Page 89 of A Foolish Flirtation

Next was the broken fan. Still avoiding his eye, she picked it up between finger and thumb, holding it in the air and contemplating it in a detached sort of manner. “This is the fan I was holding that night at the foot of Lord Hawford’s staircase, when your announcement was made,” she said in a brittle voice. “It was very expensive, and I did not even notice that I had snapped all the sticks until I was sat in the carriage on the way home. As you can see, it was broken quite beyond repair.”

The silence between them stretched out, until Emmie released the fan and it fell in a twirling sort of motion, like an injured bird falling from the sky. Jeremy reached out and caught it before it hit the ground. His swift movement broke her trance, and she stepped back, almost startled by it.

Jeremy straightened up very slowly and added the fan to his pile.

“Pray continue,” she said politely, looking back expectantly at the box.

“Emmeline—” he started hoarsely but she made a sharp gesture with her hand.

“There’s not much left now. It won’t take long.”

Almost reluctantly, he drew out the first of several dance cards. She waited until she saw it, the dawning realization in his eyes. She could not bear to watch as he opened each one in turn. It would not take him long to find his signature in every one. Barely anyone else had ever taken the trouble to dance with her after all.

Before she knew it, he was off the bed, and was trying to take her in his arms. “Ballentine,” he murmured huskily. She did not make it easy for him, struggling and trying to push him away. She shoved a hand against his chest, and he caught it there.

“Don’t,” he said brokenly, “Don’t push me away, Emmie-mine, I can’t bear it.”

Emmie stopped trying to free herself. Instead, she looked at her hand where it lay against his chest, resisting, yet touching his bare skin at the same time. His chest heaved beneath her fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m so fucking sorry. You’re far too good for me. You always were. I hope you know that.”

She would not speak, could not. The anger, both toward him and worse, toward herself, pressed down too heavily on her heart. She wanted to cry but not soft, healing tears. No, the tears she wanted to cry were angry, furious sobs of resentment and bitterness.

His expression seemed to show he understood at least some measure of her feeling, for he dragged her hand until it rested over his heart. “I don’t have a rosewood box, Emmeline, but I kept you here always.” His words were low and urgent.

His throat seemed to close over the words, and for a moment he struggled to speak. “I know, God knows I know that I”—he paused, choosing his words carefully—“that I was too destructive in the past.” She could not help but stiffen slightly even at this vague allusion to it.

He continued in a ragged voice, “I worry that any vestiges we have left of that time are damaged and I cannot repair them, try as I might. I know you said we should build something new and forget the past, but I don’t want to forget it!” His words were passionate now. “Because—”

“Stop,” she begged raggedly, clapping her hands over her ears and screwing her eyes shut. He ceased talking at once. Slowly, Emmie lowered her hands, her breathing shallow and uneven. She felt herself sway slightly on her feet.

Pointing to the wooden box with a trembling finger, she asked in a low, shaky voice, “Does that not prove to you that I am not made of stone? Why must you poke and pry at the wound? It had practically healed until you came back into my life! I cannot—!”

“I’m sorry, Emmeline,” he said quickly as her voice broke and she closed her eyes, a single tear running down her cheek. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. You’re right. I was wrong. I won’t—” He swallowed convulsively. “I won’t ever bring it up again. I’ll never, never bring it up again, my darling, I promise.”

His hands hovered awkwardly at her elbows. “Can I—? Let me—?” When she did not move, just stood there like a wooden stock, he folded her carefully into his arms and Emmie let him comfort her, rocking her slightly. “God, I’m sorry, so sorry,” he said against her hair, gently kissing her brow. “I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart. For everything. For…just everything.”

When she remained still, he said quietly, “Will you stay? Will you lie in my bed with me? Just to sleep, I swear. I would like to try it, just once.”

“Try it?” Emmie echoed. She had no idea what he was talking about right now.

“Having you in my bed with me, I mean. Will you?” She hesitated, knowing only too well that there would be sobbing before she slept. Ugly, jagged sobbing and ladies did not show such overset emotion. He released her at once, lifting her hand to his lips. “No? Then let me escort you back to your room, then, sweetheart. Just let me tuck you in.”

“I’ll stay,” she said dully, though she was not really sure why.

He peered into her face. “You’re sure?” he asked softly.

Emmie nodded and gave him a tired smile. “You likely won’t thank me for it though,” she predicted wanly.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, leading her over to the bed, and drawing back the covers for her.

“Because I’m going to cry myself to sleep,” she said frankly. “Do you still want me to stay?”

“Yes,” he said at once and she climbed into his bed. He walked around to the other side, extinguishing the candles and joining her under the covers, huddling against her back and passing an arm about her to hold her close.

Under the covers, in the forgiving darkness, Emmie pressed her face into the pillow and wept as though her heart would surely break. She wept for that stupid girl who had looked so eagerly for him with so much hope in her heart. That idiot girl who had been so excited to attend all those pretentious parties.

The girl who had hurried to his side as soon as he so much as beckoned. The girl who had worn her heart on her sleeve while everyone else laughed at her. The girl she had once been. She soaked his pillow with tears and racked her body with shattering sobs that left her feeling weak and calm at last.

The whole time, Jeremy Vance held her tightly to him. How odd, she thought, being comforted by the person who had reopened her wounds. Wounds he had inflicted in the first place.