The Godfather's Son

By Marie Alexander

The heart yearns for what it has lost.

After the death of her father, young Miss Emma Coleman journeys to the home of her godfather, whose care she has been placed under.

She is still a girl in the eyes of her father’s friend, but the younger Mister Howard sees her afresh. No longer is Emma running about the garden in pigtails and petticoats. A woman has entered these men’s domain.

A childhood friend turns into an addictive and dangerous flirtation. Emma’s broken heart yearns for the love in Adam’s eyes, and he in return needs her feminine allure to pull him back from a life consumed by the family business.

Will her being a ward in the elder Howard’s keeping force these two to remain asunder, or will the temptation under their own roof prove undeniable?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steamy eReads
• Release date: Mar 2, 2021

Marie Alexander

Marie Alexander currently lives in South Carolina, USA with her husband and two children. She teaches English as a second language to professionals around the world. Marie specializes in writing westerns, romantic suspense, and children's educational books.

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The Godfather’s Son

By

Marie Alexander

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Copyright © 2019 by Marie Alexander

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter One

Emma’s carriage left her at the end of a dirt road leading into the tall woods with large suit-cases by her feet and a heavy, albeit hope-filled heart.

All around her, autumn permeated the air, a thousand orange leaves dancing in the gentle breeze, a hundred amber branches whispering their soft chimes swirling amidst the season’s beginning. The smell of late-summer moss and dry barks made for a bittersweet scent on the tip of one’s tongue or a tingling sensation on one’s cheeks.

Amongst the song of the woods, a crunching of gravel and overturning stone grew closer. From the fork ahead where the path disappeared sharply to the right, two figures stepped into view.

The man in front held his hat against the wind. He was perhaps in his fifties, though the way he held himself spoke of far younger energy and enthusiasm. Despite the cool autumn day, his attire was formal enough to fit into an aristocrat’s ball, with thick frock coat of wood-brown over dark vest and high-collared shirt, his form a contrasted dark shape amidst the browning low brushes and carpet of simmering-fire gold.

The man behind was dressed more subdued but no less formal, with a bowtie, vest and a short black coat ending at his hips. The way he carried himself was stiff, careful.

Emma waved a hand at their approach and smiled. She did not fight when her godfather pulled her into a tight hug.

Pleasant evening to you, my dear, Marcus Howard said jovially, releasing her from between strong yet gentle arms. Your acceptance of my invitation does give me great joy. It’s been too long.

It has, Emma agreed, squeezing his hand – a gesture that carried more affection and unspoken conflict than words could ever muster. And it is me who needs to be glad, Sir.

Call me Marcus, if you will, dear. Though his expression grew sober at her touch, the brightness never left Marcus’ voice. Ah, this is my man, Jonathan. You remember him, surely.

The old butler inclined his head. Pleasant to be seeing you again, Miss.

Emma nodded her own greetings.

Marcus put an arm over her shoulder and started to guide her down the path. Jonathan will take care of your belongings. Come along now, let me introduce to you my home. She is lovely, I assure you.

Their boots crunched on fallen leaves, a rhythm of their own countering the cacophony of the country morning. Emma’s travel gown chafed against her indoor skin – bruising pale patches that could be vividly felt, fluttering in the tender breeze. She hadn’t travelled often, especially in the last few years after her father had fallen ill – what little walking she did was brief within the city, where chimney ash and blackened fog had drowned out any chance for peace or pleasantries.

But here, now, away from the maw of a bleak sky and endless bodies, suddenly her discomfort was worth it, simply to be away from it all – to breath in the fresh coal-free air, to savor the simplicity without rush, without clamoring. And most of all, away from the memories of her father which were so intrinsically bound to that place.

She was running away, and it was the best idea in her entire life.

Behind them, she could hear Jonathan wheezing and struggling with her cases. Her lips quirked at the sight of him balancing them under his arms, walking awkwardly like a crab to inch them along. She would have offered to give him a hand, but considering her small frame, she doubted that it would much improve their situation.

The manor’s top peeked through the canopy from a distance away, slanted tile-roof and stone walls. Stained glass marked the openings on the higher floors, and peaks of fruit trees blossoming out-of-season wrapped around the white and grey structure like gas lamps, laden branches glinting in the sunlight.

Past the brushes to the side of the path, they came to an arching gate already ajar. With a ceremoniously grand flourish, Marcus swung the gate open and gestured an invitation.

Emma stepped into a garden of flowers. Even at the beginning of autumn, much of it was blooming — shades of red, white, and purple dotted the green grass like droplets of color amongst careful strokes of brushes, a painting so vibrant and wild it took her breath away. The sweet tingling scents assaulted her senses, light honey and morning dew setting fire to her core.

Marcus stood smiling, letting her savor the unending moment of breathless wonder. And Emma did for a long time, mouth agape and eyes lost in the twinkling of sunlight and beauty too surreal for mere words to convey.

The sound of the butler lugging heavy cases past her broke her entrancement. Wordlessly, she turned to hug her godfather, burying her face on his chest. Tears threatened the corners of her eyes, the flood of emotions edging over the top of her self-control, but she held on tight like she was drowning.

Marcus’ face softened to not quite sadness and pity. He stroked her hair with gentle fingers and cooed comforting sounds. So much like how her father had done it when she ran to him crying in the middle of the night, or when she bruised her knees running in their own garden. Or when she clutched him desperately by the side of his sick bed.

Eventually, she pulled away resolutely, dabbing her face with a sleeve. I’m sorry, Marcus. That was quite inappropriate.

The old man shook his head. He understood – she could see it in his eyes.

Come, dear, he murmured. Let me show you the house.

He offered his arm, and she took it gratefully. Together, they went up to the front door.

The manor was massive, opening up into three separate wings connected by stretches of carefully-tended gardens. The front door was heavy oak, unadorned in a warm wood-brown. They were already thrown wide open, and Marcus led her into the wine-carpeted foyer.

They were waited on by a group of men of varying ages, eleven in all. Marcus went around to each and introduced them.

"Everyone, this