Once the meal was completed, Emma retreated to the far corners of the parlor, content to stand as the opera singer took the raised podium in the center of the room.

  It didn’t have a single thing to do with being afraid the Earl of Westin might come and sit beside her. Although, in all fairness to him, after dinner he had all but leaped from the table—seemingly in his haste to get away from her. Even now, he had taken a position against the far wall, as far from Emma as he could get without going to another room. And while there was the length of the room separating them, from the way Emma’s skin prickled with awareness, he could have been standing no more than a breath away.

  Madame de Luc had moved to the front of the room, and most of the guests had fallen silent in preparation for the woman’s operatic genius. Was it Emma’s imagination, or was Madame taking great pains to smile in Marcus’s direction?

  A couple of furtive glances at the Earl of Westin revealed that he seemed to be returning the smiles.

  The singing was beautiful. Even Emma in her ill temper had to admit that. Everyone, including Lord Westin, seemed enraptured. Madame was singing high, soaring notes that rang out over the low din of murmured conversations.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Olivia asked, coming to stand beside Emma.

  Emma mumbled something noncommittal and hoped that Olivia wouldn’t press her on it.

  “Where did your Mr. Barnwell go?”

  “He’s not my Mr. Barnwell,” Emma answered, her voice more than a little shrill.

  Olivia didn’t debate the issue. “Well, where did he go? I can’t believe he would leave you unattended.”

  “I believe he left for home. He was feeling unwell.” His departure had been reluctant, but when the gentleman couldn’t stop reaching for his kerchief and sniffling loudly, Emma had advised him to go nurse his burgeoning cold at home.

  By this point, Madame had finished her performance. The woman made her way through her adoring audience. She stopped along the way to exchange pleasantries for compliments. Emma watched with the pricking of envy as the beautiful woman glided through the crowd. It was as though she floated through her enraptured fans, gathering smiles and accolades with a gracious smile and nod. Stiffening, Emma realized the woman was homing in on Marcus.

  “Emma?” Olivia asked, and from the tone of her voice, it was clear it wasn’t the first time she’d said her name.

  “I’m sorry, Olivia,” she answered immediately. “What were you saying?”

  But her friend only surveyed her with unblinking eyes, before asking, “What could possibly be more interesting than my riveting description of what Lady Turnbridge said to Henri?” she asked—her voice definitely more amused than irritated.

  Emma, shaking her head with equal parts regret and relief, wrenched her gaze away from both Madame de Luc and Marcus. “I’m sorry, Olivia,” she said again.

  “No apologies, Emma.” The marchioness’s gaze was becoming less amused and more concerned. “Is there anything you would like to talk about?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “Just what Lady Turnbridge said to Henri,” Emma prompted, hoping to distract Olivia with the question.

  For a long moment of silence, Emma didn’t think her overly simple plan had worked. But then Olivia sighed and launched into a story of how the baroness had the audacity to call Nick’s aunt a deficient rainbow. While she knew it wasn’t the behavior a good friend would admit to, Emma found her attention wandering again. And now it was Marcus who kept pulling her reluctant gaze.

  He had been standing by himself, propped against the wall with the negligent grace that Emma found inexplicably appealing. But in the few short minutes that she had been distracted, the slim, blonde, enticingly beautiful Madame de Luc had sought to alleviate his loneliness.

  Marcus didn’t appear to feel the weight of her stare. Or if he did, he had determined to ignore her. Not once did his attention so much as flick away from his overly attractive partner. Not that Emma wanted him to notice her, of course.

  “Emma, please tell me if something’s wrong,” Olivia entreated, pausing in the midst of her story.

  Emma shook her head, noticing too late that her hands were fisted at her sides.

  Whether Olivia believed her or not, Emma didn’t know. Their conversation, however, stalled. For several minutes, the two of them just stood silently, listening to the ambient buzz of conversations around them.

  How easy it would be to tell Olivia everything in her heart…all the confusion and distress that she felt about Marcus. It would be such a welcome relief to be able to share her pain with her friend. In the end, however, she said nothing.

  Madame de Luc must have said something that Lord Westin found exceedingly humorous, because he threw back his head and laughed loudly. Without being able to stop herself, Emma stiffened at the booming sound of his merriment.

  Despite her efforts to hide her irritation, Emma must have not been as fantastic an actress as she thought. Seconds after Marcus’s laughter could be heard from across the room, Olivia looked over at her brother.

  And wordlessly, Olivia slipped down her hand to squeeze Emma’s own.

  Tears sprang to Emma’s eyes.

  “I must go greet Madame de Luc,” the marchioness said, her voice tinged with remorse.

  Emma could only nod. She was afraid if she tried to speak, only sobs would come forth.

  But Olivia was obviously unconvinced by the nonverbal agreement. “Are you certain?” Her friend chewed the inside of her cheek. “Because if you’re not…well, then my hostess duties can go hang.”

  The vehemently spoken sentiment made Emma chuckle. “No, please, go be a gracious hostess,” she said with the first genuine smile of the evening…it might have been a small one, but it was at least the first sincere one she’d felt inspired to all day.

  Olivia studied Emma’s face for a moment, clearly looking for any signs of distress that would make her snub the singer in favor of looking after her friend.

  “Truly,” Emma affirmed.

  Olivia must have been satisfied by what she saw, because she nodded in return. With a brief squeeze, the marchioness moved away. Emma was left standing alone on the fringes of the crowd. No one in particular seemed to notice her…Marcus certainly wouldn’t have been any wiser if Emma were on fire and flailing her arms wildly in the corner.

  Emma finally escaped into the hallway and leaned against the wall. The guests were far enough away that their mingled conversations were a low hum in the background.

  The sounds of muffled footsteps in the hall didn’t immediately draw Emma’s attention. There were enough maids and footmen scouring the hallways and rooms of the house to not warrant much notice. And this portion of the hall was rather dimly lit. Only a few candles burned in a candelabrum on a side table. Were the other person prowling the dark corridor with her a servant, Emma doubted her presence would be anything noteworthy.

  As the footsteps—and the person they belonged to—drew closer, however, Emma’s attention piqued. And when she saw who was coming right toward her, she didn’t know whether she wished she could slink back into the paneling on the wall, or whether she was looking for a confrontation.

  Lord Westin strode toward her with purpose…as though he had left the parlor intent on finding her and had known exactly where she’d be.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded when he drew alongside her.

  “I need fresh air. It’s quite a crush in there,” she answered. Keeping her voice level—and emotionless—was harder than she would have imagined. But she didn’t want to show any sign that his presence so close to her was affecting her in the slightest. His face, his scent, his voice were precious commodities, ones she’d missed during the days of their estrangement.

  “You came to the hallway for fresh air?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s what I said,” she snapped.

  But then Emma took a breath. No matter what, she wasn’t going to cause an uproar. Olivia would be most distressed to come upon them and find her friend and brother near to tearing out the other’s hair. And no matter how restrained she tried to be, whenever they began arguing, it was like a meeting of gunpowder and fire. Combustible.

  Lord Westin took a deep breath, and for a moment Emma wondered if he was giving himself the same lecture to remain calm. What a pair the two of them were.

  For seconds, Marcus stared at her, indecision clearly written on his face. Finally, he heaved a ragged sigh. “Emma,” he said, his voice low.

  “What?” she whispered back.

  “I can’t—”

  She didn’t know what Marcus might have been preparing to say because before he could finish, a loud feminine-sounding laugh that could belong to no one but Madame de Luc rang above all of the other noises in the house.

  Marcus cringed at the noise.

  “We should go back in there,” he said.

  Emma nodded.

  Still, neither of them moved.

  “What do you want me to say?” he asked quietly.

  “I didn’t ask you to say anything,” she returned. But the rejoinder had no bite to it. Looking back, she might regret how low her voice was, how intimate their conversation sounded. But right in the moment, Emma couldn’t regret the vulnerability she knew was exposed in her face, in her words, in the way she swayed the slightest bit toward him.

  She held her heart out to him again—something that was becoming much too frequent of an occurrence.

  “I can’t stand that look in your eyes,” he said, mostly to himself.

  Of course, she hadn’t been aware there was a look in her eyes. Although she shouldn’t be surprised. He held everything of her heart, and yet would give her nothing in return. Emma would have been more surprised to learn that she was able to control the emotions raging through her.

  “I’m sorry.” And she was. He had given her an answer, and while it certainly wasn’t the one she would have preferred, Emma had to abide by his decision. And the knowledge and reminder that she had been the one to reject him first was a bitter draught.

  Marcus turned away from her.

  Did she so disturb him that he couldn’t stand to look at her?

  Did he think she condemned him? Judged him? Did anything but loved him?

  Before Emma could stop herself, and before she could think of any number of reasons why she shouldn’t, she reached her hand out to his.

  His grip was firm, his fingers intertwining with hers.

  For a moment, Emma’s heart thrilled that he wasn’t trying to pull away from her. And while he may still not have turned to face her, Emma could feel the tension thrumming through him.

  How long did they stay in that dark hallway, with no contact other than the simple touch of hands?

  Emma knew that she should break the hold, should return to the parlor. But she couldn’t give up the contact.

  After several moments, Marcus must have come to the same conclusion. However, he had much more willpower than she did. After a second, their hands slipped apart.

  “We must return,” he said. This time there was no hesitation. And before Emma could say anything else to him, he’d disappeared back inside.

  Chapter Twenty

  Marcus hadn’t seen Emma for nearly a week. The dinner party had been the last time they’d been forced into close proximity, and as much as he missed the sight of her, Marcus had been so busy between meetings at the bank and meetings with his solicitor that he hadn’t had too much opportunity to dwell.

  In spite of how diligent he was being, however, the unfortunate truth was that nothing much had changed. There had been no miraculous restoration of his fortune…nor had there been any definitive word on what had happened with the ship. And until the lost ship either pulled into harbor, or someone turned up with some additional information, Marcus had to assume that his finances would remain severely depressed.

  So he certainly had other things to be doing than standing outside, under the white tents, watching the other luncheon attendees stroll by on the Wrights’ lawn. He’d been there only an hour, and Marcus was beginning to remember how much he detested these functions when he didn’t have Emma by his side.

  It was for the best. That’s what he kept telling himself. Nothing could happen between the two of them. It didn’t matter how irresistibly lovely he found her…how charming and intelligent she was…or even exactly how incomplete he felt without her.

  Cursing the wretched timing of his financial ruin was no use. He’d done that many a time but to no avail. Nor had his prayers for restoration been particularly effective. Oh, yes, Marcus believed that God would provide for him. He’d never starve to death or be forced to sleep on the streets. But he also couldn’t say with any certainty that this wasn’t some measure of divine punishment…a penance he had to pay for the sin of taking his wealth and comfort for granted.

  No, he was forced to endure it. Alone.

  That was the bitterest part of it all.

  Part of him wished that he could tell Emma. What would she say if he was to confess that the only thing keeping him from pursuit of her was the fact that it was looking very likely that he’d not have any money to support her?

  Or her family?

  Yes, that would surely be an excellent way to win her affections.

  Honesty couldn’t hurt anything now. But Marcus pushed the thought away. He’d had perfectly sound reasons for withholding information. Some things were better kept as secrets.

  But you wouldn’t accept secrets from Emma…why should she expect less from you?

  Again, he couldn’t let the thought take root. Yes, he’d pursued and questioned until Emma had confessed to him, but his reasons for pursuing truthfulness from her was different. He’d only wanted to know if any danger plagued her. If there was something he could do for her.

  And while telling Emma his own problems might be cathartic for him, it would be painful for her to hear…to hear that a lifetime of happiness had been destroyed by matters beyond the ability of either of them to fix.

  Deciding not to waste any more time pining for things that wouldn’t come to pass, Marcus watched the people milling about.

  It was a beautiful day; the sun was high overhead, and a breeze blew across the lawn. Every bit of cheer disgusted Marcus even more.

  “I’m leaving,” he muttered to himself, turning and preparing to walk back to his coach.

  The sight of her stopped him.

  Of course she was here. Olivia had told him earlier in the week that she and Emma were coming to the luncheon. That wasn’t why he came, of course. He came because…well, Lord Wright, host of the luncheon, was one of Marcus’s major supporters in the House of Lords. And Marcus had spent too much time in his study poring over ledgers that weren’t going to change no matter how much he wished or how hard he willed it to.

  And he’d come because Emma was going to be…

  “Doesn’t matter,” he huffed under his breath. “I’m still leaving.” If Miss Mercer had any plans to come and talk to him, she would have already done so.

  If she was eager to search Marcus out, Emma certainly wouldn’t be all but cuddling on the back lawn with that idiotic Barnwell.

  The sight of the man’s arm wrapped with Emma’s was one of those things that Marcus noticed with only a cursory glance. He even walked several paces past before something registered in his mind as “not right.” But then the unnaturalness of it was so impacting that when the full report hit Marcus, he halted in midstep.

  And he strode the short distance to be by her side.

  “Miss Mercer, good day,” he said, flicking only a small glance at her. “Barnwell,” he said with no more enthusiasm than he would show greeting the hangman at the gallows.

  “Lord Westin,” Barnwell returned in a monotone.

  For a second, Marcus wondered if the other man disliked him. Of course, he’d never done anything to gain Barnwell’s ire.

  Except to be in love with the woman the merchant was obviously interested in making his bride. And then the minor incident of beating him down to the ground at the ball where they’d first made each other’s acquaintance.

  Little things.

  “Miss Mercer,” Marcus said again, bowing his head in her direction. The fact that she’d yet to say anything to him was vexing. “You’re looking well.”

  “She is, isn’t she?” Barnwell replied when Emma showed no inclination to respond.

  Marcus schooled his face into a bland expression. Mr. Barnwell wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing Marcus lose his temper.

  Which was a fine thought, but was rather hard to carry out.

  “You weren’t at church Sunday,” he said, in an effort to force her to say something.

  With no graceful way to continue to ignore him, she mumbled something in reply. It was so low, however, that Marcus had problems making it out.

  Barnwell didn’t seem to have the same difficulty. Immediately, the man was the soul of solicitousness, patting her shoulder. “I hope you are feeling better, my dear Miss Mercer,” he said.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Barnwell,” she said in clipped tones.

  Marcus wanted to smile at the shortness of her tone. So she wasn’t so infatuated with her suitor that she couldn’t think straight?

  “My sister didn’t tell me you were ill, Emma,” he said as he studied her face.

  “It was nothing but a cold,” she returned.

  “Must have caught the one I had at the dinner party,” Barnwell supplied helpfully.

  Marcus didn’t have to ponder over the insinuation there. He narrowed his eyes at the other man, while trying to suppress the surge of anger.

 

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