Page 33 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
Somehow, sensing she didn’t wish to hear what he was about to say, Emma interrupted, “But I do know—I do!” She reached out to place her hand to his lips. “You’re a good man, Lucien, despite the rubbish theTimesmay have printed—despite what people might say.”
He continued shaking his head, denying her.
“And Iknowbecause—well, because I think I love you!” she exclaimed before thinking better of it. “I could never love—”
“Damn it, Emma!” he exploded, seizing her hand and bringing it tenderly to his lips, as though to shush himself.
Emma started at his tone.
Before her eyes his expression turned to one of utter disgust and her eyes misted at the way he looked at her.
He seemed to regain his composure swiftly and released her hand abruptly, discarding it. “I don’twantyou to love me,” he assured her.
At his hurtful words, Emma felt hot tears sting her eyes. She took a step backward. “But I-I think I already do!” she heard herself saying, and even as she said it, she could scarcely believe she was disgracing herself so terribly.
“No,” he argued. “You don’t. I can assure you that you don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Wounded by his unexpected vehemence, Emma dared not speak for fear that if she did, great sobs would heave forth from her breast. Shaking her head in dismay, she took another step backward. She couldn’t believe she’d bared her heart and soul to him and that he was trampling it without so much as a thought. She averted her face, fighting back tears.
Shedidknow what love was! She knew because she received it unconditionally from those she loved, and she returned it with equal measure. She refuted his claim with all her breaking heart, but said nothing.
He seized her by the shoulders and forced her to face him then, pulling her away from the cliffside. “But then again neither do I—listento me!” He shook her gently. “Don’t you understand, Emma? I don’t want you to love me.” His eyes pleaded with her. “To love me, you may as well fling yourself down that bloody cliff.”
Turning to look below, Emma stifled a cry at how close she’d come to the edge, yet contrary to his hateful words, he drew her into an embrace, and she’d never felt more confused than she did in that instant. Try as she might, she couldn’t find her voice to speak, and then he broke away, placing one last chaste kiss upon her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, moving her safely away from the cliff edge. “I shall speak with your father at once.”
And before Emma could clear the catch from her throat, he was walking away. Only then did her tears begin to flow. She couldn’t imagine how things had gone so terribly wrong—couldn’t begin to perceive what had happened—couldn’t imagine what she might have done—what she might have said.
And then he was gone.
No explanation. Nothing. Pride forbade her to go after him.
CHAPTER1
NEWGALE, CHRISTMAS 1841
The calotype print was tucked into the frame of the dresser mirror. Taken only a month before his death, it was the only true image they had of their father. He sat on his favorite bench, dressed in his admiral’s uniform though it no longer fit his gaunt form. Apparently, it was a new type of portrait that captured the exact image of a person—a gift from the Duke of Willyngham.
The day it was taken was the day Emma discovered herfiancéhad once been an officer in her father’s company.
Have you ever been on a ship—gah! The memory plagued her. What a paper scull she had been.
She hadn’t even realized the duke had had an older brother, or that his time in the Royal Navy—a promising venture, brief though it had been—had ended abruptly after his brother’s death, cut short by his duty to his family name. Apparently, he was not the cherished son, and he had taken every opportunity to earn his father’s umbrage. He had come into his title reluctantly and with much rancor, and the only father figure he had ever esteemed happened to be her own, but that was the only commendation she would allow him—that he had somehow earned her father’s respect—and that he had had enough regard for her father to wait until he was cold in the ground before coming forth with his final decision.
Scoundrel that he was, the Duke of Willyngham was apparently not the sort of man who cared for anyone but himself. He had merely wished for a breeding vessel was all. Emma understood that now, despite that her father’s portrait somehow belied the fact. She eyed the calotype. Whatever his reason for commissioning that portrait, she was certain it was entirely selfish.
“It’s cold,” she said plaintively, and shivered.
“Get dressed,” Cecile returned easily.
Emma crossed her arms, refusing to acknowledge it might behispresence here that affected her so profoundly. Certainly it wasn’t for his sake she found herself so persnickety this morning.
She was happy that Jane, her maid, had gone home for the holidays, but only Jane would have truly understood. Nor would she have endeavored to correct her as Cecile seemed so determined to do.
“Emma, dear. You mustn’t do this to yourself.”
“I amnotafraid to face him,” Emma reassured her brother’s wife. “If only I can find something to wear, I shall be merry as a cricket, I assure you!”
