Engaging the Earl

Emma said, smirking, “Not unless you provoke me.” Which, considering their short, volatile history, was a distinct possibility.

Lord Westin, once assured that she wasn’t going to be taking a nasty tumble, stepped back a few feet. He leaned almost negligently against a gatepost opposite her tree. “I’ll try to be mindful of that, then.”

Emma tried to look as stern as possible—something a bit difficult considering the undoubtedly ludicrous picture she presented. “You would do well to do so.”

“So, are you in the tree for any particular reason or are you indulging a long-held desire to be a bird?” The gleam in his eyes teased her.

“I thought it might be a peaceful place to contemplate,” she hedged.

For a moment, Emma was afraid he’d mock her, but Lord Westin nodded solemnly. “Understandable.”

The two of them stared at each other for a few moments … it couldn’t have been too long, just enough time to make Emma look away uncomfortably. She hated the fact that her wit and social graces seemed to fail her when he was around.

“Did you wish to be alone?” she asked finally.

“Not really,” he replied.

Emma waited for him to say more, but Lord Westin didn’t offer any explanations.

“Are you sure?” she persisted, “Because I could leave if you wish me to.”

“Not at all. You were here first.” As he shook his head, Emma noticed how delightfully mussed his hair looked.

Emma couldn’t think of anything else to say. She decided that whatever the rest of the conversation held, it would be preferable if her part took place on the ground rather than in the air. Emma thought about asking him to help her down, or at least asking him to turn around so she could descend with a shred of her dignity intact. But without knowing how she would possibly phrase either question, Emma stared at the distance from her feet to the ground. And she jumped.

Lord Westin was at her side in an instant, steadying her by wrapping his arm around her waist.

“Are you all right?” he asked, looking her over as though she’d fallen headfirst.

“I’m fine, Lord Westin,” Emma said, trying to step back and regain the distance between them.

“Don’t do that again.” His voice was harsh, commanding. His jaw was set, and his hands were a vise around her.

Her chin raised, and her eyes glinted in defiance. “How do you think I usually get down?”

Grudgingly convinced that besides being perhaps addled in the head, there was nothing wrong with her, Lord Westin released his hold and stepped away.

As soon as he let go of her, she felt the most disconcerting stab of emptiness.

“I stand in amazement that you made it to adulthood,” the earl drawled.

Emma could tell he was trying to calm his own panic by the way he was breathing slowly, exhaling audibly. It was oddly pleasant to have someone so concerned about her welfare even if “show concern” for the earl seemed to translate to “be bossy and insufferable.”

“You and my parents,” she quipped.

His expression sharpened with interest. “Your parents? I haven’t heard much about them.”

There’s a very good reason for that.

For a moment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. “It’s not like you’re brimming with stories about yours,” she countered. If she’d been thinking more clearly, Emma would certainly never have brought up the undoubtedly painful subject. She knew from previous conversations with Olivia that their mother had committed suicide after her husband’s death.

The Earl of Westin’s face shuttered, becoming a blank mask.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, her voice earnest. She even took a few steps forward, thinking she might grab his hand … some physical touch to try and imbue her regret into him.

“Don’t apologize.” His voice was gruff, although not angry.

But she couldn’t leave it there. Emma already felt like a brat for firing back at him. So in an effort to offer an olive branch, she said, “I shouldn’t have brought up such a painful subject. Olivia has told me about your mother’s …” Emma’s words trailed off as her brain caught up to what she’d nearly said. In her rush to apologize she’d forgotten that the circumstances of the former Lady Westin’s death were a secret.

Society would shun Olivia and Marcus if it were known that their mother had taken her own life. “Th-that is to say,” she stammered, “she has told me what a struggle it has been for you both to come to terms with your losses.”

He gave her a considering look. “I see that Olivia has told you a great deal, indeed. The two of you must be quite close.”

Emma nodded. “I don’t know what I would have done without her these past few days.”

The considering look sharpened. “And just how many days have you been here? Since about the night that we met?”

Emma shrugged. “Lady Roth didn’t appreciate my tardiness.” She tried to sound unconcerned. Lord Westin didn’t need to know how devastating and upending her termination was. Or how confused and adrift she felt over what to do next … join Olivia in a husband hunt or confess to her parents and beg for their forgiveness?

He frowned. “She’s not exactly a sympathetic figure, is she?”

“I see you’ve met her, then …” she joked.

His chuckle was low and warm. “So, what are your plans now? I know my sister’s plans for you—but you’ve already shown that you’re entirely unwilling to fall in line with others’ expectations.” He cast a significant glance up at the tree she’d so recently conquered. “Do you agree with her intentions to find you a husband?”

Emma averted her eyes, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m still trying to figure that out,” she said quietly.

Despite her attempts to look away, brown eyes bored into hers. The inspection was so steady that Emma had to force herself not to be the first to break the connection. “What do you want?” he asked.

Why did she feel like the question was something more than it seemed?

“To be happy.”

Her words hung in the air, almost taking on a life of their own. No matter how awkward she felt or how much she might have wished that she hadn’t been quite as frank, it was too late to change the moment.

And when Lord Westin whispered, “Me, too,” she was fine with that.

When Marcus saw the wistfulness in Miss Mercer’s eyes, he couldn’t help but be moved. He’d come into the garden with his mind full of all of his own problems. Another round of endless hours spent analyzing his accounts had brought him no good news. But Miss Mercer, in a situation far more pitiable than his, still seemed to cling to hope for the future. He admired her for that.

What would bring her the happiness she sought? Was it a husband, as Olivia seemed to think? She would hardly be the first woman in London to seek happiness in a wealthy match. Yet Marcus didn’t really think that she was a single-minded husband-hunter. While he couldn’t claim to understand the feminine mind, something about the fiery young woman being so materialistic didn’t quite ring true to him.

But could he really deny his help in trying to make Miss Mercer’s life better? Since she’d lost her job, maybe finding a spouse was her only hope.

He chose not to examine the way that thought rankled.

Marcus had come to call on Olivia today with the sole purpose of telling her that he couldn’t participate in her matchmaking scheme. Getting his affairs in order to enable him to live on his new and much-reduced income would be an enormous undertaking. He’d have little time to devote to arranging routs and luncheons to find Miss Mercer a husband. But now, in light of her wistfulness, Marcus found himself reconsidering.

As he stood there looking at her, Marcus resolved that he wouldn’t tell his sister “no” just yet. Admittedly, he wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of what he was going to have to do, but if it would bring a smile to Miss Mercer’s face … well, that might make the ordeal worth it.