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"No, I want to come. I thought being here at Wimberley would be better, but it's not. Oh, Evan! Everywhere I turn, I see Richard—his horses, his books, his hunting rifle. Even that silly rapeseed blooming in the meadow he insisted we t-try...." She broke off, struggling with tears.
Once again he gathered her close. "Of course I'll take you back. You needn't go out or see anyone if you don't wish to."
“Actually, I think I should prefer going out. Not to balls or parties, of course, but you never took me to Hampton Court or to Astley's or the theater. I have friends, too, who can help...divert me. I don't have to worry now about making a good impression on gentlemen or their mamas." She looked up to smile at him. "Now I have you. I'm just sorry I'm such a bother."
He looked down at her gentle, guileless face. He should say, "Nonsense, you'll be my wife soon, I want to care for you."
The best he could do was, "You're never a bother."
Her smile widened. "Thank you, Evan. You're so good to me. Well, I shall start to pack!"
He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. Not seeming to mind that lack of ardor, she patted his hand and walked out.
If they were to depart soon, he'd best finish these papers. But as he worked, though he struggled to banish them, two words kept thrumming at the back of his mind. London. Emily.
Chapter 11
Emily sat at the desk in her new office, previously her bedchamber, and gazed over at the sitting-room-turned-design-studio where the first completed toilettes hung.
Her clients had responded with enthusiastic praise and a number of advance orders—in cash. She gazed down at the sum she was about to insert in her money pouch and sighed.
She ought to be delighted with herself and the business. In a detached way she was. In her head she could acknowledge satisfaction that her trust in her design instincts had been well placed.
In addition, she was able to bring Drew to spend the weekends. Having her son's company for two whole days rather than the Sunday afternoon to which she had been rationed since their arrival in London—what a joy it was. She had no reason to be melancholy.
If her shop continued its progress, within a year she would be able to repay Evan in full the sum he'd initially spent to rescue her. Ah, Evan.
Her glance traveled the room. Here, in this chamber, he had first carried her to bed. There by the balcony door he had undressed her, to let the moonlight painting her body show him where to kiss, he'd said.
Her face flushed; a tingling began in her nipples. It seemed that, once awakened, desires long dormant refused to return to slumber.
But less carnal reminiscences were no better. In the next room, where seamstresses now toiled, where her designs now hung, they had dined and chatted and laughed together.
A dull pain vibrated through her. She pressed a hand to her chest. The sorrow was lessening, truly it was. It was just that everything here reminded her of their beginnings.
It was even worse at her house—their house—where she knew every item of furniture, every rug, plate and vase, had been chosen by him to please her. Where they had dwelled together a few precious months in such total contentment.
Damn and drat! She sprang up in exasperation. She was becoming a maudlin, whining weakling such as she despised.
She needed a change, something to refocus her mind.
Her restless glance fell upon the post Francesca had brought earlier. In it a playbill caught her notice. Announcing the premiere of a most excellent presentation of Will Shakespeare's King Lear, it boasted the renowned Mr. Hampton in the title role.
Hampton in Lear. The notion generated a spark of interest. And theater—she'd loved attending plays in Lisbon. Her father-in-law was still absent; Francesca had just checked. Why not treat them to a night at the theater?
Would Evan attend? She wasn't sure if he'd returned to London yet. He enjoyed Shakespeare, she knew. Warmth spread through her.
A little fear chilled it. What would he do, should he be present and see her?
The unease swiftly passed. 'Twould be in neither his best interests nor hers that he acknowledge her. If he were present, he'd most likely be with his betrothed.
She stifled a pang. You will not, she told herself sternly, attend the theater solely on the ridiculous notion that you might, for a few moments, be able to watch him.
In any event, 'twas just as like he'd not be there. Even to a family in mourning, London offered innumerable other entertainments.
Should he chance to be present, she would not gaze at him, anyway. Certainly not. She'd go for the play itself and the revitalizing change in routine it offered.
Smiling, she called Francesca to see about obtaining tickets. And told herself her rising excitement was merely the anticipation of seeing Mr. Hampton play Lear.
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From her seat among the lower tier of chairs Emily gazed about her with awe. She'd not been in a public assembly in so long, the sheer volume of sound, color and motion mesmerized her.
In the pit just below, a group of flamboyantly dressed bucks lounged among a diverse assortment of shop boys, clerks and ill-clad ruffians she strongly suspected must be pickpockets. The scent and smoke of candles mingled with the odors of perfume, nosegays and unwashed bodies. Then one of the lounging men caught her eye and winked.
Alarmed he might interpret her glance as encouragement, she jerked her gaze away and up to the boxes above. Perhaps she had been unwise to sit here. She'd feel safer had she been able to afford a box.
But she'd have hesitated, even were she able to afford it. What would she do if she claimed a box—and saw Evan enter the one next door? The very idea caused a shudder.
Besides, she thought as she watched the beautifully clothed, jewel-bedecked Upper Ten Thousand drift in amid laughter and called greetings, the few among society who knew Madame Emilie, hatmaker, would surely not approve her seating herself among them.
For the first time since Andrew's death she felt the full force of her social isolation—friendless among the bourgeoisie she had joined, banished from the society of her birth. Being isolated in Spain had been natural—she was a foreigner. In England, she had until this moment been too preoccupied with survival to spare a thought for position.
Nonsense, she told herself, ripping her gaze from the upper levels and transferring it to the stage, where a herald was announcing the opening festivities. Years of foraging about Spain on her own had taught her how to send any potential heckler to the rightabout. And her grip on survival was still not firm enough that she waste time in maudlin reflection over her proper place.
A blur of motion in an upper box caught her attention, and a shock of awareness jolted through her. Though the arriving gentleman had his back to the stage, adjusting his lady's chair, she knew immediately it was Evan.
He turned toward her. For the briefest moment her gaze clung to him, tracing every detail of that dear familiar face. Did his eyes seem shadowed, the lines at the corners of his mouth grim? Or was that merely an effect of the flickering torchlight?
Then she forced her gaze away, before the unconscious, irresistible pull that telegraphed his presence alerted him to hers. She would not have him discover her staring up like a ragged waif begging alms.
By the time the ringing in her eyes dimmed and her tumultuous pulse calmed, the first act was nearly over. With determination she focused her attention onstage.
Though still acutely conscious of Evan in the corner box, she managed to immerse herself in the play. As the actors exited for the first interval, however, she stirred uneasily.
She should observe the crowd, she told herself. Anything to hold her attention and prevent her succumbing to the nearly overwhelming desire to look up.
Could she not dare one quick glance? Just to see if the lady privileged to become his bride was fair or dark, if she seemed kind? He deserved a wife with a warm heart, who would fill his home with gladness.
So intent was she on her inward struggle that the touch on her arm made her jump.
"'Evenin', lovely lady," said a slurred voice at her side. "Beauty such's you shouldn't be sittin' alone."
A powerful odor of spirits hit her nose. She wrinkled it in distaste, recognizing at the same time one of the most persistent of the Corinthians who had been wont to drop by her shop—Lord Willoughby? Suddenly she wished Francesca had not firmly refused to accompany her mistress to a play whose Shakespearean language she could not fathom.
The inebriated man was followed by several others who crowded close around her. She tried to step back, but the narrow aisle allowed no retreat.
"See who I've found, lads," Willoughby said. "Our little shopkeepin' beauty, all alone and pinin' for company." Laughing, he took her arm.
As she tried to shake it off, another dandy stepped to her other side. A liquor glaze on his face, he grasped her shoulder with one unsteady hand. "Gotta kiss for an old frien', sweet'eart?"
"Find your own tart, Baxter." Willoughby gave his rival a push, to the hilarity of the watching group. "I've been waitin' for this little morsel a long time."
Anger and a gathering panic rose in her throat. Without Francesca she was alone against them. One of these drunken ruffians she could handle, but four?
What right had they to spoil her enjoyment with their boorish insults? Harnessing her rising indignation, she wrenched her arm free. “I do not appreciate your presence, sir. Kindly remove yourself."
