In 1783 peace has been declared,
but war still rages in the heart of Lark Benton.
Never did Lark think she’d
want to escape Emerson Fielding, the man she’s loved all her life. But when he
betrays her, she flees Williamsburg for Annapolis, taking refuge in the
nation’s temporary capital. There lark throws herself into a new circle of
friends who force her to examine all she believes.
Emerson follows, determined to
reclaim his betrothed. Surprised when she refuses to return with him, he
realizes that in this new nation he has come to call his own, duty is no longer
enough. He must learn to open his heart and soul to something greater—before he
loses all he should have been fighting to hold.
Chapter One
Endover Plantation,
outside Williamsburg, Virginia
25 November 1783
Perhaps if Lark
recited the pirate’s code it would steal his attention. She could try standing
on her head. Or if those options failed—as surely they would—she could throw
herself to the floor before him.
Except Emerson
Fielding was as likely to mistake her for a rug as to realize he ought to help
her up. Lark indulged in a long sigh and cast her gaze out the window. The
plantation lay dormant and brown. Most days saw Papa and Wiley in Williamsburg,
swapping stories at R. Charlton’s Coffeehouse. Emerson usually met them there,
which was why this was the first she’d seen him in a month. Heaven knew he
wanted only to see them, never her.
She wished her heart
hadn’t fluttered when he entered the room. Wished the disappointment hadn’t
followed so quickly when he barely glanced her way. Wished she had the courage
to command his attention…and he the sense to give it without her command.
Life would be so much
easier if she weren’t in love with Emerson Fielding. But what young lady
wouldn’t be captivated by those dark eyes, the strong features, the height that
left him towering above other men?
Today his hair was
unpowdered and gleamed sable. He was in undress, his coat the common one he
wore every day, unlike what he was sure to don for her birthday dinner that
evening. His smile lit up his eyes, his laugh lit up the room.
Neither one did he
direct toward her.
Lark’s gaze flicked
down to the emerald on her finger. Two years. Twenty-four months. Seven hundred
thirty interminable days. Not that she was keeping account.
“Hendricks ought to
be at the coffeehouse about now,” her brother said, standing. He tugged his
waistcoat into place and tightened the band around his hair. “We have just
enough time for a cup of chocolate with him.”
She would not sigh
again, it would be redundant. Why protest the usual, even if today was supposed
to be distinctive?
As if reading her
mind, Wiley flashed a twinkling gaze her way and grinned. “Of course, you will
want to wish my dear sister happy returns before we head out, Emerson. I shall
go fetch my overcoat and hat while you do so.”
For the first time in
the two hours he had been there, Emerson looked her way. And like every time he
looked her way, she wished she had more to offer his gaze. Perhaps if she
shared the golden-haired beauty of her mother and sister, his eyes mightn’t go
empty upon spotting her.
He smiled the
practiced smile gentlemen were taught to wear in company, not the earnest one
he shared with her brother. “Are you having a pleasant birthday, darling?”
An unexpected wave of
anger crashed over her. “Do you never tire of using endearments you don’t
mean?”
Well, that earned a
spark in his eyes. Not exactly one of delight or affection, though. “I take it
you are not having a pleasant day. Well, perhaps I can brighten it.” He
reached into his pocket, pulled out a box covered in a scrap of printed calico.
She could manage no
enthusiasm for what was sure to be another gift of jewels. He never seemed to
grasp that she wanted no more things. She wanted his love—something he
was either unwilling or incapable of giving. “What is it?”
His smile was right,
teasing. But no secret knowledge nested in his expression. “Open it and see.”
“You haven’t any
idea, have you?” She shook her head and looked out the window again as he
strode toward her chair. His mother had undoubtedly foisted it upon him as he
left, otherwise he wouldn’t have remembered what the date signified.
She often wondered if
his mother had also foisted that first gift of jewels upon him two years
before.
His breath hissed
out. “Of course I know what it is, but you shan’t cajole it out of me. You will
have to open it yourself to see.”
The wrapped box
appeared under her nose. She took it, careful to avoid brushing his
outstretched palm with her fingers. It would only make awareness shiver up her
arm, an unnecessary reminder of her unrequited attachment. Once she held it,
though, she made no move to untie the ribbon.
Emerson shifted,
impatience coming off him in waves. “Open it, Lark.”
She shook herself.
“But of course. I am certain you wish to hasten to your coffee and
conversation. What will the topic be today? Congresses, constitutions, or crop
rotations?”
Wiley would have
appreciated the alliteration. Emerson greeted it with a rudely arched brow.
Tempted to return the insult and roll her eyes, she tugged at the bow. Unfolded
the cloth. Lifted the lid of the small wooden box.
Lessons in propriety
had never covered how to handle a surprise like this. Lark gasped.
Emerson muttered a
curse that proved he not only knew not what present lay inside, he disapproved
of his mother’s selection.
She leapt to her feet
and shoved the glittering diamond necklace into his stomach. “Absolutely not. I
cannot accept that.”
His hand caught the
box, but a war to rival the Revolution charged across his face. He wanted to
take the jewels back, without question. But pride would not allow him. He held
out the box. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want you to have it.”
An unladylike snort
nearly slipped out. “Yes, that was apparent from your reaction. I will not,
Emerson. Your sisters have told me of this necklace, and I shan’t accept the
most valuable possession in the Fielding family—especially when it becomes
increasingly clear I will never be a member of said family.”
Thunder darkened his
complexion. “What madness is this? You are my betrothed, and you will accept
the gifts I give you.”
The emerald on her
left hand felt heavy. “Perhaps what I ought to do is return the ones you have
already given. They are naught but mockery.”
She reached for the
clasp of the bracelet that matched the ring. Her breath caught when his fingers
closed around her wrist. He all but growled. “You will do no such thing.”
“Prithee, why not?”
Though she struggled to pull free, he held tight to her arm. “’Tis obvious
you’ve no desire to make me your wife. For two years you have dodged every
mention of nuptials, making a fool of me in front of our families and friends.
For the life of me, I know not why you ever proposed. Release me.”
He shook his head.
“Calm yourself, Lark. Is that what this is about? The blasted wedding date?
Deuces, I would agree to any date you want, if you would just be reasonable!”
“I have had my fill
of reason. I want a morsel of your regard, and I will not marry you without
it.” She gave one more vain tug against his fingers. “I tire of being alone at
your side, Emerson. I cannot subject myself to a lifetime of it.”
Through the tears
burning her eyes, she saw his face harden, then relax. His grip eased, but he
did not release her wrist. Simply pulled it down and then held her hand. The
warmth that seeped into her palm belied the cool words she had spoken.
Yet his smile was no
more than it had ever been. “I have been remiss, darling, and I apologize. I
assure you, you are my chosen bride. It has simply been a struggle to readjust
to social life. After Yorktown…”
Anger snapped at her
heels again, largely because of the compassion he called up with the mere
mention of Yorktown. How could anyone—man, woman, or child—argue with one who
had been at the dreadful battle? The moment a soldier uttered that word, all
arguments necessarily ceased.
In this particular
case she could not help but think he used it for that very purpose. “Emerson—”
“I shall make it up
to you. Let us set a date this moment, and I will be the figure of devotion.”
The idea seemed to pain him—his smile turned to a grimace. For a man with a
reputation as a charmer, he did a remarkable job of dashing her heart to
pieces.
She sucked in a long
breath. “I shan’t hold you to the engagement. If you—”
“Not another word of
such nonsense. Let us say the first Sunday in March, shall we? The worst of the
winter weather ought to be over by then. We can announce it to our parents this
evening.”
It should have
brought joy instead of defeat. It should have lit hope instead of despair.
He pressed the
necklace back into her hands. “Take it, my darling. Wear it on our wedding
day.”
Before she could
decide whether to relent or argue, he pressed a kiss to her fingers and fled
the room as if the hounds of Hades nipped at his heels. Lark sank back into her
chair and flipped open the box so she could stare at the large, perfect gems
resting within.
Why did the thought
of marrying her light such fires of panic under him? Lark rested her cheek
against her palm and let her tears come.
She should have tried
the pirate’s code.
Emerson scraped the
tavern chair across the wooden floor, fell onto its hard seat, and, for the
first time in his memory, wished Wiley Benton would hold his tongue for five
blasted minutes. He barely saw the familiar whitewashed walls, the wainscoting,
the multitude of friendly faces. His mind still reeled, wrestling with images
of those blinding diamonds—and the equally blinding tears in Lark’s eyes.
What had Mother been
thinking, blithely handing off the most valuable Fielding possessions? The
diamonds—to Lark. It was beyond fathoming. They would overwhelm her. Eclipse
rather than complement. And to have them abiding outside Fielding Hall for the
next several months…
Still, he should not
have lost his head. Then she wouldn’t have lost hers, and he wouldn’t have
talked himself straight into a trap.
“What can I bring you
gentlemen today?”
He looked up at the
tavern’s owner but couldn’t dredge up a smile. No matter—Wiley would smile
enough for the both of them. “Chocolate,” his friend said.
“Make mine coffee, if
you please, sir.”
“That I will. And I
shall direct Hendricks your way. He and the governor are chatting in the back
corner.”
“In a few moments,”
Emerson answered before Wiley could supply what was sure to be thankful
acceptance.
As the proprietor
stalked off, Wiley lifted his brows in that particular way that bespoke both
humor and confusion. “What plagues you, man? You have been playing the
dunderhead ever since we left Endover.”
“I played it while
there too.” Indulging in a mild oath, he swept his tricorn off his head and
plopped it onto the table between them. “I upset your sister.”
“Lark?”
“Well, your other
sister was hardly there to be upset.”
Wiley took his hat
off as well, his confusion plain on his face. “But Lark is so rarely in an ill
temper. She especially shouldn’t have been, given the good news of our cousin’s
delayed arrival.”
Under normal
circumstances, Emerson would have been amused at his friend’s perpetual dislike
of the family soon arriving from Philadelphia. At this moment he gave not a
fig who was coming or when. “Apparently all it takes is overreacting when one
sees one’s mother wrapped up the family diamonds for her.”
Wiley looked near to
choking. “The ones your father goes ever on about? That had belonged to the
countess?”
“The very ones.”
Wiley let out a muted
whistle. “I cannot conceive she accepted them. Especially if you seemed
opposed.”
“I had already
insisted I knew what the gift was, though I did not. Then rather than returning
just the diamonds, she grew angry and made to return all the Fielding
jewels.”
Wiley’s eyes widened,
and he leaned over the table. “What did you say to her?”
Emerson waved him
off. “It hardly matters. I smoothed matters over, and we decided on a wedding
date. The first Sunday of March.”
Instead of seeming
satisfied, Wiley’s gaze went probing, and then accusing. “So simply? After
shifting the topic away from the wedding each time my parents mentioned it the
past two years? Frankly, Emerson, we have all doubted your intentions of making
good on your promise.”
“Of course I intend
to make good on it.” It was an advantageous match all round. The Bentons were a
wealthy, respected family, perfectly equal to the Fieldings. Lark herself
would make an excellent wife. She was well bred, well taught, not homely—if not
as lovely as her sister, who was now Mrs. Hendricks. Sweet of temperament—today
aside. He liked her well enough and expected he would come to love her in a
decade or so, once they had a brood of children between them.
And she loved him, as
his own sisters had pointed out two years ago.
Wiley narrowed his
eyes. “Emerson, you know I would welcome you eagerly into our family, but I
confess the longer this drags out, the more misgivings I have. You treat my
sister no differently now than you did when she was a child, dogging your heels
and sending us up a tree to escape her.”
Perhaps that was the
problem. She still seemed twelve to him, as she had been when he’d returned
from England to fight for freedom from it. She still looked at him with the
same blind adoration, still sat silently by whenever he was near.
That would change
once they were wed though, surely.
“Emerson.” Wiley’s
tone had turned hard, though barely more than a murmur. “I will see my sister
happy. If you still dream of Elizabeth, if you cannot love Lark, then release
her from the betrothal and let her find someone who can.”
The name snapped his
spine straight. Fight as he might against it, the image nonetheless surfaced of
a woman as opposite Lark as one could find. Did he dream of her? Only in his
worst nightmares. “Rest assured your sister is loved.”
His friend’s eyes
narrowed. “If I did not know better, I would call that a cunning evasion. Loved
she is. But I would have her loved by you.”
As would he. He could
manage it, assuredly. He simply must put his mind to it, as he had to Newton’s Principia
Mathematica back at King William’s School. “You have no reason to fear for
your sister’s heart, Wiley. I will be a good husband.”
In three short
months.
“You look more
frightened than when we saw our first Redcoats advancing, muskets at the
ready.” Amusement laced its way through the frustration in Wiley’s tone. “I
would have many a laugh over this were it not my favorite sister that made you
wince so.”
“I am not wincing.”
Much.
“Benton, Fielding!
There you are.” Hendricks’s voice came from the corner of the room, where the
man had stood and waved a greeting to them. “I shall join you in a moment.”
“We await you
eagerly,” Wiley replied with his usual grin. When he turned back around, it
shifted and hardened into the expression few knew. But Emerson did, from the
field of battle. It was the look that had always appeared on his friend’s face
moments before he let out a war cry and charged into the thick of things. “If
you hurt Lark,” he murmured so quietly Emerson could barely hear him, “I will
kill you—or make you wish I had.”
“I know you would.
’Tis not at issue.” Twenty-five years of friendship had not been threatened by
competition, an ocean’s distance, or the ravages of war. He would not allow it
to be distressed by one small, unassuming woman.
(c) 2018 Roseanna White
All rights reserved.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Roseanna M. White is
a bestselling, Christy Award nominated author who has long claimed that words
are the air she breathes. When not writing fiction, she’s homeschooling her two
kids, editing, designing book covers, and pretending her house will clean
itself. Roseanna is the author of a slew of historical novels that span several
continents and thousands of years. Spies and war and mayhem always seem to find
their way into her books…to offset her real life, which is blessedly ordinary.
You can learn more about her and her stories at www.RoseannaMWhite.com.
