CHAPTER NINETEEN
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Married to Emma.
Rathburn blew out a breath and pressed a fist to the center of his chest. A tight knot of guilt churned inside him. He’d realized on the carriage ride here that he should have given her more time to decide if this was what she truly wanted. Not waited until they were standing at the altar.
He hadn’t even thought about what it would be like to bring her home. Completely alone with him. Home. No longer his home, but theirs. Yes. They would make a life here. After all, he knew she loved him. We share a heart.
And with the memory of her sweet whisper, the knot in his chest loosened marginally.
Still, he wasn’t going to remain here a moment longer, unless she was certain. Through some miracle of self-control, he hadn’t touched her. If she changed her mind, they could still get an annulment.
The knot tightened again, squeezing painfully.
He’d had Woodson pack a bag of his things, just in case. Her reputation would be safe . . . but only if he left right away.
There was absolutely no more time to waste. He must speak with Emma now.
Emma stood in the viscountess’s bedchamber at Hawthorne Manor. She was a fool to have believed that nothing would change between them. Then again, she’d never fully believed it. From that first moment in the study, with her parents encouraging her to embark on this calamity with Rathburn, she’d known everything would change.
She’d been right. Everything had changed, at least for her. Against all reason—against the purpose of their bargain—she’d fallen in love with him.
Not to mention, their marriage had altered her place in society and how people saw her. She was no longer looked through. No longer judged and found wanting. This morning’s lavish wedding breakfast had proven as much. At last, she fit in.
But that was part of her deception, as well. They didn’t know her secret.
With a sigh, Emma stared at her surroundings. The room was decorated exactly as she would have done. Rathburn had an uncanny way of knowing her thoughts, even—it seemed—before she knew them herself.
When they’d arrived, the entire staff had lined up outside the doors, ready to greet the newlyweds, not knowing that an annulment loomed overhead. Since she’d known the servants for years, there’d been no awkward series of introductions, just cheers and many felicitations for the best of marriages. Of course, after Rathburn boldly carried her across the threshold, it would make their sudden separation that much harder for everyone to understand.
An annulment would change everything again. Not back to the way it was—no, she was not foolish enough to believe that—but to some other state of existence. After all, she would be losing a husband and a friend who meant more to her than her mind could comprehend. However, her heart knew and it was already breaking.
How could she bear to lose him when her love was so raw and new?
Staring through the glass door that led to the balcony, she let out a shaky breath and tried in vain to win the battle over her tears. A soft knock fell on the door.
Assuming it was her maid, she called, “I’ll need another moment.” Then she remembered she had no maid. Though Rathburn had likely sent one of his servants to tend to her.
The door closed with a nearly inaudible click. “I find that there are varying degrees to moments.”
She started at the sound of Rathburn’s voice, but did not turn. The only thing worse than one of his maids seeing her this way would be to let him. She hoped he hadn’t heard the catch in her voice or noticed how she used her gloves to blot the tears from her cheeks.
His footsteps approached slowly, the sound of his boots muffled on the plush carpet. “For some, a moment is a single span of a breath, a blink of an eye. While for others it can last what seems like an age.”
“Three whole breaths?” she quipped, averting her face to blot her cheeks again.
“Sometimes I’ve even heard it drawn out to four.” He came up behind her, standing close enough so that she could feel the heat of him, along with the strength and support he offered. He was such a good friend to her. A best friend, actually. She never knew until recently how much she’d relied on him being part of her life. And now she could lose him forever.
A fresh fall of tears began and her breathing hitched with a slight jerk of her shoulders.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her. With the pads of his thumbs, he gently began wiping away her tears. “See here . . . what’s all this about? Did the stress of the day finally crash you against the rocks?”
She nodded at first and then shook her head before burying her face against his shoulder. “Oh, Rathburn, what have I done?”
“Oliver, my darling,” he reminded, kissing the top of her head as he wrapped his arms around her. “And I think it’s safe to say that we’ve done this, not just you.”
She sniffed and rubbed her cheek against his silver satin waistcoat. Wanting to curl into his embrace, she lifted her arms, but stopped short when she remembered her gloves were soaked with her tears. But before she could lower them again, he caught her hands in his.
Lifting them, he pressed a kiss to her damp fingertips.
“Not very proper, I know. I’m glad your grandmother isn’t here to see me fall apart.”
“It’s just us,” he said, the words like a whispered promise. And then, proving there was no need for propriety, he let his hand travel over the length of her glove to the cuff above her elbow. He slipped a finger inside, teasing the sensitive flesh of her inner arm before he pinched the satin and slowly pulled it off.
A silent breath escaped her at the intimate gesture. Surely, she shouldn’t allow him to remove her gloves, no matter how many times she’d imagined it. She lifted her face, prepared to say something, but the words dissolved on her tongue when she saw his tender expression.
He bent his head to press a kiss to the tip of her nose as he dropped the glove onto a chair beside them. Without a word, he followed the line of the other glove and drew it down her arm, exposing her flesh.
The last breath left her lungs.
Like before, he brought her hands to his lips—first one, and then the other—and settled both against his chest. “There,” he crooned, wrapping his arms around her again.
This was a side to Rathburn she never expected to experience. He’d given everything of himself, including his pride, to gain his inheritance solely to build Goswick Hospital and to repair the manor. At his very core, he cared for people. Yet, during the years of their acquaintance, she’d only met with his flirtatious side. Of course, her cool demeanor might have been the reason for that.
Right now, she wished she hadn’t pretended to be so aloof, because this was wonderful. She’d never felt so secure in her life. Resting her cheek against him again, she could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart. She drew in a breath, inhaling the clean fragrance of his clothes. If only this moment could last forever.
“I’m worried about what will happen . . . after,” she said quietly. “Not just with your family and my family, but with us. I don’t want our . . .” friendship wasn’t the right word. What they shared was greater than that. “. . . bond to seem forced or artificial.”
“That won’t happen. Not with us.” He said the words with such assuredness that she wanted to believe him. More than anything. Showing even more tenderness, he produced a handkerchief and dried the cheek that wasn’t pressed against him and soaking his waistcoat with tears.
She felt the embroidery thread sewn into the fine linen. “You’re using your wedding gift,” she said, glad that he’d received the package she’d sent early this morning. After speaking with Penelope, and learning that she’d embroidered Ethan’s handkerchiefs each year to show him how much she loved him, Emma had thought that was a perfect idea. Only now, it represented another enormous secret she kept from him. Her love.
His mouth curved in a smile against the top of her head. “Of course I am, but how did you know?”
“I can feel the thread of the flower I embroidered,” she said, drawing in his scent and the warmth of his embrace. Both gave her a sense of peace that she’d never felt before. “I know it’s hardly masculine to have a jasmine blossom on your handkerchief, so I used white silk thread to blend in. I thought you would laugh when you saw it.”
“Laugh?” he asked, his voice sounding peculiar as if this was the first he’d noticed it. Now, he turned it in his hand, holding it up to the waning afternoon light coming in through the windows. “Ah. Because of the Sumpters’ musicale. I stole one of your flowers.”
“And tucked it inside your handkerchief,” she smiled at the memory even though it gave her a twinge of sadness. Without warning, a fresh fall of tears spilled out. “A memento of our brief make-believe courtship.”
He hugged her tighter still. Then, bending down, he lifted her effortlessly in his arms. “Shh . . .” he crooned, brushing his lips across her forehead as he carried her across the room. “You’re tired and overwrought. We have much to discuss when you are rested.”
The annulment, of course.
He would want to discuss that immediately. They had a new plan to make, after all. She feared that it would be the last conversation they’d have.
He made a move to lower her to the bed when she stopped him, gripping his arm. “If I wrinkle this gown, your grandmother will never forgive”—her words trailed off as she looked down at her hand—“me.”
He was in his shirtsleeves. How had that escaped her notice before? Through the fine lawn, she could feel the heat of his flesh. He was solid, too. Very solid. Of course, it made sense that as a man he was bound to be. Yet, for some reason, the knowledge fascinated her.
Rathburn set her feet down. “I’ll send in your maid straight away.”
Automatically, she shook her head, her attention still diverted to her hand on his arm, marveling at how the muscle flexed beneath her palm. “Maudette retired to the country. I have no maid.”
He swallowed, and the sound drew her attention. She lifted her gaze to his throat, the exposed flesh above his cravat and below the line of his jaw. Standing this close, she could see the shadow of his whiskers just beneath the surface of his skin. This too was very male, very different. Fascinating.
His hand at her waist twitched, bringing her attention to precisely how close they stood. Mere inches apart, with her gown nestled against his legs. “I should send for a maid, all the same.”
Reluctantly, she released his arm. “The robe is no trouble,” she said, her fingers finding the delicate chain between her breasts.
She hesitated. Her gaze slowly lifted to his. Without a maid, she would undress herself as she’d done for years. Without a maid, she could keep a semblance of freedom. Yet, without a maid, she had no chaperone to ensure her reputation would remain intact after the annulment.
Emma unclasped the chain and let the garment slide from her shoulders. “It slips off without effort.”
Rathburn drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. She remembered how the gown beneath clung to her like a second skin. The modiste had designed her chemise to do the same. She wore no stays or petticoat beneath it. With the robe on, it had hardly mattered. But now, he was seeing her as she’d dreamed he would.
His irises grew dark. He opened his mouth to breathe, too. “Emma,” he rasped, the low sound causing swift heat to cover her flesh from head to toe, warming and tightening her skin simultaneously.
Strangely, her breasts felt full, heavy, and yet taut at once. When his gaze traveled down the white satin, a quiver pulsed through her. Even the soles of her feet tingled. She imagined that quake leaving her body through the floor because in the very same instant, he staggered back from the force of it.
Rathburn bit back a curse, gritting his teeth. Emma stood before him, barely sheathed by her wedding gown. The white satin brought to mind the petals of jasmine and the countless fantasies he’d had of her wearing nothing other than those blossoms. Of course, the reality of having her within arm’s reach was far more powerful. He shook with the effort to keep his distance.
“I should leave you to rest,” he said, but couldn’t seem to force himself to retreat.
She lifted a hand to her throat, drawing his attention to the pulse beating as hard and fast as his. Her fingertips fluttered over that spot and her lips parted. She drew in a breath that seemed stolen from his lungs because he couldn’t draw in enough air. And he needed air, not only to breathe, but to think clearly.
He’d come in here to check on her. To ensure she was faring well after what must have been an overwhelming morning. He also wanted to talk about their plans. Future plans together, he hoped. For that, he needed them both to be clearheaded.
She took a step forward and lowered her hand from her pulse to the buttons in the center of his waistcoat. “We’ve barely seen each other lately. As you said, we’ve much to discuss.”
He shuddered from the intimate gesture and closed his eyes. “Not here. I can’t think in here, not when you’re so tempting.”
“Tempting?” She exhaled a disbelieving laugh. “You’ve kissed me only once.”
His eyes flew open. “Don’t you understand how impossible it’s been for me to resist kissing you? For weeks, I’ve thought of your lips—their sweet flavor, petal soft texture, plump ripeness so luscious a new sin could be named for them.”
Without thinking, he reached for her, his hands on her waist. He leaned in, pressing his mouth against her temple, burying his nose into the fragrant fall of curls there and drawing in a breath that threatened to unman him. When she lifted her gaze, his breath came out shaky. “Most of all, what you don’t understand is that if I kiss you now, I’ll take away your right to choose—”
She lifted her arms and took his face in her hands, her action surprising them both. “If my only choices are having you kiss me now or watching you walk through that door, then I choose this . . .” She rose up and pressed her lips to his.