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"Marriage vows mean more. 'Tis a holy promise, Evan, given before God, to love, cherish and keep thyself only unto one other. I would not wish you to break such a vow, could not live with myself were you to break it with me."
He remained silent a long time, as if her words were so difficult he must struggle to comprehend them. "We shall have to part, then?"
"Yes."
"Permanently?"
"Yes."
"And there is no way, no circumstance under which we might be together?"
Tears scratching at her eyes, she shook her head.
"Even as friends...my dearest friend?"
'Twas as if a giant fist had clamped around her chest, squeezing, squeezing ever tighter. "Oh, Evan, could you truly pledge to meet me just as a friend?''
"I would pledge the world and everything in it not to have you tell me goodbye."
The despair in his voice so closely mirrored her own she could bear it no longer. Clamping her lips together to hold back the words she must not say, she threw herself into his arms.
He crushed her close. Driven by the gale of imminent farewell, the sparks that always glowed between them ignited to a mutual hunger as elemental and irresistible as the forces driving them to part. Breathing her name in a sigh, he carried her to bed.
Their first coupling was fierce, frantic, the next so sweetly tender Emily felt she would weep. Afterward, again by mutual unspoken desire, they did not go down to dinner, did not attempt to play cards or chess or even exchange the candid, incisive commentary about current happenings that normally formed an enjoyable finish to their day.
Instead, they remained holding each other close, conscious of the mantel clock steadily ticking away the precious minutes and hours of their last time together. At length, the street noises outside faded and Emily dozed.
Sometime in darkest night she woke to Evan's touch. With lips and hands he cherished her from the crown of her head to her toes, fingering where he knew her to be most exquisitely sensitive—her nipples, the soft cleft of her thighs—and bringing her to blindingly intense release. Then slowly rebuilding the tension again to couple her pleasure with his own.
Afterward, in the lightening dawn, still joined, Evan turned them to the side, then laid one hand between her chest and his.
"You feel it?" he whispered. "Even our hearts beat as one."
The tears started as he left the bed to dress. Fisting them away, she rose as well, threw on a dressing gown and sat silently watching him. She should assist him as she had since their first night, but a listless languor held her motionless.
Her chest tight in that squeezing grip, she felt her heart match the tick of the mantel clock, each beat seeming to chip away at something deep inside.
Buttoning his last cuff, he turned to face her. "This is it, I suppose. For a few days. Then we shall have a month or so before the...event takes place." He squeezed his eyes shut, took a shuddering breath. "A month...and then eternity."
His words finally penetrated her lethargy. “A month? No, Evan, that cannot be. As soon as your lady accepts you, you are bound to her. Regardless of when the wedding occurs."
“That fierce conscience of yours cannot give us even another month?"
Dying a little with the word, she uttered it anyway. "No. I cannot. I'm sorry. Probably even last night was a mistake."
His head snapped up, his whole body instantly alert. "How can you say that? How can you feel anything—anything—for me, for us, and call what we shared together last night—for the whole of the time we've known each other— a mistake?"
His affronted tone nearly broke her resolve. "Oh Evan, did you really think there was a place in this world where an earl and a shopkeeper together would be right?''
"I thought we made it right."
It was never right—but oh, how precious you are, she thought. But now that he was to marry, what good would it serve to admit tender feelings she shouldn't have allowed herself to develop in the first place? Emotions that might encourage him to attempt dissuading her from the end she knew they must make.
No, better that he stay angry, better for him—and for her—to make the break swift and irreversible.
"We both knew from the first our time together would be brief. Now we should acknowledge it was...pleasant—" she uttered the insultingly tepid description with a slight tremor "—and move on."
He stared at her as if she had spoken in tongues. “Pleasant? Move on?" he echoed furiously. "To a new novel, a new bonnet...a new lover?"
She swayed with the force of his derision, but somehow it reinforced her resolve to deal the final blow.
"Whatever is suitable." Summoning some inner reserve of strength, she stood up and made him a deep curtsey. "May I wish you and your wife very happy, my lord."
His lip curled, he raised one hand, and for a moment she thought he would strike—or seize her. Then, exhaling in a ragged rush of breath, he straightened. His voice, when he spoke, was barely a whisper.
"So be it. Thank you for your kind sentiments, Madame.'' He swept her an exaggerated bow. “And let me add I will earnestly endeavor to forget you with as much dispatch as you seem eager to dismiss me." Turning on his heel, he walked out.
After the echo of his retreating footsteps faded she staggered to the bed, collapsed on the edge with arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes closed. This is better, this is better, this is better. To admit how enormous a loss his leaving was, how trenchantly deep the pain, would be to acknowledge an emotion that spelled disaster to any present or future peace of mind.
Must it have ended had she revealed her full identity at the outset, before his friend's death? But even though her birth was better than he assumed, she was still unrecognized by both her husband's family and her own, still virtually penniless, still engaged in trade. Any one of which factors would make her unsuitable to be his bride.
Nor in the midst of all his protestations of devotion had he ever hinted he desired her for that role. The only role she could in good conscience fulfill.
No, as parting was inevitable, better sooner than later, she told herself.
Of course it hurts, she soothed. Losing a friend, a very dear friend, is never easy. You will get through it. You've survived worse.
She'd almost convinced herself when Francesca entered. But when, after one glance, her friend gasped, "Mao de Deus!" and gathered her close, the fierce, body-racking sobs welled up and broke free. For a very long time she could not make them stop.
******************************************************************
At midmorning, after he'd forced himself to down a Spartan breakfast and tea that might as well have been hemlock. Evan went to check on Andrea. He found her still abed, pale, but awake and composed.
"I'm glad you stopped by before leaving for Horse Guards. Evan. I wanted to thank you for..." She swallowed hard. "Well, for everything. I hate to ask anything more, but—could you take me home?"
Despite his own anguish, her distress moved him. "Of course, Andy. As soon as you feel strong enough."
"I'm ready, whenever you can break away. I want—I need to be home." She bit her lip, obviously struggling for control. "Maybe then I won't be so afraid."
He came to the bed and took her in his arms. "Don't be afraid, Andy. I'll take care of you." Recognizing the moment, he sucked in a breath and made himself say the words. "I'd like to take care of you always. Will you marry me?"
She pushed herself back and studied his face.
"Are you sure, Evan?"
Evading that question, he said, “I already asked you once, you'll remember."
A smile lightened her face. "By the lake at Wimberley years ago. You made me a wedding ring out of daisies."
"Yes. But you haven't given me an answer." His heart beat faster with crazy hope she might refuse.
"I'm sorry I'm so weak." Was it an apology? She smiled again, tremulously. "If you're truly sure you want me, then yes, of course I'll marry you."
The words struck his heart like a deathblow. Numbly he took her hand and kissed it. "You honor me," was all he could manage in reply.
******************************************************************
Several weeks later Evan sat at Richard's desk in the library at Wimberley. He'd sorted through almost all his friend's papers; the solicitor had called yesterday to inform him the will should go to probate.
Evan needed to return briefly to London, to finish estate details and check at Horse Guards. Though he'd received courier mail, he was anxious to see if headquarters knew any more about the progress of his friend Geoffrey's mission.
London. Emily.
Savagely he crushed the wave of longing, as he had on each of the innumerable occasions it had seized him these past weeks. Emily was quite content to be on her own again. She'd made that point brutally clear.
“Evan, may I come in?''
Startled, he turned to the doorway where Andrea stood. "Of course. Come, sit with me."
Slowly she approached with her awkward, uneven gait and took the armchair beside the desk. "I'm afraid I have another favor to ask. I know it's quixotic of me, after practically dragging you and your family out of town, but the fact is I...I want to return to London."
Again, that instinctive leap of anticipation. Again he squelched it.
"You needn't go back, Andy. I do need to return, for a few days at least, but Mama can accompany me and arrange all the wedding details."
