CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
Emma should have known that being summoned to her father’s study on a perfectly sunny afternoon would spell disaster. Normally, he used the third-floor studio to paint on days like this. And, of course, Mother had the parlor.
Therefore, when Parker opened the door, revealing her father and mother, in addition to Rathburn of all people, she should have taken a step back and dashed out of the townhouse. Or at the very least asked him to close the door so that she could begin a stream of counting in Latin to calm herself.
There was no reason Rathburn should be alone in a room with her parents, especially when her brother had left town this morning. She sincerely hoped this wasn’t about the missing paints and canvas she’d heard her father railing about this morning.
Her nerves climbed closer to the edge of an unknown precipice.
After a hasty glance down to make sure there wasn’t a single speck of paint on her hands, she stepped into the study. “Good afternoon,” she said, greeting everyone in turn and lingering close to the doorway, just in case she needed a quick escape.
Perched on the edge of the loveseat, as if ready to spring at any moment, her mother smiled broadly at her. The combination of brown, red, and silver in her hair looked even more shocking against the orange flowers of her yellow day gown. “There she is.”
Emma swallowed. “Yes. Here I am.”
“Playing in the shadows as usual,” her father said with a chuckle, an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. In addition to little flecks amid the waves of silver hair brushed back from his forehead, his large hands were spotted with paint. While his cerulean blue coat remained pristine—as he usually painted in his shirtsleeves and an apron—the bottoms of his trousers and tops of his shoes were splattered as well. Then, as if he were one of his outrageously bold portraits come to life, he wore his signature paisley silk cravat. “Come into the light, child.”
She preferred the shadows. The light made her feel lacking in the eyes of her flamboyant parents, especially with Rathburn here.
Even though he leaned casually against the edge of her father’s desk, his glossy Hessians crossed at the ankle, she sensed a distinct amount of tension from him, as well. Of course, on the outside, he appeared the perfect specimen—buckskin breeches that fit his muscled thighs like a second skin, a buttery-colored waistcoat with a pristine white shirt and cravat beneath a hunter green morning coat. Though his tailor must put padding into the shoulders, because she refused to believe he was that perfect.
However, his eyes gave him away. Faint purplish smudges told her that he hadn’t slept. Above the bridge of his nose, his flesh puckered, revealing strain. And the fact that he didn’t hold her gaze for any length of time spoke of uncertainty. Though what he could be uncertain about, she hadn’t a clue. And that made her even more nervous.
She moved slowly into the room, her hands clasped before her.
Her father nodded approvingly. “Emma, you always do the right thing. It’s a wonderful characteristic to be said about anyone. You are bright, charming, and a great asset to your unconventional parents.”
She always prided herself on her cool head, yet now she felt a swift bubble of panic climb up her throat. What could he mean? Her gaze darted from her father to her mother’s bright eyes, and then to Rathburn, who now studied the paperweight on the corner of the desk. “Thank you, Father,” she managed.
“Rathburn, here,” her father continued, using the tip of his pipe to point at Oliver as if she’d never laid eyes on him before and had been wondering all this time who the man standing in the room was, “is in a pinch. The boy’s like family, Emma. And you know how I feel about family.”
“A prize above all others,” she quoted in whisper to herself, having heard him say those words her whole life.
While she was contemplating the proper way to excuse herself without causing anyone in the room, including herself, embarrassment, her father went on about Rathburn’s predicament. Since he was, as her father said, part of the family, she already knew of his withheld inheritance and the many stipulations the Dowager Duchess had set on his gaining the funds. He must earn her approval. No gambling. No drinking. No indiscrete affairs.
However, she truly had no idea why this had anything to do with her. If she thought about it for too long—the reason for him being here with her parents when Rafe was away, her father stating he was in a pinch, and that he was like family—her temples began to throb.
Nerves already frayed, she quickly decided there was no reason to stay.
“Yes, that’s very interesting, but you see . . .” Just as she was about to make an excuse of a previous engagement to walk in the park with Penelope Weatherstone, her father said something that struck a familiar chord. Too familiar.
“So far, you’re the only one who’s earned the dowager’s approval.”
Rathburn had said something just like that yesterday. She’s also fond of you . . . She genuinely approves of you.
Emma suddenly had a terrible suspicion that Her Grace’s approval meant something more than an invitation to tea.
“For what purpose?” she heard herself asking and instantly wanted to take the words back. By asking the question, it was akin to agreeing to go along with this conversation, which she most certainly was not.
All the same, she felt like she’d stepped into a carriage that was headed to an unknown destination.
She looked to Rathburn, narrowing her eyes.
He tried to charm her with a smile. “In order to release my inheritance, she wants to ensure I have my feet on solid ground. That I’m dependable. That I’m . . . settled.”
The carriage jolted in to motion. “Settled.”
“With someone of whom she approves,” he added, lowering his chin in a way that forced her to focus on his gaze, making it impossible to ignore the beseeching look he gave her. Please, Emma, it said. It’s just one small favor.
Finally, she understood. Only, she wished she didn’t. Then again, he couldn’t be asking what she thought he was asking. “You’re not . . . proposing . . . marriage, are you?”
“Actually . . .” He drew in a breath and slowly nodded. “Yes. Mostly.”
And with those words, the driver of her proverbial carriage fled.
Emma braced herself. “Mostly?” Confused, panicked, she looked to her father.
His shrug didn’t help. He pointed his pipe at Rathburn as if he were the star attraction of the carnival that her carriage was speeding toward. Downhill. At an alarming rate. There was little hope for survival.
“A mock-courtship, if you will,” Rathburn said as if this made all the difference. “It would only be for the length of her stay.”
“Which will be . . .?” Again, she knew she shouldn’t ask.
“Two months.”
Two months! “That’s nearly half of the Season.” Her third and final Season before she would be on the shelf.
Her mother suddenly leaped up from the sofa and wrapped her arms around her, apparently unable to rein in her excitement a moment longer. “Oh, Emma! I’m so proud of you!”
At last, those words. Not said in disappointment, but with that effervescent joy she’d craved.
More than anything, she wanted to let the words sink in to repair the frayed strands of their relationship. However, the sensation of tilting end over end as her carriage crashed to bits, kept her from feeling the joy she’s always expected would come at this moment. “For this? For deliberately deceiving the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat and ruining my chances for a suitable match?”
Her mother was still smiling, bright tears shining in her eyes as she pressed a kiss to her cheek. “No, my dear girl, for rushing headlong into certain disaster, no matter the consequences.”
Emma blinked. Was that supposed to make her feel better? Or make any sort of sense at all?
Before she could ask, her mother released her. Then, together, her mother and father headed toward the door. “We’ll leave you alone to sort out the details,” her father said.
Her mother wiped away a tear. “You’re finally coming out of your shell. I’m so happy for you.”
The door closed.
Coming out of her shell? Coming unglued was more like it.
Emma made her way to one of the windows that banked the fireplace on the far side of the room.
“You’ve agreed, then?” Rathburn asked, never sounding less certain to Emma than he did at this moment. “It’s difficult to tell. Your parents seem to think you’ve made up your mind; however, I’m still waiting for a definitive response.”
“I can’t believe we’re even discussing this,” she said in disbelief, staring outside. A row of daffodils lined the narrow path between the house and the garden wall. New glossy shoots of ivy climbed up the rust-colored brick. The world outside was bright and blooming, not a cloud in the sky. It seemed unfair, really. Her mood all but demanded a rumble of thunder and dark, threatening clouds. “You realize, don’t you, that you’re ruining my chance for a normal, happy marriage?”
“We’ll make sure it doesn’t go that far.”
We’ll make sure, as if they were in this together. Ha! She turned to face him. “How?”
He stared down blankly toward the Axminster carpet, his brow furrowed as if he’d been wondering the same thing. Then suddenly, he looked up, his eyes alive with fresh perspective. “Perhaps we won’t even have to attempt a mock betrothal. We’ll simply have an understanding. Or, at most, be formally engaged for the duration of her stay. Then, after a time, we’ll have a disagreement that separates us.” He brushed his hands together as if the entire ordeal were a pile of crumbs easily dislodged. “Simple as that.”
Hmph. If only. “Since you seem to have this all figured out, what happens if she wants to wait until after we are married before she hands over your fortune?”
She expected to see all the color drain from his face at the prospect. Instead, he held up a finger and grinned. “I’ve thought of that, as well. We’ll simply get an annulment. I’ll settle a small fortune on you for a trip abroad. Then, when you return, it will be like nothing ever changed. You’ll procure a husband readily enough, I’m sure, once they realize you are wealthy.”
“Precisely what I’ve always wanted. To be loved for my money.” Oh no, she was starting to sound like her father. His exact reason for keeping her dowry so low was to keep fortune hunters away. She’d always felt cheated because of it before. Yet now, when threatened by the probability of having a man marry her for her money, luring him in such a way seemed tawdry.
Rathburn didn’t respond. Not that she’d expected him to. He was still waiting for her answer.
Emma drew in a deep breath as if preparing to dive off a cliff into dark, murky water. “You’re confident this ruse won’t get that far?”
He nodded. “We’ll make it perfectly clear that we’re incompatible. That scenario shouldn’t be too difficult to present.”
“True.” Was she actually considering this? Perhaps insanity did run in the family. Although, if everything went as planned, it wouldn’t be too terrible a venture. After all, she finally had her parents’ approval, a feat indeed. In addition, Rathburn had come to her—her—for help. How could she turn her back on him?
Still, if this had been anyone other than him . . . “I don’t know why I’m doing this.”
“But you are . . . doing this?”
She closed her eyes, knowing that if she agreed there would be no turning back.
After a moment, Emma met his gaze and nodded.
His shoulders sagged in visible relief and he tilted his head back as he let out a breath. The tight cording of his throat bunched as he whispered his thanks to the ceiling. His Adam’s apple lifted above the knot of his cravat and then disappeared beneath it. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, the sight held her attention. Her own hand lifted to her throat as she swallowed, leaving her to wonder why her pulse was suddenly so quick.
When he resumed a proper stance and regarded her with a wide grin, she quickly averted her gaze and lowered her hand. “Then it is settled.” He strode forward, his pleasure in the outcome of their conversation evident in each confident step. “Shall we shake hands to seal our bargain?”
Not wanting to appear as if she lacked confidence, she thrust out her hand and straightened her shoulders.
He chuckled, the sound low enough and near enough that she could feel it vibrating in her ears more than she could hear it. His amused gaze teased her before it traveled down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder and down the length of her arm. He took her gloveless hand. His flesh was warm and callused in places that made it impossible to ignore the unapologetic maleness of him.
She should have known this couldn’t be a simple handshake, not with him. He wasn’t like anyone else. So, why should this be any different?
He looked down at their joined hands, turning hers this way and that, seeing the contrast no doubt. His was large and tanned, his nails clean but short, leaving the very tips of his fingers exposed. Hers was small and slender, her skin creamy, her nails delicately rounded as was proper. Yet, when she looked at her hand covered by his, she felt anything but proper.
She tried to pull away, but he kept it and moved a step closer.
“I know a better way,” he murmured and before she knew his intention, he tilted up her chin and bent his head.
His mouth brushed hers in a very brief kiss. So brief, in fact, she almost didn’t get a sense that it had occurred at all. Almost.
However, she did get an impression of his lips. They were warm and softer than they appeared, but that was not to say they were soft. No, they were the perfect combination of softness while remaining firm. In addition, the flavor he left behind was intriguing. Not sweet like liquor or salty like toothpowder, but something in between, something . . . spicy. Pleasantly herbaceous, like a combination of pepper and rosemary with a mysterious flavor underneath that reminded her . . . of the first sip of steaming chocolate on a chilly morning. The flavor of it warmed her through. She licked her lips to be certain, but made the mistake of looking up at him.
He was staring at her lips, his brow furrowed.
The fireflies vanished from his eyes as his dark pupils expanded. The fingers that were curled beneath her chin spread out and stole around to the base of her neck. He lowered his head again, but this time he did not simply brush his lips over hers. Instead, he tasted her, flicking his tongue over the same path hers had taken.
A small, foreign sound purred in her throat. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Kissing Rathburn was wrong on so many levels. They weren’t truly engaged. In fact, they were acquaintances only through her brother. They could barely stand each other. The door to the study was closed—highly improper. Her parents or one of the servants could walk in any minute. She should be pushing him away, not encouraging him by parting her lips and allowing his tongue entrance. She should not curl her hands over his shoulders, or discover that there was no padding in his coat. And she most definitely should not be on the verge of leaning into him—
There was a knock at the door. They split apart with a sudden jump, but the sound had come from the hall. Someone was at the front of the house.
She looked at Rathburn, watching the buttons of his waistcoat move up and down as he caught his breath. When he looked away from the door and back to her, she could see the dampness of their kiss on his lips. Her kiss.
He grinned and waggled his brows as if they were two criminals who’d made a lucky escape. “Not quite as buttoned-up as I thought.” He licked his lips, ignoring her look of disapproval. “Mmm . . . jasmine tea. And sweet, too. I would have thought you’d prefer a more sedate China black with lemon. Then again, I never would have thought such a proper miss would have such a lush, tempting mouth either.”
She pressed her lips together to blot away the remains of their kiss. “Have you no shame? It’s bad enough that it happened. Must you speak of it?”
He chuckled and stroked the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip as his gaze dipped, again, to her mouth. “You’re right, of course. This will have to be our secret. After all, what would happen if my grandmother discovered that beneath a fa?ade of modesty and decorum lived a warm-blooded temptress with the taste of sweet jasmine on her lips?”
She was saved by another knock, this one on the study door. Parker entered the room, a burnished bronze salver in hand. By this time, they were a respectable distance apart and her expression was back to its usual cast of disapproval. The butler presented her with an invitation. “This just arrived, Miss.”
“Thank you, Parker.” And when he exited, he left the door open. Bless his soul.
Apparently, Rathburn found that amusing as well. “That will be an invitation to tea from my grandmother. Her seal’s on the back.”
Tea with the dowager. Engaged to Rathburn. Could her day get any worse?
Before she could open the missive, he took her hand and bowed over it, lifting his head just enough to wink at her as he pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Until tomorrow, Emma—”
She yanked her hand out of his grasp. “If you call me Emmaline after what I’ve done for you, then so help me, I’ll toss this invitation into the fire.”
He laughed, the rich sound tingling inside her ears and along the soles of her feet simultaneously. The sensation took her by complete surprise and left her staring after him as he walked toward the door.
Before he left, he turned and bowed once more. “Until tomorrow, Emma—mine.”