CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Twenty-one days, Emma thought. Twenty-one days of no mistakes. Twenty-one days for Rathburn to gain his inheritance. Twenty-one days to break the betrothal.
She stood on a pedestal in the blue room at Rathburn’s townhouse, staring at her guilt-ridden reflection. It was a shame the dowager was wasting all this money on a gown she would never have the chance to wear. It was such a lovely gown, too. Wearing it, she felt regal. Not at all like the twin to a potted tree.
Lady Valmont’s modiste fitted the under portion of her dress, pinning it beneath the gathers covering her breasts, and nipping it in at the curve of her waist. “This satin will embrace your form,” the woman said with a nod. Even through a mouthful of pins, her French accent was thick. “The outer robe will drape nicely from the line of your shoulders to the floor. Elegant, no?”
“Oui,” she said, nodding, feeling conflicted.
Yet there were a few moments, when she’d been ordered to stand very still, that she’d let her mind drift off in a dream. She imagined Rathburn dressed in his finery, standing at the end of a long aisle, his eyes focused solely on her, his gaze filled with the blatant desire she’d witnessed at the Dorset ball. Or at least until she’d opened her mouth and those foolish words tumbled out. Oh, how she hated herself for saying them.
However, at the time, she’d felt a jolt of fear overtake her that let loose her insecurities. With the way he’d been looking at her and touching her, it had been so easy to forget for a moment that Rathburn could have chosen anyone to help with his deception. He may have only chosen her because some part of him acknowledged that she could never deny him. As he’d proven time and again, he was far too perceptive for her comfort.
She couldn’t risk being lured in by him again. Already, she’d grown far too fond of him. She even enjoyed his rakish flirting. Each time he spoke, he drew her closer to wanting more. More of this closeness. More of Rathburn.
However, that could never be. She needed a well-grounded husband, not one who made her forget herself. So much so that she feared her carefully crafted fa?ade might slip. That everyone would learn her secret.
Though she tried hard to hide it, to fight it, she was too much her parents’ daughter to deny it any longer. At least to herself. She still wouldn’t risk telling a soul of the unfettered urges that came over her, ones that only a brush in her hand and a canvas before her could begin to soothe.
The shame of her weakness brought her back to reality and the impossibility of her fantasy. Not that it was a fantasy, because she would never be foolish enough to imagine that she and Rathburn could ever marry. Well . . . nearly never.
However, there was no way the dowager would approve of her and release Rathburn’s inheritance if she knew the truth about their mock betrothal.
“I do think the pearls are a bit tasteless,” her mother said, pulling Emma away from her conflicted thoughts. “I wish you’d consulted me. I am, after all, the mother of the bride.” She picked up the sketch of the wedding dress and turned it this way and that, her brow furrowed.
Lady Rathburn should have known better than to have left Emma’s mother and the dowager in the same room without a chaperone to keep them on their most genial behavior. There weren’t two more opposing women with stronger personalities in all of England, she was sure.
Emma only hoped that the dowager would still hand over Rathburn’s inheritance once she realized an alliance between their two families would never work. After all, their incompatibility wasn’t his fault.
“Tasteless is a rather ironic word coming from the woman wearing the turquoise beads with the apricot-colored gown, my dear,” the dowager said with a snort. “Perhaps you’d better leave the fashion decisions to me.”
Much to her credit, Celestine Danvers smiled. “I’d rather not see her look like a mourning dove on her wedding day, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Her gown is white with a robe of the palest pink.”
“And weighted with a thousand pearls or more.”
“No doubt, working with clay addles one’s perception over time. There are hardly more than a dozen. I do hope your daughter never suffers the ill effects from any peculiar artistic traits.”
Emma sucked in a panicked breath. “Mother—oh!” She winced when one of the pins pricked her flesh.
The modiste gave her a disapproving glance. “Hold still, if you please. We cannot have a lopsided bride.”
“It’s fine, dear. I’m sure Her Grace cannot fault you for having your own talent. You see, when Emma was younger, she had quite a hand for drawing and painting—”
“Much, much younger. A child, really,” Emma said quickly, trying not to move or breathe. When the dowager frowned, Emma added, “I lost interest years ago.”
“As any girl would once she realized how cruel those who rule the ton can be.”
“Mother,” Emma warned, knowing by the lift of the dowager’s penciled brow that her accusation had hit the target, as intended.
Celestine flipped her wrist. “Oh, Emma. Her Grace and I were just challenging each other’s fortitude.”
“Your mother is quite right, my dear,” the dowager offered, though her mouth was severely pursed in disapproval. “I detest simpering fools more than anything, so she’s bound to be an improvement. At least, one can hope.”
Her mother cast her a wink and hid her smile behind her fingertips as she pretended to study the modiste’s sketch again.
Emma would have liked to breathe a sigh of relief, but she was afraid of the seamstress drawing blood next. Not only that, but she was sure this tête-à-tête was far from over.
“Mother, what were you thinking to leave them alone with each other?” Rathburn stood up from the settee and paced the length of the sitting room. Supposedly, Emma was across the hall, being fitted for her wedding gown. However, he had his doubts it was that simple.
“Relax,” Victoria Goswick said before she sipped her tea. “I have complete faith in Celestine Danvers. She knows how to hold her own.”
He stopped at the door and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. This was a disaster. “Don’t you see? That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. The Danverses are a different breed of people. They hide their strong wills behind an artistic fa?ade. They don’t know the first thing about cowering to a societal beast like Grandmamma.”
His mother grinned. “I know.”
He pressed a fist to the center of his chest and rubbed against the tightness he felt. “Don’t you see? She could easily remove her approval.”
There would be no inheritance. No Dr. Kohn for the hospital. No wedding to Emma. The strange thing was, he was no longer sure which thought bothered him most of all. He’d already gained Collingsford’s agreement to continue paying the laborers, with the promise that he would have the rest of his money as soon as he was wed. There were people counting on him.
Yet, there was also this seedling idea of marrying Emma Danvers. It had already sprouted. And he found he wasn’t ready to pluck it from its root—even if she didn’t see him as a suitable husband.
He frowned at the reminder. Obviously, he would have to convince her otherwise. What was she looking for, exactly? A sedate gentleman who was all polish and no substance, or perhaps the other way around.
“You don’t give your grandmother enough credit. She happens to like strong-willed people. She’s fond of you, isn’t she?”
“Only after I resigned my will to hers,” he grumbled.
After his father had died, gambling hadn’t been an issue. Yet now he refrained from playing a simple round of whist at a party. He’d stopped drinking, as well, though he’d rarely done so to excess. He had a reputation of being a rake, and . . . well, that one was earned. Yet, once he realized that his grandmother refused to release his inheritance because he wasn’t settled, he’d even given up his mistress.
Then again, if he were honest with himself, even that wasn’t as difficult as it should have been. Lily was beautiful and passionate, every dream a man could want. Yet, he’d wanted more. At the time, he hadn’t known what the more entailed. He hadn’t known that Lily was missing a key component that meshed well with his character. He hadn’t known exactly what he was looking for . . . Not until he’d tasted sweet jasmine tea on Emma Danvers’s lips.
Now, he knew exactly what he wanted and was astounded by the fact that he hadn’t seen it all along.
The trouble was, he needed to make her see it as well. He needed to become . . . suitable.
“Sometimes all that’s needed is a nudge in the right direction.”
Rathburn nodded absently, distracted by his new plight. He wondered, and not for the first time, what he would be doing now if not for his grandmother’s interfering clause in his inheritance contract.
It went without saying that he would have settled down at some point. After all, he wasn’t as far gone of a rake as some might have thought. In fact, for the most part, he’d used that first year after his father’s death as a diversion from his true purpose. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know what he was actually doing with his time. Being a ne’er-do-well was the perfect excuse for traveling the continent in search of the ideal surgeon for the hospital without anyone the wiser.
“I’m sure you would have gotten around to proposing to Miss Danvers eventually.”
He started to nod again in response until his mother’s words filtered in through his thoughts. Stopping mid-stride, he looked at his mother in surprise. It was almost as if she were privy to his thoughts.
“It’s been clear for ages,” she said, smiling, her eyes luminous with unshed tears. “Ever since she waited a year for her debut out of respect for your father.”
He’d forgotten that. No, that wasn’t entirely the truth. The truth was, that might have been the reason he was so drawn to her. At least at first. Now it was more.
“And when you spent most of your free time with the Danvers family, your grandmother and I both thought you’d had an understanding, and that you were waiting for an appropriate amount of time before you announced your engagement.” She sighed in disappointment, blotting the moisture from her eyes with a handkerchief. “Then one year turned into two, threatening a third. Last year, when you kept any possible suitor away from Emma, we were certain of an announcement.”
He frowned, shaking his head. “I wasn’t. I was merely doing the job her brother assigned me. If I saw someone unworthy of her, then I easily warned him off. Which says more about their level of commitment to her than my behavior.”
“If that’s what you choose to believe.”
Ignoring the pointed look his mother gave him, he turned to the open the door. At that same moment, a flustered-looking maid emerged from across the hall. She closed the door and bit down on the knuckle of her forefinger. The instant she saw him, she bobbed a curtsy.
“Begging your pardon, your lord and ladyship. But Her Grace asked for a tray of tea to be brought up.”
“I don’t see why that should be a problem.”
“It was Her Grace’s request for arsenic in the sugar that makes me fret, if you’ll excuse me, your ladyship.”
Rathburn cast an alarmed look over his shoulder.
His mother pressed her lips together to hide the grin that was wrinkling the corners of her eyes. “I’m sure the dowager was merely teasing. You may retrieve the tea tray, without the arsenic.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid curtsied again and left in a rush.
“I don’t know about you,” she said with a shake of her head, “but I won’t be having tea in the blue room today.”
“Mother . . .” This wasn’t the least bit amusing.
“Perhaps I should check on them, after all.”