A Highland Duchess by Karen Ranney

chuckled, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “Other than that,” he said.
    “Other than that. You’ve been a gentleman. A kind and generous host.”
    His smile faded. Had she insulted him?
    “Emma,” he said, then stopped.
    She waited but he didn’t speak further. Instead, his attention was captured by something across the courtyard. A flicker of light? The movement of the branches in the gentle night wind? Or perhaps he just simply wished himself away from her. She took another step to the side, gripping her skirts with both hands.
    If nothing else, she should be mindful of the sheer romance of the night, of the moonlight casting shadows onto the walkway, the scent of roses, the whisper of wind through the branches, and the far off call of a night bird.
    “Your guests will be missing you,” she said a few minutes later, her eyes on the shadowed forms of the bushes and the flowers.
    “I’ve plied them with spirits and tobacco,” he said. “I doubt they will miss me unless either runs out. Scientists are largely a parsimonious lot. They spend most of their money on their experiments. To be treated to a fine dinner, cigars, and brandy is a luxury.”
    “Are you truly a thief?” she asked. “Is that how you’ve managed to acquire money for a fine dinner, cigars, and brandy?”
    He didn’t speak for a moment.
    “Shall we be relentlessly honest with one another, Emma?” he said finally. “Shall I confess to you my identity? If I do so, then I want the truth from you as well.”
    The truth was an ugly thing, and this garden was too lovely to be soiled by it.
    She shook her head.
    “Then can we pretend, for however long we’re destined to be in one another’s company, that we are who we choose to be?”
    “Who would you choose to be, Ian?”
    “A scientist, a man who might be independently wealthy, with myriad responsibilities but a love of learning new things. And you? Who would you be?”
    When she was a child, Cook had prepared pattern biscuits for her on special occasions or when she was ill. She would roll out a certain measure of dough, and using a wooden die, press a design into the soft dough. The biscuits were spicy, sweet, and uniform, each like the other.
    During her marriage to Anthony, Emma had wanted to be like a pattern biscuit. She hadn’t wanted to be singled out, made special or unique. She simply wanted to exist, anonymous and unseen.
    Here and now, she was being given a chance to be anyone she wanted to be.
    She could be the woman she’d been for the last four years, silent, reserved, pretending to be untouched by Anthony’s depravities. Or she could be the Emma she’d never been, the woman grown from her girlhood, someone capable of kindness, generosity, compassion. A woman with excitement about life, enthusiasm about each coming day.
    The Duchess of Herridge whispered to her to remember who she was. But Emma spoke. “Emma,” she said. “I’ll simply be Emma.”
    A footman passed not ten feet from them, and Ian turned his back to the man, effectively shielding her. The tinkle of glasses on a tray echoed loudly for a moment before fading away.
    The air was warm, sultry. The soft breeze of the morning had acquired heat and a delicate and powdery scent from the roses.
    He reached out his hand and touched her wrist.
    “Who is Emma?”
    Dear God what did she tell him? That she wasn’t quite certain herself? One thing she did know—Emma was a girl much more approachable than the woman she’d become.
    He took another step toward her, and she wanted to warn him that he stood much too close for propriety. But she kept her hands in front of her, still linked by his fingers on her wrist, as if he measured the effect of his touch on her.
    Her heart was beating almost as fast as when she’d left the room and crept down the stairs. But this was not fear. Instead, it was something else, another sensation she’d never felt—longing.
    She moved her hand, turning it just slightly so