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“The other two were private meetings between the duke and I.” It was impossible she could fall more in love with him.
“Emma, you are crying.” She gasped, raising her hands to her cheeks.
“What is it?” Maryann’s voice was low and undemanding.
“He has renewed his sentiments, and I said no once more…. but I wanted to say yes.”
“You are afraid.”
“Yes.”
“I must say I’ve never thought you would be afraid of anything,” Maryann said softly. “You were so brave after the accident. How you fought to walk, to live, how you never gave up hope. I never realized you were frightened to love.”
Emma swallowed past the tight knot in her throat. “Yes.” She laughed shakily. “And how very silly it is of me, for I have lost him. I never had him, for I never gave him a chance.”
“Do you love him?” Maryann asked, sympathy glowing from her eyes.
“More than anything else. And I have done so for years. I want him with everything in me. He rouses my passion, my joy for life,” she said, a flush rising in her face. The weight that lifted from her shoulders on her declaration was glorious.
“It sounds like you already know the answer to your fears, Emma.”
Maryann pushed from the bed, ambled over and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Do not dawdle too long.”
“I will never be right for him regardless of how I feel.”
Maryann stared at her with a mess of emotions on her face, but she remained silent.
Elliot, I miss you. Oh, to be in his arms again. Emma ached with exquisite longing. A state she would forever exist in once Elliot was not by her side. She closed her eyes allowing the memories of the years gone by to wash over her senses. She had always shied away from
them, hating how they reminded her of the broken, hollow creature she had been. She had been bedridden for months, and the doctors had held no hope she would ever walk again. But why hadn’t she made an effort to see him once she had healed? Why hadn’t she trusted in the love that shone from his eyes?
She allowed all the memories to wash over her, the pity from her family, the sobs of her mother, how invalided she had felt, their refusal to assist her to relearn to walk, insisting she should listen to the doctors and not her own stubborn heart. Only her sisters had aided her in the secret of their rooms. If her family had loved her and had been so ashamed of her, how could Elliot have borne it?
She covered her mouth, her eyes staring sightlessly out the windows. How could she have judged him by their standards, how she had had been convinced all her doubts had been justified when he hadn’t returned to court her again? Emma had never been a coward, and it hurt, soul deep, that she had been afraid to love for so long.
The very next day a single, white rose was delivered to her. Emma knew it was from the duke, and the relief that had surged through her heart had been telling. There had been so many questions in her heart, so many doubts as to her suitability when he had not renewed his sentiments. And those doubts had only cemented over the years to a sort of acceptance that he too must have realized she would not be worthy of being his duchess.
The second day a book of poetry by John Keats arrived.
The third day a pair of silken stockings arrived, a shocking present for a man to send to an unmarried woman and they were not even formally engaged. If her parents discovered the gift, they would demand that she return them. A dangerous thrill had burst in her heart at his scandalous gift. And on the fourth day, he sent a song of some sort, a terrible rude one, but it made a laugh hiccup from her. With trembling fingers, she had folded the paper as if it were precious and stored it in the top drawer of her writing desk. The fifth day she got a pearl seeded comb for her hair with the most elegant design.
The sixth day a personal invitation to a ball arrived from Lady Sterling, and Emma knew it was the duke’s influence which had allowed it to happen. Her family had not been invited to that auspicious event in years. In fact, Emma couldn’t recall if they had ever been to Lady Sterling’s annual spring ball. Her mother would be overjoyed.
And then she would adamantly insist Emma was not to attend.
She must comport herself accordingly and never shame the family. Those had been the stringent repeated words of her mamma and papa since her carriage accident. She hadn’t attended the theater, never visited Covent Gardens, or attended any rout parties. Comporting herself correctly according to her mother had been to hide from society, not bringing the polite world’s attention to the fact the viscount and viscountess Sherwood had a crippled daughter.
It was not any concerns for her wellbeing that had urged her family to retire in Cheswick Manor. It had been their mortification. Emma closed her eyes, for she too had been responsible for the prison in which she had dwelt. For so many years she had been content with hiding in the country, forsaking all the elegance, companionship, entertainment and extravagance of the ton.
Squaring her shoulders, she knocked once on the drawing room door, then opened it and stepped in. Her family had been gathered at her request. Her papa sat in a high wing backed chair by the fireplace, and her mother and Aunt Beatrice sat on the chaise, Maryann was curled in a single sofa, her feet lifted onto an ottoman, and Anthony lingered by the windows overlooking the lake.
“Emma, dearest, dinner will be served by seven and—” her mother’s words broke off, and she gaped.
Her father stood frowning, no doubt trying to distinguish what about her was different.
“Where is your cane?” he boomed, making his way over, to only falter as Anthony exclaimed, “What happened to your hair?”
Emma smiled. With the aid of Maryann and her maid, Emma had cut her hair in the first style of fashion. Her mamma’s eyes widened with incredulity, and her papa seemed terribly flustered. Even Anthony seemed nonplussed by her transformation. Aunt Beatrice for once seemed at a loss for words, and only Maryann smiled with pleasure.
