Page 63 of Playing the Scoundrel

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Henry stared out the window, holding his hand to his chin while deep in thought. Servants bustled around him, covering tables and chairs in white sheets, and placing the few relevant personal belongings in traveling trunks. In time, he would need to sell his father’s townhouse in London, but for now, the belongings would go to the ancestral estate in the country. Henry would allow the housekeeper and the steward time to prepare to receive the new master, but he felt no sense of urgency to go himself. Despite the happy memories it would bring of his mother and brother, he had not been back since their passing, to avoid living under his father’s thumb, and he was certain it would require a great deal of emotional strength. Which, at the moment, he only had in short supply.

His father was buried, the will had been read, and Henry was the last living relative in his family line. Perhaps unknown cousins thrice removed existed, but no immediate family that he knew of. Henry was lucky to have James and Thomas, who had been by frequently to wallow with him. They’d had their share of drink as well, but Henry didn’t want to drink anymore. It had clouded his judgment for far too long, and it only left him feeling worse than before. For it wasn’t just the loss of his father that pained him, it was also the loss of Miss Follett. Of Emma.

He’d found hope for the briefest of moments and imagined a life where she’d agreed to be his wife––his last companion, his forever companion. When they were in dull company together, they could laugh and whisper about it. When he wanted to kiss his wife, he could kiss his wife. If he had known what joys could have been his future, then he certainly would not have shirked his duty for so long. But it would not have been with the women his father would have preferred. Henry’s true happiness had been dependent on Emma saying yes. And for a split second, he believed he had achieved it.

Until that damned Bernard had shown up and ruined everything.

But had he really? Was it Henry’s fault for reacting in such a devious manner to her betrayal so that there had been anything to overhear at all? Or was it her fault for the betrayal to begin with?

Henry sighed. They were all to blame, but Henry wore it most heavily on his own shoulders.

There was nothing he could do about it now. Bernard may have withdrawn his suit, but that didn’t mean Henry had the opening he needed. The way she’d looked at him with such heartbreak and distrust tore at his soul. He could explain all he wanted, but there was no way to undo the hurt he’d caused. Even if their lack of engagement caused a scandal, Henry would have been more than delighted to step in and save her reputation, marry her swiftly and take her off the market so it became a non-issue. But he couldn’t see her by happenstance at the church anymore, or wander up by her side at the museum. She would never accept to see him after this. In her eyes, she was right, just as she’d suspected from the beginning.

He was nothing but a rake.

Henry turned, catching a glimpse of himself in the parlor mirror. She may have been off about him hurting Miss Roberts, and misplaced in wanting revenge for the man who had ruined her sister, but she was right about him needing to be taught a lesson. She’d succeeded in that regard, for he was not the man he used to be. The rakish lifestyle, full of loose women and endless drink, had lost nearly all appeal now. If one less scoundrel in the world is what she wanted, then she had won, because she had changed his life. The only future he was interested in was the one with her as his wife. And he’d be damned if he left London without at least trying one more time to convince her of that fact.

Reaching for his coat, Henry shrugged it on and moved toward the door. It only took a moment’s hesitation to gather enough courage to open it, for he knew what awaited him on the other end was either a lifetime of joy or a lifetime of misery. But he had to do it. He had to know.

“Baxter, I’m going out. I’ll be back for dinner,” Henry called, his voice sounding throughout the entryway. He thought he heard the faintest response, but he couldn’t wait a moment more.

* * *

“Mr. Henry Godwin here to see you, Miss Follett.”

Emma startled, looking up from her book when Humphrey spoke. Her heart immediately began to pound, knowing Henry was once again under the same roof. Along with it came the ache of his last words, of his nearly realized desire to ruin her.

“Shall I show him in?”

Emma shook her head.

Humphrey nodded. “Very good. I’ll tell him you’re not at home.”

Suddenly, Emma felt a barrage of bravery. “No. Tell him I don’t want to see him, and I don’t want him to come here ever again. Not until I’ve gone.”

The butler hesitated, casting a glance at Mrs. Dunn.

“Do as she says,” Mrs. Dunn said calmly, and he nodded before closing the parlor door.

Emma waited for the front door to sound. It drew her to stand and move toward the parlor door to listen, though she had to keep herself from opening it. She knew the rejection would hurt Henry, and she did not revel in it. Part of her wanted to stop Humphrey, but Emma had to draw the line somewhere, didn’t she? She had her pride and would not accept such disrespect from any gentleman, let alone a scoundrel. But he was right. He had accepted her faults and flaws, and forgiven her, and trusted her, only to have her break that trust all over again. Not to mention her ruined chance with Mr. Bernard. Could she do nothing right?

Finally, after a moment of silence, she heard the click of the front door.

Feeling a surge of tears, Emma pressed her hands to her face and leaned against the door as she cried. There was no remedy for her confusion. There was no correct answer for how to proceed. Her heart was broken, but it almost felt like it was of her own doing. Her shoulders shook and she tried to stay silent, but then a whimper escaped.

“Come sit down, Emma.”

Unable to control her emotions any longer, Emma let out a sob and collapsed into the chair.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunn.”

“For what, my dear?”

Emma looked up with a quivering lip and wiped at the multitude of tears. “I’ve completely failed, ruining your very purpose here, ruining my one chance at a season. You gave me a goal, and not only did I ruin that prospect, I also chased off the other gentleman who…”

Who she actually loved?

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