Emma

Prologue

Emmaline, age 7

They were back at the big house again. The big grey one with all the steps and the man in the uniform who opened the door and stared down his nose and never said a word. Except that this time he looked past her and her mother to the chauffeur who was taking a heavy-looking grey suitcase out of the big black car. Two more suitcases followed, and her little pink school case too. Mama, are we staying? she whispered, trying to be polite like Governess Judy always said she must. Mama, why is my school bag there? And Ellie, her one-eared stuffed elephant that squeaked when she hugged it. Emmaline was too old for Ellie, Mama said, but Ellie was allowed to stay on the high shelf in her bedroom. Mama, why is Ellie here?

Never mind that now. Her mother was in one of her moods, and had been all morning. Governess Judy always said it was best not to bother her mother when she was in one of her moods. And stop picking at your fingernails, Emmaline. How many times do I have to tell you?

Hands by your side, child. Shoulders back. Ankles and knees together. Governess Judy didn’t even have to be there anymore for her lessons to echo in Emmaline’s ears. So there she stood, with her mother’s mood, and her new best dress on and her shiny black shoes, and tried not to rub her thumbs and fingers together while the chauffeur put her pink bag and her stuffed elephant just outside the door and silently returned to the car.

Inside, the house was the same as she remembered. Dark and wooden with the highest ceilings she’d ever seen and mirrors and paintings on the walls and thirty-seven stairs between the ground floor and the first floor, and Emmaline wondered if the butler counted them too, every time he went up or down them.

He’s in his study, the butler told them.

Thank you, that will be all. I’ll take it from here, said Mama.

The butler stopped and nodded. Feet and knees together and his hands at his side, just like her. She smiled at him and nodded too. He glanced her way. He’s not alone.

He never is. Come along, Emmaline. Time to see your father.

Her mother’s shoes clicked importantly on the fancy patterns of the wooden floor and she tried to make hers do the same.

Must you stomp!

Emmaline tried to make her feet make no sound at all after that, and she almost did it when she walked on the rugs, but there was so much space in between the rugs sometimes. Maybe if she jumped …

"Emmaline! What are you doing? I swear to God this is not the time to start playing up." They reached a closed door, and her mother pushed it open with a scowl and ushered Emmaline inside.

There were two men in the room. One behind the big wooden desk, and one tucked up in one of the two big window seats like a lazy cat. Her mother pointed towards the window seat on the other side of the room. Sit down over there and be quiet. Your father and I need to talk.

Emmaline went and sat. Her mother turned to the pale and pointy man sitting behind the shiny wooden desk. Her father. Emmaline tried not to stare—staring was rude—but she needed to fix his image in her mind. She’d forgotten what he looked like. She’d only been six last time she saw him. She was a year older now and needed to remember.

Didn’t you get my offer? her father said. I must confess, I wasn’t expecting you.

Oh, my lawyers received it. I’m simply not interested in accommodating you. She flicked a glance to the young man in the window. Must we do this in public?

Her father shrugged and crossed his legs with a smile on his face that didn’t make Emmaline feel like smiling back at all. You’re the one who’s choosing to do it.

It’s time, Thurston. Her mother spoke again. She’s quiet. Well behaved. No trouble.

Then keep her. The cold gaze of the man—her father—slid over her and made her want to scratch at her fingernails with her thumb nail all over again. I heard she was all mouth, literally and figuratively. Ugly little thing, isn’t she? Who does she take after? Because it’s not me.

Ugly? Emmaline took after her mother in looks, everyone said so. And Mama was pretty.

She’s not unattractive, Thurston, regardless of the fact that she’s not blonde and not male. She’ll grow into her looks, I promise.

They stopped looking at her, all except the man in the window who still looked all sleepy, but she had a strange feeling he might just be listening as hard as she was. She sent him her best smile and got a little smile back, before she turned to look at her father, who’d started speaking again.

You promised me a lot of things, my dear wife. Incessant badgering was not one of them.

Mama’s eyes hardened to flat brown pebbles. "Ex-wife, remember? I’ve seen you twice in the past six months because you were late with payments. Your daughter has seen you once a year for the past seven years as per the terms of our agreement. I do not badger. I keep my word. Mama took a deep breath before digging into the pretty leather bag on her shoulder for a messy pile of papers that she placed on the desk and pushed towards him. I’m sure you’re aware of the terms of our agreement, seeing you wrote it, but let me recap. Your child is seven years old tomorrow. The first seven years were mine. My responsibility—you didn’t want to be bothered, remember? My time is up. She’s yours now."

What was Mama talking about? Whose was she? And why was her pointy father pushing the papers away from him as if they smelled bad?

Our agreement was for a son. I wanted a son.

Take it up with the medical specialist who guaranteed you one. Oh, wait. You sued him for every pound he had and then some, and he destroyed all your precious embryos in retaliation. Your mistake, not mine. Because it’s hardly my fault your cancer treatment rendered you sterile. I’ve kept my end of the deal. You know I have. Her voice sounded harder than Emmaline had ever heard it, and this time she picked up the papers and slammed them down in front of him. She’s all yours.

"I’ve no use for a girl."

"Tough. I’ve done my time and I’m not taking her with me. It’s your turn."

Turn? Turn? Emmaline stared at her mother and father shoving papers back and forth between them. She wanted Ellie the elephant to hold against her to stop the shivering. She wanted her pink school bag to be back at home and not waiting at the front door. She wanted to pee. Mama?

"Not now, Emmaline."

I think she’s a little pet. The young man who’d been lounging like a lazy cat on the window seat got to his feet and stretched. His feet were bare, his shirt unbuttoned and his eyes were bright blue like the sky in picture books.

No-one asked for your opinion, said her father behind the desk.

And yet, on occasion, I do have one. He walked like a cat too, this young man, all slinky and fine and when he reached Emmaline he held out his hand. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s find you some food while your parents discuss business.

Business? It wasn’t business they were talking about. But Emmaline took his hand.

They made it halfway along a wide hallway filled with paintings of angry old men on either side before he thought to speak again. What’s your name, sweetling?

Lady Emmaline Charlotte Lewellyn Greyson, she recited, just as she’d been taught. But you can call me Emma. And then, because she wanted him to like her, she added, Governess Judy says I’m a lot like a boy when you get to know me.

How so?

I don’t like dresses, I can find dirt anywhere, and I’m far too fond of speaking my mind. For a girl.

He had a nice laugh, and he swung their hands back and forth so that she had to skip a bit to keep up. So what do you think of your father so far, Lady Emmaline Charlotte Lewellyn Greyson?

He doesn’t like me. Does he?

Sweetling, I’m going to let you in on a little secret and I want you to remember it when the going gets tough, because it will. That man doesn’t like anyone.

He likes you.

I wish. But, no, he doesn’t. Even when I bend over backwards to make myself tolerable.

Are you sad because he doesn’t like you?

Sometimes I am, but you can’t teach a man with a heart of stone to care for others. It’s not in his nature. He is what he is.

What are hearts normally made of? she wanted to know.

All kinds of interesting things. Hopes. Dreams. Feelings. Love.

What’s your heart made of?

Among other things, tolerance for the questions of skippy little girls who don’t like dresses. I like dresses. I look damn good in dresses. Do you like strawberries in your orange juice? I like strawberries in my orange juice. I’ll show you how to balance a strawberry on the rim of the glass, just so, and when you’re older you have to promise you’ll add champagne.

Her mother liked champagne. Emmaline was sure she’d like it too. I promise.

* *

Slinky, smiley, toy-boy Jordan with the blue-blue eyes and the fondness for mimosas, unvarnished truths and skippy little girls lasted less than three months as her father’s live-in lover.

Governess Judy didn’t last a week in the big grey house with all the stairs.

As for her mother …

Emmaline waited a whole year to see her mother again and on the day she turned eight she sat on the cold grey steps with Ellie in hand and her pink suitcase packed, hoping with all her heart that her mother would come to collect her.

But her mother never came.

Chapter One

Emmaline, age 21

Emmaline Greyson woke to the sound of warbling birds and a clear blue sky that didn’t belong in England. She’d slept outside, that much was clear. Bedded down in some kind of canvas sleeping bag with a thin mat beneath her and open sky above. Not exactly her mahogany four-poster with the Irish linen sheets and the unmistakable smell of English aristocracy all around her in the form of a four-hundred-year-old Tudor estate in Derbyshire. Not at all.

The absence of a roof aside, it smelled different here for starters. The air crisp with warm earth and eucalypt, and as for the bedding itself, whatever the cologne this man used there should be more of it in her world. A little bit woodsy, a hint of orange and something unexplainably masculine. Definitely not her smell, and she resisted burrowing in and breathing deeply in favour of rolling onto her back and edging onto her elbows to look around.

She was in a wide sleeping bag contraption, dull green and canvas topped, laid out on the trailer back end of some kind of farm utility vehicle. The vehicle was parked in the middle of a field of grass the colour of straw. Tall eucalypts with peeling grey bark clustered to her left and was the source of all the morning warbling, although she couldn’t see any birds. Pretty noise but not exactly subtle … more like pigeons in possession of a foghorn.

She sat up properly this time, hand to her hair to push it out of her face and, oh dear. Apparently she’d forgotten to take her hair down last night. Bad move with hair like hers, because there was a lot of it and untangling what had once been a sophisticated updo would require a mirror, liberal application of hair oil, endless patience and no meagre amount of time. Heaven only knew what her make-up looked like, given that her sluggish memories of last night’s pre-bed routine indicated that she had not seen fit to remove that either. No bathroom, or water. Or anything.

A quick glance down confirmed that she was indeed clothed—her body partially covered by a faded blue T-shirt that hung off one shoulder as if gravity was trying to prove a point.

It wasn’t hers.

She hoisted it back in place, only to suffer dangerously explicit chest exposure, and while her breasts were certainly nothing to be ashamed of, she wasn’t usually one for baring them to the sky. She hitched the shirt up to her neck and suffered imminent strangulation and a bare back instead, as the material fell where it would.

Definitely not hers. Probably belonged to a passing giant.

Morning, Duchess.

Had she heard him approach, she might have been less startled. As it was, the sudden appearance of another person in this strange new world made her screech like a startled bat. The who are you question could wait on more important things like making sure she was still up to her neck in the mystery T-shirt, which begged the ever more important question, Where are my clothes?

Try the bottom of my swag. He leaned strong, deeply tanned forearms on the side of the vehicle, and it was a toss-up between staring impolitely at the most ruggedly handsome face she’d ever seen or taking her hair and make-up catastrophe on a tour of the inside of a sleeping bag in search of clothes. Ever the polite Englishwoman, she chose the latter.

Several long seconds later she met with success. One excellent spring luncheon dress; wrinkled beyond measure. One lacy bra, in perfectly good repair. Stockings—two of them for the win. Knickers … on, and a welcome addition to the shirt that was not hers. This time when she surfaced from the camp bed she noticed her handbag, sunglasses and shoes within reach.

The strapping giant of a man with the tawny-brown eyes and the invitingly reckless smile was still there. Do you drink tea or coffee? he asked, and his voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket on a cold night and all she wanted to do was prod him until he spoke again.

Pardon me?

"Coffee. Tea. Do you drink it? Because I’m about to go and get some from the woolshed just over the other side of that rise. Bring one back