CHAPTER SEVEN
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Penelope pointed to a stone bench just off the park’s walking path. “That looks like a fine place out of the sun. Perhaps I should have brought a parasol after all. No doubt Mr. Weatherstone will love that he was right.”
“Surely, there’s no need to tell him,” Emma said with a sly grin. She’d left her parasol behind as well, not expecting the gray morning clouds to disappear so suddenly. On such a fine day, the park was fairly bursting with people enjoying the sunshine.
“If there’s one thing about marriage you will soon learn,” Penelope began with a secret smile of her own, “it’s that one chooses the moments to allow one’s spouse to be right. In such an instance, Mr. Weatherstone gains the pleasure of being right about my parasol, while I will gain the satisfaction of having him fuss over me later. He’s positively obsessed with my freckles.”
Emma tilted her head to the side and studied the wistful look on her friend’s face. “You actually enjoy it when he fusses over you?” It sounded suffocating. She couldn’t help but think of how annoying it had been when Rathburn’s overbearing presence had chased away all of her suitors last year.
No, she most definitely would not like her future spouse, whoever he may be, to hover and bother her. As if in direct response to her thoughts of potential suitors, Lord Mabry and Lord Hutchings passed by, both lifting their hats and smiling in greeting as they passed. She couldn’t recall having ever earned their attentions after being introduced during her debut, and so merely offered her own smile in return. How odd.
“Not always, I assure you,” Penelope added with a small laugh that pulled Emma back to their conversation. “Let’s just say there are certain perks to being married that I did not appreciate when it seemed Mr. Weatherstone and I were destined to remain friends and only friends.”
Only friends. As in, not lovers. She felt spots of heat climb to her cheeks as she took in Penelope’s meaning. “Marriage agrees with you. I’ve never seen you so happy.”
“I never expected to be so happy. And to think, we’ll have a child before Guy Fawkes Day.” Briefly, she rested a hand over her still slender middle. “I can’t wait for you to find your happiness with Rathburn.”
Emma looked away, guilt gnawing at her over the deception. Another gentleman passed by, using the silver handle of his walking stick to tip his hat. Though she didn’t recognize him, she offered the same smile as she had to the other two gentlemen before he walked on.
“And after last night, your betrothal is being touted as the grand romance of the Season.”
She’d seen the mention of Viscount R— stealing a flower from Miss D—’s hair in the gossip column this morning. Clearly, it had been a grievous error to make a single alteration to her usual appearance. Yet, receiving the flowers had thrilled her so much that she’d been inspired to wear them. Only Rathburn would dare such a bold flirtation. By sending a bouquet of jasmine flowers, not only did he remind her of their kiss, but he also admitted that he hadn’t forgotten it either. He’d meant to unsettle her, she was certain. However, she’d been so pleased knowing their kiss had lingered with him that she’d suffered a romantic notion to weave those tiny white sprigs into her coiffure.
Now, she only hoped the dowager wouldn’t think her too flamboyant. Of course, last night she’d seemed to approve, but with the mention in the paper, she might revise her original opinion.
“All because Rathburn is an outrageous flirt,” she grumbled. Didn’t he realize how his behavior might put his scheme in jeopardy? “I don’t see how his actions caused any difference this year as opposed to any other year. He’s always flouted propriety. I’m surprised he’s allowed in society at all.”
“There are a good many flaws the ton is willing to overlook when one has a title and one’s uncle is a duke.”
A fact she knew only too well. If her father had been the son of a duke instead of the third son of a baron, he might never have received the cut direct.
And she might already be married and therefore unable to aid Rathburn in his scheme.
Her heart sank as she thought about their deception. “Oh, Penelope, it isn’t what you think,” Emma said, suddenly unable to bear the burden of this lie any longer. “I know I’m not supposed to say anything, but I just have to tell someone.”
Her friend smiled and squeezed her hand. “That you agreed to marry Rathburn so he could gain his inheritance?”
“Yes.” She blinked and closed her mouth before her expression drew attention. “How did you know?” She drew out a folded piece of paper from her reticule and handed it to Emma. “I found this on Mr. Weatherstone’s desk and forced him to explain it to me.”
It was a carefully crafted list, labeling Rathburn’s most pertinent problem and cataloging possible solutions. “It seems that he went over every possible option before making his decision to engage in a mock courtship with me. My name is at the very bottom of the page.” Why that stung, she had no clue.
“My dear, you’re looking at it all wrong. Don’t you see how everything points to you?” When she shook her head, Penelope sighed. “Don’t you see that yours is the only name on the page? Surely, that must tell you something quite profound.”
“All it tells me is that he has a single-minded determination to gain his inheritance.” Once he had it, he’d no longer see her as any sort of option. Not that it bothered her. It was just . . . she was beginning to wonder, and not for the first time, how she would manage to escape this mock betrothal unscathed. Because, while she professed to disapprove of Rathburn, that wasn’t entirely accurate. In fact, the truth was far more complicated than she cared to think about.
Reputation notwithstanding, she was actually beginning to worry about her heart.
“Or perhaps the inheritance is simply an excuse, and his single-minded determination has everything to do with you.”
“Penelope Weatherstone,” Emma tsked. “It’s quite obvious marriage has gone to your head.”
She beamed, her eyes dancing. “Just wait. It will happen to you too.”
A shadow crossed them, causing her to look up.
“What will happen to Miss Danvers?” Rathburn asked.
Emma started. How long had he been standing there? He nearly grinned at her as if he were savoring an amusing secret. The gold flecks in his green eyes seemed to capture the brightness of the sun, especially when he glanced down to her mouth. Perhaps it was her imagination, but his gaze lingered long enough for her to feel the warmth of it. He seemed quite determined to make Penelope and everyone in the park believe this mock courtship of theirs.
Thankfully, Penelope kept her wits. She surreptitiously plucked the paper out of Emma’s grasp and refolded it before hiding in her reticule once again. “We were just speaking of felicitations in marriage.”
He leaned forward and took Emma’s hand, lifting it to his lips. “What a coincidence. My mind was similarly engaged.”
Emma snapped out of her momentary sun blindness when her eyes threatened to roll to the back of her head. He was terribly good at pretending. She must remember that in the future. “There is no need to keep up pretenses in front of Penelope. She knows about our bargain.”
Rathburn didn’t blink an eye but kept his charm at full potency. He tugged her to her feet and chuckled when she was forced to place her hand against his solid chest or crash into him. “Your eagerness to end this pretense is admirable, darling,” he teased, whispering low into her ear. Then he backed away before she had the chance to swat him. “However, I sought you out for a perfectly innocent proposal.”
Innocent, Rathburn? Certainly not. “Dare I ask?”
Rathburn had never been so nervous in all his life. There was no accounting for it, really. He’d had workers here for two years. His two closest friends, Weatherstone and Danvers, had both stopped by on occasion. Even Gabriel, his fellow ne’er-do-well cousin had shown up, needing a place to hide out from his father, the austere Duke of Heathcoat. And yet, this was somehow different.
Now, Weatherstone’s wife and Danvers’s sister were about to see it. Or, more to the heart of the matter, this was the first time Emma would see the work he’d had done.
Her opinion mattered to him. So much so that his palms were slick with sweat beneath his driving gloves. He pulled them off with his teeth as he drove the curricle up the long driveway to Hawthorne Manor.
He blamed that kiss and those flowers. Ever since the Sumpters’ musicale, he couldn’t shake loose the seedling idea. The damned thing had taken root. What if . . . kept turning around in his mind, occupying his thoughts.
What if he married Emma Danvers?
With an actual marriage, at least his wayward thoughts would end in an honorable result. Surely, her brother could credit him for that and not slay him at dawn in a field of honor.
Marrying Emma Danvers would certainly be simpler than plotting an end to their betrothal and fabricating a story to back it up while still remaining friends. Not to mention, much easier than getting an annulment after they were married. And . . .
She could be his.
The idea appealed to him.
Now, it was a matter of seeing if Emma felt the same.
He looked ahead, mulling over his options as the house came into view. Only the rear wing had been destroyed by fire, leaving the front much the same as it always was. The russet brick structure was three generous stories high, with rows of tall, mullioned windows topped with fanlights and trimmed in white stone. Gothic arched dormers jutted from the dark slate roof, matching the dramatic arch over the wide doorway. Single-story structures banked either side of the house. Encased with even more windows, they acted primarily as a conservatory and an orangery. Cobblestones lined the driveway and circled around the reflecting pond in front.
From this vantage point, the rear of the house wasn’t visible. Even though the manor wasn’t entirely finished, the main structure had been repaired, the brickwork done, the windows in place, the interior walls coated with smooth plaster.
“It’s lovely,” Penelope said quietly.
It was the first thing anyone had said since the house came into view. With his nerves so high, he hadn’t noticed the still reverence that seemed to settle over them. Rathburn had been here nearly every day during the past three years, and so he’d grown used to seeing it. Used to remembering the awful night of the fire.
Occasionally, he still had nightmares.
Yet, for the most part, he’d come to terms with the loss of his father, knowing with every fiber of his being that his father would not want Hawthorne Manor to remain a shrine. Growing up, he’d had so many happy memories among these walls, he was certain they were lingering here, waiting to be rediscovered. His father had worked tirelessly to ensure Hawthorne Manor’s longevity, and to bail the family title out of debt. Rathburn knew from the first that his father would want him to repair it, to live here with his own family and start again. Perhaps then, he could begin to make amends for the life he’d led.
“I’ve always thought it the finest of houses,” Emma said as he slowed the horses to a stop and set the brake. When she turned her gaze from the house, he saw beneath the brim of her caramel-colored bonnet to the tender apprehension in her warm brown eyes.
“Then, perhaps, you’ll help me make it that way again.”
Startled, she lifted her face, her expression more alarmed than pleased. “Your wife will want that honor, I’m sure.”
Before he could offer an outrageously bold comment about how she might want to get used to the idea, one of his footmen came out to assist Penelope to the ground. For now, Rathburn held his tongue and hopped down.
Not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to assist Emma, he took her hand. She looked over her shoulder to where Penelope was descending with the aid of Harrison and the step. However, Rathburn tugged Emma out of the seat and slipped his hands to her slender waist, lifting her cleanly out of the curricle to stand her before him.
“You are right, of course,” he said with the pretense of responding to her comment. In actuality, he merely wanted the excuse to keep her near. A moment longer to keep his hands on her waist, just above the subtle flair of her hips.
Until this moment, he’d never had confirmation of her shape. They’d never danced. She wore the usual style of dress that young women preferred—high-waisted and made of muslin or silk or whatnot, conformed to fit the bosom.
In that regard, he’d admired Emma’s figure on a multitude of occasions. Her breasts were quite perfect, round and supple, teasing him with the barest hint of her décolletage in her evening gowns. Now, beneath her dress and spencer, the luscious objects of his admiration were rising and falling with her quick breaths. Yet, Emma was modest to a fault, and she wore a frustratingly sturdy petticoat that kept errant breezes from outlining her form.
However, he kept his hands on her. His thumbs rested just inside the gentle slope of her hips. Unable and unwilling to help himself, he traced the top portion of the angled feminine bones, the likes of which he was quite familiar with on other women. On Emma, this was new territory, an adventure of pure pleasure, traversing over the flesh that was hidden beneath layers of fabric. He could feel the enticing heat of her body seep through his fingers.
It occurred to him that she’d made no move to retreat. She gave no indication of displeasure at being so near, of having his hands on her. Instead, her gaze traveled up from the buttons of his waistcoat, to the pin in his cravat, and then finally to his mouth.
She licked her lips. “You were saying?”
Her voice came out as a breath and the sweetness rose to greet him, intoxicating him for a moment, and giving him the foolish thought of lowering his head, of kissing her in front of Penelope, Harrison, and the other members of his staff peering out the windows—and even that didn’t deter him.
Yet, before he could, the horses snorted and whickered as if they were laughing at him for losing his head. And rightfully so.
Rathburn lowered his hands and took a step back. Clearing his throat, he forced himself to look anywhere but at Emma’s tempting lips. “I would like your opinion, all the same.”
“Of course,” she said, albeit a little breathlessly. She looked marginally relieved, which didn’t sit well with him. “You know me well enough to believe I wouldn’t be able to withhold it regardless.”
Her laugh sounded a bit forced, making him want to put her at ease again. He offered his arm. “True enough. Perhaps you would even grant your bold opinion on my garden.”
This time, her laugh came easier, and he was glad for the pleasant sound humming through his ears. “I should love nothing more.”