“Am I intruding?” Emmaline asked from her vantage point. She schooled her features into a concerned mask and stepped forward.
Matt looked up and glared at her over the head of the woman he was attempting to comfort. “I’m not sure this is the time for a formal introduction, Emmaline,” he said bluntly.
The woman in his grasp shuddered once more, then straightened her shoulders and took charge of the handkerchief he held. Walking to the window, she pulled aside the white curtain and looked out upon the view from the front of the house.
Emmaline lifted one eyebrow in an unspoken question and, with a delicate movement of her hands, signified her willingness to retreat, backing away from Matthew’s apparent frustration.
“Never mind leaving.” He changed his mind and reached for her hand, clasping her fingers in a grasp she knew would be easier to accept than to wiggle out of. “This probably is as good a time as any,” he muttered, contradicting his first reaction to her appearance.
“Deborah,” he said briskly, and then waited while the woman at the window slowly turned to face them.
“This is Emmaline Carruthers, the woman who will be my wife.”
Not “my bride” or “the woman I’ve asked to marry me,” but, bluntly, “my wife.” Emmaline struggled to look pleasant. She knew she couldn’t manage friendly, and welcoming was far beyond her capacity for the moment. Pleasant would have to suffice.
With but a passing glance, the woman turned her attention to the tall man who had delivered her a telling blow. His jaw was set and rigid, but his eyes held a trace of pity Emmaline could not help but notice. Perhaps it was the unwanted suggestion of such an emotion that tightened the woman’s own features into a civil expression marred only by the flaring of her nostrils as she spoke.
“Congratulations to both of you. I’ll admit I was a bit surprised at the news, Matt, but then, you always were full of surprises,” she said, dropping her gaze, to brush with one hand at the unwrinkled expanse of her skirt.
“This is Deborah Hopkins, the daughter of our nearest neighbor,” Matthew explained as he drew Emmaline closer, his fingers tightening on her own as she reluctantly stepped next to him.
“I really must leave. I only dropped by to invite you to Sunday dinner, Matt,” the blond creature said, her breasts lifting as she stifled a sigh. Her eyelashes fluttered in a sad little gesture Emmaline noted grimly, and then, fastening her gaze on the man who stood across the room, Deborah smiled. Pathetically, her mouth trembled in a way designed to tug at a man’s heartstrings.
Only as she made her way past them to the doorway did she deign to look directly at Emmaline. Her eyes swept from the top of her unruly curls, down past the black mourning dress that hung in heavy folds to the floor. In a gesture that dismissed Emmaline as insignificant, Deborah moved past her, and it was only when she reached the front door that Matthew moved.
“Let me walk you to your buggy,” he offered, releasing Emmaline’s hand and reaching Deborah’s side with long, easy strides.
She looked up at him with a brave little smile and nodded, stepping back so he could open the door.
Emmaline shook her head in disgust and walked back to watch from the window as the couple approached the buggy standing in front of the house. A small, dark mare stood patiently within the harness, tied to the hitching rail that was just beyond the patch of grass.
How odd, she thought. The woman would make a wonderful actress, changing from feigned sorrow to acceptance to disdain in a matter of moments. And for the life of her, Emmaline couldn’t put a finger on which emotions were genuine. That the girl truly cared for Matthew was probable. This likely was the one he had referred to. The one he said would not be heartbroken by his marriage.
She tended to agree with his judgment. “I don’t think anyone could break her heart,” she said beneath her breath as she watched them. Matthew assisted Deborah onto the high seat of the buggy and then untied the mare, turning the buggy with one hand on the harness. Lifting a hand in a farewell, he watched as the horse broke into a rapid trot at the urging of her mistress.
He turned back to the house, his eyes fixed on the window where Emmaline waited, narrowing as he caught sight of her there. With long, measured strides, he went back to the porch and up the steps to cross to the wide front door. In moments, as long as it took her to turn aside from the window and move halfway across the room, he was back, framed in the doorway, his face a dark cloud of anger.
“All that was far from necessary,” he said with rough impatience. You should have kept your nose outa here, Emmaline. This whole thing was none of your business.”
A twinge of guilt stabbed her, and she hastily threw up a barricade of irritation to thwart its interference. “My name was mentioned. That made it my business,” she said pertly. “After all, I’m the bride you dragged out of the woodwork,” she added with soft emphasis.
“If you hadn’t been eavesdropping, you wouldn’t have heard that remark,” he growled defensively. His jaw firmed and his eyes glittered as she glowered at him.
“I was coming from my bedroom down the hallway. I couldn’t help but hear,” she explained with lofty hauteur.
“Well, you should have trotted right back down that hallway. You could tell that Deborah was upset,” he said with measured anger. “I had only just told her that we were to be married, and she spoke too quickly.”
“Are you defending her, Matthew?” Clasping her hands behind her back, Emmaline surveyed him cooly.
“Deborah doesn’t need defending. She’s more than able to take care of herself,” he answered bluntly.
“Perhaps just the sort of wife you need.” Emmaline’s suggestion was coated with subtle sarcasm.
“Perhaps.” The word dropped between them, and Matthew wished immediately that he could retrieve it, unsaid. This had gone on long enough, and he sensed Emmaline becoming more agitated by the moment.
“Look, it’s beside the point, Emmaline. I’m not marrying Deborah. I’ve never even discussed the subject with her. She’s a neighbor and a friend. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”
“Maybe you never discussed marriage with her, but your friend certainly had it in mind, Matthew. And what was I supposed to think when I came and found you...together?” she asked emphatically.
He glared at her impotently, unable to deny her statement. “She was crying. What should I have done? Shoved her away?”
Emmaline shrugged. “I’m sure a gentleman like you would never do that.”
She could really get his dander up, Matt acknowledged glumly. And in a way, she was right. Certainly Deborah had been considering him as a husband. He’d have been a fool not to recognize it. And he probably should have been more considerate when he broke the news to her. But a few kisses and stolen caresses didn’t add up to marriage, in his book. Deborah had probably set her cap in his direction, and his innate honesty forced him to admit silently that it likely would have come about...had not this fiery little baggage come into his life.
But she had, making an impact he was still attempting to absorb. His aggravation at her interference and the rush of emotion she managed to let loose within him combined as he approached her with measured tread.
Too late, she attempted to sidestep his grasp. He was upon her before she could maneuver past him, and his hands were reaching for her. His eyes flared with a hot purpose that had her retreating, struggling against his hold, turning her head from the warmth of his appraisal.
“Let go of