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Emma paced the foyer, skirts swishing over the marble. Through the door to the parlor she could just see her father snoring softly by the fire as the light outside grew dim. Mr. Knightley was late.
He’d been in London for three whole days, to inform John and Isabella of their engagement and to take care of some other financial and property matters that Emma had endeavored to understand and then promptly forgotten, and he was due back this evening, and he was late.
She twisted her gloves between anxious fingers.
Three whole days since they had finalized their engagement. Since he’d kissed her in the parlor – kissed her until she felt light in the head and warm all over, and her father, perhaps feeling the silence a little too long, declared that he was too hot behind his screens and they should be taken away at once.
She turned on her heel at the parlor entrance and paced back toward the front door. She decided that if he didn’t show up soon and kiss her some more she was going to be rather cross with him.
Then, at long last, the crunch of footsteps on the gravel walk. Emma gasped aloud, utterly unable to contain the smile that flew to her face as she dashed back into the parlor and grabbed randomly for a book from her father’s reading table. She shoved her crumpled gloves between the cushions of the settee and opened the book to the middle, trying to calm her fluttering heartbeat. Her gaze remained resolute on her book, although it might have been written in German for all she could tell. Her sole focus was on the sound of the front door opening, the rustle of servants ushering in and taking away coat and hat, the echo of boots on the marble floor coming closer.
“Ah! Knightley!” Mr. Woodhouse started awake, gesturing welcomingly to their new addition. “Back already! How are you?”
“Quite well, Mr. Woodhouse.” The very sound of his warm, baritone voice made Emma’s cheeks grow hot, and she raised her book a little higher to hide them. “And yourself, sir?”
“Dreadful, my boy! The cook served lamb for dinner and you know how it disagrees with my constitution!”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Knightley replied, and Emma could hear the smile in his voice. “And you, Emma? How are you this evening?”
Finally, Emma lowered her book and looked up at him. There he stood in the doorway, where he had stood a thousand times before, wearing the same rumpled blue coat he had probably worn a thousand times before, and somehow the very sight of him took her breath away. He smiled at her – softly, almost shy – and suddenly the carefully prepared quip she’d had on the tip of her tongue melted away.
“Quite well, Mr. Knightley,” she managed finally.
“I am very glad,” he replied sincerely. Then, “And are you enjoying The Principles of Political Economy?”
Emma blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”
“Your book,” Knightley grinned, gesturing at the forgotten item her hand.
“Oh, yes,” Emma’s blush deepened but she refused break eye contact, instead squaring her shoulders confidently. “I’m finding it quite… stimulating.”
Knightley raised his eyebrows, amused. “Are you?”
She tilted up her chin to meet his challenging gaze. “Yes.”
For a silent moment, they stared at one another over the back of the settee. Emma had never been so aware of her own body – of her heart beating wildly against her chest, of the heat staining her cheeks, of the strange, exhilarating, twisting feeling in her gut, as he gazed down at her with undisguised passion.
Somehow, improbably, she managed to collect her thoughts enough to say, “Speaking of books, there is something in the library that I believe needs your attention. Shall we?”
“Oh, don’t stay too long, darling,” Mr. Woodhouse interjected. “The library is so very drafty, and all that dust cannot be good for the lungs.”
“Yes, father,” Emma replied automatically, already halfway out of her seat. She caught Knightley’s smirk and looked away quickly, her lips twisting hysterically.
It was all Emma could do not to look back as the sound of Knightley’s footsteps followed her down the hall and into the library. She stood in the middle of the room and waited, with bated breath, for the creak of the closing door, before she turned to face him. He was closer than she expected, and she let out a little gasp of surprise to find him so near that she could hear his own shallow breathing. She turned her face up to his, her gaze following the line of his throat as he swallowed nervously.
“Please tell me the something in the library that needs my attention is you,” he murmured, a little helplessly.
Somehow, she found it within herself to arch an eyebrow and reply coolly, “Actually there are some agricultural reports I was hoping to get your opinion on.”
Knightley blinked stupidly. “Er… there are?”
“No,” she murmured, pulling him down to her. Their lips met, and for a fraction of a second he was frozen in shock. Then she felt his hand on her waist, sliding around her just as it had when they’d shared that fateful dance, and his lips moving over hers. Emma realized that, without her full knowledge, her own arms had found their way around his neck, pressing their bodies together so she could feel the frantic beat of his heart – or was that hers? – as he kissed her again and again. She thought she would never tire of this – of his strong arms around her and his lips – surprisingly soft – and his stubble – deliciously rough – and the small gasp he gave when she stroked her fingers experimentally through his hair.
Soon - too soon - they were both out of breath, and Knightly pulled away, his hand lingering on her waist.
“You were late,” Emma accused him, letting her own hands slide down his chest to rest on the lapels of his jacket.
“I rode as fast as I could,” he retorted. She could feel his thumb rubbing absentmindedly over her waist through the material of her dress and it gave her a small thrill. “But I had to go home and change first.”
“Do you always do that?” she asked quizzically.
“Of course,” he laughed. “I have to. You wouldn’t like me when I’ve been perspiring for the better part of the afternoon.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Emma replied, quirking an eyebrow. It was a rather bold thing to say, but he was her fiancé after all – and it rewarded her with another surprised blink, as she watched him try to process the intended implications of her statement. Before he could get too far, she added, “Besides, a real gentleman would take a carriage, and not leave me waiting all night.”
“I see,” he teased, “So when Frank Churchill rides to and from London it’s dashing and romantic, but when I do it it’s an inconvenience?”
“Precisely,” Emma replied primly. Glancing up at him through her lashes, she added, “Because I missed you.”
“I – “ his eyes widened, as if unprepared for this sudden bout of sincerity. Then he softened, and raised his free hand to cup her cheek. “I missed you, too.”
He drew her in for another kiss, so slow and soft and sweet Emma thought she might cry for loving him.
“Emma!” Mr. Woodhouse’s voice echoed down the hall from the parlor. “Emma, I need you!”
Knightley pulled back, stroking his thumb across her cheek. “I believe my time is up.”
Emma reached for his hand as he turned to go. “You will stay a little while, won’t you? Father won’t mind.”
“Of course,” he murmured, squeezing her fingers gently. “I’ll stay as long as you both will have me.”
“Soon you won’t have to leave at all,” she added hopefully, glancing up to meet his gaze. She hoped he remembered his promise to her, to come live with her and her father at Hartfield. She had thought of little else but the joy of having him here since he had left – her favorite person in her favorite place.
He raised her hand to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Soon, my love.”