Page 49 of The Soldier
“To the extent I can, though as to that, a female who is no relation to you has little consequence.”
“I’ve left a power of attorney with Bothwell.” He was reluctant to discuss his departure any further, wanting instead to talk of kisses and comforts and their shared concern for Winnie. “If there’s any matter of significance, you may rely on Bothwell to stand in my stead. He’ll be over here regularly to work the horses, and he seems to regard you highly.”
“He regards my cheese breads highly. Though he is a good man, and I will alert him to anything of significance.”
“He told me he offered for you. Were you tempted?”
Emmie gave an unladylike snort. “Of course I was tempted. Hadrian is an attractive man, inside and out, but he was asking out of loneliness and pity—maybe—and the knowledge that if a vicar is to indulge in carnal pleasures, it can be only with a wife or with a bothersome degree of discretion.”
“So you declined because it wasn’t a love match?” He had to smile at that thought.
“Not just that.” Emmie wasn’t smiling. “Hadrian is his brother’s heir, and the viscount does not enjoy good health. He looks to Hadrian to secure the succession.”
“You are not the stuff a viscountess is made of?” the earl hazarded. “I absolutely do not buy that, Emmie, and I’ve met a sight more viscountesses than you have.” But he was watching her closely, and he comprehended why she’d turned Bothwell down.
The seat of the viscountcy was in Cumbria, while Winnie was bound to have remained in Yorkshire.
“Emmie.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You are not that child’s guardian angel.”
“I’m her family,” was all she said, letting her head rest on his shoulder.
“When I return, Emmie, you and I are going to come to an understanding. You must know your place in Winnie’s life is assured.”
“No.” Emmie raised her face and shook her head. “I must know Winnie’s place in this life is assured, and I will be content with that.”
“I will talk you around. For now it is enough we are united in the cause of Winnie’s welfare. I know she and Rosecroft will be safe in your care, and I trust your word you will be here when I return. But be warned, Emmie, there is more we will discuss.”
“Be warned yourself.” Emmie smiled at him, her expression probably more wistful than she’d intended. “I have asked you for that story, St. Just, the one that explains how a much-commended officer ends up beaten insensate and hung over on a packet home. We will discuss that, too.” He didn’t argue with her; he just gave her an answering smile and escorted her as slowly as he could back to the house.
The next day was spent in preparations for the journey. With luck, they’d reach Morelands within the week and be spared having to travel the next Sunday, or at least part of it. Douglas was dragooned into accompanying St. Just into York, where a sturdy saddle horse by the name of Beau was purchased for the earl.
The next priority was some provision for Winnie in St. Just’s absence, which was quickly dealt with. When he came out of the solicitor’s office, St. Just made a few other purchases then found Douglas waiting for him with the horses at the nearest green.
“To Rosecroft.” The earl swung up and nudged Wulf into a trot. It wasn’t quite home, but it was as much home as he had found anywhere since leaving for university sixteen years ago. That truth emerged only as a function of the fact that on the morrow, he’d be leaving Rosecroft.
And Winnie.
And Emmie.
***
Somewhere in the house, a clock struck midnight, and the sound brought Emmie’s attention to the drone of rain pattering against the windows. The night had grown almost brisk, and the cooler air had left her restless.
The cooler air, the earl’s departure on the morrow, the entire mess her life had become since his arrival were all keeping her from sleep. She had to be up by five at the latest to get the day’s baking done, and she’d already tried reading to distract her mind into slumber. Drastic measures were called for, and so she tied her hair back with a ribbon, located her slippers, and headed for the decanter in the library.
The room was dark other than the feeble light of Emmie’s candle, but it was enough for her to find the decanter and a glass. She wasn’t sure how much was required to sooth frazzled nerves, but she’d managed the amount the earl had served her, so she doubled that and took a cautious sip.
It still warmed, burning then soothing, as it trickled down her throat. She sighed and took another small sip.
“Have we reduced you to tippling, Emmie?” St. Just’s voice rose from the sofa, where he’d been reclining in the dark. He loomed up from the shadows, barefoot, shirt open at the neck, and cuffs turned back.
“We have.” She kept her gaze on the tumbler in her hand, lest she be caught staring at the earl in breathtakingly attractive dishabille. “I have to be up early, and I could not sleep. The brandy helped before.”
“But what could possibly keep you awake?” the earl mused, taking her glass from her and stealing a sip. “Surely your conscience cannot trouble you?”
“Nobody’s conscience should ever rest entirely.”
“Not even in times of war?” he asked softly, glancing at her loose hair and state of undress.
