Page 111 of A Winter By the Sea
The groom looked to James. James glanced at Georgiana and then back to the young man.
“Would you mind, Ralph?”
“Not at all, sir.”
Next, James turned to Emily. “Are you all right with this? Ralph is careful and trustworthy, I assure you.”
“Very well. It will make Georgiana’s year, I know, so why not. Though I warn you, Ralph, be on your guard and ready to reclaim the reins. My sister is not the least timid and may take it into her head to break some speed record.”
Georgie pulled a face. “Not on my first try.”
Mr. Thomson helped Georgiana up onto the box, thenoffered Emily a hand into the carriage. A moment later he closed the door on just the two of them.
Emily immediately felt conscious of the change. The unspoken possibilities of being alone with him. She gripped her hands in her lap and tried to appear unconcerned.
She knew it was Georgie at the reins as soon as the carriage lurched into motion and the velvet curtains, swinging wildly with each movement, slid nearly closed. Emily pretended not to notice.
She stole a glance at Mr. Thomson, saw his prominent Adam’s apple rise and fall.
He began, “If you are not comfortable...”
“I am perfectly comfortable,” she quickly insisted, although it was not perfectly true.
They rode on in heavy silence, the tension between them palpable. Did he feel pressured to somehow take advantage of this rare private moment? To say something? To ... do something?
As Georgie turned the horses back onto Peak Hill Road, the vehicle careened sharply to the side, throwing Mr. Thomson against the wall of the carriage and Emily toward its window, her bonnet flying off.
His arms flew out, capturing her against himself to stop her fall, her head coming to rest against his chest.
The breath left her. “Ohh!”
She blinked up at him, startled to find herself reclining against him, her head mere inches from the windowpane. Angling her head, she looked from the glass back to his face.
Words came to mind. Empty words like“That was close”or“Thank you forcatching me.”She did not utter them—wasn’t sure she could form them if she tried. It seemed a waste of speech. A waste of this moment.
She should sit up. Move away. Apologize for crashing into him.
Instead she looked solemnly into his face as he gazed down at her. His dark eyes shone. Sparking with ... what?
His arms were around her. One arm beneath her, the other over her midriff.
He pressed his own lips together, and his focus lowered to her mouth, then away again.
He was the first to speak and said, somewhat shakily, “Are you ... all right?”
She ran a nervous tongue over her lips. “I ... think so.”
The arm that lay over her shifted, and she instantly missed its warm weight. He lifted it slightly, his hand rising toward her face, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen across her brow.
“Are you hurt?” He ran his fingers experimentally over her temple, then brought his hand forward again, framing the side of her face. His thumb stroked her cheek.
“I ... don’t think so.” She almost wished she were, so his fingers would have a reason to linger.
Again his gaze dropped to her mouth.
If he leaned down a few inches, he could kiss her.
Did she want him to?
