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EMMELINE
Emmeline ran toward the sound of what must be an injured dog. She was fairly certain that Stratford was running after her.
“Stop, Emmeline!” he called after her. “Wait a moment! It might be dangerous.”
But the dog yipped again, and she could not wait. That sound resonated within her heart and pulled her closer. She broke through a cluster of trees not far from the road and burst upon three boys surrounding a gray dog, hunched and growling. As she watched, one of the boys threw a rock, hitting the dog on the flank and causing the animal to emit a high-pitched cry before lunging toward the boy then turning and licking the blood that had risen where the rock made contact.
Another boy lifted a rock, and Emmeline roared, “Put that down! Now!”
All three boys turned to stare at her, and the dog looked at her too, cowering even lower. The boys were twelve or thirteen in age and looked to be from the nearby village farms. They were dressed in simple clothing, but she could see their attire had been cared for and mended in places.
Stratford stopped just behind her, and the boys stared at him. And no wonder. She had dressed to travel and her dress was rumpled and dirty, but even after a day and night in the same clothing, Stratford looked every inch the gentleman, pressed and perfect.
“I said, put that down.” Emmeline pointed at the boy who still had his hand raised, rock at the ready. The boy dropped the rock, and all three boys glanced at the dog as though remembering he was there and began to back away. The dog still cowered, looking more frightened now than ferocious.
“What is the meaning of this?” Stratford demanded, gesturing to the obviously wounded dog. “Has no one taught you any better? Where are your parents? I would have words with them.”
Emmeline let Stratford go on chastising the boys as she really had no interest in them other than doing exactly as Stratford was in that moment. And he would scare them more than she ever would. Instead, she moved toward the dog. Slowly, using a low voice, she told the frightened animal she was a friend.
He was a Staffordshire Terrier and quite a large one, though he was painfully thin at the moment. He was what people often called blue in color with a white streak on his nose and white on his chest and belly. His beautiful coat looked dirty and, after the boys’ cruelty, bloody.
He eyed her warily but did not growl or show his teeth, so she moved closer, still speaking in that low tone.
“Emmeline!” Stratford hissed. “Stop!”
She ignored him.
“Sir, that dog is a killer. He’ll eat her for lunch,” one of the boys said.
Emmeline tilted her head to look at the dog. He didn’t seem like a killer. He seemed like a scared dog who had been hurt by humans and was now hesitant to trust another. She moved closer.
“Emmeline, no!” Stratford said, his voice louder this time, causing the dog to crouch lower.
Emmeline looked at Stratford with a glare she usually reserved for moments when one of her younger sisters did something especially irritating. “You are frightening him. Hush.”
She looked back at the dog. “Ignore him,” she said even as Stratford stuttered protests behind her. She placed her hand very low to the ground near him. “You see, I am a friend.”
Eyes never leaving her face, the dog moved tentatively forward, then back, then forward again to quickly sniff her hand. Then he backed up again.
“You see, nothing happened. Try it again.” She moved her hand slightly closer and said, “Come.” The dog’s ears pricked up, and he cocked his head. “Oh, you know that word, do you? Let’s try it again. Come.”
The dog moved forward a little then seemed to lose his courage.
“What is she doing, sir?” one of the boys asked from behind her.
“Trying to get herself killed,” Stratford answered.
“Why don’t we try another?” Emmeline said to the dog. “Sit.”
The dog’s bottom immediately hit the ground.
“Good, boy,” she said. “Good.”
His tail wagged, and she reached forward and stroked his head. He allowed it, even leaning into her when she scratched his ears. Satisfied, she looked at the boys and Stratford, standing a few feet away and staring at her. “Well?” she asked.
Stratford gave her a look that said quite plainly he thought she was mad.
“Did you find out who these children belong to, so we may be certain they are punished?”
Stratford looked at the boys as though just remembering they were present.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” one of the boys said. He’d worn a brown cap, but he held it in his hands respectfully now. “But it was our parents told us to come after the dog.”
Emmeline’s hand stopped stroking the dog’s head, and he nudged her to continue. “Do you expect me to believe your parents condone throwing rocks at an innocent dog?”
“That’s just the thing, miss,” a boy holding a dark green cap said. He was a bit younger than the first, but they looked similar and Emmeline assumed they must be brothers. “He isn’t an innocent dog.”
“Oh, really? What did he do?”
The third boy removed his gray cap and shuffled his feet. “He stole my mum’s fresh baked bread.”
“This is your dog?” she asked.
“No, miss. He stays near our farmhouse, though, and my mum put some bread on the windowsill to cool, and he took it and ran.”
“And she told you to go stone him to death?”
“She told me to chase him away and make sure he didn’t come back.” The lad pointed at the other two boys. “I saw them as I was running, and they came with me. We didn’t want to kill him. But we had to make sure he didn’t come back.”
Stratford gave a sigh. “Why did you not go to the dog’s owner? He is responsible for the dog’s behavior. Anyone can see the dog has not been properly fed. You cannot blame him for taking food when he is starving.”
“He doesn’t have an owner,” said the older of the two brothers. “Leastways, I don’t know who it is.”
“That’s right,” said the boy with the gray cap. “He just showed up one day, and no one could chase him away.”
“Well, you may go home and tell your parents that Loftus will trouble you no further,” Emmeline told them. When they found the surgeon, they would need to buy some food for the dog as well.
The boys looked at each other. “Who is Loftus, miss?”
“That’s the dog’s name.”
“Is he your dog, miss?” the younger of the boys asked.
“He is now,” she said. “Go on. Go home and tell your parents.” She made a shooing sign and the boys donned their caps again and ran off, chattering like birds.
Emmeline looked at Stratford, who was shaking his head. “No,” he said.
“You don’t like the name Loftus?” she asked, knowing that wasn’t at all what he meant and also knowing he would be annoyed by the question. She was not disappointed.
“I don’t like the name,” he said, his jaw twitching in that way it did when he tried to repress a feeling and couldn’t quite manage it. “It’s a ridiculous name for a dog. But moreover, no to the dog. We are not taking him with us.”
“You may not be taking him with you, but he is coming with me. Aren’t you, Loftus?” In response, the dog thumped his tail, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth. “Come, Loftus!” She began walking, and the dog followed, giving Stratford a wide berth.
“I agree to find him something to eat and have the surgeon look at his wounds. But a dog like that is not safe. Those dogs are trained to fight.” Stratford soon caught up, walking on the side opposite the dog.
“Then we should punish the trainers, not the dog.” There she went again. She could not seem to stop her Very Bad Habit of being Impertinent. But how could she agree with something she did not believe?
“Emmeline.” His voice was tight.
She could see the road just through the bushes ahead, and she continued walking.
“Emmeline.” Stratford grasped her arm. Emmeline heard Loftus growl, and Stratford released her again.
“Sit,” she told Loftus. She smiled at Stratford. “He is already protecting me.”
“Only because you promised him dinner.”
“I know the way to tame savage beasts.” She winked at Stratford, and he furrowed his brow.
“In all seriousness, you cannot keep it. You can bring it back to Nash’s, but we can’t take it back in the coach with us.” He was giving a little more each minute that passed.
Emmeline put her hands on her hips. “Two things, Stratford. One, we do not have a carriage at the moment. Two, Loftus is not an it. He is Loftus.”
Stratford closed his eyes and made a sound like someone was strangling him. Emmeline left him to it and headed back toward the road. He caught up soon enough and then overtook her. She had to lengthen her strides to keep up, but she did not ask him to slow down. They had wasted precious minutes helping the dog, and they were both in a hurry to return to the injured Scot.
When they had walked for a few more minutes, Stratford looked back at her. “Why Loftus?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The name. Why that name?”
“I like it. I’ve always wanted a dog named Loftus.”
“Of course, you have.” He shook his head, but he didn’t seem quite prepared to let it go. “But that’s a man’s name, not a dog’s name.”
She pressed a hand to her side, which was developing a cramp from walking so quickly. “Are there rules for naming dogs?”
“I don’t know.” He slowed slightly, obviously to accommodate her. She would have walked more quickly just to prove that she did not need accommodating, but she worried Loftus needed to take a slower pace. He really did not seem well.
Stratford glanced at the dog. “I’ve never named a dog before.”
“But you’ve always had dogs. Those little brown ones your mother likes to adorn with bows and such.”
“And my mother has always named them.”
“Well, what are their names?”
“Not human names. One was Trumpet because he had a bark like a trumpet. Another was Floppy because of her ears.”
“How on earth did you end up with the name Stratford if that is her naming protocol for dogs?”
“It was her mother’s maiden name,” Stratford said, looking back at the road and then ahead toward where Emmeline hoped a village would soon appear. Her feet were beginning to hurt.
“I never knew that. I always thought you were named after the village.”
“That’s what everyone thinks. But I suppose my parents used all the names they really liked on my siblings. The baron has told me more than once that he had nothing to do with naming me.”
Emmeline stopped. She stopped so abruptly that both Stratford and Loftus continued a few paces before realizing she had stopped. Loftus realized first and loped back to her. She scratched his ears. When Stratford looked back at her, she said, “I have a confession to make.”
“Oh, God.” Stratford looked pained.
“Not that sort of confession. My confession is that I have never liked your father.”
“What a coincidence. Neither have I.” He put his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you like the baron?”
“Honestly, I never liked the way he treated you.”
He scowled. “Is this more of how you feel sorry for me?”
“No.”
He arched a brow.
“Maybe?” She shrugged. “It always seemed you tried so hard to please him, and nothing you did was ever good enough.” She raised her hands to ward off the dark look he gave her. “Perhaps I am mistaken. I only spend a few weeks a year with your family.”
“You are not mistaken.” His voice was low, and she thought she detected a note of anguish.
“I never understood why,” she said quietly.
Stratford’s head jerked up. “It’s no matter.” He spoke quickly now. “This journey has already taken too long. We had better hurry before Nash wakes.” He started away. Emmeline watched him for a moment, then hurried to catch up. She didn’t speak. She could tell by the set of his shoulders the topic was closed. Emmeline did not know how to reopen it or if she even should. What did she know about fathers? Her own had died when she was thirteen. He had always been kind to her and her sisters, but he had been distant, preferring to allow her mother to deal with the little girls.
As Emmeline trailed Stratford, she tried to remember if her father had ever shown any preference for one sister over another. Marjorie and Hester were the most conventionally attractive. Abigail had been only five when her father had died, and she had been an adorable baby and toddler. It was only Emmeline who had been made to feel as though she did not quite measure up.
But that was all her mother’s doing. Her father had always seemed to love each of his children the same. He hadn’t cared that Emmeline was plump. In fact, when her mother had forbidden her from having the sweets the other girls ate on special occasions, her father usually sneaked her a slice of cake or a candied almond. He’d told her she was his beautiful Emmie. And Emmeline had believed him. Why should she starve and suffer in too-tight underclothing because her mother wanted her to look a certain way? Emmeline liked her body as it was.
Once she finally reached her grandmother, she would write to her mother and tell her she’d endured her last Season. Then she would eat what she liked, wear what she liked, and no one would tell her she had the body of a strumpet and had better take care not to look like one. She almost laughed. Some strumpet she was, considering she spent most of her evenings standing or sitting by a wall while other ladies danced or mingled.
Now Emmeline looked at Stratford again. Perhaps they had more in common than she’d thought. He too must know something about feeling left out and not measuring up. Not in the same ways as she. He was very handsome with that blond hair and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through you. Ladies were always pretending to be Emmeline’s friend so they could have an introduction to Stratford Fortescue. It annoyed her to no end when he flirted with them. But she never saw him do more than that. He wasn’t a rake or womanizer. He never tried to seduce innocents or made promises he wouldn’t keep.
Not that he was a saint. She did not believe that, but he was an honorable man—a man forced to follow her around the countryside and try to persuade her to go home. He must know she would never agree.
As soon as they brought the surgeon back to Pope’s house, she would tell Stratford to go home. She would order him to go home. She did not want to be his or any man’s responsibility.
“That’s it,” he said, breaking her concentration. “Milcroft village.”
He was right. She could see a stone bridge ahead and beyond that a cluster of brown stone houses. Window boxes filled with flowers in bloom adorned the homes and shops. Emmeline admired the splashes of red, pink, yellow, and white. “Do we know which house is the surgeon’s? There are several just across the bridge.”
“We’ll ask the first person we see,” he said. Once they’d crossed the bridge, Stratford waved to a man pushing a wheelbarrow full of lettuce. The farmer’s weathered face grew wary when he caught a glimpse of Loftus. “Stay here,” Stratford ordered, as he crossed the street to speak to the man. Emmeline petted Loftus, who sat with his nose in the air, probably trying to scent his next meal.
Stratford returned a moment later and pointed down the street. “The surgeon, a Mr. Langford, is just there.” He indicated a building that looked like all the others but without the flower box. “If we’re lucky, he’s in right now. Apparently, he’s the only medical man in the area.”
“You go ahead,” Emmeline said. “He won’t want a dog in his rooms. Loftus and I will wait outside.”
Stratford looked as though he would object, but he must have seen reason as he agreed. After leading her to the door of the surgeon’s home, he ordered her not to move an inch.
As soon as he went inside, she said, “Come, Loftus.” Emmeline led the dog to a shop with bread in the window. She ordered Loftus to stay while she went inside. Hopefully, the dog obeyed orders better than she did. Once inside, a woman with frizzy brown hair greeted her, wiping hands covered with flour on her apron.
“May I help you, miss?”
“Yes, thank you. I would like to buy some food for my dog.” She indicated the dog sitting outside. Loftus had pressed his nose to the window glass.
“That beast is your dog?” the woman asked. “I’ve seen him skulking about, looking like he wanted to steal my bread.”
Emmeline wanted to ask why the woman hadn’t given the dog bread if she could see he was hungry. Instead, she smiled. “He is mine now. My cousin and I are staying with Mr. Pope—”
“Mr. Pope!” This news seemed even more incredible than the fact that Emmeline owned the dog.
“Yes, my cousin fought in the war with him. Come to think of it, I should buy bread for dinner as well. Might I have two loaves and...do you have anything heartier for the dog?”
The woman finally closed her mouth. “I just make bread, miss.”
Emmeline took the few emergency coins from the inside pocket of her dress. Thankfully, she always kept a few coins separate from her purse. “I have coin to pay.”
The baker looked at the coins then at the dog. “I might have something in the back.”
The baker retreated, and Emmeline made the sign for Loftus to wait. He licked the window. She tried not to laugh. When the baker returned, she offered Emmeline a meat pie. Emmeline bought it and the two loaves of bread for all the coins she had, more than she thought was fair, but Loftus was hungry, and so was she, and she did not want to waste time haggling. She paid the woman, left the shop, and offered Loftus the pie immediately. He ate it in two bites and looked at her hopefully.
Emmeline sighed, broke one of the loaves of bread in half and gave him his portion. She started back toward the surgeon’s house, eating a bit of bread herself, just as Stratford came marching toward her.
“I told you to stay right there.” He pointed at the surgeon’s stoop. “I told you not to move an inch.”
She swallowed. “We were hungry.”
“Good God, but you will be the death of me.”
She offered him the loaf of bread, and he looked like he might refuse. Then he broke off a piece and ate it. Loftus gave a plaintive whine, and she gave the dog more as well.
“What did the surgeon say?”
“He is gathering his things and will drive us in his dog cart.” Stratford eyed the dog. “He will have to ride in the box. It will be a tight fit as it is with the three of us.”
Emmeline did not answer. She had no idea if Loftus would object to climbing into the box beneath the driver usually reserved for hunting dogs. If he did, she would walk back. Loftus would keep her safe from any harm.
They met the surgeon behind his shop just as he finished harnessing two horses to the cart. He was a man of about forty with a clean-shaven face, light brown hair, and the observant eyes so common in men of his profession. He eyed the dog warily but gave Emmeline a very polite bow.
“Miss Emmeline Wellesley, this is Mr. John Langford.”
She curtsied. “A pleasure, sir. You have treated pistol wounds before?”
“I have, although usually they are the result of inattention while hunting. I’m curious as to how your friend was injured, Mr. Fortescue.”
“Inattention was most certainly a factor,” Stratford said easily. “Shall we be on our way?”
“Of course, how should we...”
“The lady and I will squeeze on the back.” Stratford opened the door to the dog box. “Get in, dog.”
Loftus looked at him and sat.
“Come!” Stratford ordered. “Get in!”
Loftus did not move.
“He doesn’t seem to want to climb in,” the surgeon observed, wryly.
Stratford looked at her as though to ask if they could leave the dog to follow, but she shook her head. Loftus was too thin to run all the way back. Stratford sighed. “Fine, I’ll help you in.” He started for the dog, reaching for him, but the dog backed up and bared his teeth. “Or not.” Stratford moved back.
Emmeline moved forward and stood beside the box. “Loftus, come.” The dog stood, his ears pricked up. He took a step forward then hesitated. “Loftus, come.” Still he hesitated. She looked at her last loaf of bread. Here was to hoping Mr. Pope’s cook found some food in the pantry. She broke off a piece of the second loaf, threw it in the box, and watched as Loftus went in after it. Then she closed the door and smiled at the two men.
“And there you have it,” the surgeon said. He climbed onto the box, and Stratford offered his arm to Emmeline. She climbed up behind the surgeon on the seat facing away. It was a seat made for only one person, and as soon as Stratford climbed onto it, she wondered how they could both possibly fit.
“I don’t think this will work,” she said, eyeing the seat. “My bottom is too wide.”
“Your bottom is perfect.”
“What was that?” She could not have heard him correctly.
He cleared his throat. “I said, we will just squeeze together.”
“I will walk back.”
He grabbed her wrist before she could climb down. “We will squeeze together.” And he yanked her onto the seat beside him. Or more accurately, he situated her onto a sliver of the seat and a large portion of his lap. “Ready!” he called, putting his hands on her waist to hold her steady.
Emmeline swallowed and tried not to think about her bottom touching Stratford’s thighs. She tried even harder not to acknowledge the persistent fluttering back in her belly. This time it seemed to be spreading to other parts of her.
She tried to balance her weight, so she was not fully sitting on him. The dog cart started away, and Emmeline fell back, settling all of her weight on Stratford. His hands closed around her, pulling her back against his chest and securing her bottom against his, er—male parts. At least, that’s where she imagined her bottom was resting.
“Mr. Fortescue,” she began.
“Oh, I’m Mr. Fortescue now, am I?”
“This does not feel entirely proper.”
“It’s only for a few minutes. The horses will cover the distance in no time.”
“Still.” She tried to wriggle away from him, to put some space between her body and his.
He leaned his head close to hers and said in her ear, “Stop wiggling or this will become quite improper.”
From what she felt against her bottom, things had already become quite improper. Was she really responsible for causing that reaction in him? Was it possible he did not mind having her bottom on his lap? She went very still then and though she tried to concentrate on the fields rushing by, it was difficult not to notice how his arms felt warm and strong around her and how his chest was hard...as well as other parts of him. She wished he would speak to her again, his lips against her ear, his mouth so close to her neck.
“You’re trembling, Emmeline,” he said, his mouth right where she had wished it a moment ago.
“Am I?” Even her voice trembled.
“Do I make you that nervous?”
The truth? Yes, he did. She had known him all of her life, known his brothers and sisters all of her life. She had conversed, argued, laughed, and played comfortably with all of them—except him. She’d never been comfortable with Stratford. When he walked into a room, the hair on the back of her arms stood up. She seemed to sense him even before she knew he was there. For his part, he seemed not to notice her at all. He didn’t ignore her, but neither did he make any effort to speak to or engage her. They never had a conversation alone until the first time he escorted her to a ball and was obliged to ask her to dance. And then she’d been so nervous that she couldn’t remember what she’d said or if it had been anything more than one- or two-word phrases.
She’d become more used to him, of course. He’d escorted her to many social events, and she’d developed a sort of careless persona with him. She acted as though she barely noticed him, which was how he had always behaved with her. Except he was actually a very good escort. Stratford was attentive but not so attentive as to chase away any potential prospects—not that she had any. On occasion a less than honorable man would approach her, and Stratford was excellent at intercepting the objectionable man and steering him away.
And then of course it had been Stratford who had come after her. How she wished it had been any of his brothers or his father. She could have easily run away from them. She’d had a dozen chances to run from Stratford. She told herself she did not take advantage of the opportunities because it was not safe for a woman to travel alone. But if she’d wanted to be safe, she would never have run in the first place. The problem was she did not want to leave Stratford. She enjoyed his company. She enjoyed sparring with him. She enjoyed seeing his frustration when she insisted on taking Loftus with them. Sometimes she thought she behaved in certain ways just so he would have to notice her.
And now it was clear that he had noticed her. At least parts of him had noticed her. And though she was flattered and thrilled, and her body was all but quivering with arousal, she was also vaguely ill. She had tried very hard not to feel anything but friendship for him. Now that he touched her, held her, whispered in her ear, she would be devastated when he forgot about her again. It would be better if he never noticed her.
“You? Make me nervous? Of course not,” she lied. He could not help his body’s reaction to a woman pressing against him. She should not make more of it than there was.
“May I make a confession?” he asked.
She turned her head to look at him. That was not the sort of thing he usually said. It didn’t seem possible, but his words made her more nervous. “If you must,” she said cautiously.
“You make me nervous.”
She burst into laughter, and the surgeon actually turned to look back at them, which caused her to cover her mouth and try to tamp down her mirth.
“It’s true,” he said when she had regained her composure. “I never know what you will do next. Even as a child I found your behavior impulsive and erratic. Unpredictability makes me nervous.”
Emmeline straightened. “I was neither impulsive nor erratic. I always had reasons for everything I did. I still do.”
“And what reason do you have for the dog under the box at the moment?”
“He needed help. Anyone would help an injured, hungry animal. That is quite a predictable behavior.” She turned her head to look back at the fields they passed. Looking into his eyes for too long made her nervous all over again.
“If you believe that, you are more innocent of the world than I thought.”
She huffed in response. “I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”
“If you are not erratic and impulsive, explain to me your reasoning that summer at Odham Abbey when you jumped into the pond.”
“I jumped into the pond?” She could not stop herself from looking back at him again. “I don’t remember that.”
“I do. We had gone for a walk and you and Marjorie had come along. You wore a pale blue dress with a white pinafore over it, and your mother had put a blue ribbon in your hair. It had come loose, and you swung it in your hand like a whip.”
Emmeline stared at him. How on earth did he remember all these details? She had no recollection of the dress or the day at all. “How did I end up in the pond?”
“That’s just it. None of us knew why you did it. One moment you were pulling your sister along and the next you scampered to the pond, grabbed the rope we’d tied to the tree branch, swung over the water, and jumped in.”
It was coming back to her now. The memory of swinging on that rope had remained with her. It had been so freeing, so exhilarating.
“My brother and I almost went in after you, but you came up laughing.” He still sounded bewildered.
“As I recall, the water was not very deep. I could stand on the bottom.”
“Which was a good thing because it saved us from having to go in after you and receiving a scolding for ruining our clothing. Yours was bad enough.”
She gave a rueful smile at the memory. Her father’s brows had lifted in surprise when he saw her, and her mother’s face had gone crimson with embarrassment. Emmeline seemed to always be embarrassing her mother.
“It was that sort of behavior that made me nervous. One could never anticipate what you might do next. There was no rhyme or reason to it.”
“Oh, there was a reason for it,” she said. “Several, in fact.”
He turned her sideways so her legs fell between his, her bottom on one of his knees. “What could possibly be the reason?”
“I was cross and hot. What you may not remember was that I was all of about seven. That would have made Marjorie only four, and my mother had probably told me I was responsible for her. And here was my chance to play with the older kids, and I had to take care of a whiny baby who could not keep up. That was my thinking, at any rate.”
“I suppose I understand that reasoning, but why jump in the pond?”
“I knew you boys swam in it, and I was jealous. I wanted to swim in it too, but of course girls aren’t allowed to strip off their clothing and swim like boys do. So when we came upon the water, it looked so cool and inviting. My sister was annoying, and I was hot. And there was the Great Forbidden Pond.”
He chuckled. “It was more of a watering hole than a great anything.”
“Yes, well to me it looked very large. Marjorie tugged on my sleeve one too many times, and I ran away and jumped in.” She gave him a self-satisfied look. “So you see, there was a reason after all.”
“I would have never put all of that together. We all thought you quite mad.”
“And then you became frightened of me.”
“I never said frightened. I said you made me nervous.”
She leaned close and tapped his nose. “And a little bit scared. Admit it.”
He looked into her eyes, and she realized how close they were. For a moment she thought he might kiss her. The idea terrified her, and yet she wanted it more than anything else. Except if he kissed her it would probably be as much a disaster as her foray into the pond had been. That had been thrilling in the moment and something she was made to atone for even weeks later. If Stratford kissed her, everything would change. Would things become awkward between them? Or would they behave as perhaps they’d always been meant to? And how could she not be disappointed if he did not kiss her?
“Whoa,” the surgeon said to the horses as the dog cart slowed. Stratford looked away from her, and she followed his gaze until she saw they were on Pope’s drive.
“Whoa now,” the surgeon said.
Emmeline sighed. It was probably for the best. How scandalous would it have been if he’d kissed her as they rode on the back of a dog cart? It would have been—dare she think it?—erratic and impulsive behavior. And there was one thing she knew about Stratford Fortescue. He was never erratic or impulsive.