Page 27 of The Soldier
“You liken your status to that of a little girl?” Some of the starch had come back into her voice, and the earl knew she was rebuilding her defenses.
“Emmie.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her against his chest, his cheek resting against hers. “There is no loss of dignity in what has gone between us here. I will keep your confidences, as you will keep mine.”
“And what confidences of yours have passed to me?”
“You knew I was unnerved by the thunder. Douglas knew it, too, and offered to read me a bedtime story. You let me hold you.”
“I should not have.” She sighed, but for just the smallest increment of time, she let her cheek rest against his, as well, and he felt her accept the reality of what he’d said: Maybe not in equal increments, maybe not to the same degree, but the comfort had been shared, and that was simply good.
“I will light you up to your room.” He sat back and let his arms slide from her waist. “But let me find your brandy glass before you leave this couch.”
She waited while he lit candles, set her glass on the sideboard, then tugged her to her feet. He didn’t drop her hand and didn’t wrap it over his forearm. He kept his fingers laced with hers until they were outside her bedroom door.
“Shall I light your candles?” he asked, not moving to open the door.
“Not necessary. Until tomorrow, my lord.”
He snorted involuntarily at that salvo.
“What?” She stood her ground.
“My name is Devlin.” He resisted the urge to invite—or order—her to use his name. He just informed her of it, then lifted his hand to cradle her cheek before leaning in and kissing her forehead. He paused, so his breath fanned across her skin for a moment before he pressed his lips to the spot between and above her eyebrows.
For the sake of his own dignity, he needed to stop there. He brought his free hand up so her face was framed in his palms and told himself to step back. The sweet, female scent of her beguiled his wits; the feel of her skin so soft and warm against his callused palms stole his common sense. He angled his head and pressed his lips to her cheek, knowing that did he touch his mouth to hers, there would be no rescuing this moment. A carnal motive he could not have aspired to only days ago was threatening to trample honor, and some emotional need he could not even properly name was going to create disaster where a simple, good night kiss was intended.
By force of will, he managed to drop his hands. “Sweet dreams, Emmie Farnum.”
She nodded and slipped into her room, closing the door silently behind her.
Her dreams were so sweet, she awoke again in tears and wondered how the earl’s well-intended kindness could feel so devastatingly painful.
***
“Vicar.” The earl joined his guest in the spacious parlor that looked out over terraced gardens and a bright, sunny morning. “You are a man of your word.”
“I am a man who needs some time away from my desk,” Hadrian Bothwell replied, smiling genially as he turned from the window. Clergy were supposed to be charming up to a point, but Bothwell surpassed that point. He was also tall, blond, blue-eyed, younger, and altogether better looking than any vicar St. Just could recall from his youth.
“Mondays, I let myself go completely to pot.” Bothwell’s smile became a grin. “I make it a point to don neither jacket nor cravat. Tuesdays, I toddle around but avoid the church work.”
“It never occurred to me the Sabbath is not a day of rest for a man of God. May I ring for some tea or perhaps some cider or lemonade?”
“Lemonade would be a guilty pleasure. Is your orangery producing, or did you import?”
“Despite inadequate care, the orangery is making an effort.” The earl signaled the footman and rejoined his guest. “Shall we be seated?”
“You’ve such lovely views here. There’s a great deal of chatter at the pub regarding the possibility you could revive the old earl’s flowers.”
“You mean trade in flowers commercially?” The earl waited for his guest to take a wing chair. “That had not crossed my mind. I’m more inclined toward the breeding and training of riding stock.”
“So my brother informed me,” Bothwell said, taking a seat. “The old earl was much loved, and his gardens were a source of local pride.”
“Your brother.” The earl frowned in concentration, trying to think of what title went with the Bothwell family name. “Viscount Landover?”
“The very one. I comfort myself that while I’m in Yorkshire, he’s doomed to Cumbria.”
“Pretty over there, though. At least in summer.”
“Which, if you’re lucky, lasts six entire weeks. I see you have made the acquaintance of the misses Farnum.” Out across the gardens, Emmie was leading Winnie along by the hand, a bucket of gardening tools in her other hand.
