Page 57 of Fortune Favors the Viscount
Distracted by thoughts she couldn’t seem to banish, she was caught unprepared by a man stepping into her path, so close she stumbled to avoid bumping into him.
“There you are,” said Baron Fitchley in a low voice.
Emilia’s blood curdled. She lunged backward, only stopping when Fitchley said, “You can speak to me here like a civilized person, or I’ll follow you night and day, telling everyone what you did. You didn’t think you could hide forever, did you?”
Her chin came up. “I did nothing wrong,” she said, her voice crackling with anger. “You are mistaken if you think I am hidinganything.”
She had got a little ahead of Charlotte and Lucy, who were dawdling along, heads together over a bunch of leaves and flowers they had picked for a botany lesson. James was with them, as usual, and behind her back Emilia made an urgent motion, praying he saw it.
Fitchley’s eyes skimmed over her face, then down her figure. “Parker said you’d aged well. Generous of him, if you ask me.”
“No one did,” said Emilia between her teeth.
He smiled. It was a poisonous smile, from a poisonous man. He looked a little older—his fair hair thinning, his middle beginning to spread—but he was very much the same as he’d been nine years ago. “Still as tart and saucy as ever. What a delight.”
From the corner of her eye, Emilia caught a glimpse of James striding across the street, Charlotte on one arm and Lucy by the hand. Charlotte had her head ducked behind his shoulder, but Lucy was craning her neck, trying to see. She didn’t know who he was. Emilia hadn’t told her she had a guardian who might try to take her away.
Emilia started walking, dodging around Fitchley and striding away from Mr. Dashwood’s house. It took her farther from safety, but also led Fitchley farther from Lucy. As expected, he fell in step beside her, unwilling to let a woman walk away from him without his permission.
“We have unfinished business, you and I,” he said, walking close enough that their elbows bumped.
Emilia moved away, only for him to close the gap. “No, we don’t. Everything between us was ended conclusively nine years ago.”
He laughed. “You’ve been counting! So have I. Nine years is a long time to survive as a fallen woman. But there’s more than enough time for you to change your mind.”
Emilia prayed Arabella was staying at her father’s house. She turned into Mortimer Street, refusing to reply to Fitchley.
“Icouldchange your mind,” he said, still wearing that vindictive smile. “I would probably enjoy it. You might even, as well.”
Emilia crossed Edward Street, walking right out into the traffic, ignoring the shout of a hackney driver who had to pull up his horse. She wished he’d drive over Lord Fitchley.
“Well, perhaps you wouldn’t,” mused Fitchley. “But then, a wife’s duty is to submit, not to enjoy herself.”
She kept her eyes forward to keep from striking him. “I am not your wife.”
“No,” he said, sounding amused. “But you should be. I’ve regretted your rash actions ever since you left, but I always believed that one day, we would meet again and I would persuade you to reconsider. Your dear uncle fosters the same fond hope. He’s been frantic with worry about you these last years. It was very unkind of you not to write to him, letting him know you were well and wished to come home to your family.”
She nearly leapt up the steps to the McCorquodale house and pounded the knocker.
Fitchley stopped at the pavement’s edge. “I’m so pleased by our reunion, Emilia. I look forward to seeing you again soon. Until later, my dear.” He tipped his hat, and strolled away as Arabella’s butler opened the door.
Arabella was not at home, but the butler knew Emilia. He let her sit in the morning room until Fitchley was gone from sight, and then he had a footman escort her home. Emilia led the poor man on a winding route, finally slipping into Mr. Dashwood’s house through the kitchen.
“There you are!” cried Mrs. Watson at her appearance. “Mr. Dashwood is ready to raise the constabulary!”
“Why?” Emilia tore off her pelisse and threw aside her bonnet. “What happened?”
“Why, you disappeared! James came back with the young ladies and said you’d been accosted by a man. Mr. Dashwood sent him straight out again—”
“Mr. Dashwood is home?” Emilia pressed trembling fingertips to her temples. She needed to collect herself, and shake off the creeping panic prickling along her spine. “Go on.”
“Yes, he’s home. Been here a full hour or more.” Mrs. Watson glanced around and lowered her voice. “And there’s something on his mind. Twice he sent Mr. Pearce out to watch for you and the young ladies returning, and all the while he was pacing the floor, not even touching his breakfast.”
What else could have happened? Fitchley was bad enough, but he had stopped her after Mr. Dashwood was already home, impatiently waiting. Emilia nodded, not trusting her voice. She pressed Mrs. Watson’s hand in mute gratitude and made her way into the house.
Mr. Pearce saw her first. “Miss Greene,” he said in obvious relief as she came through the hall. He swept open the dining room door, and Nick Dashwood swung around as she stepped inside.
He was still in evening dress, although his jacket was gone and his cravat was pulled loose. His hair was rumpled, longer than usual, and the scruff of beard made him look wild and dangerous. Or perhaps that was his eyes, lit with unholy anger and fear. “Thank Christ,” he growled, and took two strides forward and caught her in his arms.
