Page 81 of A Most Faithful Companion
They reached Mrs. Buckley’s bedchamber and stepped into the empty room. Somewhere along the way, Owen had picked up a brass holder bearing three lit candles. He carried it close behind, following Emma as she turned in a slow circle and lighting the way for her.
“It is so empty now.”
“Aunt Clara left far more than I expected her to,” Owen said. His voice was low, mindful of the hour. “I’m not certain you’ll find it in here, Emma.”
“Neither am I.” She exhaled. It was difficult being so near him with the house so still. She was mindful of the position they were in, alone in a bedchamber at night. It was time to hurry her errand along. “I’ll start with the desk.”
Owen followed, lifting the candles to hold over her as she pulled open drawers and looked in empty spaces. “Does Aunt Clara have a writing desk in her new room?”
“No, but she doesn’t have the space for it. Her new bedchamber is smaller than this one, if you’ll recall.”
“Yes.” He followed her around the room as she checked each place it could possibly be.
When the wardrobe and small trunk beneath the bed were both empty, Emma straightened, frowning. “It is not here.”
“Could it be elsewhere? The kitchen, perhaps?”
“It might have been left with the tea things. It is worth looking, at least.”
“Lead the way.”
Emma sighed quietly. “You do not need to walk with me. I am perfectly capable of searching.”
“Unless you would prefer I left you alone, I am coming. Would you?”
“Would I what, Owen?”
“Prefer I left you alone?” He held the candles at their side, glowing over half of their faces and casting the other half in shadow. His eyes roamed her face, dipping to her throat before drawing back up again.
“No,” she croaked, her mouth growing dry as sand. “Of course not. This is not my home any longer. I would not wish to be caught lurking in the dark by anyone else.”
“You speak as though anyone would be concerned to find you here.”
Was he going to pretend his mother had not directly asked her to avoid coming to Buckley Place? “It would certainly be odd.”
He lifted one shoulder. “It hardly matters. No one will find you now, for everyone is asleep.”
“Including your parents? I cannot imagine what grief they would endure to stumble upon a scene such as this.”
“Grief? Or would they rejoice that I finally appear interested in women again?”
Emma had no ready reply. “You know as well as I that I am not the sort of female they have in mind for you.”
Owen’s gray eyes hardened, turning to stone. “Are you not certain Aunt Clara sent you here with the express purpose to throw us together?”
His words startled a laugh from her chest. “The women she would like to throw you together with are still in their prime, Owen.” Emma began to move around him. “Shall we find where Mrs. Rooney keeps the tea things? I believe I know. The tea box will be locked, but with any luck, the rest?—”
“Emma.”
She stopped walking in the corridor, her shoulders tensing, and inhaled slowly. “Yes?”
“Do you mean to imply you arenotin your prime?”
Emma watched Owen approach her, his expression incredulous. She had not been seeking compliments, so she kept her mouth closed. She would prefer the ground opened and swallowed her whole.
“Do not tell me you consider yourself on the shelf,” he said.
“It is not a matter of opinion,” she muttered.
