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when she had arrived at
Hemmingly the previous evening. Exhausted, she had retired to her bedchambers
and no sooner had slipped into bed than Agatha had entered with a tray of hot
chocolate and biscuits. Eventually Emily poured out her problems to the older
woman.
    Smiling
as she made her way into the hall, Emily recalled Agatha's vehemence on her
behalf and felt a growing confidence in her bosom. Agatha would let her stay as
long as she wished.
    Feeling
better than she had in weeks, Emily headed toward Hemmingly's library to search
for a new novel from the Minerva Press that Jane mentioned had been added to
Agatha's extensive book collection.
    Emily,
an unconscious grin still tipping the corners of her lips, opened her
Wordsworth book that she had taken on her morning stroll and was so engrossed
in one of the poems that when she turned the corner, she failed to notice the
man withdrawing from the library.
    She
slammed into the tall figure with the elegance of an intoxicated dandy. With a
horrified gasp, she bounced backward and fell onto the marble floor with a
thud. Behind her a salmon-colored porcelain vase crashed to the floor,
shattering into infinite pieces. Heat engulfed her.
    She
blinked and caught sight of a pair of shiny Hessian boots a foot away. How
utterly humiliating. With a groan, she pushed her raised skirts back over her
ankles and lifted her gaze slowly, knowing instantly that this was no ordinary
guest. It was strange that Agatha had not mentioned any other person staying at
Hemmingly. Unless—
    Her eyes
immediately clung to a pair of athletic-looking legs encased in buckskin
breeches. She vaguely heard a male voice, but her ears were roaring with the
inevitable. Shock thickened her tongue as she raised her gaze higher only to
meet with a waistcoat of burgundy followed by a neat white cravat and a pair of
wide shoulders wrapped up in a perfectly fitted brown coat. Dark brown hair
tilted toward her, but it was when a pair of familiar amber eyes stared back at
her that her blood froze.
    "Do
beg your pardon, Lady Emily. Are you hurt?"
    The
sound of her name on Mr. Jared Ashton's lips cut into her heart like a
guillotine. No, he was Lord Stonebridge now. She stared numbly at the tanned
hand reaching out to her and stiffened.
    His
voice was deeper than she recalled, more controlled, and much to her dismay, it
sounded as if the man were truly concerned about her welfare. He appeared
larger than she remembered. This man was no longer the long-legged boy that had
stolen her heart. No indeed.
     Before
she could rise, a steely grip took hold of her elbows, whisking her to a
standing position, as if she were a mere feather.
    "Pray,
forgive my clumsiness. I have not hurt you, have I?"
    Her
blood tingled from his touch. "I'm f-fine."
    But she
was not fine at all. Shock had paralyzed her. He was supposed to be in India.
Agatha had mentioned that very fact in a letter posted only two months ago. Why
was he here? Now of all times?
    The
scent of soap from his morning bath filled her senses, reminding her of the
last time she saw him, the last time she rested her head against that broad
chest when he had promised to come to Elbourne Hall and claim her as his own.
But he had not come. He had broken her heart, and now she felt as if a thousand
pins were pressing into it.
    "I
cannot say the pleasure is mine, Lord Stonebridge," she said stiffly,
lifting her gaze to meet his.
    He
seemed to ignore her jibe and continued his lame apology. "I missed you
coming around the corner. You startled me." He watched her intently, as if
waiting for her to answer.
    He
finally broke through the unbearable silence, ripping her composure in two.
"How long has it been, Lady Emily?"
    How
long? The man must be mad? Did he not hear her rebuff? "How long?"
she asked tartly, inwardly shaking with fury. How long does it take a heart to
heal? Did he believe for one minute she had forgotten? Did he believe she had
pined for him all these years?
    "Let
me