He dodged the missile with ease. Mrs. Spencer issued a sternish reprimand without much weight behind it while Benedict hid a chuckle by taking a sip of perfectly brewed coffee.
He relished this atmosphere filled with wholesome kinship and unconditional love.
Which brought his attention back to Emma, whose honey blonde hair gleamed in response to the flickering candlelight. Her eyes were, as always, filled with the very enthusiasm of being alive. She delighted in everything, and he adored that about her. He always had.
She turned to Jane, her mouth – a gorgeous feature he'd become increasingly aware of this past year – lifting in a pretty smile as she spoke, too low for him to hear.
Benedict's heart swelled with affection. He'd known Emma since she’d been a bright pink newborn baby – an odd creature from the perspective of a five–year–old boy.
By the time she herself had turned five, she'd declared him to be the odd looking one with chubby cheeks that did not seem to match his gangly frame. But that hadn't stopped her from traipsing after him, bugging him with the most impossible questions or simply trying to be a part of the fun he found with her brother.
They'd done their best to include her and her sisters whenever they wished. But then Emma had turned eighteen and it was as if Benedict's view had narrowed to one startling truth: Emma had grown into a stunning woman, and he, as a man, desired her beyond all reason.
Confusion and guilt and fear to some degree followed. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, so he'd stayed away and added distance for a while in the hope his response to her might abate. It had not. If anything, it had become harder to manage, though he’d become better at hiding his desire.
It wouldn’t do for him to wreck the sense of belonging he’d found with the Spencers by making things awkward. Not that they would disapprove of him marrying either of the available daughters, but if he bungled it – if he made an offer and got rejected – he knew things would change. And that wasn’t something he was prepared for.
Certainly not when Emma had offered no hint of harboring anything more than sisterly affection for him. She treated him as a friend, for God’s sake. Nothing more. Not once had she blushed in his presence or held his gaze across a room for longer than what was appropriate.
Instead, she’d begun retreating when he drew too near, avoiding even the barest touch. It was as if she sensed his attraction but wanted no part of it. Judging from the fact that she’d also turned away with disinterest when he’d talked of seeking a bride this coming Season, she had zero interest in him as a romantic partner.
Relief mingled with heartache. At least he hadn’t done something foolish like tell her he loved her. Which he did. Irrevocably.
Depressed by that thought, or more precisely by his pointless yearning, he decided it might be best if he said goodnight and returned to Croftenrich Park. A good night’s sleep would help cure his woes. Tomorrow he’d feel more himself and less like the pathetic swain he secretly was.
On that thought, he stood. “I thank you for your excellent hospitality this evening. It has, as always, been lovely. But I fear the hour grows late and I must depart.”
“I’ll walk you out,” George said while Emma’s mind whirled in a desperate attempt to find an excuse to make Benedict stay a while longer so she could fulfill the dare.
George leaned forward, prepared to get up as well, when Jane suddenly said, “Actually, there’s something I must discuss with you at once, George. Perhaps Emma can see Mr. Townsend to his carriage instead?”
“Or I could do it,” Papa said. He prepared to push himself out of his seat.
“No,” Jane said, so fiercely everyone froze. All eyes were suddenly upon her and Emma, who feared she might melt into a puddle of utter embarrassment. Her sister was not being even remotely subtle. Indeed, she might as well have told everyone Emma desired to be alone with Mr. Townsend. “You’ll want to hear what I am about to say as well, Papa.”
Papa frowned, his sharp gaze moving from Jane to Emma and back again. “Can it not wait?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Jane informed him while boldly holding his sharp gaze.
Intent on pretending all was as it should be, Emma attempted a smile and stood. “It’s all right. I’m happy to show Mr. Townsend out while Jane confides whatever it is that’s of such great importance. Provided Mr. Townsend doesn’t mind, that is.”
She’d effectively handed the reins to Benedict and held her breath now in anticipation of how he’d respond. So did everyone else, it seemed. No one made a sound, not even Sarah or Mama, until he gave a nod of agreement. “That would be fine. Shall we, Emma?”
Swallowing, Emma fought the nerves doing somersaults in her belly and crossed to the door while Benedict thanked her family once again and repeated his goodbyes.
Once in the hallway with the parlor door shut behind them, he caught her by the elbow. “What’s going on?”
“I, um… Nothing. But I do believe I’ll need my shawl if I’m to accompany you onto the front step. Let’s take a small detour.” Heart thumping like mad, she pulled her arm away from his grasp and headed toward the library, the only place where mistletoe hung, and prayed he’d follow. She still had no clue how to get to the kissing part, but hopefully she’d figure that out once they were in the right spot.
The idea of telling Jane she had accomplished her goal, even if she hadn’t, flittered through her mind for the briefest of seconds. Her sister would most likely quiz Mr. Townsend later, so unless Emma told him about the dare and he agreed to pretend she’d followed through with it – a conversation more difficult than the dare itself – she’d be found out.
And besides, what sort of coward faked a dare and lied about it to her sister? She’d not feel right about doing so. Indeed, she’d likely reveal the truth eventually, and then she’d be no better off than if she’d lost without saying a word about it to Mr. Townsend.
Increasingly anxious with each step, she almost sagged with relief when she entered the library and saw the mistletoe hanging near the fireplace. This might not be so difficult after all. Slowing, she paid close attention to the tread of Mr. Townsend’s shoes as he followed her into the room.
“I believe I left a shawl on one of the chairs this afternoon. Perhaps you can help me find it?” She paused as if distracted by a book, offering Mr. Townsend the chance to pass her. “This was a good one. Have you read it?”
“I might be able to let you know if you tell me which book you’re referring to,” Mr. Townsend said, his tone indicating he thought it rather odd she’d decided to browse the shelves when she’d suggested they search for her shawl.
This was fine. The important thing was he moved toward the chairs that stood near the fireplace, which would soon put him right beneath the mistletoe.
“Oh, it’s, um…” Emma glanced at the random book she’d selected and frowned. “The Ladies’ Guide to Needlework and Embroidery.”
“Oh indeed,” Mr. Townsend murmured. “I’ve browsed that particular book on numerous occasions in case a lady should ever require my assistance repairing a hem.”
Emma set the book aside with a chuckle and crossed to where he now stood, exactly where she needed him to be. He glanced at her as she approached, allowing her to see the curiosity playing in his eyes. “There’s no shawl here. Are you sure you didn’t leave it somewhere else?”