To Love a Tormented Earl - Bridget Barton Page 0,2

touch which didn’t wake him—Emilia went to the mahogany desk.

All of the furnishings of the library, as with most of the house, were in the fashion of the previous century, with mahogany dominating. She considered, not for the first time, how unfashionable it all was. She felt no displeasure at the fact; she held affection for their décor. It did, however, act as a reminder of the loss of the Whitmores’ wealth.

When her older brother Harold died—’twas almost ten years ago, she realized with a start—abroad in the war, it was just at the time when her mother was making plans to replace much of the furnishings. Heartbreak, Emilia was convinced, led to her mother’s illness and death. All talk of décor was quite forgotten.

Her father’s health failed some years later. He was forced to cease all professional activity. It was then that Emilia began giving music lessons to Miss Charlotte Emery at Ceastre, the earl’s estate.

The grief she felt over the loss of her brother ebbed as the awed memory of that first day, entering the grand foyer of the estate, came rushing back to Emilia now. One of the first times she had conversed with the young gentleman, Lord Emery—his father still lived and he was not the earl yet, then—was on the subject of their older brothers, both lost in the war.

They had stood together at the window of the drawing room, whilst Charlotte practiced a few feet away on the pianoforte.

'Your cousin is progressing very well,' Emilia had said when Lord Emery approached her.

He was so handsome. His hair was golden brown, curling somewhat wildly. His limpid green eyes were full of good humour, and the way he gazed at her made her feel at once admired and unsettled. She cast her own eyes down, fearful that he might read her expression too well. There was no question in her mind of her status—Maximilian Emery would be the earl someday. She had no hope of acquiring his affection.

‘Miss Emery has a great affinity for music,’ she said.

'I am delighted to learn of it,' he said with an appreciative glance towards the young lady, who was producing proper scales. 'I shall inform my uncle. I am sure he will be pleased.'

'And your father as well, I hope,' Emilia said. It was Emery’s father, the earl, who made arrangements with her own father to procure the lessons—paid in secret. She wanted the earl to know that his investment was a good one.

'Indeed,' Emery said.

Emilia gazed out of the window. The gentleman lingered, and she felt a flush rising in her cheeks as she realized it. 'I very much admired the grounds as I rode in today,' she said, attempting a light tone.

'Ah, I shall have to inform my mother, she has been quite dedicated to the improvement of the gardens, especially.'

'Oh yes, you must tell her the lilacs are extraordinary. But I think what draws the eye the most are the riding paths. It quite makes one want to find the nearest horse.'

Emilia risked a glance at his face.

'Indeed,' Emery said, his eyes crinkling with amusement. After a moment, his expression changed, however, becoming more thoughtful. ‘Yes, ‘twas George—my brother, George’s favourite pastime, riding those paths.'

The wistful look on his face disarmed her. 'You must miss him very much,' she said, aware of his brother’s untimely death in the war. 'I lost my own brother the same way,' she added softly, without really intending to.

He frowned. 'That’s right, I had forgotten. How unforgivable of me,' he said.

'Oh no, I never intended to imply—'

'But I should have remembered,' he said, his face earnest.

How could she ever forget how his green eyes had filled with compassion? Only one who had also lost a loved one could profess such understanding.

Now, in the present, her throat closed and Emilia blinked back tears.

This won’t do at all, Emilia.

In a vain attempt to gain mastery over her feelings, Emilia opened the top right drawer of the desk and pulled out all of her half-finished compositions. Music. It was always into music that she could pour her most troublesome emotions. And after the cost of the gown, she would have to complete something to sell to Dassel.

Gunther Dassel, a short, squat German with a fondness for wearing old-fashioned high heels, was the newest composer at the Chapel Royal, employed there since 1812. Emilia was lucky when with the assistance of Randall, their butler, and Abraham, their coachman, she had found secret employment copying music for