She joined him, peeking out from between the curtains. “Yes. And?”
“And I’m not going to sleep. There’s a chance Felicity and her suitor are here, within these very walls, and if they leave, I will be able to see them. While you bathe, I’ll have an ale in the dining room, speak with the footmen and maids. Even if they’re not here now, they may have passed through. Someone may know something.”
He was clutching for any spark of light in the darkness.
“We’ll find her,” Emma said.
He kissed her forehead, then strode for the door. “You’re damn right we will.” Before he stepped into the hallway, he faced her. “Emma, I’ve been wondering about one of my previous tenants of courtship, wondering if you could offer your expert insight on it.”
The man could shift a conversation more quickly than wind shifted a weathervane. “I will try. Which is it?”
“I used to advise young men to be as direct as possible in their suits, to let the ladies know what they wanted from them so there was no confusion in the matter. I used to think it sensible, more productive. But I have been so wrong about so much. Tell me, is the direct approach best?”
“That depends, I suppose, on the lady.”
“Hm. This is what you are teaching me—that there are no set rules but those set by each individual woman.”
She nodded. “And if a gentleman can see that, see what she needs and delight in giving it to her. And if she can do the same for him… then it is an excellent match indeed.”
“I see. So, someone like Lady Huxley, imminently practical, might prefer a direct approach. Only”—he laughed—“she did not. Not at all.”
“Yes, well,” Emma murmured, “there were other objections.” Emma bit her bottom lip, made her way toward the fire and stood staring into the blaze. Loud enough for him to hear thistime, she said, “I thought you were not overly upset about Lady Huxley’s rejection.”
“I’m not. Not at all. I was noting an exception to your rule. Let us explore another example. You, for instance—”
“Oh, no, not me. Your sister, though, Felicity—she would like romance, an abundance of attention, a combination, I think, of direct and—”
“No, Emma,you. What sort of approach would work best for you? I must have a plethora of examples. For science.”
“For science.” She huffed a laugh.
“Precisely.”
“Well, I suppose”—she let the heat of the flames wash over her—“I would like a sweet, meandering sort of courtship, a man who shows me in every action what his intentions are and who knows the exact right moment to speak them clearly. Not immediately. But he would not wait too long, either. He would show me his heart first, before speaking it.” She’d like a letter with wild words about wanting and choosing and silent hearts silent no longer.
“And it would be his heart you’d want.”
“I am afraid so.”
The hinges squeaked as he opened the door. “Better tell Trent about that,” he grumbled. “He won’t abide loud doors.” It squeaked again as he closed it behind him, leaving Emma alone with the crackling fire.
Reaching behind her, she pulled a chair close, waiting for the maids and warming her hands. “What a mess.”
I trust you know what you’re about, Aunt Georgie had said.
Mislaid trust, that. Emma may have known, thought she’d known, what she was about when she’d set off from London, but with the memory of five kisses burned forever into her temple and one sitting like a star on her forehead, she no longer trusted herself.
Aunt Georgie’s fault.
That book’s fault. ReadingThe School of Venushad scrambled her brains and ignited her body somehow. It seemed a rejected proposal had ignited Samuel, too. Dangerous flirtation poured from him like a flood over a waterfall. And she was at the bottom of it, drowning.
And… rather enjoying her watery demise.
Because he was free now. And what if…
A knock on the door, followed by footmen with a tub and maids with buckets of steaming water. As they set up the bath, Emma opened her satchel, hunting for a spare shift. Her hand hit something hard and thick instead. What…? Emma pulled it out, andThe School of Venuswinked at her.
She dropped it. “Eep!”
