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"Yes. I shall see you tomorrow, then."
He took her hand, but rather than brushing it with his lips, he turned it over and placed a lingering kiss on her palm. He raised to her violet eyes dark with emotion. "Thank you." After a brief bow, he walked out.
She didn't deserve Brent's fidelity, she thought guiltily as she watched him leave. But the soothing balm it offered was immense.
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He really ought to forget her, Evan mused as he stared up at the little landscape. In a fit of anger upon his return after their bitter parting, he'd yanked the painting from above his library mantel.
Later that day he'd rehung it. Her words had been meant to wound, to rip a final breach through their accord and cauterize it beyond hope of mending. He understood that intuitively, once the blindness of hurt and outrage faded, understood why she had spoken thus.
But he could not believe her. To some resonant note deep within him she still played the resolving chord, a harmony beside which disdainful words were as the thunder of a passing storm outside an unbreachable fortress, irrelevant, unable to cause harm.
Her resolve to remain parted he did believe. She was right; 'twas for the best to uphold honor and fulfill duty. If behind that facade of fortitude the inner self suffered, he must be man enough to endure.
He would bury himself in work and think on her as little as possible. And if late at night he drifted back to the library to gaze at her landscape and cherish their memories, should he not be allowed some small reward for soldiering through yet another endless day?
The sound of a throat being repeatedly cleared finally pulled him out of meditation.
"My lord, Mr. Blakesly to see you."
He'd been so busy upon his return to town, he'd not seen his friend since Richard's funeral. With pleasure he extended his hand to the tall figure entering the library.
"Brent, good to see you! It's been too long."
Brent halted a pace away. His face unsmiling, he glanced at Evan's outstretched hand and, arms held stiffly at his sides, made him a short, stiff bow.
"I've not come for a visit, my lord." He gave the courtesy scornful emphasis. "I've but a message to deliver."
Surprise at the rebuff held Evan speechless for a moment. "Message?"
Eyes narrowed and jaw set, Brent leaned until his face was but a few inches from Evan's. "You call yourself a gentleman? You celebrate your engagement—notices in the press, small elect gatherings among the ton. Then under cover of darkness slink away to treat Emily as your whore!" Face contorted with anger, he spat out the word.
Shocked, shamed, Evan could think of no reply.
Brent exhaled an explosive breath. His voice, when he continued, was cool, his face deadly calm. “Well, no more. Sooner or later I intend to marry Emily, if she'll have me. And married or not, as God is my witness, if you ever go near her again I'll kill you." He made an elaborate bow. "Your servant, my lord."
Brent turned on his heel, began to walk away. Finally finding his voice, Evan strode after and halted him with a hand to the shoulder. "Marry Emily? How can you? 'Tis impossible!"
Jerking free, Brent whirled toward him. "I'm not the mighty Earl of Cheverley, with duties owed a portrait gallery of ancestors long dead. To think I used to envy you that title and wealth." He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "My family may squawk, but duty in the Blakesly line falls on Cousin Edward. If they wish to see me and my children, they'll treat Emily with the respect due my wife. And should it come to a choice between her and the cut direct from the ton, I swear to you I'd have the ring on her finger faster than you could blink."
Brent to marry Emily? His love, his secret joy? Corrosive jealousy and anger born of weeks of repressed longing fired to instant rage. "You cannot marry her. I forbid it!"
Brent tensed as if to throw a punch, then relaxed. “You forbid it?" He laughed shortly. "You forfeited the right to say anything months ago. This time, see that you remember that fact, for I assure you, my warning is no idle threat. Stay away from her, Evan." He bowed again, curtly. "My regards to your mother and Andrea."
Before Evan could remonstrate further, Brent strode from the room. Fuming, Evan followed, but at the door, reason returned and he halted.
There was nothing he could or should do. Brent was a good man; he'd take care of Emily. She deserved that, deserved someone fine enough to recognize her excellence, someone willing to brave the scorn of the ton to claim her.
Why did the mere thought of someone else touching her burn in his gut like acid?
Perhaps because their shared memories were his most precious possession. The idea of yielding her to another, even a man as worthy as Brent, was like having the most cherished part of himself ripped out.
Yes, he wanted Emily comfortable, appreciated and cared for. He just could not kill the hopeless longing that he be the man to do so.
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A few days later, Emily sat over her portfolio at the desk in her old office. In the wake of that disastrous night with Evan, a lingering depression bore down her spirits, from which even Brent's quiet, thoughtful companionship couldn't entirely distract her.
Dear Brent, whose words still spoke of friendship but whose assiduous attention and increasingly ardent glances were growing ever more like a courtship.
With a pang of guilt, she couldn't help wishing, bruised as she was in body and spirit, for a continuation of their straightforward camaraderie. Anything more was beyond her just now.
At least here at the shop, adding detailed notes to her sketches, she could accomplish something useful. She did find solace in perfecting her designs, directing the busily stitching seamstresses, did feel satisfaction watching what began as visions in her head turn into gowns whose sale would buy a safe future for herself and her son.
She heard the entry bell ring. Francesca was in the kitchen fixing her soup and tea, so the newly hired shop girl met the customers at the door. From the corner of her eye as she studied a sketch Emily noted them enter, heard the murmured greetings.
She had but to add a few more instructions and the riding dress would be complete. Long, slender, its cap-sleeved pelisse trimmed with epaulettes and gold braid, the gown was a feminine interpretation of Andrew's army uniform. She smiled, remembering the stir she'd created the first time she'd worn a similar garment out riding in Portugal. "Daughter of the Regiment," some of Andrew's fellow officers had said, teasing her.
Ah, Andrew. She rested her head on her hand as shame swirled up to color the old familiar burden of grief. Praise God you cannot see me now....
A shadow fell across her, followed by two hands that seized hers hard. "Auriana! Blast it, woman, I've been the length and breadth of Spain hunting you!"
Fear shot through her and she looked up so sharply little stars of light marred her vision. Not until a moment later did her eyes focus enough for her to recognize a dearly familiar face: her brother-in-law, Major Robert Alan Waring-Black.
Chapter 13
"Rob!" she cried joyfully. "Whatever are you doing in England? And out of uniform? I thought you still with Wellington's staff!"
"No. I took a hit a few months after Andrew was wounded—but 'tis a long story. Ah, Ari, how good it is to see you!" He wrapped her in a hug.
She hugged him back, then grasped his hands. '"Tis wonderful to see you, too, Rob."
"Robert?" A tall blond woman entered the little office. Her startled gaze went from Emily's face to the hands her brother-in-law still held, and lingered there.
After giving her fingers another squeeze, Robert released them, but left one hand resting on her shoulder, as if to reassure himself she was truly found. "Natalie, my dear, only see who I've discovered. Auriana, may I present to you my wife Natalie. Nat, this is my brother's elusive widow, Auriana."
Andrew's wild, carefree scapegrace of a brother married? 'Twas hard to conceive. "Delighted to meet you, ma'am— and congratulations."
"Thank you." The tall woman nodded but did not smile. Her eyes returned again to her husband's hand at Emily's shoulder. "So you are the lady we've been tracking over dusty roads in every manner of poorly sprung conveyance for half a year?''
"You've been searching for me?" she echoed, astonished.
At his wife's frosty tone, Rob only laughed. '"Tis a good thing I was forced to sell out. I'm afraid my Nat would never have made a soldier's bride. And how could you not expect me to hunt for you as soon as I was able, dear friend, my brother's wife, the woman who tended my wounds and pulled me back from death?"
He released her shoulder and his tone lightened. "You'd covered your tracks well, though. We'd only just begun to make progress, but I'd given Nat my word after six months I'd bring her home."
"Mistress, que barulho," Francesca said as she backed into the room, heavy tray in hand. She turned, spied Robert, and her face lit. "Roberto, meu amor! Como está?"
"Francesca!" Robert sprang over, dispensed with the tray and enveloped the maid in a hug. In a rapid spate of Portuguese the two exchanged greetings. Then, wrapping one arm about Francesca, he walked the maid over and put his hand back on Emily's shoulder.
"Come to the town house for tea. You must send for your things and stay with us. And where is my imp of a nephew?"
