Page 44 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
She couldn’t bear his pity.
“Please tell me why you seem so aggrieved,” he entreated. “Tell me why you cannot bear even to look at me.”
Her hands began to tremble and her eyes misted. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. But I amnotaggrieved,” she denied fervently. “If anything, I am quite angry, you see.”
“Because of the broken betrothal?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I have already said quite enough.”
His blue eyes challenged her. “Tell me once more, Emma,” he demanded softly.
The sound of her name upon his lips again sent a quiver racing down her spine. Freeing herself from his grasp, Emma said a little hysterically, “Because you don’t belong here, and you shouldn’t have come!”
His brows lifted a little at her declaration. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he remarked, nodding. “Very well, Emma.” He sighed and some unnamed emotion flickered in the depth of his eyes. For the briefest instant, Emma thought she saw again that same wounded look that had once made her so willing to love him. But she didn’t fool herself into believing it this time. The duke was no more wounded than he was compassionate. If anything, he was feeling guilty for what he was about to do to her life—and not without cause. She swallowed convulsively, loathing that she was trying so desperately to release him from his guilt, when he well deserved to feel remorse—and more. The ton would have a time with the news of her broken betrothal. She couldn’t imagine the speculation—the cruel jokes at her expense. Still, she proposed, “You owe me nothing, Your Grace. Now if you will only pardon me at long last, I wish you Godspeed and a good life.”
Lucien nodded, releasing her finally.
“Godspeed,” she offered once again, more firmly this time, nearly choking on the word, and then she turned from him and left.
“Farewell, Emma,” he said.
Emma didn’t turn again, nor did she stop until she reached her room. The finality of that single word pursued her all the way through the house.
Once within her bedroom, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, straining to catch her breath. God help her, she had done it. She had well and truly done it. She’d said good-bye and had meant it with all her heart and soul. She’d freed him, and had still managed to retain her dignity. Later, perhaps, dignity alone might seem a cold bedfellow, but this minute it seemed like all the world. It was something to build upon, she knew... and perchance all was not lost.
It was not unheard of to find a husband at twenty two, she told herself. And she had her dowry still. Quite a neat little sum it was, and if the scandal to come did not ruin her entirely, then perhaps one day she would still find that dream she so craved—a husband who loved her and children she adored.
Someday, but for now she was content to simply hold her dignity intact.
Without it, she might as well lie down and weep. And weeping was something she refused to do.
Nevertheless, she was feeling quite bereft at the instant, and her heart felt tattered besides. Her eyes stinging with tears she would not shed, Emma undressed for bed and then lay down to count her blessings. She fell asleep with visions of Lucien dancing in her head.
CHAPTER4
“What the devil do you mean nothing to be done!”
Hearing the angry bellow coming from the library, Emma froze where she stood. Her first impulse was to turn and flee, but curiosity got the better of her.
She’d come downstairs this morning, intending to ask Andrew precisely what had possessed him to allow Lucien Morgen to remain at Newgale, especially after she’d made her own wishes perfectly clear. Nor had she thought the duke any less eager to leave, and yet here he remained, and she heartily suspected Andrew to be at the root of it all. It seemed as though the duke may have suspected the same, for at the moment, they sounded at daggers drawn.
The duke’s voice boomed even through closed doors. Emma flinched at the fury of it. “You can find those bloody carriage wheels is what you can do!”
In contrast, Andrew’s reply was quite calm, muffled a bit, but Emma could make it out well enough to discern that it was an apology of some sort. Something about the strangest theft he had ever encountered... didn’t know how they’d managed to steal them all.
There were no thieves here in Newgale. Barely anyone but modest locals in town, this was not a place where brigands lay in wait.
Fairly dying with curiosity, Emma placed her ear to the door and overheard, “Blast it, Peters. This reeks of a hum! Who the devil would snatch four carriage wheels and leave pure blood Arabians in their stead?”
“Demme, if I know,” she heard Andrew mumble. And then, “Don’t look at me, Willyngham. Confounded heathens took mine, as well.”
“I want those bloody wheels!” she heard the duke roar, and then someone slammed something—the desk, she imagined—with such rage that the doorframe vibrated.
“How do you propose I do that? I’ve no notion where to be—”
“I don’t give a damn how!” There was a moment of taut silence, and then the duke demanded, “Just do it!”
His shouting was so near the door suddenly that Emma panicked at the sound of it. Suppressing a mortified shriek at the thought of being discovered eavesdropping, she flung herself away from the door and dashed down the corridor, hurrying toward the drawing room. To her immense relief, she slipped inside and out of view within an ace of being discovered, only to startle three eavesdropping children.
