d wondered if she might have become starved for only a glimpse of him, if she’d forgotten how impossibly handsome he was, all these things were resolved just now, at the sight of him. The air was thick with outrage and sorrow, but Emma found herself irrationally, inopportunely pondering if any circumstance in their lives would see her running to him, throwing herself happily in his arms after so long an absence.
He strode across the room, stood beside Lady M, his brow furrowed in such a way that at one time would have alarmed her.
“Apologize at once, Miss Ainsley. We cannot have Lady Marston believing you to be—”
Emma gave Lady M a humorless smirk. “I do not care what she thinks of me. And as I cannot have her removed, I shall take my leave.” She swiped her hat off the floor, where it had fallen, and left the room.
“Miss Ainsley!” The earl called after her. “Emma!”
Emma left the drawing room and ran down the stairs, sailing through the door that Thurman pulled open for her.
A fine day for a walk, she decided, with little other choice, and marched across the drive and onto the lane. She plopped the hat upon her head and tied the strings under her chin.
She’d not thought he’d have chased after her. She thought he’d not leave Lady M unattended. But he did. She heard him call her name, heard his boots tearing up the gravel of the drive.
“Emma!”
She continued walking.
He yanked on her arm from behind, spinning her around.
“What has gotten into you? Whatever would possess you to alienate and infuriate Lady—”
Emma shoved at his chest, used both hands to push him back, bringing him to a jaw-gaping standstill.
“What has gotten into me? Me? I’ll tell you what has gotten into me. The bloody nobility! In your fine homes with your fine manners and your rules about everything, and not one of you have any idea how to practice a little human decency, or—do you know what that woman did?”
At his blank stare, she informed him, “She is the reason George Fiske and Caralyn Withers are not together. She lied, to both of them, had Caralyn sent away, because she, herself, was in love with George and couldn’t imagine that he could possibly be in love with a servant.”
“But that was years ago—”
“She ruined the lives of two people!” Emma raged. “Who cares if it were yesterday or a hundred years ago? She’s awful, looking down her nose at me, telling me that you would never lower yourself to marry a chambermaid. Give me ten chambermaids, I’ll bet they’re each and every one of them a better human being than her.”
“Emma, calm yourself. Let’s put this into perspective.”
Emma stared at him. He didn’t get it, either. “Oh, you’re a fine one to talk. You’re as bad as she! Running around, thinkingeverything rightfully belongs to you, having no care for all those left weeping in your wake when you’re done with them. But you’ll wind up alone and lonely, just like George Fiske. At least he tried. He didn’t let so absurd a notion as class distinctions imperil his heart. But for her—” she thrust her hand back toward Benedict House, “—he would have been happy rather than miserable, all these years.” A wave of grief overtook her, the complete impact of Leticia Marston’s vindictive betrayal crashing around her. That poor man, believing all these years that Caralyn had never loved him, having married another whom he could never love, having born that idiot of a son. All because Lady M wanted it her way, thought she was more deserving than a lowly servant. Emma began to sob. How could that woman live with herself? “She’s so rotten,” she murmured through her tears.
Zachary reached out a hand, mayhap meant to be soothing.
Emma slapped it away. Anger overran her tears. “Get away from me.” She began walking again, stomping actually, swiping angrily at her tears.
He caught up with her once more. Perhaps fearful any touch might be rebuffed harshly again, he came around in front of her, and stopped suddenly. Emma was forced then to stop as well, lest she crash into him. She stepped left, and he did, too. Giving him a warning look, her lips curled with the height of her anger, she delivered through clenched teeth, “Let me pass.”
“Marry me.”
Emma went completely still, her startled gaze fixed on his face, seeing nothing but her own amazement. She ignored him, and whatever that was meant to be, and tried again to move around him. He shifted accordingly.
“Let me by,” she ground out slower, with more force.
“Marry me,” he demanded again, his own tenor rising.
Planting her hands on her hips, she faced him, squinting up at him, “Why? So you can prove you are above your lot, that you are a better person than you actually are? Show the poor, pitiful Miss Ainsley that you’re just a regular bloke so she’ll let you...plow her again?” The most disbelieving jolt overtook his features. She had never seen his eyes so huge. Her use ofplowmight have been the cause, she supposed. She ignored this, keeping her anger close. “Pardon my disbelief, my sincere doubtfulness. Now, move.”
“Marry me,” he insisted again, recovering himself. “Because I love you. Because I want you. Because you belong to me.”
Admittedly, this weakened her. Weren’t they just the words every girl dreamed of hearing one day from the man they loved? Certainly in that tone. Truly, he must practice this often to hit that very sincere note so adeptly.
