A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance, Britton, Sally [books to read for self improvement .txt] 📗

Chapter Twenty-One

Emma sat in the library, on her favorite couch, staring at the duke’s globe. The late afternoon sun barely peeked through the clouds, creating the barest smudge of color through the stained-glass windows. The colors were more sickly shades of yellow and green than the usual vibrant hues she loved. But that was how the end of November usually was. Pale. Dull. And cold.

The next day would mark the first of December, and still no word from Luca. No explanation for why he had gone or what the paper he left had meant. She wanted to cry, or scream, but both of those things would only be her pretending to be the scorned heroine in a novel.

The reality of the situation, she knew, was that she had waited too long. If she had written him right away, a letter full of all her questions, she would feel less agony. Instead, she had put the burden upon him, without his knowledge, and all that did was leave her a lonely, miserable heap of a woman.

A soft click made her turn, looking to where the door to the duke’s private study opened. The duke himself exited the room, his eyes immediately on hers, and his eyebrows raised.

“Emma. What are you doing in here all alone?” He came out into the room, and she started to rise. “No, please. Sit. It has been some time since the two of us have had a moment to speak to each other.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he sat in the chair nearest hers, and Emma’s heart tightened.

Her own smile was far too forced. “I am afraid I do not have much of interest to discuss, Your Grace.”

The warm, fatherly expression he wore barely changed, but she could read the concern in his eyes. “Emma, my dear child, I cannot think that is true. I am very interested in you. In everything you do, as if you were one of my own daughters. You know this.”

She bit her bottom lip and looked down at her lap, lacing her fingers together. “Yes, Your Grace. I do. Thank you for that.”

“Has this been a happy home for you, Emma?” the duke asked, his voice as gentle as she’d ever heard it. The same tone he’d used when she was much smaller and still afraid of the dark.

“It has,” she answered truthfully, the pain diminishing for the moment. “I love it here. I love being a friend to Josephine, and I love when Her Grace, your mother, clucks like a worried hen over my upbringing. And the duchess is always tender and kind toward me.”

“I am glad to hear it. We all care for you, Emma. In fact, every member of this family cares about you so much that each and every person has been to see me with a most serious thing to discuss.” He paused until she looked up, curiosity compelling her to look while he explained what this meant. “They wished to speak with me to express concern for you, Emma.”

She blinked at him. “For me? But—nothing is wrong.” She forced a laugh. “I’m perfectly well.”

The duke settled into his seat a bit more, then leaned forward with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “My wife mentioned it first. Cecilia said you seemed unhappy of late. Then my mother mentioned that you have been far too quiet and unwilling to debate her in matters of poetry.”

Emma’s eyes teared up a bit at that. The dowager had noticed? Had cared enough to tell her son?

The duke continued. “Simon and your cousin Andrew spoke to me together, and Andrew offered to go to London to fetch a certain ambassador back to Clairvoir Castle.”

Emma looked down again, her cheeks burning.

“Then James, young as he is, said you weren’t nearly as fun as you used to be. Isabelle and Rosalind asked if you were ill. But it was Josephine, of course, who was most persistent. She asked if I would write that ambassador your cousin mentioned, and when I said I would not, she asked if she could do the honors instead.”

“Oh no.” Emma raised her head. “Josie didn’t say a word about that to me—and you wouldn’t let her. Would you?” She winced.

The duke slowly shook his head, his eyes full of compassion and understanding. “The only one who ought to write Lord Atella is you, my dear. Have you answered that note he shoved into your cousin’s hand? His last act before leaving, you know.”

Now thoroughly ashamed of herself, Emma lowered her voice. “No, Your Grace. I haven’t written him. It’s been a month. I think—I think I must have lost my chance.” Her voice broke a little, but she cleared her throat and clutched her hands together tighter, trying to keep everything she felt inside. Then she started talking, the words coming too quickly and accompanied by all her fears. “He cannot care for me; he thinks I am only a companion. And I cannot entertain him as a suitor because Josephine is still at home. I promised I would be her companion until she settled on her future. Leaving her now—that would be an act of ingratitude for all the family has done for me.”

“Emma,” the duke interrupted, firm and kind. “That is nonsense. You are part of this family, not a servant, and you owe us nothing. I have long wondered if I was wrong to give in to your requests to act as a companion, and I have never allowed you to be treated as anything less than family. We all want your happiness, especially Josephine. If that means marriage—no matter if it is tomorrow by special license or years from now—I want that for you. Your father and mother would have wanted it for you.”

Then the duke did something he hadn’t done since she was a little girl. He left his chair and kneeled before her, offering his handkerchief