Then the letters had stopped.
He’d been ashore in Portugal when he’d found out the reason, when he’d learned there would be no more letters—ever.
Pushing aside the memory, he reached for his wine and tossed it back in a single gulp. Glancing over, he found Emma watching him, her eyes filled with surprising compassion and understanding.
And she does understand, he realized, aware that she must have lost loved ones too, since her family was gone.
He half expected her to ask about his momentary introspection. Instead, she quietly turned the conversation back to where it had left off. “What subjects do you read? You mentioned an interest in collecting.”
Tension eased from his shoulders. Smiling, he began to tell her.
Finished with the soup, their plates were cleared and the next course served—a delicate white fish in a cream sauce with a colorful accompaniment of autumn vegetables. As they ate, he resumed his earlier questioning.
“Favorite time of year?” he prompted.
“This time. Autumn,” she replied.
“You don’t find it melancholy?”
She shook her head. “I love the trees, all the reds, oranges, and yellows of the leaves as they turn. And the wonderful crunch they make underfoot once they’ve fallen to the ground. When I was a little girl, I used to imagine hiding in them, disappearing into the forest like some mythical creature who is free to run and roam. But there was always a nursemaid or governess about, so I had scant opportunity for real adventure.”
This time it was her turn to fall silent. Then abruptly she smiled. “What of you, my lord? What is your favorite season?”
“Summer, of course. It’s the best time for sailing. We have a lake near Lynd Park, and I used to take a small sloop out and sail her from dawn till dusk. My mother complained that by August I looked more like an Indian than the younger son of an earl, but what did I care when I was having so much fun?”
She laughed, clearly imagining him as a rebellious, sun-browned youth.
Her laughter continued through the rest of dinner, dying down only long enough for her to eat a few bites here and there.
As for Nick, he scarcely did much better, too entertained to pay more than scant heed to the meal. He was surprised when dessert was laid, the time having passed so quickly and so pleasantly. “Shall we take our tea and coffee in the drawing room?” he suggested.
Emma nodded, her pretty white teeth showing as she flashed him a fresh grin.
Rather than pouring himself a cup of coffee from the silver service the footman carried into the drawing room after them, Nick crossed to the sideboard and reached for the crystal brandy decanter. With a bow, the servant excused himself.
“May I have one of those?” Emma asked from where she sat on the nearby divan.
Nick arched a brow. “A brandy, do you mean?”
She nodded. “I promise I’m not foxed, despite your earlier concerns that I might become so. Well, not much anyway,” she amended, after he sent her a penetrating look.
“If I give you some of this,” he said, indicating the rich russet brown liquid inside the decanter, “you may have cause to retract your assurances.”
“Just a taste,” she wheedled. “I’ve never had brandy.”
“Nor should you have.” He sighed. “Why is it you seem so determined to test my resolve tonight?”
She gave him a look of absolute innocence. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
A laugh burst from his throat. Despite knowing he ought to refuse her request, he turned and reached for a second snifter. He poured himself a hearty draft, then added a shallow splash in the other glass for her.
“I feel as if I’m corrupting you, you know,” he remarked, as he crossed to hand her the snifter before taking a seat in one of the chairs opposite.
Her vivid eyes twinkled. “Surely a tiny bit of corruption can’t hurt?”
“Hah!” he barked. “I shall have to remember to use that as an excuse the next time I’m called to task for some morally ambiguous infraction.”
“Do you commit those often? Morally ambiguous infractions, that is?” She angled her head, meeting his gaze with interest.
He couldn’t hide his answering smile. “That, my dear young woman, is for me to know and you not to find out.”
Her gaze lowered at that, her pale lashes fanning like corn silk against her cheeks. Suddenly she lifted the brandy glass to her lips and took a swallow—too large a swallow, he realized, as a sputtering cough rose from her lungs. Bending double, she covered her mouth with a hand as the paroxysms continued.
Hurrying to her side, he rubbed a smoothing palm across her shoulders. “Breathe slowly,” he told her. “The worst will pass in a few moments. Shall I get you some water?”