Page 7 of The Mister I Married

“I don’t,” Emmy said, flashing her an impish grin. “Most of my thoughts aren’t fit for ladies’ ears.”

Her mother dipped her head over her needlepoint, her lips trembling with suppressed mirth even as she heaved another exasperated sigh, looking very much like a mother who had no idea what to do with her wayward child.

It was a reaction Emmy had earned nearly every day of her life.

Humming softly, she returned to her paper but had only read a handful of words when a soft scratch sounded at the door.

Winters, their long-time butler of indiscriminate age and unimpeachable calm, stepped into the room and announced, “Callers have arrived, my lady. Mr. Alexander Whitcomb and Miss Tess Whitcomb.”

“Oh,” Lady Keswick said with surprise in her voice. “Well, do show them in, Winters.”

The butler gave a curt nod then turned on his heel and quit the room.

Emmy rose to her feet beside her mother, pleasure washing over her at the prospect of seeing Miss Whitcomb again. She wanted to assure herself that the girl was well, of course, after last night’s unfortunate incident, but she also wanted to see her because she truly wished to know her better. She had a feeling the two of them could be friends if given the chance.

Her feelings about seeing Mister Whitcomb again were not so clear.

Footsteps could be heard clacking up the corridor and a moment later, Miss Whitcomb and her brother stepped through the door and into the sunny drawing room.

“Miss Whitcomb, how good it is to see you again,” Emmy said, moving forward to take her hands in hers. “How are you faring today?”

Miss Whitcomb gave her a shy smile, and Emmy was relieved to see that it even reached her light brown eyes. “I am well, thank you,” she said. “And thank you again for your interference last evening.”

Emmy grinned and gave her hands a little squeeze. “It isn’t often I am thanked for my interference,” she teased. “But you are very welcome, indeed.”

She turned her gaze on Mr. Whitcomb and gave him a nod of greeting. “And good afternoon to you, Mr. Whitcomb,” she said with her friendliest smile. “We have not been officially introduced, but after last night, it hardly seems strictly necessary.”

He bowed his head, and then his hazel eyes met hers, direct yet frustratingly inscrutable. “Lady Emmaline. Honored to make your acquaintance.”

For pity’s sake, did the man never smile?

Emmy turned toward the sofa to reclaim her seat, exasperated by the man’s impassive demeanor but trying not to be. After all, what did it matter if his manner was less than amiable? He was a handsome man, yes—even more so in the daytime, when she could properly see his thick brown hair and firm jaw, the impressive shoulders filling out his dark blue day coat, not to mention those thighs, as big as tree trunks, straining against his tan cotton trousers…

She forced her gaze to the floor and swallowed. Saints be, Emmy. Enough.

It was his sister she cared to know better, not him, and she resolved to put him and his thighs out of her mind.

“May we offer you two a cup of tea?” she asked as she perched on the sofa and gestured for their guests to take the chairs opposite.

“We have lemonade, as well, if you prefer,” Lady Keswick said, sitting down beside Emmy. “It is an unusually warm day today.”

Miss Whitcomb smiled as she settled into her chair and arranged her ivory skirts about her knees. “Thank you. Tea would be lovely.”

Mr. Whitcomb took his seat last, looking more than a trifle uncomfortable as he lowered himself onto the spindly-legged chair. “Nothing for me, thank you,” he said, just before the chair let out a squeak of protest.

Emmy bit back a smile. The chair was sturdier than it appeared, but Mr. Whitcomb was not a small man, and she knew from her brother, who was of similar size, that it was not a comfortable seat for a tall person. Which was precisely why Griffin refused to sit in it.

“Here you are, Miss Whitcomb,” Lady Keswick said, handing the young lady a cup and saucer.

“Thank you,” Miss Whitcomb murmured, before taking a sip of the steaming brew. “Our aunt asked me to convey her regrets to you, Lady Keswick, and to you, as well, Lady Emmaline. She would have joined us today, but she awoke with an aching head this morning and is confined to her bed.”

“Oh, that is too bad,” Emmy said sincerely as she reached for a lemon biscuit. “Mrs. Lawrence is an absolute delight. I should have liked to visit with her, of course, and I do hope she is well again soon.”

The foursome—well, three of the four, anyway—spent the next several minutes chatting about everything and nothing, drinking tea and eating biscuits and having an all-around pleasant time. At least, Emmy thought they were all having a pleasant time. With Mr. Whitcomb, it was impossible to tell. He mostly sat in silence in his uncomfortable chair, providing an occasional grunt or nod of his head, unsmiling and unreadable.

Emmy disliked unreadable people. Or, at least, she disliked being around them. They made her uncomfortable, as if they were hiding something, which invariably made her want to unearth whatever it was they were hiding. It was most irritating. It was a good thing she was ignoring him.

“Oh, look at the time,” Lady Keswick said with a glance at the timepiece clipped to the bodice of her pale pink gown. “Emmy, we had best be off on our walk soon while the weather is still agreeable.” She turned to their guests with a wide, warm, worrying smile. “Would you two care to join us for a stroll through the park?”