paused on one of the pages and pushed it over to the child at her side. “He was illegitimate,” she said softly, and Charles stiffened, but he needn’t have been worried on Seamus’s behalf. With an almost reverence to his hesitant movements, Seamus pulled the book closer and looked down at whatever words Emma now pointed to. “He was left upon the steps of a church—abandoned. His education was paid for, but everything he did with that education? Well, that came because of him and being free of the powerful influence enjoyed by so many of these others.”
As the pair launched into a discussion about the French thinker, Charles stared on, a silent observer. His mind raced, and it was physically impossible to leave. Even though he should. Even though his being here infringed upon this special moment Seamus had found.
Nay, this special moment Seamus had found . . . with Emma.
Charles tried to make sense . . . of any of it: How had the two come to be here, together? How had they struck up such a familiar discussion on a topic that was so dear to the boy . . . and apparently, to Emma? It was one more thing Charles had never known about her. So much of her remained a mystery.
Charles ran his gaze over her long, slender form. A mystery that he desperately wished to understand and uncover . . . and share in.
Here all these years, Charles and his family had spent the better part of his life keeping Seamus from the world. There’d been an even more concerted effort to keep him away from Emma Gately.
Only to now stumble upon the pair of them sprawled on the floor, conversing ever so effortlessly, as though they were not only the fastest of friends, but longtime ones at that.
Crossing her comfortable-looking boots behind her, Emma spoke animatedly, gesturing to the page as she did. Periodically, Seamus nodded, which only fueled the enthusiastic cadence as Emma spoke, her words lost, but not her excitement . . .
And in that moment, with Emma Gately lying on a bookshop floor, conversing freely and joyously as she did with Seamus, Charles fell head over heels in love with her.
He caught the end of the shelving unit, the world shifting under him.
The floorboards also moved under Charles’s unsteady balance.
Fortunately, wholly engrossed in what she was sharing, Emma remained oblivious to Charles’s presence, for which Charles would be eternally grateful. Everything spun and whirred. His thoughts all skidded together; his pulse raced. He’d known he wanted to marry her—too late, of course. He’d belatedly discovered she was a woman of wit and courage and confidence. But these past two days, he’d seen her in ways he’d failed to before.
But seeing her here, like this? It left him shaken to the core. This tangible, living, breathing proof of why his heart belonged to Emma Gately, and why it wouldn’t properly beat until he managed to convince her of the impossible—that he was deserving of her.
Seamus angled a glance over his shoulder, and his eyes brightened. “Scarsdale!” he greeted.
The book promptly slipped from Emma’s fingers, landing with a dull thwack, as she whipped around to face him.
Her lips moved several times before any words emerged. “Charlesss?” Emma’s beautifully sharp cheeks went through varying shades of red before arriving at a bright hue of crimson . . .
Charles hooded his eyes.
The same color of red she’d worn last evening when—
“You know one another?” Seamus blurted, effectively dousing the wicked thoughts Charles had no place having. At least, not here. Not now. And not with the young boy before him doing the questioning.
“Uh . . .” Charles doffed his hat. For it . . . felt . . . inherently wrong that he’d never before introduced Emma to the nephew whom he was raising as his son.
Slowly, Emma sat up but didn’t rise. She drew up her legs, with her knees close to her chest. “We . . . do,” she supplied for him, of course more courageous and capable of finding her words than Charles.
Alas, no child, particularly not his inquisitive nephew, would ever be contented with that veiled, incomplete explanation.
Seamus looked back and forth from Charles to Emma, then finally settled on Charles.
“This is Miss Gately,” Charles said quietly.
His nephew’s already big eyes bulged. “This is Miss Gately? But—”
As Emma’s focus sharpened on the boy, Charles made a loud clearing sound, slashing a hand at his throat, cutting off the remainder of