Page 88 of A Foolish Flirtation

Emmie stared stupidly at the pile of letters tied up with string. She had forgotten all about her letters to Humphrey. Now that she came to think of it, she had asked about them earlier that day, and he had said something about her having to “beard him in his den.”

That must be what he thought she was doing now. How humiliating. When she had come looking for him for an altogether different reason. You stupid fool, Emmeline, she told herself. How can you still be chasing after him, eager for his attention, after all these years? Have you learned nothing?

“Of course,” she said slowly, “the letters.” She stood up moved to the bed to retrieve them. “Thank you.” She glanced about and made for the open fireplace, dropping the packet of letters into the flames before turning around. “Well, good night,” she said awkwardly and started back toward the door.

“Emmeline—” he called after her, but she pretended not to hear him, hurrying her steps, slipping back through the door, and turning the key in the lock. She felt a sudden and dizzying anger sweep over her. She was practically shaking with it. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against the door a moment to steady herself.

How dare he? The way he had just flung them at her like that. That bastard. That inconsiderate, unfeeling swine. Without giving herself further time to reflect or calm down, she walked over to her bed and retrieved the rosewood box she had concealed underneath it.

Straightening up, she walked out into the corridor and around the corner until she reached the door to Jeremy’s bedroom. She was damned if she would ever use that connecting door again. It could remain locked forever as far as she was concerned.

Knocking on the door loudly three times, she threw it open and marched inside. Jeremy was off the bed now, stood in the center of the room. He had a stunned, slightly panicked expression on his face. “Why are you—?”

She flung the heavy rosewood box on the bed, where it bounced and landed upside down.

He transferred his gaze from her to the box, then back again.

“Open it,” she said abruptly.

“What is it?”

“Open it,” she repeated woodenly.

After looking at her rather searchingly, he walked over to the bed and sat down on it, drawing the box toward him, setting it right-side up, and locating the latch.

“Take a look,” she said bitterly. “And you shall see whether I am sentimental or not.”

“Emmeline,” he said gently. “Won’t you sit down beside me.”

“No! I don’t want to!” she said in a choked voice. When he made as though to set the box aside, she backed away from the bed and lowered herself into the same chair she had sat upon earlier.

Jeremy watched her warily, and only once she was settled did he return to the box, unfastening it and lifting the lid. He gazed down at the contents a moment blankly before drawing out a pair of monogrammed gloves. “Your father’s?” he asked in some confusion, after inspecting the initials. “I thought you said you did not keep anything of his.”

“No, I did not say that,” she replied tightly. “I said I sold anything of value, and that I did not keep any of his letters. For your information, my lord,” she began in a low, shaking voice, “my father only ever wrote to me when he wished to upbraid me. It is hardly likely that I should wish to preserve such communications. My father was a very driven man, some might even say ruthless. He was certainly very business-oriented. Ballentine’s Trading Company was his true focus in life, not family and certainly not me.”

Jeremy swallowed and set the gloves carefully aside before reaching back inside the box. He drew out an empty scent bottle with a few congealed drops remaining in the bottom. “And whose was this?” he asked quietly. “Your mother’s?”

She jerked her head in affirmation. “Yes, I do not remember her but as a child I drew some comfort from knowing what she liked to smell like.”

Next, he drew a pair of long white evening gloves from the box. “And were these your mother’s too?”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No. Mine,” she said briefly.

He frowned slightly but returned to the box and drew out next an ivory silk fan trimmed in silver. “And this?”

Averting her face, she crossed her arms. “Mine also,” she said, swallowing.

With growing bewilderment, he drew forth another fan, this one of white satin with broken sticks. “Will you explain?” he asked quietly. “Emmeline?”

“Explain?” she asked in a wobbly voice. “Well, might you ask. It’s an odd collection, is it not? Very well.” She stood up from her chair and approached the bed, snatching up the evening gloves and dangling them before his nose. “These gloves I wore to the Foxtons’,” she said matter-of-factly. “You won’t remember, but after we danced there, you escorted me off the dance floor and did not relinquish my hand.

“Instead, you walked me over to the potted plants and stayed beside me for oh, I don’t know, probably five minutes of your idle life, whiling away the time by talking a lot of spite about the company at large. I don’t remember what you said, in truth I could barely hear you.

“You see, the whole time, my heart was beating so loudly it drowned out your words and all I could focus on was the fact we still had our fingers interlaced and your palm pressing against mine.” She threw down the gloves on the bed. “Stupid, isn’t it? I could not bear to use them again and instead kept them as though they had once touched a holy relic.”

Instead of looking for his reaction, she snatched up the silver ivory fan. “This, you took from my hand at the Wavertons’ picnic party and used it to fan my hot face as you sat beside me and amused yourself for half an hour by paying court to me. I was so happy that I could not eat a thing, even though they had exotic fruits there that I had been looking forward to sampling.”

She paused, caught up in the moment. “They were serving peaches in fancy napkins, I remember,” she said in a faraway voice, “but they called them Persian apples.” She gave herself a quick shake. “Silly how you remember such details.”