CHAPTER FIVE
* * *
“What do you mean, you’re not going?” Emma said, the following afternoon.
Her mother pushed away a fall of hair from her forehead. “My muse is calling me.” Then she turned and took a sharp, scoop-shaped tool from the tray and scraped the clay off her sculpture. As she moved around the unidentifiable mound, long beige ribbons fell to the floor, where she stepped on them, much like Emma’s hopes for an ordinary day. “The purpose isn’t for the dowager to learn more about me, anyway. She wants to size you up and see if you fit the proper mold.”
It was difficult for Emma to remember back to a moment ago—the moment before she’d opened the parlor door to find her mother with her face spotted with bits of dried clay, her smock and apron in even worse shape—when she’d actually thought that having tea with the dowager wouldn’t kill her. After all, she’d worn her most sedate day gown, a lovely wheat-colored muslin. In addition, she’d fashioned her hair in braids to frame her face and pulled them together in a twist in the back. All in all, she’d felt quite good about her chances of having the dowager find fewer things wrong her.
If only.
“Of course she does,” Emma said, unable to hold back her exasperation. “But you didn’t think I’d want support?”
Her mother stopped and stared at her. “From me?”
Was that so difficult to believe? “Yes, from you. You are my mother, after all. You did help me into this mess. The least you could do would be to help me through it.” She closed her eyes.
“Emma, I’ve never heard you say such things before.”
That’s because I’ve been holding them in for years. Some of them were bound to bubble out eventually. She shook her head and drew in a breath. Clearly, the Danverses’ insanity was starting to affect her too. She must work harder to rein it back in. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Mother. It must be my nerves—”
“No, don’t apologize.” Her mother’s face broke into a grin. “I like it. We’re finally talking. Of course, we used to talk all the time when you were little. We used to sit and draw pictures for hours on end, chatting about this and that.” As if they were playing a parlor game of copying each other’s gestures, her mother shook her head and drew in a breath. “But every girl needs to separate from her mother in order to find the woman within.”
Emma relaxed. “Then you’ll go.”
“No, dear,” she laughed and went back to her sculpture. “You don’t need me to face the lioness in her den. This tea is all about testing your mettle.” She pointed the scraping tool at Emma and smiled as if she had every confidence in the world. “Well, let them test you and find that you are the genuine Emma Danvers.”
Didn’t her mother realize that she was the only person in the room who possessed that confidence? “But—”
“You’d best not be late, dear. It will take Maudette an age to get from the door to the carriage and then to the door of Rathburn’s townhouse.”
Emma started counting in Latin before she left the room.
The entire mock courtship was a disaster waiting to happen.
In his own defense, Rathburn had never thought Emma would agree in the first place. Quite honestly, he thought she had more sense than that. He’d counted on it. Because if she’d have refused, he would have been forced to find another way out of this predicament.
Not that he’d had other options. He’d gone over all the possibilities until every single one was eliminated. Every option, except one: his sham betrothal to Emma Danvers.
Now he was left with the all-too tempting possibility of perpetuating the lie he’d told his grandmother months ago. Not that lying tempted him. No, in fact, he loathed it. The tempting part was Emma herself, and her surprising response to his kiss.
He should’ve known better than to give in to impulse.
Yet, if he were honest with himself, the impulse had been there for years, chipping away at the barrier between his sense of honor and his . . . less honorable intentions.
In truth, he’d never thought Rafe Danvers’s sister would tempt him. After all, she did everything she could to blend into the woodwork. Quite literally, with her constant parade of cream dresses with brown trim, brown bonnets, brown shawls. At society functions, even her actions and words were wooden, almost always upholding the highest degree of propriety.
Yet, it was the almost that intrigued him. It was the almost that made him tease her, to see what she might say or do. Like yesterday in her father’s study.
Rathburn closed his eyes and considered counting in Latin, but that would only remind him of the way her mouth moved when she chanted the numbers over and over. He needed no reminder of her lips. He’d lain awake all night tasting sweet jasmine and wondering why he’d ever been so stupid.
Now, warning bells rang in his ears each time he thought of her. He feared that this mock courtship would turn into far more than he bargained for. It wasn’t as if he could avoid Emma while his grandmother was here. No, he was obligated to wait on her, take her to assemblies and on drives through the park, attend family dinners . . . and all the while, he would be thinking about the taste of her kiss and the sweet sound of her pleasure.
An unexpected development, to be sure. One that he had no idea how to resolve without risking everything in the process. His inheritance, for one thing, but more important was his friendship with Rafe and his relationship with the entire Danvers clan. Since his father’s death, they’d been a second family to him, and Rafe like a brother.
Rathburn scoffed in self-derision. Like a brother, and yet I have every intention of deceiving him, of keeping this mock courtship from him, knowing full well that he would never consent? I am a prince among men, to be sure.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, shutting the guilt away for the moment.
Strangely enough, her parents hadn’t been surprised by his plan. In fact, they’d seemed eager to grant their approval, merely upon his word that he would do everything within his power to keep Emma’s reputation spotless.
Yesterday, their easy acquiescence had both honored and relieved him. However, today, he felt like a fool for not foreseeing this sudden complication. Her kiss had awakened the rake within him from obligatory slumber. For the first time in months, he didn’t close his eyes and see the incomplete structure of Hawthorne Manor, or even the future Goswick Hospital. Instead, he saw her eyelids drift closed and the rosy tip of her tongue dart out to taste the dew on her lips.
How could he have been stupid enough to give his word, only to put her parents’ high regard in jeopardy? Clearly, he hadn’t considered how a simple kiss to seal a bargain could complicate his entire plan.
A simple kiss? He scoffed again.
By the time he returned to Grosvenor Square, part of the day had gotten away from him. He’d spent most of the morning south of town, making a list of all the unfinished projects at Hawthorne Manor.
Now, as the servants delivered the tea trays to the drawing room of the townhouse, he realized it might be too late to speak with Emma privately.
However, there was another option. He walked around to the second entrance of the drawing room with the hope of gaining her attention without causing a scene. Once there, he stepped through the gallery and toward the adjoining door opposite.
Listening at the door, he heard their cordial greetings and breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t too late, after all. He could still back out of this ruse. Perhaps he would simply try groveling at his grandmother’s feet and see how far that got him . . . again.
“Miss Danvers,” he heard his grandmother say, her voice ringing up to the coffered ceiling of the drawing room as if she were the queen addressing her court. “I’m told you have an understanding with my grandson, yet there’s been no formal announcement of betrothal. Would you care to explain this?”
He gritted his teeth. Leave it to his grandmother to cut through all niceties and plow directly to the most important issue in her mind. He had no idea how many ladies were in attendance, but if his formidable grandmother began with a question so direct, it was bound to get worse.
“We were waiting for an appropriate time,” he heard Emma say, her voice calm and self assured as usual. He felt a surprising swell of pride in his chest, knowing that if anyone could handle the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat, it was Emma.
Carefully, he turned the handle and opened the door an inch, then two. He held back from pushing it too far, then waited a moment, listening to see if they’d noticed the movement.
“When he receives his inheritance, no doubt,” his grandmother said, never one to keep her judgments to herself. “Is the reservation with him, that he may find a better prospect once he is wealthy? Or does it lie with you, in that you are uncertain of his character?”
Curious about Emma’s answer, farce or not, Rathburn peered through the crack. The view only afforded him the reverse image of the room by way of a wide, framed mirror along the back wall. Yet, from there, at least he could see the group.
Although, group wasn’t exactly what one would call it. There were only three ladies in attendance—Emma and his grandmother and mother. They flanked Emma on either side, with a low oval table between them. It seemed less an afternoon tea and more an inquisition.
“Neither, Your Grace,” Emma said before she took a sip from her blue-laced cup. Even after the insult to her character, she was the epitome of poise. Surely, his grandmother could find nothing wrong in her manner or appearance. Not a single strand of her lustrous mahogany hair was out of place. Her flawless skin invited the eye to admire her features, the subtle arch of her brow, the rich brown of her eyes, the straight line of her nose, the gentle slope of her cheeks to her chin, and her mouth . . .
The mouth that preferred jasmine tea over black, and sugar over lemon.
He could still taste her. Still feel the way her slightly plumper upper lip nestled perfectly between his. Still hear the way she’d purred. Had he ever heard a sound so indescribably erotic? Of course, he’d made many women purr, moan, groan, cry out in ecstasy, but none had ever sounded quite like her. He wanted to taste that sound, devour it, devour her . . .
Damn. He drew in a shaky breath. Where had that thought come from?
A dark, dangerous place, he warned himself. Thoughts such as those were likely to get him into trouble. And he’d spent the past few years steering clear of trouble.
He drew in another breath and cleared his mind. This was no time for distraction.
“I’m on pins and needles awaiting your explanation.” His grandmother lowered her own teacup, angling her chin the way she did when keeping a person under scrutiny. Her wavy, dove gray hair was pinned at the base of her neck. Never one to be called flamboyant, she wore a modest amount of jewelry, and a sedate lavender frock with a white ruffled collar.
Emma swallowed, her slender throat clenching and releasing. “Since your grandson and my brother have been friends for so many years, we thought it wise to tread carefully in new waters,” she said, keeping her tone steady and managed to smile. “So to speak.”
Yes, tread carefully, he mused. She was his friend’s sister. If Rafe Danvers found out that he’d drawn her into his ludicrous scheme, he’d be furious. Then again, if Rafe found out that he’d kissed her, he’d demand Rathburn’s blood in payment.
Clearly, this mock courtship was not a good idea. There was too much at risk now. Now that he’d kissed Emma. Now that he wanted to kiss her again . . .
No! He couldn’t think about that. After all, he’d promised her and her parents that she would get out of this farce unscathed and still marriageable. If nothing else, he was a man of his word. Wasn’t he?
His grandmother picked up her tea again and nodded. “That is wise, I suppose, though you cannot truly know what marriage is like until the deed is done. I see no true reason to tread. No, you must dive in headfirst . . . So to speak.” She turned to address his mother. “What about you, Victoria? Do you get along well enough with Emma’s mother, even though she considers herself an artist?”
“Celestine Danvers is a lovely woman,” Rathburn’s mother said with a small smile. She hadn’t actually smiled, not like she used to, in years. Not since his father had died. In fact, she still wore gray as if on the fringes of mourning. He hoped that once Hawthorne Manor was repaired, her smile might return. “While we don’t often attend the same functions, when we’ve had the Danverses over to dinner, I’ve found them quite charming. Regardless, none of that matters. Oliver will be marrying Emma, not her parents.”
His grip on the door handle froze. Oliver will be marrying . . . He’d never heard those words before and certainly never imagined that Emma’s name would follow. He expected an icy flood of panic at any moment.
“He’s marrying into her family as much as she is into ours,” his grandmother interjected. “Their children will be a product of both houses, whether we like or not. Although there must be someone respectable in the line, or else Miss Danvers would not be here.”
Their children. He waited for the swift dampness of his palms, or, in the very least, a headache.
Yet, as the minutes ticked by, he felt perfectly calm. The only sound he heard in the pause of conversation was the steady beating of his heart inside his chest. He wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“Emma has merit on her own,” his mother added smoothly. “Besides that, Oliver is fond of her. That should count for something.”
He caught himself nodding in response to the statement, as if it were a well-known fact. Of course, he was fond of her and her family. Yet, he couldn’t help but notice how the way his mother had said it gave the words an entirely new meaning.
No. He shook his head. This was not how this was supposed to go. He’d come here for a purpose and then found himself lingering like a fool who didn’t know his own mind.
“Merit enough for you and I, perhaps,” his grandmother added. “However, that isn’t to say he isn’t using the poor girl to gain his inheritance.”
“Mother!” His mother sent Emma a look of apology.
“It’s all right,” Emma said, not displaying an ounce of the panic he knew she must be feeling. “Lord Rathburn’s interest left me suspect as well. At first.” Perhaps only he noticed the slight tremble in her hands as she set her teacup and saucer on the table.
It was time to stop lingering in the shadows. He only hoped the right words would form on his lips that would save them both from certain disaster.
“He is quite my opposite in both appearance and unreservedness,” she continued, without noticing that he’d opened the door to the gallery. “When he first approached my parents and then me with his intentions, I thought he was joking, playing a trick to tease me and see how gullible I was. However, those thoughts were more from my own insecurities than from his true self. Once I pushed those aside, I saw him clearly for the first time. He requires my company because I am his opposite, not despite it.”
“So true,” he announced, striding toward the group. Emma sounded downright convincing. Once he got them out of this, he would buy her a new pair of gloves. “She is the chain at my ankle that keeps me tethered to the earth. Hello, Grandmamma.” He bowed formally and then leaned in to buss her papery cheek. “Mother.” He repeated the action after stepping around the table. Then he simply smiled at Emma. “The incomparable Miss Danvers.”
She blushed, granting him a poetic greeting without saying a word. A convincing response for their audience. Perhaps she deserved a new bonnet as well.
“A chain, did you say?” His grandmother chuckled. “You have the queerest way of complimenting your bride to be.”
“Ah, but she understands me,” he said as he exchanged a look with Emma, hoping she understood that there was still a way out of this. “As for her brother . . . well, that’s another story.” He cleared his throat and widened his eyes, certain that ought to plant the seed of discord.
Beside him, his grandmother ignored his efforts and lifted her hand to the servant standing near the door. “Make sure a formal announcement of my grandson and Miss Danvers’s betrothal is in the Post in the morning. See if Saint George’s is available four weeks from tomorrow.”
“Wait—” he started to say, but the word stuck in his throat, scratching the flesh surrounding his vocal cords. He coughed in an effort to dislodge it, but before he could, it was already too late. The servant bowed and summarily disappeared through the doorway.
Emma went still, her gaze fixed on him. Stop coughing and say something, he could almost hear her saying.
Four weeks? He could hardly think. He thought he’d have at least two months of playacting ahead of him. Now, panic finally set in as he scrambled for what to say.
Perhaps, he could list a previous engagement. A . . . an appointment for throat surgery to get rid of his damnable cough. In an impatient gesture, he reached down for Emma’s teacup and drained the last of it. Black tea with lemon, because his grandmother frowned upon sugar. He felt an odd twinge of sympathy as he swallowed the bitter brew. He’d done this to her, and now . . .
They were in this together.
“The perfect day for a wedding,” he said in place of any other excuse. Besides, there was no tactful way to get out of it this instant. He would need to prepare a speech for his grandmother. In the meantime, they’d have to use a backup excuse. Set the stage for discord, or simply state that they still weren’t certain they’d suit because . . . Hell, if she didn’t have reservations regarding his character, she should. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Emma swallowed. “As am I.”
“Then why do you both look like you’re ready to jump over a cliff and smash yourselves onto the rocks below?”
“Not at all,” he said, concealing the sudden bubble of amusement that threatened to come out as a maniacal laugh. He was fairly certain Emma didn’t find this the least bit funny. He thought of a quick excuse. “It’s just . . . there’s so much to be done. I’ll . . . need to arrange a wedding trip.”
Emma’s gaze stayed with him, as if holding onto a lifeline. “There are so many things to consider. After all, I haven’t even thought about a dress, or my maids of honor, or the flowers. Perhaps more time—”
“The dress!” His grandmother exclaimed, taking her pearl handled cane from the arm of the chair. “My dears, we must call upon Lady Valmont this instant. Her modiste makes the most remarkable gowns. Truly, Valmont wouldn’t be half the rage she is if not for the way her clothes make her look. Abominable posture, you know.”
His mother stood and rang for a carriage. He made the mistake of looking at her and seeing a true and genuine smile. His mother was happy about this wedding. Happier than he’d seen her in years. She lifted her gaze to his, and he saw her eyes glisten with unshed tears. In that moment, he knew he was doomed.
Only a fool would let her down.
As his mother and grandmother made their way to the door, Emma stood. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she implored in a whisper.
He nodded by way of reassuring her. Yet, to himself he added, “So do I.”