Christopher’s hands rose from the ivory keys as the last notes of the haunting and somber piece reverberated through his body. He’d specifically chosen the monstrosity of a townhouse as his bachelor lodging for its proximity to Neale & Sons offices and the music room that accommodated his grand piano. The musical instrument was his first purchase that had no other purpose but his own pleasure.
In Landon’s first year as earl, Christopher had dutifully overseen the renovations to the dilapidated townhome his brother had inherited and had remained until Bronwyn’s arrival. After living at Hadfield townhouse, surrounded by dwellings owned by other hereditary lords for two long years, he finally had extracted himself from the prying eyes of the ton. The move to his own lodging hadn’t come soon enough for his taste. Raised in a modest residence befitting their papa’s station as a well-respected barrister, Christopher chose the lower west end of London, closer to their childhood neighborhood.
Playing and composing always eased his mind and assisted him in sorting out his often tumultuous emotions. His dealings with Emma were unsettling. Her self-assured demeanor both captivated and confounded him. He speculated that she too questioned her place in life. As the natural daughter of the current Lord Hereford’s grandfather, she was half-aunt to Lady Arabelle. As presumptive heir to Landon’s title, Christopher was left questioning his position in the world. Not a peer. A gentleman stuck in between two worlds—that of the working gentry and the ton. Required to attend countless mind-numbing social events amid lords and ladies, Christopher had begun seeking out the kind, sweet Lady Arabelle. Forging a bond of friendship with the lady had been relatively easy. And while he had considered proposing marriage, he never once experienced the skin tingling, heart-thumping sensations Emma had evoked during their two brief meetings. Emma emitted an undercurrent of energy that sparked emotions he had previously only believed existed in poetry. It was these rampaging feelings that had led him to devise an elaborate plan for this eve’s dance lesson. Plans that required his mama’s assistance.
The chime of the longcase clock from the adjacent drawing room marked the time for him to prepare for his mama and Emma’s arrival. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, he stretched out his back with hands clasped above his head. But the excitement of seeing Emma again awakened every nerve in his body. The patter of his mama’s quick, decisive steps approaching had him closing his eyes and sending a prayer up to his maker that by the end of the evening, Emma would be a willing participant in the lessons and as eager to see him as he was to see her again. He opened his eyes as the music room doors opened.
Christopher stood and crossed the room to greet his guests.
His mama placed her hands on his cheeks and pulled his face down to meet hers. “Dear boy, you work too hard. You’re looking rather weary.” She patted his cheek with her right hand and then turned to Emma. “Never fear, we shall practice the waltz tonight. Perhaps the less vigorous French version.”
Emma nodded. Her pale yellow gown complemented her eyes, making them appear more green than blue this evening. As his mama made her way to the pianoforte, he bowed and asked, “May I have this dance?”
Emma placed her hand in his. “Since I won’t have been formally introduced to the gentlemen at the ball, I suppose I’ll only have to agree to dance with you.”
Straightening to his full height, he smiled. Oddly, her statement evoked feelings of both sympathy and possessiveness simultaneously. “I am certain there will be a great number of men seeking an introduction, and I wager your dance card will be filled within an hour of your arrival.”
“Why?”
His mama tapped upon a few keys. “Wonderful.” She smiled and captured his full attention. “I was worried you spent too much time in the office and had neglected this beauty. Shall we begin?” Without waiting for a reply, she began playing a Mozart-inspired melody.
Emma was the first to act. Under the layers of clothing, his skin tingled as her free hand moved up his chest, along the top of his shoulder, behind his neck. Her movements halted.
“Ye are too tall. Me arm…” Emma withdrew and pulled back, waving her freed hands in the air. “Yer drawings showed the woman’s arm…”
Christopher chuckled. “I apologize; my illustrations did not account for the variance in our heights. We shall have to make modifications.”
The music stopped, and his mama asked, “What are the two of you chattering about?” She rose and strode to stand before him and Emma. “I’ll not be sitting over there playing my heart out while you two squabble. Now, what is the matter?”
“Yer son’s instructions were all wrong,” Emma answered before he could. She was fast to act and straight to the point. It was a refreshing quality in a woman.
His mama turned to face him. “Pray explain?”
“I merely provided Emma with a few drawings of the various positions we will assume while...”
His mama’s raised eyebrows made him pause. “Is that so?” His mama was the only other living soul that knew of his passion for music and drawing, both of which he’d abandoned these two years past, busy with running the firm Landon had left to him to oversee.
His mama’s gaze switched between him and Emma before settling on Emma. “When did he give them to you?”
“This morn, Aunt Henri.”
Christopher looked from Emma to his mama and back again. “Aunt Henri?”
His mama continued as if he’d not spoken. “And you have studied them all.”
“Aye.”
She wrapped Emma in a warm hug. “I’ve always been fond of you, girl, but now you have my heart.” She leaned back and said, “Promise to be patient with him.”
What was his mama on about?
Averting his attention back to Emma, he said, “Shall we try again?”
“Have ye decided upon Bronwyn’s replacement?”
She was persistent. He’d give her that. He hid the grin that he rarely shared with anyone but family and said, “No.” He placed her right hand in his left. “However, I have selected five candidates, and I intend to eliminate one each day as we progress through our lessons.”
She didn’t hesitate. Emma positioned her left hand out in front of her and turned so that they stood hip to hip. He admired her courage and determination. But what he really wanted to see was if he could recreate the interest in her gaze from the night before. Which would be an impossible task with his talented mama seated at the pianoforte watching with them with peripheral vision only mothers possess. From the moment she entered the music room, Emma had carefully avoided his gaze—he’d be lucky to coax forth a smile. Damnation. His stroke of brilliance to have his mama chaperone for the evening to protect Emma from scandal and horrid gossip was, in fact, a deucedly ill-conceived plan.
He glanced over at his mama and nodded. With a wink and a smile, his mama placed her fingers over the keys, ready to begin.
Christopher bent his head down and said, “Perhaps you can rest your arm along my back.” She placed her arm about his waist, which felt natural but wouldn’t do in public. “Slightly higher so that your arm is straight.” He let his hand brush along the back of her neck as his hand came to rest upon her shoulder. Her whole body shuddered. He looked down at her, but her lips were drawn tight and her gaze trained in front of them.
As the music began, Christopher led Emma through the marche, and they smoothly transitioned into the pirouette position—facing one another, gazes locked, her right hand in his. Finally, he saw the spark he’d been fixated upon all day.
Emma said, “What’re ye grinnin’ about?”
“Am I smiling?”
“Aye. But I’d rather ye be not foolin’ yerself. I’m not Lady Arabelle.”
He frowned. “I’ve not lost my senses. I’m fully aware of who I have in my arms.” He narrowed his gaze as they slid into a more intimate position, his foot between hers. With the barest of pressure, he squeezed her hand before he raised their joined hands to make an arc above her head. Turn
ing ever so slowly, he simply stared into her eyes.
“Are ye goin’ to make conversation now, or is it the woman’s duty to start the idle chatter?”
He had forgotten himself, imaging he was dancing with a woman who wanted to dance with him, not one who had been coerced to spend time with him.
“Miss Lennox, are you looking forward to the ball?”
Emma pasted a wide smile on her face, but it didn’t erase the scrunch of her brow. “Bronwyn ordered me to be present. I’ll never disobey a direct order from a PORF.”
No, Emma wouldn’t dishonor the oath she took. She was more likely to devise a scheme that would allow her to avoid such orders in the future, though. “I can’t imagine you like letting others order you about.”
Puffing out her chest, Emma said, “It’s a great honor to serve and protect the PORFs. Me family has done so for generations. Bronwyn may have been me friend first, but she’s a PORF now and married to the Head PORF at that.”
He glanced over to see his mama happily lost in the music. He bent his head and asked the question that had plagued him. “Are you at all worried?”
He’d changed topics without preamble, but the recognition in Emma’s eyes was clear.
Not skipping a beat, she easily matched his steps as they promenaded about the room. “Ye’re asking if I care if the ton notices or figures out me connection to the Herefords.”
“Yes.” The brush of her skirts against his leg sent his thoughts scattering for a moment before his gaze landed back upon her serious features.
“I can’t change who me sire was. And I’m not attendin’ for me own pleasure. I’m there to support Bronwyn.” She twisted at the waist to face him. Her brow wrinkled with concern. “Do ye fink me presence will look poor upon Bronwyn?”
Her question poked a hole in his heart. She wasn’t concerned even a little for herself but was troubled by the embarrassment her appearance might cause for her best friend. She was remarkably strong-willed. Uncertain how best to answer, Christopher squeezed her hand that remained securely in his.
Turning her, so she was face-to-face with him once more, he said, “I confess, the inner workings of the ton are far beyond me. I’d hope Theo would have advised Bronwyn and you if it were to be a problem.”
Her features relaxed at the mention of his cousin Theo. “Brilliant. I’ll jus’ have to remember to ask Lady Theo for her opinion tomorrow.”
“What will you do if Theo says you should not attend?”
She pursed her lips in thought. Christopher was quickly becoming fond of the habit. With a smile, Emma answered, “First, I’ll send ye a note lettin’ ye know I’ll not have to continue with these bloomin’ lessons. Second, I’ll simply track Bronwyn down and tell her how it is. I’ll not bring shame upon her or Lord Hadfield.”
He liked her smiling, and so he teased, “Oh, Landon will be so disappointed to hear you still refer to him by his title.”
“He’s the bloomin’ Head PORF. Of course I’ll refer to him with respect.”
She made him smile, and he wasn’t about to release her from their agreement. “You can’t quit. The deal was five dance lessons under my tutelage, and in return, I shall hire an assistant. The lessons were never dependent upon you attending the ball.”
She stopped mid-twirl. “Ye’re tryin’ to confuse me, spinnin’ me around and yammerin’ on like a lawyer. If ye fink I shouldn’t go, then why did ye insist on these silly lessons?”
He told her the truth. “I wanted to spend time with you and dance with you.”
“Why—because I remind ye of Lady Arabelle? If ye can’t have ’er, ye want to dally with me?”
“Yes. No.” He didn’t release her. “Wait, let me explain.”
She raised a pretty eyebrow, detangled herself from him, and crossed her arms. If he peeked under her skirts, he’d probably see her tapping her foot, but she remained stock still, and there was no sound to indicate he was right.
He needed her back in his arms. His mama played on, blissfully unaware that they had stopped dancing. Placing his hand on the small of her back, he inched closer and brought his hand up just below her chin. He dared not to touch her until he’d fully explained. “This has nothing to do with Lady Arabelle. She made her choice, and the woman chose another. I made the deal…well, I’m not certain of why except that I couldn’t focus on anything but counting the minutes until I’d see you again.”
Emma’s shoulder’s relaxed a tad at his ill-formulated explanation. On a half sigh, she said, “Thank ye for yer honesty. If Lady Theo deems it unwise for me to attend the ball, I shall send word as I’ve no interest in prancin’ about when I’ve orders to fill. If I do have to attend, then I’ll ask ye simply send over more of yer drawings.”
Her rejection stung. He lifted her chin up, so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Is it really a torture to spend an evening with me?”
The chit rolled her eyes. “Do ye know how long it takes to design, cut patterns and material, and sew one gown for these women?” She stripped off her gloves. “It takes a few hundred pinpricks and at least three days of sewin’, and I’ve got orders up to me eyeballs.”
He wasn’t going to give up the chance to spend more time with Emma. “Illustrations are not enough. I’ll compromise; if you are to attend, I shall provide the drawings, and I’ll give you tomorrow night as a reprieve, but we must meet the following eve.”
Eyes narrowed, she searched his features. With a curt nod that dislodged his touch, she said, “Agreed.”
He released the air trapped in his lungs. “I shall eagerly await to hear my dear cousin’s verdict tomorrow.”
Emma left him and walked straight up to his mama without a second glance at him. She tapped his mama’s shoulder, and the music came to a jarring halt.
“Sorry, Aunt Henri. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
His mama smiled and flickered her gaze over at him. “Had enough of my son already?”
“Aye.”
Emma treated his mama with a level of deference she didn’t take with him. In fact, she treated both Bronwyn and Landon with the same level of respect. Yet, she treated him entirely differently. Uncertain if he was irritated by the fact or pleased, he escorted the women to the coach with the Hadfield crest awaiting them out front.
Chapter Seven
Emma arranged her skirts as Aunt Henri retrieved and passed her a blanket from a hidden compartment under the opposite bench. “What displeases you about my son?”
Nothing got past this woman.
Emma sighed. “Why did you and your husband decide not to have your children receive the mark at birth?”
“Simple. My dear belated husband, in his infinite wisdom, believed that the mark shapes a man’s thinking before he can form his own identity. He wanted our sons to be free to decide their fate.” She smiled. “I see you do not agree with my late husband’s logic.”
The coach rattled along the cobbled streets mimicking Emma’s thoughts. “It is an honor, not a burden.”
“And is that the sentiment you hold towards being born into a Network that serves PORFs?”
“What has Lord Hadfield shared with you about the Network?”
“Child, you could have been my own daughter, answering questions with a question just like my boys.” Aunt Henri smiled and answered, “Naught. But I sense he has ruffled a few feathers amongst the Network.”
“In choosing Bronwyn for wife, he stirred a pot that had been simmerin’ for a long while. Lord Hadfield is astute and has a way about him that we are comin’ to understand. He’s nothing like his brother.”
“Oh, I think you might have underestimated my younger son. Christopher is, in fact, more akin to his papa—unassuming but extremely hard to deter once they’ve set their course.”
Hmph. Christopher appeared quite happy to adhere to his older brother’s wishes and happily run the family business. Yet there had been a time or two when Emma noted the extra moment Christopher took to answer
particular questions and sensed the silent sighs when he was torn between his own desires and those he cared for and respected. Christopher might not be the man she had initially assumed him to be.
“I don’t think Christopher has decided upon a future.”
Aunt Henri burst into laughter. “Oh my dear child, he most definitely has already chosen a path on which to venture. And in typical Christopher fashion, it is not an easy route.”
She patted Emma on the knee and promptly closed her eyes, leaving Emma a tad befuddled. Emma ran her sweaty hands over her skirts, pausing at the spot where Aunt Henri had touched her in a motherly fashion. Emma refrained from poking the woman to demand what in the blazes she believed her son was up to. Aunt Henri was a PORF, and Emma needed to remember that fact, irrespective of how the woman treated her. From the very first time they met, Aunt Henri had treated Emma as family. A bond Emma valued and did not wish to risk.
The corner of Aunt Henri’s lips remained curved in a slight grin. What was so amusing? The woman’s smile disappeared, her eyes popped wide open as she righted herself straight as a pole. “Hereford and Landon have been rather cozy lately. If my intuition is correct, you won’t be able to continue hiding from Lord Hereford. Your half-nephew is an extremely honorable and determined young fellow. I suspect he will figure some way to claim you as family.”
“I’ve been thinkin’ upon it…and just this eve your son brought up another matter I need to seek Theo’s counsel on.”
“Oh?”
“Do ye fink it wise for Bronwyn to be associated with me in front of her new peers? Will me presence harm her chances of formin’ strong and good bonds with the ladies of the ton?”
“I was disowned by my own papa, a duke no less, for marrying a second son. Yet the women I once called friends have once again welcomed me back into their fold. Bronwyn will have to be brave and learn how to navigate the social whirl, and she has wonderful instincts in whom to trust.”
“Ye mean she doesn’t trust anyone.”
“Exactly. But I will defer to my wise young niece as to your question. I wish it were a simple matter and I could advise you that the views and opinions of the ton do not matter, but in reality, not only is Bronwyn now a countess, she is also the wife to the Head PORF, which means there are far more implications to consider.”
Tempting a Gentleman Page 5