The decision is yours to make, and I will honor whatever you decide.
Forever yours,
Thomas
After sealing the letter with hot wax and putting his mark on it, Thomas made his way to the bell pull and tugged on it. While he waited for Giles, he opened his wardrobe. It was high time he dressed and joined his family.
“Your Grace, you rang?”
“Yes, I left a letter on the desk. Please see that it is delivered to my wife immediately. I don’t care how you get it into her hands. If she refuses to open her door stick it under. Then I would like a sponge bath as I plan to join my family downstairs for dinner.”
“But Your Grace,” Giles frowned, “do you think it wise to push yourself so soon?”
“I don’t care.” Staying cooped up in his room like a hen in a henhouse, knowing the fox-of-a-blackmailer was out there, was driving him crazy. “After I freshen up I’ll need your assistance to dress.”
“Very well, Your Grace, I shall return,” his valet replied, still frowning as he took the letter and left him.
Feeling cleaner, Thomas paced his room, his hands flexing into fists over and over again as he tried to control the self-loathing boiling up inside him for the way he’d handled things with Emma.
Thomas had always considered himself intelligent. He should have known that secrets such as his never remained hidden forever. He should have told her the truth from the start, even if it shocked her. But at the time, Thomas didn’t know Emma well, and he had his honor to consider.
Soft footsteps paused outside his sitting room door. Every muscle in his body tensed up as he listened. A letter slid beneath his door and the footsteps hurried away. Thomas forced himself not to fling open the door and run after Emma––to plead with her to give him a chance to explain.
Instead, with hands that trembled, he picked up the folded parchment, brought it to his nose, closed his eyes, and sniffed in the jasmine scent of Emma. With trembling hands, Thomas opened the folded parchment.
“Steady man,” he whispered to himself.
Your Grace,
My father obviously thought highly of you, or he never would have allowed things to transpire as they did. So to honor my dear departed papa, I have taken into account what you wrote in your letter and look forward to reading the letter Papa penned to me.
I have packed my trunks and await your escort to London. You can plead your case more as we travel. After all is divulged, I might either forgive you or will book passage back to Boston on the first ship available.
Fondly,
Miss Hamilton
No matter how many times Thomas read the words penned in Emma’s delicate hand, they did not ease his racing heart. Emma implied she would listen to his explanations, but he had an unnerving sense she planned to leave him no matter what she heard.
The paper slipped from his hands and silently drifted to the floor, and with it so did his hopes for a future with her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Three days––the longest of Emma’s life––went by without word from Thomas. If she had to spend any more time alone in her suite of rooms, she would go mad. Having hidden from the Seabrook family long enough, she knew in her heart it was time to speak with them. She just didn’t know how many times she could experience such heartbreak.
Other than the death of her father, never in her life had Emma experienced such heaviness in her chest or such desolation in her brain. Truthfully, she did not know if she could handle saying good-bye to Amelia and Bella if she decided to travel back to America. In such a short amount of time, she had come to love Amelia and Bella, the sisters she never had but always wanted.
While Thomas was ill, she had also formed an unspoken bond with his mother. The dowager duchess had welcomed her into her family without question. Had made her feel part of her family, had trusted her to care for Thomas, and Emma knew the dowager duchess loved Emma like a daughter. Saying good-bye to her as well would leave an empty void never to be filled. The dowager was the closest thing she had to a mother.
Taking a deep breath for courage, she stepped outside her rooms for the second time since Wentworth’s words shattered her world. Gripping the railing with her right hand, she lifted her skirts and took the stairs carefully, one at a time. Her slippers were silent, enabling her to hear voices traveling from the breakfast room.
Three different female voices rang in her ears, voices that she might not hear much longer. Her insides clenched tightly, as though a large hand curled around her stomach and squeezed. Sweat ran between her breasts, and she prayed she did not faint.
The moment she stepped inside the room, all voices paused and three sets of eyes looked upon her.
“I hope I’m not interrupting a family discussion?” she managed to say as she moved to the sideboard. And with hands she willed to be steady, she picked up a china plate. The Wentworth Ducal Crest, dead center and etched in gold, stared her in the face.