Every Bit a Rogue Read online

  “And what of his sister?” Emma asked softly. “Would she have been so easily frightened away?”

  “Dianna has far more courage than her brother.”

  Emma clenched her hands together. “Despite her defection, you still care for her.”

  Jon’s heart squeezed a bit at the faint hurt in Emma’s tone. “Caring and loving are far different. I can assure you that I would never allow myself to mourn losing Dianna for the rest of my days.”

  “Some things are beyond our control.”

  “Not this,” he insisted.

  Her eyes glittered, yet Emma remained silent and composed. Too composed.

  “’Tis moments such as these that I seriously question my sanity in agreeing to our marriage,” Emma finally said.

  That stung. How exactly was he supposed to reply? Verbal assurances seemed pointless and weak.

  True, their marriage had an unconventional start and was burdened with more obstacles than most. But that hardly meant that it was doomed.

  Did it?

  * * *

  Emma pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to stave off the headache that was forming behind her eyes, no doubt caused by all her conflicted emotions. When Hopson had announced they had visitors, Emma fully expected to see her sister Dorothea waltz into the room, a contrite smile on her face.

  The shock of seeing Dianna enter had momentarily rendered Emma speechless. She had wanted to maintain an air of nonchalance, to demonstrate that she was unaffected by the appearance of her husband’s former fiancée. Former love.

  It hadn’t worked out precisely as Emma had hoped.

  Drat! Why could she not have smiled vapidly and made inane conversation about the weather with their unexpected visitors? Why instead had she allowed the pang of resentment that settled in her stomach as she watched Jon greet Dianna affect her so strongly?

  Emma hadn’t understood where it had sprung from and she certainly didn’t want it to linger. Yet it did.

  Though it had flashed for a mere instant, Emma had clearly seen the look of betrayal cross Dianna’s face when she heard of their marriage. Obviously, the other woman still carried some kind of feelings for Jon—the nature of which Emma couldn’t begin to speculate about.

  And though he denied it, she was certain Jon had feelings for Dianna. Were they merely the kind, considerate emotions that a well-bred gentleman had for a female who had experienced a brutal tragedy and shocking loss? Or something more?

  The uncertainty did nothing to bolster Emma’s confidence in her relationship with her husband, especially when he had chosen to ignore her this morning. She had entered into this marriage determined to enact no emotional scenes between herself and Jon and to avoid conflict. She was quickly learning that was going to be nearly impossible.

  What a conundrum! Emma folded her arms across her chest to comfort herself. Jealousy had no place in a marriage that she was struggling to come to terms with. She wanted nothing more than to simply dismiss these unsettling feelings—but the problem remained that she had not expected to feel such strong emotions toward Jon.

  They could be temporary, she told herself. A result of the physical closeness and sexual fulfillment they had shared last night. It could fade; most likely once the novelty of intimate relations wore off.

  Or it could burn brighter.

  With determination, Emma turned her mind away from those thoughts and bit the inside of her cheek to prevent any idiotic statement from escaping her lips. Having had years of practice, she was good at hiding what she truly felt.

  “Has there been any news about Gerald’s killer?” Emma asked, desperate to shift the conversation.

  Coward! Not ten minutes ago she had been lamenting the need for open, honest conversation between herself and Jon and now she was running from it like a scared rabbit.

  “Not that I have heard,” he replied.

  “I would have asked Hector if he were here on his own, but I thought it vulgar to broach the subject directly with Dianna in the room,” Emma said.

  “I’m surprised Winthrope didn’t mention it,” Jon replied. “He relishes drama of any kind and is hardly known for his tactful or his considerate nature.”

  “The siblings appear to have a somewhat strained relationship,” Emma observed. “Though perhaps that is normal between brothers and sisters?”

  “One would hope not.”

  Jon offered her a gentle smile, which had an unsettling effect on her insides. A small charge of tension floated in the air between them and she wondered if he would kiss her again.

  She rather liked those kisses.

  After a polite knock, Hopson again entered the drawing room. Emma expected him to ask what time they wanted tea served, but once again she was wrong.

  Instead, he held open the door and Dorothea sailed in, clutching her infant son tightly in her arms.

  “Do forgive the intrusion, but Harold was being fussy and you know how a ride in the carriage instantly soothes him. And since we were driving so close, on an impulse I thought I’d pop in and say hello,” Dorothea said with an overly bright smile.

  Her face wore an innocent expression, but Emma was hardly fooled. In truth, it was miraculous it had taken her sister so long to find an excuse to check on her.

  “We are delighted to see you, Lady Atwood,” Jon said graciously. “And young Harold as well.”

  “How kind. But as I told you yesterday after the wedding, since we are now related, you must call me Dorothea,” she gently reminded him.

  He nodded. “As you wish, Dorothea.”

  Harold gurgled and cooed in his sleep. At the sound, Sir Galahad lifted his head in interest, drawing Dorothea’s attention.

  “My goodness, that is a very large dog,” Dorothea exclaimed.

  “My wife’s latest addition to our family,” Jon replied dryly. “Have a care for your son. This beast might decide he’d make a tasty snack.”

  Dorothea’s eyes widened in alarm and she clutched the sleeping infant protectively. “Why ever is he allowed in the house if he is so ferocious?” she whispered.

  “Lord Kendall is merely being dramatic,” Emma said with a frown. “Sir Galahad is perfectly harmless. In truth, he reminds me of your dog, Lancelot.”

  Belying Emma’s sterling defense of his character, the dog approached Dorothea and began nudging her side. She yelped, lifting Harold higher in her arms.

  “You said he was harmless,” Dorothea gasped.

  “He is,” Emma insisted, taking wicked delight in her sister’s discomfort. She was confident that the dog meant no harm, though ’twas true the animal was finding her sister particularly interesting. “What’s in your pocket?”

  “My pocket?” Dorothea stepped away from the dog and he immediately followed. “I don’t know. My handkerchief?”

  “There must be something else,” Emma determined. She walked around Sir Galahad and thrust her hand into the pocket of Dorothea’s cloak. “Aha! A teething biscuit.”

  Triumphantly, Emma held the treat aloft. The dog barked in delight, then immediately sat and pressed himself against Dorothea’s side.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, give the beast the biscuit before he knocks me over,” Dorothea exclaimed.

  Emma extended the treat, which disappeared in an instant. Then he stood, his tail wagging, his entire back end wiggling in anticipation of another treat.

  “Heavens, don’t you feed this poor animal?” Dorothea asked, apparently overcoming her fear of the beast.

  “Numerous times a day,” Emma revealed as the dog lay down at her feet.

  “If you ladies will excuse me, I have urgent business that cannot wait,” Jon said. “I shall have tea sent up.”

  He bowed formally, then turned. Once he reached the door, Jon whistled. Sir Galahad sprang up on all fours and eagerly followed the viscount out the door.

  “Traitorous beast,” Emma muttered beneath her breath.

  “The dog or your husband?” Dorothea asked.
r />   “Both,” Emma answered.

  They shared a quiet laugh. Emma motioned with her arms and Dorothea handed over the babe. Emma cuddled the warm body close, feeling an instant sense of peace. Harold was the essence of innocence and goodness; ’twas impossible to feel anything other than contentment when he was nestled so close to her heart.

  Tea arrived. Dorothea poured, then persuaded Emma to relinquish the baby. They settled the dozing infant in the middle of one of the settees, pushing pillows all around to hold him in place.

  Then Dorothea filled a plate with sandwiches and cakes for each of them. Emma nibbled on hers while Dorothea ate heartily.

  Dorothea finished the last bite of cake and patted her lips with her napkin. “The food is lovely. Please extend my compliments to your cook. Why aren’t you eating?”

  “I’m not hungry. I had an enormous breakfast.”

  Her sister gave her a probing look. Emma did her best to cast a pleasant, contented smile back, but it was hard to pretend that all was well. And her sharp-eyed sister was not easily fooled.

  She took Emma’s hand, her expression gentle and filled with concern. “My God, Emma, please tell me what’s wrong.”

  Emma gave a soft, ironic laugh. “Everything.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next few days followed a familiar routine. Jon made himself scarce. Emma knew that he spent his time at his workshop, from early morning until late evening. She understood how important his work was to him and certainly didn’t expect him to neglect his project and dance attendance upon her. Neither of them had the personality to live in each other’s pockets, as the saying went.

  Speaking to her sister a few days earlier had greatly helped Emma. Knowing that Dorothea would never judge her, Emma had unburdened herself, telling her sister all. It had been cathartic to express her doubts and confusion, and that simple act had strengthened Emma’s resolve not to be defeated by them.

  Dorothea had restrained from questioning her, and most thankfully of all, had not given Emma any advice. Instead, she had sat with her, offering silent comfort and support.

  In the end, Emma realized all the uncertainty about her future was not going to be miraculously settled in one afternoon. It was going to take time and patience to forge a relationship with Jon.

  Her mornings were spent walking the grounds with Sir Galahad by her side. Or rather, watching the animal racing twenty feet ahead of her. The dog bounded with energy and sheer delight at every turn, and Emma decided she would try to emulate her dog’s attitude and take joy in the simple blessings of her life.

  She spent the first part of her afternoons attending to household matters, which occupied a surprising amount of her time. She had not ventured out except for one brief visit to see Dorothea, Carter, and the children, needing a bit more time to bolster her courage before taking a trip to the village.

  Thankfully, there were no additional surprise visits from anyone.

  She had commandeered an unused upstairs chamber for an art studio, since it boasted an excellent source of natural light. She spent the second part of her afternoons there, oftentimes simply waiting for inspiration to strike. Yet even though her art supplies might sit unused for hours, it had felt good to bring a part of herself to her new home and set up her studio.

  She went to bed alone, slept undisturbed, and awoke each morning alone. Jon never said why he refrained from coming to her bed and she never asked. She knew he would return, as he had promised her children, and she believed him to be a man of his word.

  Yet invariably memories of their wedding night would swirl through her mind at unguarded moments, never more so than when her husband joined her for dinner each evening.

  At those meals, she refused to make polite conversation about the weather, the neighbors, or household improvements she might want to make. It was just too depressing to be that couple. The one that led lives so separate they had nothing of interest to discuss when they happened to be together.

  No, Emma was determined that she and Jon achieve some form of intimacy between them that went beyond the physical. They might not be in love, but they were capable of showing tenderness and regard for each other.

  “I’m sorry I’m so late. I sent word that you should start without me,” Jon muttered as he took his seat at the dining table.

  His expression was guarded, as though he wondered what type of reception he would receive. Well, she intended to surprise him.

  “’Twas no great sacrifice to wait,” she answered lightly. She signaled to the footman standing by the door. “Please inform Cook that we are ready for the soup course. And let her know that we shall eat slowly, so the beef can be served pink in the center, as his lordship prefers.”

  The footman bowed and hurried away. Jon took a sip of his wine and leaned close. “Shouldn’t we eat quickly so the beef isn’t overcooked?”

  Emma smiled. “Cook has yet to put the roast in the oven. That is the only way to ensure it will not be gray, tough, and dry.”

  “The three attributes my mother prefers when eating beef.” Jon finished his wine and a footman poured him a second glass. “’Tis no wonder I disliked it so much as a child.”

  The soup arrived and they began eating.

  “Did you make much progress today?” Emma asked.

  “We did. Until the steam engine failed. We know that our calculations must be accurate or else the damn thing might explode. But if we can’t consistently get enough power, the reaper thresher won’t move and no wheat will be harvested or threshed.”

  “Tell me about it.” He lifted a brow and Emma added, “I’m truly interested.”

  Jon starting speaking slowly, picking up speed and animation as the tale unfolded. His face brightened with excitement, his eyes darkened with intensity as he relayed the problems and successes that he and Mr. Norris had recently achieved.

  Emma was able to follow the conversation—mostly. But she didn’t mind when he lost her with some of the complicated details. She enjoyed watching his handsome face in the candlelight, his expressions thoughtful and lively.

  “The machine looks very different from our original design.” Jon placed his soup spoon on the rim of the bowl and cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you’d like to come to the workshop tomorrow and view our progress.”

  The silence between them lengthened as she absorbed his words. “I would like that very much.”

  “Good. Good.” He smiled. “Don’t forget to bring your sketchbook.”

  “You’ll allow me to draw your machine?” Emma asked, trying to rein in her rioting emotions.

  “Well, you might not be as inspired by this design as you were with its predecessor. It’s very different from our first attempt.”

  “I’m certain I shall be transfixed by it,” Emma replied.

  “One can only hope.”

  Emma was truly surprised. She had assumed it would take a good deal of persuasion to gain permission to sketch Jon’s work, as he had made his feelings on the subject crystal clear.

  Delighted at the turn of events, Emma returned her attention to her meal. A feeling coursed through her body—one she hadn’t felt this strongly in days.

  Hope.

  * * *

  Emma felt a jolt of excitement as she approached the workshop the next morning. Jon had left at his usual very early hour, but he had penned a note for her, inviting her to join him at whatever time was convenient.

  Emma departed the moment she finished her breakfast. It felt strange to walk the trails of the estate without Sir Galahad by her side, but the dog had far too much energy and curiosity to bring into the workshop.

  This invitation was unexpected and precious and Emma would not risk any disruptions that might jeopardize the chance to be asked back. There was no telling what sort of destruction her oversized pet could innocently cause.

  She knocked briefly on the workshop door, then let herself inside. Mr. Norris was filing a section of a metal cog on a bench. He look
ed up when she entered, nodded in greeting and returned to his task.

  Emma’s pulse quickened when Jon appeared. He was casually attired in a white linen shirt, plain waistcoat, and an old pair of black breeches. His boots were dusty, lacking their usual shine, and there were dark shadows of whiskers along his jawline, indicating that he hadn’t taken the time to shave this morning.

  Some might label him scruffy, but Emma liked his rough persona and thought he looked especially appealing.

  “Welcome, Emma.” Jon smiled and swept his hand toward the machine. “Please, come closer and take a good, long look.”

  Emma swallowed several times, trying to calm the sudden rush of exhilaration. As Jon had told her, this machine was indeed different from the other. It was larger in scale, boasting bigger gears, longer belts, more intricate workings.

  She stepped forward, craning her neck to see all the way to the top. She fiddled anxiously with her drawing pencil as her eyes drank in every glorious detail, finding it difficult to decide where to start drawing.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she whispered.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “I asked your opinion of the machine.”

  “Sorry.” Emma dipped her chin as a blush appeared on her cheeks. “I confess to being captivated by it.”

  She stepped forward and tentatively placed her hand on the edge of the largest wheel. The metal was cold, yet smooth to the touch. Stunning.

  Decision made, Emma began sketching. She stepped back, then moved to the side for a different view. Jon watched her silently for a few moments before resuming what he was doing.

  Emma was vaguely aware of his movements, but she was too consumed by her sketching to pay much attention. Her mind was blank of all other thoughts but the desire—nay, the need—to capture the essence of this glorious machine on paper.

  Time passed. Eventually, her fingers began to cramp. Coming up for air, Emma scrubbed a hand over her tired eyes. Flipping through the sketch pad, she made a few notations in the margins of several of the pages.

  “You’d best step back, Emma,” Jon warned. “We are going to power up the steam engine.”