Page 46 of The Viscount's Promise
“Certainly,” Emily stammered. “I thank you for the invitation and look forward to it.”
Malcolm smiled at the man. “You may count us both in, Randall.”
Lord Randall could not have looked more nonplussed if he tried. While his lips lifted in a smile, his eyes showed profound confusion. “Very good, my lord. I shall see you in three days’ time. And you as well, Lady Emily,” he added as an afterthought before, bowing smartly, he strode off.
Emily waited for a moment, listening to the sound of his boots on the polished floor as he departed. Then, her face unbearably hot, she turned to Malcolm. “That was unnecessary,” she said, her voice tight and pained in her throat.
“It was not,” he declared firmly. “The man has to learn he cannot treat you in such a way.”
“He always has,” Emily said quietly, her gaze dropping to her toes. “It matters not.”
“It matters to me,” Malcolm said fiercely. “It matters a great deal.”
Stunned, she looked up into his face. His eyes blazed down into hers.
“You matter,” he whispered. Then, taking up her hand, he placed a lingering kiss on her knuckles before he spun about, leaving her in the hallway. With a heart that was even more his than it had been before.
Chapter 17
There was something disturbingly sterile about Handel House, Lord Randall’s country estate. Malcolm eyed it as the party from Willowhaven made its merry way up the drive Monday morning on the way to the much-lauded picnic. The house was beautiful enough, he supposed, with its brick façade and stone accents. It could be welcoming, a feast for the senses.
If it weren’t all so precise.
He frowned. Precise seemed such a pale word, yet he could not think of another to describe the vista laid out before him. Hedges tamed and trimmed just so. The long drive straight as an arrow, lacking any curve or bend. Not a leaf nor stone nor branch out of place. A statue stood dead center to greet any visitors, its copper fittings gleaming and brilliant in the sunlight. Malcolm took in the stone arm holding aloft a deadly-looking spear and the obnoxiously ornate helmet atop the naked centurion’s curls. Ares, the god of war. Of course it was, Malcolm thought with a wry twist to his lips. No fanciful creatures for Lord Randall. And there was the man himself, stationed like a reigning monarch in the front portico.
Malcolm pulled his stallion up and turned to gaze upon the carriages trundling up the drive behind him. The men from Willowhaven had taken to horseback for the half hour drive to Handel House. Most of the women, however, had come by carriage. It was the front equipage he eyed now, the one carrying the dowager marchioness and Lady Tarryton.
And Emily.
His heart warmed at the thought of her. Every hour, every minute he was with her and the warning bells pealing off in his head sounded more and more distant.
As if she could sense his thoughts, her face appeared in the carriage window. She smiled when she saw him, gave a small wave, and ducked back within. Malcolm frowned, for she had looked uncommonly pale. He knew the strain of this visit had to be difficult on her. Lord Randall seemed to go out of his way to make Emily feel small.
Malcolm pressed his lips tight. The man would soon learn that Emily was not a nobody. Especially as Malcolm had decided to make her his viscountess.
The thought had come to him in the small hours of the morning, an idea that had been marinating for the better part of the past four days. Marry Emily. He was a fool not to. She was sweet, and kind, and lovely. He wanted her desperately. And she touched his damaged soul in a way he had not thought possible. Most of all, he cared for her as he had not cared for another in too long.
He could marry her, bring her out from the darkness she had been hiding in for so long.
He watched her carriage pass, caught sight of her again in the window. And all doubt instantly flew like a bird to the sky. His gaze softened as she looked his way.
Then and there, he decided. He would propose that very night.
Happiness filled him until he thought he would burst. Hurrying his horse after her, he dismounted and handed his reins off to a waiting groom, then stood by impatiently as a footman handed her down. In an instant he was at her side, offering his arm.
“Hello,” he murmured.
She looked up at him bemusedly. “Hello.”
“Did you have a pleasant ride?”
Her mouth twisted. “As pleasant as possible, I suppose,” she replied, cutting her gaze to Lady Tarryton, who was taking in the landscape with rapturous—and vociferous—praise.
“I can imagine,” he mumbled. “Can you not change carriages on the way back?”
“None of the other ladies wished to ride with her,” she explained.
He stared at her. “And so you are the sacrificial lamb?”
