CHAPTER SIX
* * *
The esteemed Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat announces a much anticipated and happy union . . .
Emma stared at the morning’s Post, and looked for any sign that this was indeed a mock betrothal. Unfortunately, it seemed far too real. After all, betrothal announcements rarely made it into the newspaper. No doubt, this would cause quite a stir. Not only was it staring baldly back at her, but it was worded in a way that gave every impression that the dowager had designed the match herself.
Now Her Grace’s reputation was on the line as much as Emma’s.
Briefly, she wondered if her parents would feel an ounce of guilt upon reading this. After all, they were part of the ruse and should—
The door to the morning room opened. Emma hastily tucked the copy between the cushions of the mauve loveseat. She’d managed to swipe it from Parker before he ironed it, hoping no one else had seen it first. She didn’t want the servants to know what a liar she was. After all, they knew Rathburn came over only to visit Rafe. His sudden interest in her must seem highly suspect.
Lucy placed a tray with a steaming pot of tea, a cut glass dish of biscuits and buttered scones, and a stack of flowered plates, along with several cups. Before she left, she bobbed. “Mrs. Newman expected you might have callers, Miss, considering the announcement in the Post and all. She also wanted me to offer congratulations from the entire staff.”
Emma studied her expression, but surprisingly didn’t find even a hint of astonishment. Hmm . . . Perhaps the servants weren’t as observant as she’d always assumed.
“Thank you, Lucy,” Emma said, and questioned why she’d even bothered to hide the paper. The moment the door closed, she snatched it up, smoothing out the wrinkles and read it again.
She drew in a breath, hoping a gulp of air would chase away her sudden lightheadedness. What she wanted to do was go back to bed, close her eyes, and see if the next four weeks could pass quickly so this entire affair would be nothing but a memory. Unfortunately, she possessed enough sense to know avoidance wasn’t a solution.
No sooner had she heard a knock on the door and tucked the paper beneath the cushion once more than the door opened. Penelope, Merribeth, and Delaney filed into the room. Without a word, they sat amongst the overstuffed chairs opposite the loveseat.
Oh, dear. One look at her friends told her that she wasn’t the only one who awoke early and read the society pages. Though their expressions were carefully reserved—no doubt, a chastisement for not hearing the news firsthand—their eyes were bright and brimming with unfounded excitement.
“Good morning,” she said, affecting a cheerful smile.
Merribeth withdrew a cutout from her reticule and placed it in the middle of the table. Emma knew without looking that it was the announcement of her engagement to Rathburn.
Her head went hazy again. What would she tell them? The entire truth was out of the question, since it pertained to Rathburn and his personal financial matter. Yet, she didn’t want to lie to them either.
“You said nothing the other day. Not an inkling. Bree knew before I did,” Delaney grumbled and reached forward to snatch a biscuit from the tray. “She came bounding into breakfast waving the paper madly. It thrilled her to no end to see the surprise on my face.”
Emma felt ashamed. “I should have sent word to each of you. However, if it makes any difference, it surprised me, too. In fact, I’m still trying to decide how I feel about it.”
“I don’t know why any of you were surprised,” Penelope added, grinning mysteriously as if she held the answer to the Sphinx’s riddle. “It’s been clear for ages how they feel about each other.”
Emma stared at her friend as if she’d grown two heads. The only thing that could have been clear for ages regarding Rathburn was how much he strove to irritate her. She knew for a fact that she never said flattering things to her friends about him. She’d been careful not to make slightest mention of how his inappropriate flirting stirred her imagination. After all, he was a notorious rake—or at least he had been—and any sensible woman knew not to lose her head over a smooth-tongued devil.
“You’re joking,” Delaney said, taking the words out of Emma’s mouth. “I didn’t have a clue, and I don’t feel like a dunderhead admitting it either. I always thought Emma disapproved of Rathburn and his reputation.”
She nodded, opening her mouth to respond, but Merribeth spoke first while brushing the crumbs from her lap. “Of course, he’s vowed to change all that. He must have, otherwise Emma would never have accepted him. It’s quite romantic if you think about it.”
Romantic? Hardly. But she couldn’t come out and tell them the circumstances. After all, word must never get back to the dowager or this entire charade would be for naught.
Now, they were all waiting for her to speak, gazes glued to her.
“Tell us what it was like,” Merribeth said on a wistful sigh. “Did he ask your father first?”
At least with this, she could tell the truth. “He spoke with both my parents. And then they called me into the study.”
Delaney took a biscuit. “Were you surprised?”
That was putting it mildly. “Oh, yes. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why they were all together, watching me carefully as if I might suddenly break out into song.”
“And then . . .” Merribeth had stars in her eyes. Oh, if she only knew the truth.
“Then, my father spoke and stated the reason for Rathburn’s visit.” She drew a breath, feeling her pulse rise as if it was happening all over again. “I could hardly believe it.”
Penelope tutted. “Oh, come now, you must have suspected something. Especially with the way he looks at you.”
She shrugged. “He looks at every woman that way.” As if he were slowly peeling off the layers of their clothing with his eyes, she thought crossly.
“Not the way he looks at you.”
Again, she stared at Penelope in complete disbelief. “He’s a terrible flirt.”
“True. He does have a way of offering a compliment that makes one feel . . . exposed.” Merribeth blushed but received a nod from Delaney.
Even Penelope laughed. “But he’s easily forgiven when it’s obvious he isn’t serious. Not like the way he is with Emma.”
Emma shook her head. Because of the announcement, they were seeing things that simply weren’t true. “He likes the game. The play of back and forth.”
“Now that I think on it, when he teases and flirts with you, his entire demeanor changes,” Merribeth said as she took a chocolate biscuit and nibbled the outer rim. “He turns serious.”
“I would say predatory,” Delaney added in a scholarly tone, as if the notion had been hers from the beginning.
“Or maybe possessive.”
“Oh, yes,” Merribeth agreed with Penelope’s statement. “That is the perfect description. After all, he kept away your other suitors last Season.”
A fact for which Emma would not soon forgive him. “That was Rafe’s fault for asking Rathburn to look after me while he was away. He simply took matters too far by hovering over me at every ball.” And glowering at every gentleman who came near.
“That’s when he introduced you to the dowager.” Delaney tapped her finger against the side of her mouth thoughtfully. “He was laying the foundation to build on later.”
“No. It was to keep me occupied and on edge so that he had the freedom to flirt with other ladies.”
She received three headshakes. “Surely, you can no longer deny it now. He must have expressed how he truly feels about you when he proposed.”
Emma hesitated. She hated lying to her friends, so the only thing she could do was focus on what actually happened. “He did say that his grandmother approves of me.”
Her friends gasped in unison. “The dowager . . .”
“Approves of you.”
“Of course she would.” Penelope leaned forward and squeezed her hand. “You could see it plainly in the announcement.”
“She doesn’t approve of anyone,” Merribeth added in an awed voice as if she’d taken a sip of the elixir of life instead of tepid tea. “That only means one thing.”
“He’s completely in love with you.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Emma said, swallowing down a sudden rise of nerves. Her friends were sure to be heartbroken once their false betrothal was over and they knew the truth.
“Has he tried to kiss you?”
Leave it to Merribeth to turn this into a romantic saga. Nonetheless, Emma blushed furiously.
“More than tried, I’d say,” Delaney snickered.
“What was it like? Was he swept away in the moment? Were you?”
“Certainly not,” she lied. “It was a mere formality to seal our bargain.”
“A woman does not kiss and tell when it comes to her husband, ladies,” Penelope added with a secret smile of her own. “Besides, whatever is between Rathburn and Emma, you’ll witness at the Dorsets’ ball.”
The three women nodded, as if the knowledge were a common fact. “Nothing will happen at the ball. I’ve more sense than that.”
“Have you danced with Rathburn?” Penelope already knew the answer. They all knew the answer, but Emma humored them with a shake of her head. Her newly married friend toyed with the fringe of her shawl. “Dancing changes everything.”
She mulled it over and made a quick decision to avoid dancing with Rathburn at all costs.
“Too bad there won’t be any dancing at the musicale this evening,” Delaney said with a wink. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”
Emma’s nerves were still focused on what Penelope had said about dancing and didn’t give much thought to the question. “The fawn evening gown, I suppose.”
“The plain one with the brown sash?” Merribeth wrinkled her nose in distaste.
Emma considered the sash more of a russet, not that it mattered. “Then the cream one with the lace filigree at the neck and sleeves.”
“Oh, that one is lovely.” Penelope reached for the last biscuit on the plate.
“Yes, but is it enough? After all, she’s essentially making her debut as Rathburn’s viscountess.”
“Delaney is right,” Merribeth added. “What about pairing it with that beaded ivory shawl you wore at the end of last Season?”
Emma looked at her friends, grateful for the distraction from her previous thoughts. “I could wear my hair in a Grecian knot.”
“And your mother’s emeralds, to match Rathburn’s eyes.” Merribeth sighed and they all laughed.
At least with this entire courtship being make believe, she could allow herself to be immersed in the fun of it. But heaven help her if she started to prefer this lie over the truth.
Rathburn knew instantly that something was different that evening. He felt it keenly at the base of his skull, a sharp sense of awareness that made everything seem slightly foreign.
He’d been to the Sumpters’ musicale in years past, usually attending as escort to his mother. Yet, even then he couldn’t quite remember so many nods in his direction. Not to mention—Wait. Did his uncle, the esteemed Duke of Heathcoat, incline his head in approval?
He shook himself. Surely not.
It seemed strange that a single announcement in the Post could spawn this. That words printed on a page could make every expression, every sound, every scent seemed more vivid than ever before. He felt as if he were truly living in the moment, present in his skin, not focusing on the future and the list of objectives he had to complete in order to get there.
He liked this sensation even less than yesterday’s anxiety.
With Emma by his side, he stepped into the music room. The Sumpters’ musicale was a popular event, one of the first in the Season. The large room opened into the parlor through a set of pocket doors. Aside from the rows of chairs down the center of both rooms, upholstered settees and loveseats were positioned on the fringes of the room and angled toward the musicians. He was fortunate enough to procure a loveseat at the back of the parlor for himself and Emma.
Taking their seats a moment before the music began, Rathburn drew in a breath.
Instantly, he stilled. Something was definitely different.
For starters, he’d never thought a spray of tiny white flowers would bring him to his knees. Or else, he never would have sent them in the first place. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking of them, or wanting to pluck them from where they rested in Emma’s hair.
Emma glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “Is something amiss?” Her whispered words blended in with the first strains of violin and cello, but they were seated in close enough proximity that he could hear her plainly. Close enough to catch the sweet scent of jasmine perfuming the air around her.
“No,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Nothing. It’s just that . . . you’re quite lovely this evening.”
When he’d arranged for the flowers to be delivered to her earlier, he’d done so as a lark, playing his part of the besotted beau mostly out of the need to rile her. Their verbal parries always served to brighten his mood. He’d been certain that by the time he saw her this evening, she’d have daggers at the ready. He assumed she’d have tossed the flowers into the bin and prepared to give him an earful. Or, at the most, accept them blandly and put them into a vase.
He never thought she’d wear them.
To make matters worse, she’d fashioned her hair in a stylish mass of curls drawn up from the nape of her neck, and in a spill of rich, glossy tresses over one shoulder. Besting him at his own game, she’d woven the flowers into her hair with the last little buds nestled in the curls against the curve of her breast.
Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about jasmine and her. Mostly her. Of how her lips tasted of jasmine tea, and how lovely she would look on a bed of white flowers, her dark hair spread out over the coverlet, her body bared to him . . .
She frowned, the flesh between her brows puckering. “Then why do you look as if you’re in pain?”
He laid the program for this evening’s music on his lap, hoping no one would notice swell of his erection in his form-fitting evening clothes. He didn’t know what had come over him, or why everything seemed so alive and new to him. This foreign sensation was overriding the semblance of better judgment he’d adopted these past years.
He only knew one cure for it . . . to unsettle Emma as well. After all, she was too cool and calm, taking all this in stride as if certain of how it would end. Damn it all, but she gave every appearance of trusting him.
“If you must know, I was contemplating whether I would prefer cups of chocolate or jasmine flowers on a rainy morning.” Flirting was good, he told himself. It was a behavior he knew better than breathing. Right now, he even needed a reminder on how to do that.
Catching his meaning, she blushed. Quite prettily, as a matter of fact, and looked askance to ensure their conversation was private. “You mean jasmine tea, surely.”
“Do I?” Rathburn couldn’t help it. He lifted his hand and plucked one of the blossoms from the spot just below her ear and lifted it to his nose.
Emma’s lips parted and she looked every inch the innocent miss about to be embroiled in scandal. She went so far as to place her gloved hand over his forearm, forcing him to lower the flower. “That is hardly necessary.”
He looked down at the way her slender fingers curled over the sleeve of his slate gray, superfine jacket. He even imagined he could feel the heat of her hand, and that she held on to him for a moment longer than was proper before she released him and clasped both hands in her lap. “Necessary?”
“Your flirtation . . . this pretense . . .” She gestured between them.
“Ah.” He grinned, enjoying the way her teeth pulled on the corner of her mouth when she was flustered. Withdrawing a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket, he carefully tucked the blossom into the folds. Then, simply to raise her ire, he pressed it to his lips and winked at her before he returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “You’re mistaken.”
On a huff, she turned forward and stared straight ahead at the musicians. “Hardly.”
Yes, this was much better. After all, flirting came second nature to him. He felt more like himself. In fact, if he continued like this, he might even manage to convince himself that everything was the same between them.
Placing his hand on the cushion, he pressed down just enough to cause her to lean toward him. Her shoulder brushed his. He lowered his head and drew in a breath, filling his nostrils with the warm, sweet scented air surrounding her. “The necessity of my actions is not for their benefit, but for mine. You see, it’s taking every ounce of control I have not to kiss you. Right here. In front of everyone.”
The truth of his words startled him. Yet, weren’t all flirtations based on a semblance of truth? Of course they were, he convinced himself quite readily.
Still, he never knew how much he’d enjoy telling the truth until he met Emma Danvers. If he were honest with himself—a terrible occupation he’d begun recently—he’d been disguising his truth behind bold comments, and passing them off as mere flirtations for years.
She slid an inch away from him and he eased the pressure on the cushion so she wouldn’t go too far. He liked feeling her pressed against him. Even though it was only her shoulder, he could easily imagine something far more intimate.
“Keep in mind that kissing me would not help your cause,” she warned, though her words had gone breathless, likely revealing more than she intended.
He pondered her statement, and after a moment, he could find no downside. “How so?”
“Think of the scandal.”
His gloved finger strayed to the fabric of her gown resting between them. “You mean that, should anyone seated in front of us turn around and discover us, we would be forced to wed.”
She looked down, following the sweeping motion of his finger for a moment before she pulled the fabric away and smoothed it over her thighs. “Precisely.”
His gaze lingered on the shape of her legs discernible beneath the creamy silk. They were long and slender. Just above her finely sloped knees, he could see the faint outline of the ribbons that tied her stockings. It seemed far too intimate a thing to notice of Danvers’s sister—even for him. Yet, he felt his heart beat heavy and hard, trying to reclaim all the blood that was now pooling in his groin.
“Forced to wed in haste, no doubt.” Forced to wed in truth, and with no hope of an annulment afterward without irreparably tarnishing her reputation. Something he’d vowed not to do. He kept his promises. Just like he’d promised his father that Hawthorne Manor would be a home again.
Oddly enough, the threat of a wedding—and an early one at that—didn’t send icy shivers through him. Before now, he’d never given marriage much thought. His goals were set, after all. First, he needed the money to finish the manor and the hospital and then . . .
Well, he supposed he would marry eventually. After all, in order for Hawthorne Manor to become a home once again, presumably a family—or more specifically, his family—would live there. In that regard, marriage seemed the most likely outcome.
A thought blossomed suddenly, as if sprouting from a randomly planted seedling.
He looked at Emma again, watching the way her expression altered with the music as if she were seeing something within each note. He was seeing something, too. Only not in the music.
Rathburn knew from speaking with her parents the other day that she hadn’t formed an attachment with another man. He’d wanted to ensure his plan didn’t interfere with any of hers. Last Season, he hadn’t even seen her dance with a single gentleman. Of course, he might have had a hand in that. However, at the time, he’d felt it was his duty. After all, her brother had asked him to look after her.
Now, with Rafe away again, he was still looking after her. Only it was different now. Much different.
What if . . . he heard a voice say in the back of his mind as the seedling idea strained against the confines of its husk, stretching out with the solitary tendril of a root.
“I know what you’re doing,” she said quietly, refusing to look at him. “It won’t work this time, so you might as well give up.”
“What am I doing, Emma-mine?”
“Wooing me. Flirting with me to get your way—though I can’t think of what else you could want in addition to my agreement to your scheme.” She responded to his low chuckle by glaring at him. “You seem to think that I agreed to this because I imagined myself half in love with you. I know better. Only a fool would lose her head over you.”
He studied her intently, hearing the truth of her words, which sparked a question within him. Why had she agreed to his scheme?
If there was some truth in flirting, then there might very well be truth in denial as well.
He grinned, at last beginning to understand why everything seemed so different this evening. Because it was different. “I don’t want you to lose your head over me. I quite like it right where it is, blazing chocolate eyes, jasmine-laced lips, and all.”
What if . . . the voice whispered again. What if . . . she could be mine?
The thought came unbidden to the forefront of his mind, causing him to draw in a startled breath. The scent of jasmine filled his nostrils, and suddenly he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of this before.