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How could he wed Andrea and not lose Emily?
They could remain friends, could they not? He could stop by, consult with her, share hopes and plans....
It wouldn't be the same. He would no longer be free. And their time, their precious time together would be even more restricted than it had been since Andrea's arrival.
Marrying Andrea was the right, the only honorable course. Since there was no acceptable alternative, he would do so. Why, then, did it all feel so wrong?
Once he did his duty, he would be more at ease, lose this sense of impending catastrophe. Andrea would make it easier—they had always been friends. That in his current frame of mind he had to struggle not to view even the innocent Andrea with distaste he would not dwell on. He pushed the whole detestable vision of a forced marriage from his mind.
For the short, sweet infinity of the next few days, until Andrea recovered enough to entertain his proposal, their relationship could continue as it was. He could watch Emily at tea, curving her little finger over her cup as always; tease her into that throaty gurgle of a laugh; fence with her sharp wit; cherish the touch of her hands and lips, the deep satisfaction of their intimate joining.
Before he lost the privilege forever. That stark realization sucked the breath from his lungs.
It was unthinkable. It was inescapable.
He closed his eyes for a moment, marshaling the remains of his waning strength. Extinguishing further thought of so unspeakable a future, he forced his weary mind to a scarcely more palatable problem.
How was he going to break the news to Emily?
He toyed with the notion of delaying the announcement. After all, as Andrea was prostrate with grief, he could hardly rush her with a proposal for several days at least. That she would accept his proposal was nearly certain, he knew, swiftly extinguishing a flare of hope.
Could he not savor these last few days with Emily?
It would be unfair to conceal his imminent change of status, he concluded reluctantly. Emily had the right to know, to prepare herself—and to help him think of a way to salvage as much as possible of their life together.
That last thought was the only faint glimmer of hope he could glean out of this whole dreadful business.
He halted before her door, awash in yearning for what could never be. Then, chastising himself not to waste another second, he mounted the steps.
As he'd never mentioned Andrea, the news he would shortly deliver must come as a shock. Would Emily greet it with tears, pleas that he not marry another, vows of devotion? Or the cool pronouncement that to all things there is a season?
Raising his hand to knock, he took a deep breath. One way or another, he was about to find out.
******************************************************************
Humming to herself, Emily arranged sandwiches and biscuits on the tea tray. Well pleased with the progress of her seamstresses, she'd returned home early today. She'd be able to report to Evan that "Creations Madame Emilie" would soon have its debut.
She expected that, as her primary investor, he'd greet the news with enthusiasm—though she wasn't sure. His brief note, in a nearly illegible script so unlike his usual precise penmanship, spoke of the depth of his grief over his friend's death. Vividly she remembered reeling from such blows, and poignant tenderness swelled in her breast. She longed for him to come to her, that she might let him talk it out, offer sympathy and wifely comfort.
The thought caught her up short. Cheeks heating, she reminded herself yet again, as she seemed to have to do with increasing frequency of late, that she had no right to intrude into his personal life. Such instincts were best firmly squelched, lest she slip into viewing her role as something it was not nor could ever be.
She heard his distinctive step in the hallway and a smile sprang to her lips. A gust of raw, rain-scented wind, memento of the wintry storm that had plagued the city all day, blew into the room with him.
His face worn and bestubbled, he came and drew her immediately into his arms. Compassion for his evident distress flooding her, she held him close.
He moved her to arm's length, but instead of releasing her, bent to place gentle, lingering kisses on her brow, her eyelids, her cheeks, her chin. Finally he claimed her lips in a kiss so infinitely tender her guarded heart beat faster and a melting warmth spread through her.
Rather than extending his kisses into the interlude such ardor seemed to promise, he drew back, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. "My sweet Emily."
'Twas so difficult sometimes to maintain her distance— but she must. Swallowing the "My darling Evan" that sprang to her lips, she reached instead to brush some errant raindrops from his dark hair.
"I'm so sorry, Evan."
He opened his lips, then closed them and acknowledged her condolence with a short nod.
"Should you like tea?"
With a little sigh he released her. "Yes, tea would be good." He walked toward the sofa, halted, paced to the window and stood staring out at the street.
She regarded him with concern. What could she say or do to help? Words, she knew, were meaningless at such a time. Instead, she brought him his tea.
"Here, drink this." She touched his cold fingers. "You seem chilled—'twill help warm you."
"Emily, I...I shall have to leave town shortly."
Conscious of a sharp disappointment, she nodded. Settling his friend's estate, probably.
"I see. Will you be away for long?"
"I'm not sure. We'll...need a mourning period."
"You must take all the time necessary," she said, trying to damp down the hurt that he evidently chose not to seek her solace. “Grief can neither be ignored nor quickly mastered."
Still standing, his gaze on the far distance, he took a sip. "When I do return, things...will have to be different. I...I shall be engaged."
She was stirring her tea when the import of his words exploded in her mind like an unexpectedly tossed firecracker. Her heart stopped, the spoon dropped from her nerveless fingers and clattered against the saucer.
As the shock waves of meaning spread, her hearing dimmed, her eyesight blurred, she felt at once hotly dizzy and piercingly cold. She had the sensation of falling before Evan's firm hands grasped her.
"Emily! Emily, are you all right?"
His words penetrated, barely. Taking deep, unsteady breaths, she locked her vision on small details and willed them to remain in focus. The teacup that lay shattered on the carpet where she must have dropped it. She should call Francesca to mop up...
Then Evan was lifting her, carrying her to the sofa.
"Emily, sweeting, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have just— blurted it out, but I didn't know how to tell you."
He laid her down, but with trembling hands, she pushed back to a sitting position. He took a seat beside her.
"Please don't be angry with me, my darling." Evan chafed her cold fingers, kissed them. "Taking this step has nothing to do with any change in my feelings for you! I'm here now, I'll always be here for you, just as I promised. Anything you wish, anything you need, you have but to say it and 'twill be yours, I swear it. Please believe me!"
He gazed at her, face strained, his eyes desperate. "I've a duty to Richard—to his sister, Andrea. Her horse fell on her in a hunting accident several years ago and nearly crushed her leg. She's a lovely girl, but shy, uncomfortable and fearful of strangers. Our families have always been close, and I'm all she has left. Before Richard died, I...I promised I would marry her."
Emily's numbed brain was finally beginning to function. "Yes, of course. I understand." Over the rapid beating of her heart and the faintness that kept trying to overwhelm her, she endeavored to tell herself this was right. Sooner or later it would have to end.
Did it have to be so soon?
He drew her into his arms, kissed her fervently. “Things do not have to change between us, though I'll not be able to be with you as oft as I have. I'll have to be more discreet in my visits, but—''
As his meaning slowly penetrated her still-muzzy brain, a second shock struck her. She seized his caressing fingers. "Evan, of course things will change! You cannot think that I...that I would... No, 'tis not possible."
"Sweeting, it's not what I wish, either, what I would want for us. I know the...circumstances are distressing to you. But nothing would be as distressing as losing you- altogether."
Could it be he did not understand? That he thought his engagement—his marriage—would have no effect on their relationship? Had her coming to him given him that erroneous an impression of her?
The chilling thought focused her. She pulled her hands free. “Your marriage must mean the end of our—friendship, Evan, surely. There's no other way. I've...sinned with you already, for which I'll owe a lifetime of penance. I will not be an adulteress. I cannot."
He looked from the hands folded on her lap to her set face. "You would send me away?" he asked, his tone aghast, disbelieving. "Refuse to see me again?"
She said nothing, unable to trust her voice to reaffirm the truth that cut like a saber's slash into her heart. But if she did not stand firm now, she sensed the force of his persuasion and her own treacherous longing would sweep her into actions that would lead to self-loathing and destruction.
"Does what we share mean so little to you?" he whispered at last.
The anguish in his eyes echoed his tone, but she made herself meet his gaze firmly.
