Page 62 of If I Loved You
“Because I don’t want to be George Fiske,” he continued, “pining away for forty years. I can’t...not love you.”
Luckily, the mention of George Fiske compelled further resentment.
“Very pretty, my lord.”
“You are in love with me as well,” he accused with a growl. “I know you are. I know you wouldn’t havemade lovewith me, if you were not.”
Emma ignored the emphasis attached to his words. She ignored the fact that he was right; she was insanely and irrationally in love with him. Yet, she staunchly refused to consider even the possibility that he might be genuine.
He was just like Lady M. They only wanted their way. They expected it, with little regard to the consequences. He would only break her heart. Hewasn’tsincere. He just couldn’t be.
He’ll say he will, or would, wed with you, of course; that’s part of the game.
“You are afraid, and I get it. Your sister, Caralyn Withers, George Fiske, your very own heart. But Emma, I promise you, I—”
“Good day, my lord.” She finally stepped around him, fairly concerned the pain in her chest might be fatal.
He allowed her to walk away from him.
IT WAS INCREDIBLY DIFFICULTthat evening to pretend nothing at all troubled her. Yet, she had no choice, seated at the dining room table, surrounded by all her friends, their usual merriment in stark contrast to the hollowness of her heart. But she smiled, even if she did not participate so freely in the conversation, her mind overtaken still with the events of the day. Naturally, her altercation with the earl led the charge across her mind. She certainly hadn’t dismissed Lady M’s confession, but to some degree, the earl had been right: it was years ago, too late to fix it now. She could do naught but write to George Fiske, at least give him this news, finally cure his heart of the pain of unrequited love. She only prayed that anger, which most certainly must accompany the receipt of such bitter news, would not then prey upon him.
But the earl....
“You’re frightfully quiet this evening, miss.”
Emma glanced up, instinctively widening her false smile as she looked to her left at Callum MacKenzie.
“Apologies, Callum,” she said, laying her hand over his, but only briefly. She glanced next to him, where sat his new love, Miss Fiona Gall, who, ironically, had recently found employment at Madam Carriere’s, and who had quite obviously stolen Callum’s big heart. “And to you, Fiona. We are thrilled to have you join us, do not let my wandering mind tell you otherwise.”
“Been quiet since she returned from the big house,” said Mr. Smythe, at the head of the table. He lifted a worried brow to her. He was so much softer and lovelier since he’d come to the Daisies. She absolutely adored him.
Shaking off her melancholy, which had proved debilitating for most of the afternoon, she said, “Mrs. Conklin insists we can only use glass jars, and when I told her we were unable to find any in Perry Green, she said of course that I must return tomorrow and collect whatever spares she might find by then.”
“Then we’ll start the picking right away,” Mr. Smythe decided, enlivened.
“But what do you think about the grocer’s notion of adding cinnamon to the apples?” Mrs. Smythe, seated next to her husband, wondered.
“My mum doesn’t do aught with her apples, but with cinnamon,” Fiona mentioned, her heavy Irish accent the prettiest thing Emma was sure she’d ever heard. Her lovely green eyes and how clearly besotted she was with Callum only added to her beauty.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had cinnamon,” Langdon admitted, taking peas off his plate—the ones Bethany had depositedthere—and returning them to the child’s plate. This was a nightly occurrence, for which darling Langdon showed infinite patience. No one, not one person, could cajole Bethany to eat her vegetables as Langdon eventually did, every night.
“I say we try it, maybe in half the stock?” Emma suggested.
The room went silent. Emma followed the direction of their unnerved gazes and found Zachary Benedict standing at the door to the dining room. She wouldn’t have said his expression brimmed with disfavor, perhaps only showed a bafflement to match the faces of her friends.
Bethany broke the prolonged silence with a shrill but happy cry of, “Zach’ry!”
“Hello, moppet,” he said, and a smile came readily to him then.
With his words, everyone at the table, as one, jumped to their feet. Save for Emma, who drew a weary breath before she stood as well. While the men bowed their heads to the earl and the women bobbed brief and nervous curtsies, Emma faced the earl, showing him no such deference.
“My lord, I wasn’t expecting you. You have caught us in the middle of dinner,en famille,” she said, with some emphasis, lest he think to instruct her on how she should go about managing her own home.
She was surprised by Bethany, who must have scooted from her chair, dashing between them to throw herself at Zachary. His smile grew, scooping Bethany into his arms. She could think whatever she liked about the earl, but she could not deny his sublime pleasure at seeing Bethany again. He hugged her tight and kissed her rosy cheeks several times. “I’ve missed you, Bethany.”
“Missed you,” Bethany parroted.
“Oh, but you must join us, milord,” cooed Mrs. Smythe, likely swayed by the earl’s unmistakable fondness for one of her favorite persons.
