Lovely dance though it was, he wanted more.
More than knowing whether she preferred cats or dogs (“Cats, though Duke here may change my mind yet.”), tea or coffee, (“Coffee. I know! You’re asking yourself now if I’m even English.”), or Milton or Shakespeare (“Milton, of course. While Shakespeare was arguably the keenest observer of humanity we’ll ever see, Milton wrote about free will, and liberty and the threats to everything that makes us human.”).
With every word from her delectable, intelligent, spirited lips, he’d fallen deeper under her spell.
Yes, he definitely wanted more.
Today, he was determined to discover if she wanted more, too.
He rounded the corner near the bridge, his heart picking up in anticipation of seeing her, of laughing with her, of simply being together.
His eyes sought her out on the bank where they’d rescued Duke—their spot.
She wasn’t there.
Max frowned, scanning about. Perhaps Duke had led her on a merry chase around the lake?
But no. No sign of her, the pup, or the young maid who always trailed after them.
Three quarters of an hour later, he still stood at the shoreline, alone. Anticipation had turned to disappointment, a sharp ache that hollowed his chest and left him feeling…empty.
Unsettled.
Unhappy.
He didn’t like the sensation one bit. When had his daily dose of her become so vital to his well-being, damn it all?
It couldn’t be possible for one person’s absence to affect his spirits so. And yet, the prospect of facing his day unbolstered by her smiles was unthinkable.
As unthinkable as the reasons why she mightn’t have come.
Potential excuses plagued Max, each one worse than the last: A distracted jarvey had crashed into her carriage on her way to the park. She’d fallen ill and lay in a feverish delirium in her sickbed. Or…or she’d grown bored of toying with the commoner and had gone back to the business of landing a duke.
No. Not her. She wasn’t unkind. After thirteen magnificent mornings together, she wouldn’t disappear without a word of farewell.
He tunneled a hand through his hair and blew out a breath that puffed white in the chilly November air. He couldn’t stand here all day. He’d come back tomorrow, and hope that she greeted him with a sheepish grin and a good explanation. If not tomorrow…well, he did like the park. Perhaps he’d come the day after, too.
And if she never returned?
Then if he didn’t inherit the dukedom, he’d never see her again.
And if he did, it would make for an awkward reunion when she was paraded before him as a potential bride next season.
He could never choose her then, as he would always wonder if it was him or ‘the duke’ she wanted.
On that awful thought, he turned away from the lake and started off toward Knightsbridge.
THE COLD AIR burned in her lungs as Emmaline burst onto the main footpath from the tributary she’d taken at the Grosvenor Gate.
He was still here! Thank the Lord…
But he was walking away, and she was on the wrong side of the lake. She ground her teeth in frustration. The footpath she was now on went entirely the opposite direction, and she could hardly jump in and swim across.
She had to get his attention. If she didn’t, she might never see him again.
Panic squeezed her chest.
“Duke,” she cried to the pup who trotted along beside her. She pointed at the man, who’d almost reached Rotten Row. The pup could skirt the lake through the grass faster than she could. “There he is. See him? Now, fetch!”
Duke cocked his head at her. All right, so she’d not taught him to fetch yet, and he likely didn’t understand any other word she’d said. But desperate times… She made a shooing motion toward the man, hoping the dog understood that. “Go get him, boy! Go get our knight!”
But he just danced at her feet, his tail wagging in happy confusion.
Drat it all! Emmaline looked back toward the man. A few more steps and he’d be on the far side of the King’s Private Road, and beyond her reach…perhaps forever.
There was nothing for it.
She hooked her pinkies in the corners of her mouth and blew the shrill whistle her male cousins had taught her years ago, much to the chagrin of her mother. The sharp sound set Duke to barking. His yips echoed off the surface of the water, too. Emmaline prayed the sounds carried.
The man stopped.
Her heart kicked in triumph.
He turned and she barely restrained herself from throwing her arms up in the air and waving madly so that he saw her.
Duke, bless him, must have finally picked up his friend’s scent, as the little dog bounded off toward him.
Emmaline exhaled a long sigh of relief, then began picking her way around the far side of the lake.
The whole while she watched him. He bent low to greet Duke, then rose more gracefully than a man ought to be able to. The morning sun limned his long frame, and Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat. Then he crossed Rotten Row and took the footpath that would eventually meet up with hers.
As he advanced, Emmaline’s relief gave way to nervous excitement, and a strange angst settled in her chest. It felt vaguely like the anxiety she’d experienced this morning when she’d realized she’d never make it to the park in time—a scare that only now opened her eyes to how very much she looked forward to seeing him every day.
And yet, it was different, too. Warmer and…and more achy. A desire to be with him that was unsettling and stirring and…imperative.
His long legged strides were twice her own, so she’d barely made halfway to the bridge when he and Duke reached her.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here—” she began.
“Is everything all right?” he asked at the same moment.
His handsome face creased with concern as his eyes searched her face and form.
She brought her hands up to her flushed cheeks, only now imagining how she must look. A fright, she’d wager, having practically run across half of Mayfair. Her hair had likely slipped her coiffure and she’d be shocked if her skin hadn’t gone blotchy.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
He gave her a doubtful look, and she tried to decide if he questioned her answer or her sanity. Then he glanced behind her. “Are you all alone? Where is your maid?”
She flushed deeper. She was breaking the cardinal rule of marriageable young ladies: Thou shalt never find oneself unchaperoned with a gentleman—much less an unsuitable one.
Should anyone come across them, particularly with her pink cheeks and her hair all askew, she’d be ruined.
A thought she’d never considered before struck her: If she were to be compromised by a gentleman not of the aristocracy, would he still be honor-bound to marry her?
She didn’t know.
But she needn’t worry. While she still didn’t know her knight’s name, she knew him to be honorable. They’d talked of everything and nothing in their short time together. Yet every word he’d spoken, every story he’d told of his youth or the lessons he’d learned in his life or the literature that had touched his heart, made her admire him more.
Still, she imagined her father’s rage at the daughter he’d intended for a duke marrying a mere mister instead. The thought brought a bitter smile. If her father cared about what truly mattered, he’d be proud to have such a man as a son-in-law.
If only.
“I ran out of the house so quickly, I didn’t have time to wait for her,” she said, breathless now at the intensity of his hazel gaze. “I was afraid…”
“Afraid?” he asked, his voice delving into a low rumble.
She understood what he was asking. Understood, too, what his waiting in the cold for her for nearly an hour signified.
Emmaline swallowed to wet her suddenly dry throat. All she had to do was have the nerve to say it aloud, and it would be out there. Between them.
I find you quite brave, he’d said that first morning they’d met.