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Emma couldn’t take any more of the looks of pity from her sisters. She placed her napkin on her plate, scraped back her chair, and muttered, “Please excuse me, I feel slightly ill.”
She headed for the door opposite Simon. Reaching the threshold, she heard Harry say, “Well, that explains it.”
After running to the library, she closed the door and sat by the empty fireplace. She wiped away the tears that fell. She’d told herself that she could do this, see Simon again. But she wasn’t ready.
The door creaked open.
Emma spun around to see Louisa enter the room and lock the door behind them. Why hadn’t she thought to do that? “Louisa, I would prefer to be alone.”
“I know, but I also think you and I need to talk.”
“There is nothing to talk about,” she whispered.
“You love him.” Louisa sat on the sofa next to Emma.
“I will get over it,” Emma said, staring into the cold fireplace.
“No, you won’t. Just like I never would have gotten over Harry, or Tessa over Raynerson. We are hopeless romantics.”
Emma’s lower lip trembled. She had to get over Simon. How could she live like this? Not wanting any other man in her life, not wanting anyone to touch her so intimately except him. There had to be a way to make these feelings fade.
“You need to tell him how you feel.”
Emma shook her head. “He doesn’t love me.”
Louisa drew her into a tight hug. “I was wrong about Simon, Emma. I wanted to keep you two apart because I didn’t believe he could ever love you in return.”
“You were right.”
“No, darling. I was dreadfully wrong. Did you not see the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep? Did you notice the way he couldn’t keep his gaze off you? He loves you, Emma.”
She desperately wanted to believe her sister. To have Simon’s love would fulfill her in so many ways she’d never thought possible. But as much as Louisa felt she knew Simon, Emma knew him better. “No, he only desires me, Louisa.”
“There was so much more than desire in his eyes. Have you told him how you feel about him?”
Emma drew back appalled. “Of course not!”
“Tell him.”
“Did you tell Harry that you loved him before he admitted his feeling for you?”
Louisa bit her lower lip. Finally, she answered, “No, but I should have. We would have settled things far quicker that way.”
“I cannot,” she whispered.
“Would you rather be alone for the rest of your life?”
A month ago, Emma might have replied yes. But something had changed. After being with Simon and now spending time away from him, all she wanted was to talk to him, comfort him, be wrapped in his warm embrace.
“I don’t think I do,” she whispered.
Louisa smiled. “This will all work out. In the meantime,” she pressed a slip of paper into Emma’s hand. “Happy birthday!”
Emma unfolded the note and stared at the name and dates on the paper. “I don’t understand.”
“Mrs. Antonia Davenport is an artist of some renown. She paints mostly in oils and has agreed to work with you at my home two days a week at ten in the morning.”
Emma’s hands trembled. “This is the best gift you’ve ever given me.”
