CHAPTER EIGHT
* * *
Since this was Penelope’s first visit to Hawthorne Manor, Rathburn first led them through the old portion of the house that hadn’t been touched by the fire. It was much unchanged since Emma had last seen it. The rooms were still elegantly furnished, with windows aplenty to fill each space with light.
Her mother would probably want to convert the entire first floor into a studio.
Never mind the beautiful oil paintings on the wall, the rosewood and marble tables, the luxuriant carpet and upholstered furniture, or the plaster moldings that lined the ceilings, doors, and windows. No, her mother would barge in one day, proclaiming that her muse must not be denied and then pile everything into a corner and drape a sheet over it.
Emma shuddered at the thought. She was actually worried about it, until she remembered that this wasn’t going to be her home. She wasn’t going to marry Rathburn, and therefore needn’t be concerned.
She waited for relief to settle her sudden rise of nerves, but she felt a peculiar tightness in her chest instead. If she didn’t know herself better, she’d almost believe it was disappointment.
Thankfully, she knew herself better. Most likely, the sensation came from indigestion from the roasted nuts she and Penelope had shared in the park.
“Are you unwell?” Rathburn asked, keeping his voice low as if not wanting to disturb Penelope, who was studying the woodland painting of Rathburn’s hunting box in Scotland over the library’s fireplace.
The tightness returned with another twinge as she looked up into his face and saw his friendly concern. “Perfectly well. I was just imagining how my mother would want to convert each of the front rooms into an artist’s studio,” she said with a forced laugh.
“Now I feel unwell.” He made a show of shuddering, drawing out a genuine smile from her lips. “Do you think, perhaps, we could offer her a room on the second floor instead? I’m certain we could discover one that no one ever uses.”
“Oh, it would all depend on the light,” she added with a dramatic flip of her wrist. And actually, the light in here was perfect. Not to mention the view from the windows of the lush, rolling hills that led to the copse of trees bordering his property. She felt her hand twitch, suddenly feeling empty without a brush within it or a canvas before her.
Emma shook herself from the notion. She’d vowed years ago not to let those impulses rule her. After all, members of society must rise above them or risk the cut direct. “Thankfully, this won’t ever be a problem we’ll have.”
“How so?”
She blinked. “Because we aren’t actually getting married, Rathburn.”
“Ah, yes,” he added with a chuckle and reached out to brush the backs of his fingers against her cheek as if to tame an errant lock of hair. “I keep forgetting.”
Every time he touched her, thoughts scattered like charcoal dust from a sketchbook. Her vision went hazy. All senses arrested on the place his flesh touched hers. The same way it had when his hands had lingered on her hips after he’d assisted her down from his curricle. It took a great deal of effort to remind herself that this was all a pretense for Rathburn, and that he was exceedingly skilled at flirtation.
She took a step apart from him and adjusted her glove. “Well . . . don’t.”
“I can’t make any promises.” He offered a rakish grin as he inclined his head. “Would you like to see the kitchens now? I’ve a sudden need to put something in my mouth.”
Flustered, but not wanting to let on, she nodded and hoped her cheeks weren’t as pink as they suddenly felt.
The three of them walked through the older portion of the house and into the new. It was a seamless transition. If she hadn’t been here before, she wouldn’t have noticed. The only difference was the walls. They were plastered, but not painted. Of course, there were no art or furnishings either. Yet, the floors were a perfect match in color and grain.
From the corner of her eye, she noted that Rathburn glanced over at her once they entered. She felt that tightness in her chest again and realized, quite unexpectedly, that it wasn’t disappointment or indigestion at all. It was longing.
Oh dear. On one hand, she felt sad that he’d lost his father in the terrible fire. She also felt a mixture of sadness and pride at the fact that he’d done all this on his own for the past three years. But most of all, she longed to . . . undo the tragedy from his life. To return everything he’d lost. Every hope, dream, and most important, his family.
Her useless musings faded into the back of her mind as they entered the kitchen. The sweet fragrance of oranges filled the air. The room was immense, lined with polished wood countertops, a wide porcelain sink, a massive black oven with three chimney vents through the wall. Shiny copper pots and pans hung from hooks in the ceiling, and an enormous worktable, topped with rows of marmalade jars, filled the center of the room.
When one of the maids let out a chirrup at having spotted them, Rathburn took the opportunity to introduced Emma and Penelope to the cook and five kitchen maids before they returned to their tasks.
“The kitchen is further out from the house, compared to the original structure,” he continued, leading them away from the kitchen and pointing to the hall that led to the housekeeper’s and butler’s offices. Since the fire had started there, it made perfect sense. “I wanted the main portion to be a single story, but still linked by those stairs to the main house, with the dining room nearby.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder to where he was pointing and all the breath left her body. She stared, stock still, at an endless row of red fire pails hanging along the wall. Oh, Rathburn, she sighed silently, her heart aching for him. Tears stung her eyes. It took every ounce of strength she possessed not to start crying.
She hid her face as he began to talk about the plumbing he’d installed in the house. Although she’d nodded at the appropriate times, she couldn’t stop thinking about the fire pails. Looking at him, she saw how brave he was, how proud he was. Yet there was still a sharp sadness in his gaze as he talked about the new improvements and the safety precautions.
Her heart ached for him as they made their way upstairs to the family quarters, half of which had been destroyed by the fire. Rathburn must have sent Harrison to dismiss the crew working up here, because tools and pails were scattered over the floor. These rooms were more barren than those downstairs. Not all the plaster had been completed, or the moldings or trim; the floors hadn’t yet been stained to match the rest of the house. They were just big, empty rooms, emphasizing the great loss even more. Yet, if it hadn’t been for Oliver, his father, and Archie Smith—one of the footmen—the entire family as well as the servants would have perished.
The thought sliced through her veins like ice water. So, how could she not applaud Rathburn for his work and improvements? He’d done an outstanding job, turning Hawthorne Manor back into a home—or nearly so.
She wished she could get a sense of this new structure, feel the happy memories that used to reside here. They were near, she was sure, lurking in the breeze that came in through the open windows. Waiting for just the right moment to fill the emptiness once again.
Emma decided then and there that pretense or not, she was going to speak with Rathburn about furnishing and decorating the rooms when the time was right. Which wasn’t now when she was so close to tears and the peculiar need to comfort him.
In the hall, Rathburn went to the wide panels that framed the doorway to the master bedchamber. “These hinged panels will all blend into the wall once the work is complete,” he said as he opened one, revealing a vertical row of fire pails hanging in the hidden compartment.
Emma looked down the length of the hall and saw similar framing outside of each bedchamber. She exchanged a look with Penelope and saw sympathy for Rathburn in her friend’s gaze. While he seemed pleased with the additions, he also looked lost—he’d done all this but was still unable to go back in time to save his father. It took all of her willpower not to reach out and take his hand, offering her support. And also to let him know that he would never have to suffer that kind of loss or pain again.
If only she could promise such a thing.
“This is the viscountess’s suite,” he said, gesturing through the open door for them to precede him. A tingle of awareness brushed down her flesh as she passed him. “My wife’s chamber.”
She swallowed. His voice, so low and deep, made her forget everything else she’d been thinking for the past hour. Even though the breeze was cool, she felt flushed and too warm. It sounded more like an invitation than a statement.
“Your wife, who will not be me,” she clarified, needing to feel a sense of certainty.
Rathburn grinned. If she didn’t know any better, she’d almost believe he meant it as a challenge. Or even more so, a dare.
She stepped past him, not allowing herself to be drawn in by his flirtations. They’d made a bargain. Had shaken hands on it. Had even sealed it with a kiss . . .
She let out a slow breath. No, she was not going to think about that kiss again.
As he passed, he ran the tip of his finger down the back of her arm. Through her sleeve, she could feel the heat of it. Of him. Her vision went hazy again. Convincing herself that he was merely flirting was getting more difficult, especially when she realized how much she wished he wasn’t.
“Between the rooms,” he said, returning to his tour master duties. “Just beyond the dressing rooms, is my favorite new addition.”
They followed him, only to pause on the threshold. Both Penelope and Emma gasped, stunned. Creamy marbled tiles covered the expansive floor. In the center of the room sat an enormous claw-foot bathtub. A bathing chamber as large as her sitting room at home.
“Did you ever see such a thing?” Penelope was the first to respond, walking to the tub to trail her fingertips over the curved rim. She looked over her shoulder at Emma and laughed. “I’d never leave.”
“You wouldn’t have to,” Rathburn said with pride as he demonstrated the faucet. “Cold water at your fingertips. A drain at the bottom that extends to the garden. A dumbwaiter for hot water. Every possible convenience.”
“No more lugging the water up the stairs?” A job Emma had done for herself a time or two when she hadn’t wanted to disturb the servants her parents were using as models.
Rathburn smiled again, pleased. “No.”
A current seemed to pass between them, a level of expectation coursing through the air. It made her feel . . . foreign. Not quite herself. Almost as if there were suddenly a separate person inside of her, trying to get out. The same person, she suspected, who had imagined him calling her his wife a moment ago.
The real Emma wanted to escape the sensation as soon as she could. “Was that a sitting room I spied across the hall?”
Both Rathburn and Penelope looked at her peculiarly. She didn’t bother to explain. She just needed to get out of there.
It took Emma a few moments before she felt more like herself. It was easy enough for her to accept Rathburn’s part, since he was forever teasing her merely to test her reaction. However, it was exceedingly difficult to tuck her own responses away into that part of her she’d cultivated for the sake of society’s acceptance. She’d learned early on that acceptance was the key to the life she wanted.
She didn’t want to be whispered about behind open fans, as her parents were. She didn’t want her children to be looked at with pity and speculation. She didn’t want to be judged and found wanting.
She wanted . . . normal. Mastering the skills of decorum, polite conversation, dressing in a manner not to attract notice, and resisting less conventional urges kept one from being the object of scrutiny. Yet, Rathburn made her want to abandon decorum, dress in a manner to attract his notice, and give in . . .
Emma felt it building within her more and more lately, seeking a way out. She was ashamed to admit that she hadn’t resisted every unacceptable behavior. Beneath her gloves, she knew she still had a spot of crimson paint as proof, marking her.
Her greatest secret, and most detrimental flaw.
She took a breath and inhaled the fragrant cool air. Soon enough, this farce would end. This pretense of affection would cease testing her will. Rathburn would gain his inheritance, and she would return to seeking the well-grounded husband she required.
Emma knew he appreciated that she’d agreed to his bargain. Admittedly, she was actually pleased he’d come to her for help. Because she wanted to help him. That’s what friends did, after all. Besides, the only reason he’d asked for her assistance was because he could trust her not to get carried away with the notion of marrying him.
In addition, if the friendly smiles from other gentlemen in the park were any indication, she would be able to make a true and solid match by the end of the Season. She must keep her mind on more prudent thoughts.
She curled her hands over the railing of the second-story balcony. From the sitting room, the view of the vast pleasure garden was similar to the one from the viscountess’s suite across the hall. The fire had destroyed the tall row of boxwood hedges that lay near the crushed clay path. Yet, beyond the charred and barren stubs of branches, bright golden daffodils and red, orange, and violet tulips colored the landscape. New green shoots on trees and shrubs, along with even more-vibrant buds, were waiting to emerge. In a week or two, a full regalia of bright colors would beckon her.
Only now, in this quiet moment, with the soft breezes toying with the ribbons of her bonnet, did she admit that she longed to return and witness the splendor for herself.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“I’m glad you like it,” Rathburn said from over her shoulder.
This time, she didn’t start at the sound of his voice. Instead, she felt her lips curve. Now that she managed to rationalize away the strange feelings she’d experienced earlier, she felt more at ease.
Once she had a moment to think about the afternoon, she even realized that his close proximity throughout the past hour’s tour of Hawthorne Manor had been a comfort, instead of the irritant she thought it would be. She didn’t know what had changed, but somehow their friendship seemed more . . . tangible than before.
He moved next to her, laying his hand on the rail beside hers. Even though an inch of space remained between them, it was as if there wasn’t any separation at all. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the tip of his finger gliding over her flesh . . . She swallowed.
“Of everything that I’ve shown you today—all the rooms, the plumbing in the kitchen, the bathing chamber—you’re most impressed by an overgrown garden.”
“You’re mistaken. The house is even lovelier than I remember. And as for the plumbing, I’m both amazed and astounded.” However, at the time, she’d still been reeling from the amount of fire pails she’d seen. Her heart still ached for him. For all he’d suffered.
“You’re frowning again,” he said.
She shook her head, pulling herself away from those thoughts. “I was merely looking at the old boxwood.”
“Once the house is finished, I’ll be able to concentrate more on the garden. Most likely, I’ll plant new boxwood in the row where the old is.”
“Oh, don’t. Another hedge would only hide the flowers. They’re just beginning to bloom. It would be a shame not to give them a chance,” she said, unable to keep her opinions to herself, just as he’d teasingly predicted. She lifted her gaze and saw they were of like mind, which caused her lips to curve again. “I can’t help it.”
His hand reached up to tug on the end of her bonnet ribbon, yet without the force to untie it. “What would you have me do instead?”
Caught off guard by his expression, she tilted her head and studied him for a moment, unable to form a response. Surely, she’d never seen him look at her with such tenderness before. Then again, surely, it must have been the way the wispy clouds flitted over the sun, because it altered in the next instant as his gaze dipped to her mouth.
Her lips tingled. Reflexively, her tongue darted out to soothe away the sensation. “Perhaps . . .”
He took a step closer. The cuff of his sleeve glided against her throat as his thumb brushed over her bottom lip. “Was it chocolate or jasmine tea today, Emma-mine?”
She must have forgotten how to breathe. Her chest constricted with the effort.
For a moment, she nearly forgot this was nothing more than a pretense and that Rathburn flirted with everyone.
For a moment, she very nearly imagined he saw her differently. As something more.
She very nearly imagined he was going to kiss her again, even with Penelope only steps away. Perhaps he was merely waiting for her to ask. Her pulse quickened at the thought. And what’s worse, she wanted to.
Foolish. Chiding herself, she took a step back. “It’s getting late,” she said, instead of answering him. “I’ll want to rest before the ball tonight.”
“Yes, of course,” he said with wry half smile, as if he knew her to be a coward. “We can finish our conversation later.”