Emma and the Earl. Elizabeth Harbison
It wasn’t one of her new “going to London” outfits, but it was an old favorite that she felt comfortable in.
Her hair, as usual, was proving to be a problem. It fell halfway down her back in a thick tangle of auburn curls. After trying several possibilities, she finally decided to let it hang in wild curls about her shoulders. Luckily all the latest fashion magazines were heralding that look as “pre-Raphaelite fabulous,” which she supposed was a good thing. She brushed some color on her cheeks and lips, the way the girl at the drugstore had taught her, and went downstairs to wait for John.
She went to the front step and sat in the balmy evening air, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of London. The sky was deepening blue, with streaks of lipstick pink stretching across the horizon. Some of the birds in the leafy green trees were singing new songs, unfamiliar to Emma.
A small blue car pulled up outside the hotel. That, Emma realized as she looked at its tiny dimensions, must be what they call a Mini. There was a man in it, alone. Her heart tripped. It was almost certainly John. The time had finally come.
The man got out of the car and walked toward the hotel. He was tall, with a lean, muscular build. His dark hair, just a bit longish at the collar, gleamed in the amber evening sunlight, bringing Sir Lancelot to mind.
But nothing could have prepared her for the exquisite dignity of his face or, more specifically, her heart-pounding reaction to it. Even from a distance, she was struck by the masculine square jaw, and the sensual perfection of his curved mouth. His cheekbones were strong and noble-looking without being so high as to be “pretty.” As he drew closer, she could see that his straight dark brows framed pale, intelligent eyes. Eyes that made her feel, for one irrational moment, that she was home.
“Hello,” he said, nearing her.
“Hi,” she said, but it sounded like a question. Was it him? Was it really him?
He stopped before her and cocked his head slightly to the side. “Emma?”
She gave a slight nod—the best she could do, considering the fact that his looks had practically paralyzed her—and only then realized that she’d been holding her breath.
He smiled, extending his hand. “I’m John Turnhill.”
It was him. Had she ever even imagined he would be so handsome? That old familiar self-consciousness about her own looks resurfaced. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand.
He held her gaze easily as he took her hand in his. “You are exactly as I imagined.”
Something about the way he said it put her at ease. She believed him, and it was okay. “Am I?”
“Exactly.” He let go of her hand and they started to walk side-by-side to the car. “So how do you like London so far, Emma?”
“I really love it,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear her thundering heart. It had to be nerves, she told herself. After all, this was John. She knew him already, there was nothing to be nervous about.
“Good. I’ve chosen a little place for dinner just around the corner in Hampstead Heath.” His voice was low and rich, with a perfectly measured English accent. That part of it was as she’d imagined. “I hope you like French food?”
He had once mentioned in his letters wanting to take her to the famous Thames Gate Restaurant. Had he changed his mind? She had the unwelcome thought that perhaps he was embarrassed to be seen with her since she wasn’t beautiful. But he wasn’t like that, she knew he wasn’t. It was probably just because he was on a budget, like she was. It was all well and good to say you wanted to take someone to a fancy restaurant, but it wasn’t so easily done. “Yes, I love French food,” she said. “That sounds great.”
“I realize it’s not typically British, but the food is quite good, and it’s in one of London’s most Dickensian spots. I thought you’d prefer that to boiled potatoes in the business district.”
She laughed. “You made the right call.”
He led her to the Mini and opened the door for her. She smiled and, as gracefully as possible, folded her five-foot-eight-inch frame into the car. John had to be at least six feet tall, probably taller. The Mini seemed like an odd choice of car for him, though he had less trouble getting in gracefully than she had.
Driving it was another story. After he ground the gear into first and lurched the car out into the street, they drove in silence for a couple of miles before John said, “I have to admit, this is a bit awkward for me.”
“It is a funny little car,” she agreed, wondering why the car struck her as so discordant with the man.
He gave a brief laugh. “No—well, yes, but I meant meeting this way. After all this time.”
“Oh, that. Me, too.” She glanced at him, but her self-consciousness surged again, and she decided it was best to concentrate on the passing scenery so she could actually get a few sentences out without being dazzled by his looks. “You know, suddenly I feel like we don’t really know each other at all.” She glanced back at him.
He gave a sober nod. “I think it’s safe to say there are a lot of things we don’t know about each other.” He glanced over at her as he drew to a halt at a pedestrian crossing. “Quite a lot.”
A tremor buzzed through her. Excitement? Or trepidation? She couldn’t say. “Sounds like someone’s got some skeletons in the closet. Or the tower.”
“The tower?” He glanced at her, then put the car back into gear and edged forward.
“You know, the Tower of London.” She laughed nervously, immediately embarrassed at the lame joke and wishing she could take it back. “Sorry, I’ve had the aristocracy on my mind for the past few days.” That didn’t come out right either. “I mean, it’s impossible not to in a city like this. It can really make an ordinary person feel like a peasant.”
“Ah.” He watched the road in front of him, but she noticed his grip adjust and tighten on the steering wheel. “Well, chimney sweep or…or earl, isn’t it what’s inside that counts?”
She breathed a sigh of relief. He was picking it up instead of just letting her comment fall with a thud. “I’ve always thought it only mattered what was on the inside.” She looked at his handsome profile and smiled to herself. Nothing wrong with that outside though, she thought. “As long as you’re honest about it.”
He stiffened and kept his eyes fastened on the road. “Right.” He turned the car into a sleepy Georgian block just north of Hampstead Heath. The street was lined with tall trees, and narrow alleys with tiny shops: booksellers, herbalists, boutiques. Several pubs that they passed had tables set up outside. “Although sometimes people have very good reasons for not telling the truth.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know that there’s ever a good reason to lie to someone you care about and trust.” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. Several months ago, she’d finally told John about an incident which had nearly destroyed her career and had wreaked havoc with her emotions.
Eight years back, when she’d been working at a pharmaceutical laboratory, her supervisor had helped himself to the inventory after hours using a magnetized identification card that was linked to Emma, just in case he got caught. He’d been careful to use the duplicate card only late at night, when Emma wasn’t likely to come in with her original card. He’d viewed her as a plain Jane, correctly guessing that she would have little or no social life, and thus no alibi for her late-night hours. She’d been the perfect person to frame. Indeed, when the crime was detected, Emma had been under heavy scrutiny for the first several weeks of the investigation.
When all was said and done, the worst part of it for Emma was knowing that her supervisor had been stealing for months and lying to her all that time. She would never have dreamed he was betraying her that way.
“I know you feel strongly about telling the truth,” John said, parking in front of