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“That’s a horrible thought.” Will looked down at her, then turned them back into the dance, this time moving in time with the music-box tune. “I’ve missed waltzing with you,” he said softly.
“You have? We agreed to only share one dance at each soiree.”
“Yes. The last dance. Which generally isn’t a waltz.”
She glanced up at him, then leveled her gaze at his cravat. “Dancing with our guests and friends is important.”
“I don’t disagree. But I always have looked most forward to that last dance. Especially when it’s a waltz.”
For a moment they glided about the room, silent but for the tinny waltz. As the music began to slow, her heart did the opposite. Will took a breath and removed his hand from her waist. Shifting his grip on her fingers, he led her over to the couch by the wall.
“I find myself rather relieved, despite George’s prevarications,” he said, sitting and drawing her down beside him. “We aren’t at odds after all, it seems. We’ve been friends forever, and I always thought we had a good… partnership, and lately I’ve thought that we…” He stroked a thumb along the back of her hand. “I’ve enjoyed spending more time in your company, Emmeline.”
Oh. Of course they were friends, but now he was regarding her very intently. A damned handsome man, he was. She’d tried telling herself they were practically brother and sister, growing up in each other’s pockets, but that had never been it. He’d been a boy, and she’d wanted a house. She had the house, but he wasn’t a boy any longer.
The shiver that ran down her spine now, though, was nerves, but not… nervousness. A heightened awareness. For goodness’ sake, he was distracting, in a way she couldn’t before recall. She did know all about his charm, though, because she’d helped him refine it. “You thought me a cold fish, Will.”
“I never called you that, for God’s sake,” he countered, his fingers warm around hers. They hadn’t held hands for this long in ages. Ever, really. “I have long admired your precision. Your logical bent, the way you see a challenge and unfailingly find a way to both succeed and exceed all expectations.”
“That’s nice of you to say. Thank you. And I have long admired, and envied, I suppose, your ability to win over an entire room with a well-placed smile or a single word or two.”
“But you do have your doubts that my charming ways will suffice where the Fletcher children are concerned.”
“I did not say that to George,” she stated. “Though if we’re being honest, I may have mentioned to Hannah that on occasion I have found your charm… aggravating, as it leaves me to wield the metaphorical hammer.”
She thought that statement would more than likely end the conversation, but Will only turned his gaze toward the windows on the opposite side of the room. “I have maintained that it’s more important to make certain the children enjoy their time here than that they learn some of the minutiae we’ve put before them. I was wrong. But I think we need to alter our approach, regardless.”
“I agree. We need to be united, Will, or those two will take over Winnover Hall and have us running for the hills.”
He looked at her again, the serious lines around his eyes easing. “Agreed. They’re children, but they’re also wily. We need to be wilier. And united.” With that, he leaned closer and kissed her, very gently touching his mouth to hers. “To our new partnership.”
Now the flutter down her spine felt more like excitement, though she should have been far too long-ago-married to feel such a thing. Before she could think herself out of being impulsive, Emmie tipped up her head and kissed him back. “To success.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“And who is this?” Emmeline asked, bending down to tuck a yellow strand of the little girl’s hair behind one ear.
“That’d be Margaret,” Mrs. Pennywhistle said with a confused-looking smile. “My youngest. You know Robby, my middle boy. He’s the one delivers you the mail.”
“Oh yes, Robby! He’s a fine young man.”
“A bit of a scamp, if you ask me, but I’d be proud to see him postmaster one day,” his mother responded.
Will, standing to one side of the women, took in Mrs. Pennywhistle again. She was a tall woman without curves, and while she didn’t have the look of utter exhaustion about her that Jenny Dawkins with her fourteen children did, neither did she seem even remotely ready to take on the Fletcher children—even if she’d wanted that task.
“Emmeline,” he said quietly, as the women continued chatting. “No.”
With a slight nod she bade the Pennywhistle females good day, and returned to wrap one hand around his forearm. “We’re running out of families,” she said, giving a smile and wave to Peter Grumby, Birdlip’s stablemaster.
“We’d probably have better luck in Gloucester.”
“But Gloucester is miles away.” She sighed as they continued down the cobblestoned street in the direction of the church. “Yes, I know, distance from Winnover isn’t the point. It’s about finding a suitable family for George and Rose.”
“And budding felons though they are, it wouldn’t please me never to be able to see them again, either. Logically, the more complicated having the children about becomes, the more eager I should be to see them gone, but it seems to be just the opposite.” Every mishap only reminded him how very clever they were, how enterprising and imaginative, and how much he wanted them to have a life where they could simply be children.
“I know what you mean, Will,” she murmured. “But what choice do we have?”
“None. And luckily Gloucester isn’t that far; it’s better than London or York or Cornwall.”