“Yes... I rather suppose I do.”
JOHN DIDN’T KNOW if Grayson’s entrance into the main saloon to announce that dinner was being served had been fortunate, or if it had been the worst timing in the history of Affectionate Old Family Retainers. Probably the former, as John hadn’t known what in bloody blazes he was going to do next, once he was looking so deeply into Emmaline’s glorious eyes.
He had wanted to kiss her. No, he had needed to kiss her. He would kiss her before this night was over. As a man who had spent many years at war, he knew that opportunities were just that, and often fleeting. For too many years of his life, he’d put his own wishes aside in the name of the Better Good. Now it was time for him to think about what John Alastair wanted.
And he wanted Lady Emmaline Daughtry.
Curiously, knowing this, he was finding it best suited to his purpose to keep his true identity hidden just a little while longer. He wanted Emmaline to see him as Captain John Alastair, accept him that way...perhaps discover feelings for him that way; the simple man, the man she could be concerned about if he had to pay for his lodgings at the local inn.
He also wanted to know more about the late duke and his two sons, but would she find it as easy to confide in him if she realized his true rank? Emmaline had been shocked by the news of their deaths—anyone would have been shocked at the suddenness of it—but John felt certain he’d also seen a measure of relief in her eyes.
Having experienced much the same feelings when he’d opened the letter from Warrington Hall, informing him of his father’s departure from this earthly coil by way of collapsing after a hard ride on one of the local tavern wenches, John wondered what sort of man the late duke had been. What sort of brother he’d been to Emmaline. Obviously not a beloved one.
John sensed that applying to Grayson for enlightenment would get him nowhere, but he had higher hopes of Mrs. Piggle, and planned to speak to the woman in the morning. In the meantime, he would not press Emmaline for details, not knowing how painful it might be for her to share them with him.
This decision left him free to concentrate on Emmaline herself, which was what he’d much prefer to do in any case.
He entered the cavernous dining room with Emmaline on his arm, only to see that their places had been set at opposite ends of a table that could easily serve as a bowling green. Once he’d assisted her to his chair and Grayson had withdrawn his disapproving face, John picked up his gold charger plate, utensils, serviette and wineglass and carried them all down the length of the table, placing them to Emmaline’s right.
“This way we won’t have to shout at each other,” he said as he sat down. “And I might add that I cannot think of more pleasant company than you in this, my first meal in months in which I won’t have to worry about my wineglass sliding off the table as the ship cuts through the waves.”
“Grayson will not be pleased,” Emmaline told him as a young girl entered, two bowls of soup balanced on a tray. “He’s quite the stickler for propriety.”
“Among other things, yes, I can see that propriety would be one of his sticking points. Does that worry you?”
Emmaline cocked her head slightly to one side, as if considering the question. “No. No, I don’t think it does. Thank you, Mary. It smells delicious.”
“Yer fav’rit, milady. Cook remembered. All yer fav’rits tonight. All whats yer likes best, right here.”
“Yes, I believe you’re right,” Emmaline said, sneaking a quick look at John from beneath her lashes, a delightful flush coloring her cheeks.
The soup was country thick and flavorful, or so John remembered it later, even though the rest of the courses were eaten without him tasting them. He was much too well-occupied answering Emmaline’s intelligently probing questions about his service in the Royal Navy, much too enthralled by the way the candlelight danced in her golden hair, the grace with which she patted her lips with the snow-white serviette...the way she listened to him as if he was reciting words he’d brought down from some mountain on stone tablets.
He did remember the dessert course, because it seemed that Emmaline’s favorite sweet consisted of a simple dish of strawberries and heavy cream. Whenever some of the cream clung to her upper lip, and she surreptitiously employed the tip of her tongue to swipe it away, John began to wonder if taking himself off to the inn the next morning could be seen as in the way of cruel and unusual punishment for a man who definitely had another destination in mind.
At last the meal was over, and John suggested they take a stroll in the gardens now that the rain had disappeared and a setting sun still lent enough light for a pleasant inspection of the grounds.
Good Lord, he sounded so stiff, didn’t he?
“Emmaline—I want to be alone with you,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled out her chair for her. “And to hell with the posies.”
She looked up at him, her smile tremulous, and laid her hand on his as she got to her feet. “The herb garden is well away from the house at the bottom of the gardens. And fenced,” she said quietly. “With rather tall shrubbery.”
“I’ve always liked herbs,” he said as, together, they departed the dining room through the French doors conveniently placed there so that gentlemen could end their meals by stepping outside to blow a cloud, spit or relieve themselves over the railing of the stone terrace. John’s father used to hold contests as to who could aim best and shoot farthest, much to his son’s embarrassment. He pushed the memory from his mind.
“Rosemary is one my favorites,” Emmaline told him as they descended the flagstone steps into the gardens.
“Mine, as well. Along with parsley and sage and...”
“Thyme,” she finished for him. “I’ve always thought ‘Scarborough Fair’ a most confusing poem. If you wish someone to be your true love, why would you then make impossible demands on that person in order to become that true love?”
John bent and broke off a perfect pink rose, stripped it of its thorns and then bowed as he handed it to her. “‘Love imposes impossible tasks,’” he quoted from memory, “‘though not more than any heart asks.’”
“Oh? And do you think that sounds as asinine as I do, John? Why should a heart that cares make demands?” Emmaline asked as she held the rose beneath her nose and sniffed. “Ah, nothing complicated about a rose, is there? It is pretty, it smells heavenly, and if you aren’t careful in the way you handle it, it pricks your finger. Still, you can see the thorns, so it isn’t as if you weren’t warned, correct?”
They threaded their way along the curving brick path. “Am I being warned, Emmaline?”
She stopped, turned to look up into his face. “Someone probably is, but I’m not sure which one of us that person might be. John... I think you should know that I’m not a very...nice person.”
“Is that so?” He cocked one eyebrow as he offered her his arm once more and they continued down the pathway. “Do you abuse kittens? Snore in church? No, wait, I have it—you pull faces behind Grayson’s back.”
“Well, sometimes—that last bit about Grayson. But I’m attempting to be serious here, John. I’m... I’m an unnatural sister, an unnatural aunt. I’ve been trying all day long to work up even a single tear over Charlton and the boys, and I simply can’t manage it.”
“You didn’t love them?”
“No, no, of course I loved them. One doesn’t have much choice in that, seeing as we’re related. The question is, did I like them? And I didn’t.”
John kept moving toward the tall thick shrubbery that he was sure concealed the herb garden.