should you find me intimidating?”
He studied her for a moment. “You’re not like any woman I’ve known before. You’re different.”
Emma, despite the slight acceleration of her heart at his words, refused to show it. “Different…how?” she asked coolly. “Because I reek of the barnyard?”
“You won’t let me live that down, will you?”
“Never.”
“Most women of my acquaintance,” he said as his glance surveyed the other guests, “are open books. Take Martine, for instance.”
She followed his gaze to the girl, talking and laughing over a tray of lemon tarts with Mr Churchill. He leaned forward to say something in her ear; she blushed, and giggled.
“She wears her every thought, every emotion, on her sleeve,” he went on, warming to the subject. “There are no secrets, no hidden depths. No layers to be removed, one by one, to get to the essence of who she is – a pretty, if somewhat vacuous, country girl who wants only to fall in love, get married, and have children.”
“And you know all of this just from observing her,” Emma said, and raised her brow.
“I do. She’s sweet-natured, trusting, uncomplicated.” He looked at her. “You, on the other hand, are very complicated. You have hidden depths. You’re not an easy person to know. You carry yourself in such a way as to make yourself unapproachable. Intimidating. Prickly.”
“And am I supposed to be complimented by your observations, Mr Knightley? Am I to be gratified to be compared to a – a cactus?”
He shrugged and leaned back. “Take it however you wish.” He glanced again at Martine. “But you’ll never be an open book, like Martine, or – although I admit I barely know her – as transparent as your boy-crazy sister Charlotte. And nor should you be. You’re a challenge. A mystery.”
Emma stood and brushed off her skirts. “Well, I don’t know whether to be insulted or honoured, Mr Knightley.”
“Mark,” he corrected her once again, and stood as well. “I’ll leave you to decide.”
“You have a great many layers yourself, I suspect. Rather like an onion. But I’m not entirely sure that I want to peel them back,” she added tartly. “I might not like what I find.”
And as she walked back up the path to the terrace, Emma heard the low sound of his laughter behind her.
***
“Such a lovely party!” Mrs Cusack enthused as Emma made her way to the kitchen to replenish the sandwich tray. “Your father’s scones are delicious.” She couldn’t quite hide her surprise.
“He’s come a long way in a short time,” Emma agreed. “Where is your niece? Is she enjoying herself? I introduced her to as many people as I could.”
“Oh, yes, she’s having a marvelous time.” The older woman shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun and scanned the assembled guests from her vantage point on the terrace. “She’s over there by the rose garden, talking to that nice Mr Churchill.”
Emma followed Mrs Cusack’s gaze. Sure enough, Isabella Fairfax and the new owner of Crossley Hall were engaged in conversation under the pergola at the far end of the garden. The two of them appeared to be having a discussion of some import. Neither was smiling, and Isabella looked tense and guarded.
“I didn’t realise your niece and Mr Churchill knew each other,” Emma said, and frowned.
“They don’t. They only just met today,” Mrs Cusack added, “but they’re getting along like a house afire, aren’t they? Such a pleasant young man that Mr Churchill is.” She leaned forward and added in a conspiratorial tone, “Perhaps there’ll be another wedding here in Litchfield soon.”
Emma’s smile was polite. “Perhaps.” She was about to excuse herself and turn away to the kitchen when another man made his way down the garden path to join Isabella and James.
Mark Knightley.
He extended his hand to James and Miss Fairfax in turn and engaged Isabella in conversation. Her face dimpled into smiles, and she let
He studied her for a moment. “You’re not like any woman I’ve known before. You’re different.”
Emma, despite the slight acceleration of her heart at his words, refused to show it. “Different…how?” she asked coolly. “Because I reek of the barnyard?”
“You won’t let me live that down, will you?”
“Never.”
“Most women of my acquaintance,” he said as his glance surveyed the other guests, “are open books. Take Martine, for instance.”
She followed his gaze to the girl, talking and laughing over a tray of lemon tarts with Mr Churchill. He leaned forward to say something in her ear; she blushed, and giggled.
“She wears her every thought, every emotion, on her sleeve,” he went on, warming to the subject. “There are no secrets, no hidden depths. No layers to be removed, one by one, to get to the essence of who she is – a pretty, if somewhat vacuous, country girl who wants only to fall in love, get married, and have children.”
“And you know all of this just from observing her,” Emma said, and raised her brow.
“I do. She’s sweet-natured, trusting, uncomplicated.” He looked at her. “You, on the other hand, are very complicated. You have hidden depths. You’re not an easy person to know. You carry yourself in such a way as to make yourself unapproachable. Intimidating. Prickly.”
“And am I supposed to be complimented by your observations, Mr Knightley? Am I to be gratified to be compared to a – a cactus?”
He shrugged and leaned back. “Take it however you wish.” He glanced again at Martine. “But you’ll never be an open book, like Martine, or – although I admit I barely know her – as transparent as your boy-crazy sister Charlotte. And nor should you be. You’re a challenge. A mystery.”
Emma stood and brushed off her skirts. “Well, I don’t know whether to be insulted or honoured, Mr Knightley.”
“Mark,” he corrected her once again, and stood as well. “I’ll leave you to decide.”
“You have a great many layers yourself, I suspect. Rather like an onion. But I’m not entirely sure that I want to peel them back,” she added tartly. “I might not like what I find.”
And as she walked back up the path to the terrace, Emma heard the low sound of his laughter behind her.
***
“Such a lovely party!” Mrs Cusack enthused as Emma made her way to the kitchen to replenish the sandwich tray. “Your father’s scones are delicious.” She couldn’t quite hide her surprise.
“He’s come a long way in a short time,” Emma agreed. “Where is your niece? Is she enjoying herself? I introduced her to as many people as I could.”
“Oh, yes, she’s having a marvelous time.” The older woman shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun and scanned the assembled guests from her vantage point on the terrace. “She’s over there by the rose garden, talking to that nice Mr Churchill.”
Emma followed Mrs Cusack’s gaze. Sure enough, Isabella Fairfax and the new owner of Crossley Hall were engaged in conversation under the pergola at the far end of the garden. The two of them appeared to be having a discussion of some import. Neither was smiling, and Isabella looked tense and guarded.
“I didn’t realise your niece and Mr Churchill knew each other,” Emma said, and frowned.
“They don’t. They only just met today,” Mrs Cusack added, “but they’re getting along like a house afire, aren’t they? Such a pleasant young man that Mr Churchill is.” She leaned forward and added in a conspiratorial tone, “Perhaps there’ll be another wedding here in Litchfield soon.”
Emma’s smile was polite. “Perhaps.” She was about to excuse herself and turn away to the kitchen when another man made his way down the garden path to join Isabella and James.
Mark Knightley.
He extended his hand to James and Miss Fairfax in turn and engaged Isabella in conversation. Her face dimpled into smiles, and she let
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