Running the family law firm hadn’t been his choice, but it was his responsibility nonetheless. He wasn’t one to shirk his duties nor disappoint his family. He simply had to resign himself to his lot and ignore the yearning to create something apart from his papa’s legacy. Landon had adapted, and so would he.
Landon leisurely rose out of his seat. “Very well. I’ll leave you to it and see myself out.”
Christopher nodded and waited for Landon’s booted footsteps to fade. Picking up the drawings of Emma, he debated whether or not to go see her. The faster he thumbed through the illustrations, the more the woman came to life—a vibrant, independent woman. Emma was right. She didn’t need him to teach her a thing. She was perfect in her own right.
Exhaustion settled in—his entire body heavy weighed down by melancholy. He blew out the candles and headed home. The easy jaunt to his townhouse was taxing, as his feet carried him in the opposite direction his heart wished to venture.
* * *
Punching his pillow, Christopher cursed his inability to fall asleep. His conversation with Landon repeated over and over in his mind. His brother naturally asked a great many questions, and even when he had attempted to hide the truth, Landon had simply accepted Christopher’s weak responses without further inquisition.
Something was amiss.
Landon had hinted Emma’s decision had something to do with protecting someone she cared for and not necessarily Bronwyn. He wouldn’t get rest until he had the answer. He rolled out of bed. Early morning sunlight filtered through the curtains as he let his eyes adjust for a moment. Ignoring the clothes that had been neatly laid out by the valet Landon insisted he hire, Christopher entered the adjoining room that housed his clothes. He retrieved a pair of trousers and a simple lawn shirt and made quick work of dressing.
Christopher stood in front of the looking glass. Relocating to a residence of his own hadn’t brought with it the independence he’d craved. He loved being close to family, but being an heir to a title and brother to the leader of a clandestine organization were limiting rather than liberating. He’d ignored the constant, watchful, and well-meaning footmen while in residence with Landon, but having another subset watch over his home even though he had yet to receive the mark of a PORF seemed a waste of resources.
Narrowing his gaze at the man in the mirror, Christopher shook his head. Hmph. The man before him appeared the relaxed, nonchalant second son of a gentleman. It was a look he’d mastered, but Christopher’s muscles were definitely strained taut beneath his clothing. Christopher’s mask had only ever been stripped from him twice. Both times by a brazen, cockney-accented blonde who danced in his arms.
Jamming his arms through his greatcoat sleeves, Christopher strode through his townhouse. He’d nearly made it to the front door.
“Mr. Neale. Mr. Neale,” his housekeeper called out from behind him.
He swiveled and waited for the meddling woman to catch up to him. “Yes, Mrs. Gainville.”
The woman wiped her hands over her apron. “Mr. Neale…umm…” She threw her hands in the air and said, “She didn’t want us to wake ye… She’s been waitin’ for ye in the kitchens. Of course, ye appear when she popped into…never ye mind about that.”
Summoning the last remnants of patience he possessed, Christopher asked, “It’s rather early, as you say, Mrs. Gainville. Pray tell, who is she?”
“Miss Emma Lennox, sir.”
“Emma?” He stepped away from the front door and headed toward the kitchens.
He entered the warm, herb-scented room. Amidst the busy space, Emma stood by the prep table, chattering away with one of the kitchen hands who was whisking eggs.
Not wanting to interrupt, he took a moment to take in her image. She was beautiful in her day dress – a shade of light blue that reminded him of a cloudless day. It was simple and functional in design, not at all like the walking dresses with bows and flounces favored by the ladies of the ton.
Emma’s gaze fell upon him, and Christopher cleared the lump from his throat. “Someone should have seen to your comfort and summoned me.”
“I prefer the kitchens, and I’ve enjoyed chattin’ with me friends.”
“You came to visit your friends and not me, then.”
“Don’t be daft; of course, I’ve come to see ye.” A flash of uncertainty crossed her features.
Uncertainty was not a look that suited her. He wanted to see her relaxed and smiling in his home. “Let’s adjourn to the morning room, shall we? Mrs. Gainville, a pot of coffee and tea would be wonderful.”
“Yes, Mr. Neale, right away.” His housekeeper gave Emma a push forward and whispered, “Go on, just tell him.”
Emma nodded and replied, “Me thanks for yer ear.”
Christopher pretended not to have overheard the brief words between the two and swiveled to lead Emma out of the kitchens.
He opened the door to the sparse morning room, where he normally took his morning meal. In fact, he realized all the rooms in his house lacked the warmth of a woman’s presence. Which was highlighted by the energy that trailed Emma as she walked past him.
She walked straight for the window and peered out onto the street. No surprise; Emma had been well trained by the Network to protect its assets. He lacked the mark of a PORF but had slowly accepted the fact that the Network, which had stayed on the fringes of his life as a child, now infiltrated every aspect of his world. Unmarked, he was supposed to be oblivious to the fact his entire household staff were carefully chosen members of the Network, selected to serve and protect him in anticipation of him receiving the mark as soon as he wed. Even as a child, Christopher had noted the subtle protective nature of the Hadfield staff over its masters. And his suspicion that his family was, in fact, one of the three legendary families sworn to protect the royal family was confirmed when Theo fell in love with Lord Archbroke and confessed to having inherited the PORF family volume instead of Landon. Since then, he pretended to not know of Theo and Landon’s clandestine schemes, knowing that if either of them needed his assistance, they would simply ask. But as the months went by, it became clear neither would involve him until he officially became a PORF.
Emma turned, and the sunny smile she gifted him banished his gloomy thoughts. He pulled out a chair for Emma. “I trust Mark and David have relieved Paul and Sean.”
“How do you know your watches' names?” She slid into the chair.
Leaning down to speak next to her ear, he said, “I have impeccable hearing and a mind for names and schedules.”
The scent of lemons caught his attention. But it was the devilish twinkle in her eyes as her gaze slipped to his mouth and then back to his eyes that had his breath catching in his chest.
Scant inches away, Emma twisted her face towards his. Her lips were perfectly aligned with his. The minx’s tongue peeked out at the corner of her mouth. She was pure temptation, and he declined to resist. He leaned in closer. A soft moan escaped as their lips touched. The tender kiss was intoxicating, breathtaking. He pulled back. Emma’s eyes fluttered open.
Barely louder than a whisper, Christopher said, “I’d like to do that every morn.”
Emma’s brow creased into a frown. “Every morn?”
Damnation. She had obliterated his self-control. A barrister knew better than to blurt out his thoughts. He stepped away to take a seat at the table. “Please accept my apology. I don’t know what caused me to speak without forethought.”
Her frown disappeared, and she calmly clasped her hands atop the table.
One of the newly appointed footmen entered and beamed a smile at Emma. It was the first time Christopher had seen the young fellow show any reaction since he appeared within his household. With inherent grace, Emma reached for the pot and poured. Yes, he could quickly become accustomed to her at his table.
“While I am pleased to see you, would you care to share with me the reason for this early morning visit?”
“I came to talk to ye about our agreemen
t.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need ye to agree to hire an assistant.”
“I believe you still owe me the pleasure of your company for three more evenings.”
“Me company?” She narrowed her gaze. “Wot ever for?”
When questioned directly, his first mental response was not for the ears of an innocent.
Before he could formulate an appropriate answer, Emma challenged, “Ye don’t know, do ye?”
“I know that when you are near, I want to linger.” Not the right response.
Emma's frown returned. “Ye can linger with another woman. Me nights are reserved for work.”
“I merely meant I enjoy your company. You did agree to…”
“To dance lessons. Not yer heart stoppin’ kisses.”
He couldn’t help but tease, “So you enjoyed my kisses.”
“Aye, I’ll not deny it.”
He admired her honesty. “If I promise to behave, will you honor me with your company for the next three evenings? We don’t even have to dance, Emma. We could do whatever pleases you. All I wish for is you grant me the pleasure of your company.”
Her eyes shuttered, and she pulled her full bottom lip between her teeth before she lifted her gaze back to his. “Anythin’ I want, huh?”
“Aye.” He’d willing agree to anything for an opportunity to be alone with this mesmerizing woman.
The mouth he so desired curved into a wicked grin. “Do ye know how to sew?”
“No.”
“But ye do know how to sketch.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Aye. Ye can meet me at me shop.”
He was skeptical about what she had in mind for him, but he didn’t care. Closing the space between them, he shifted closer. Her breath hitched, and he stilled.
Gaze locked on his, she leaned forward and asked, “Are ye going to kiss me again to seal our bargain?”
“Would you like that?”
The woman didn’t even blink before she responded. “Aye.”
Christopher leaned in and kissed her softly. He limited himself to the pressure of her lips, not daring to seek out the taste of her. She tempted him like no other. He was a gentleman, and she was an innocent.
Reluctant for her to leave, he asked, “Will you stay and eat?”
“Nay. I best be off. I’ve got ladies comin’ fer fittin’ all day.” She stood and bent and gave him a sweet kiss on the cheek and said, “Goodbye fer now.”
She left and took a little piece of him with her. It was an odd sensation that he’d never experienced, and he wasn’t entirely certain if he cared for the hollow, empty feeling.
Chapter Ten
Smoothing out the mint-green silk, Emma sighed. Her last appointment for the day was late. She glanced back down at the shimmering material. The shade of green would highlight its owner’s eyes. Lady Arabelle had dared Emma to design a dress for Bronwyn’s ball that would tempt a man of the cloth. It was a brash, reckless challenge, and one no sensible modiste would accept, but Emma had been itching to test her skills. Lady Arabelle’s youthful form would complement even the most basic of designs, but she wanted a gown that would accentuate her pert bosom and emphasize her petite waist, all in an effort to make the man of her heart submit to his own desires. A tiny spark of guilt pricked Emma’s conscience on behalf of the target of Lady Arabelle’s scheme. Why the man refused to come up to snuff and offer for the woman boggled Emma’s mind. Lady Arabelle was intelligent, well versed in politics, and had a head for investments. It was no wonder Christopher had once been interested in pursuing her. Lady Arabelle would have made a fine wife for Christopher. Wife. Christopher was on the hunt for a wife.
Emma gripped the edge of the cutting table, short of breath. She inhaled slowly until the stabbing sensations in her chest abated. He should be seeking out a woman more like Lady Arabelle, not negotiating agreements to spend time with the likes of her. She would never manage to be refined and poised like Bronwyn had. Ladies didn’t agree to secret meetings alone with a gentleman. And they certainly didn’t seek out kisses to seal bargains that were dangerous to their hearts. Never before had a man’s perusal caused her body to respond. Instead of revulsion at what Emma believed to be vile male thoughts, Christopher’s gaze sparked a sinful curiosity within her. The man’s intense stares made her insides quiver, even more than his fiery kisses.
The bell over her shop door tinkled, announcing Lady Arabelle’s arrival. The persistant younger lady had made it a weekly habit to visit for an hour or two. More often than not, Lady Arabelle would simply chatter on about the latest on dit while Emma sewed or took inventory. At first, Emma hadn’t the heart to turn the lady away, believing Lady Arabelle was lonely. However, she wasn’t without friends amongst her set, as Emma came to hear all about them. After Lady Arabelle’s third visit, the woman confessed she wished to strengthen their family bond. Emma was well aware of Arabelle’s tenacity, and if Emma had denied her, Arabelle would simply have devised another scheme. And so each week, Emma waited for Lady Arabelle to burst through her door—for the woman was a whirlwind of energy.
“Emma!” The girl's sweet voice was lyrical even when shouting.
Pulling back the curtain to the back room, Emma smiled and said, “Lady Arabelle, ye finally arrived.”
“I apologize. I had a devil of a time escaping. Sebastian and his lectures.” Lady Arabelle embraced Emma in a hug. “We heard you will be attending the Hadfield ball. Sebastian would love for you to arrive with us in the Hereford carriage.”
How amusing that the news of the coming and goings of a mere dressmaker made it to the ears of the members of the ton. “That’s nice of yer brother to offer, but I’m not attending.”
“But we were told...” Lady Arabelle released Emma and demanded, “Why not?”
“For me own reasons.” Emma swiveled and rounded the table to grab a bowl full of pins. If the woman continued to press, Emma wondered how many pinpricks the woman would endure before she desisted.
Lady Arabelle said, “But Countess Hadfield is your oldest and dearest friend.”
Deciding it best not to draw blood, Emma placed the pins next to the mint-green gown that remained laid out on the cutting table.
Emma stomped out of the back room, leaving her client behind. “Bronwyn needs to make new friends.”
Coming to a halt next to the measuring table, Emma grabbed a bolt of pink floral satin and let it fall upon the bench with a loud thump, punctuating her statement. It was one thing for a lady to associate herself with a dressmaker but an utter disgrace to claim a bastard as her friend. Emma did not want to embroil Bronwyn in a scandal that was neither of their doing. No. It was best she didn’t attend.
Lady Arabelle pressed on. “You can’t mean that.”
The entreaty chipped a piece of Emma’s heart away. Of course she didn’t want to lose her best friend. But Emma would rather poke her eye with a needle than to bring shame upon Bronwyn. Why didn’t the lady and her brother understand that insisting on claiming her as family would cause tongues to wag, and none of the gossip would be kind or beneficial to their status amongst their peers? Heavens above—Lord Hereford was privy council to the King and Prince Regent. What was he thinking, offering to escort her to the ball?
Emma glared at Lady Arabelle. It was like staring into a looking glass—they shared the same honey-blonde hair, heart-shaped face, and unfashionably lush lips. Bronwyn’s guests would have to be blind not to see the family resemblance. Attending the Hadfield ball was out of the question. The Herefords already attracted enough attention. Between Sebastian—unwed, titled and blessed with his papa’s handsome features—and Arabelle’s beauty and skill at the pianoforte, the family garnered more than its fair share of attention from the matchmaking mamas and patriarchs of the ton.
Emma pushed the bolt of material until it reached the end of the yardstick. Grabbing her shears, she asked, “Have ye known me to ever lie?” Emma sliced through the material and sn
apped them closed.
Arabelle jumped. “No. But...”
Stuffing the shears through a loop on her apron, Emma grabbed the satin material she’d cut and made her way over to the closet where the gown she had been designing for herself was housed.
Pushing Emma aside, Arabelle gushed, “Oh my! This gown is glorious.” Holding up the ruby red dress to her petite body, Arabelle twirled in a circle.
Emma reached around Arabelle to place a swath of the pink material just below the bustline. “No. This will not work.” She discarded the satin and retrieved a wide roll of lace. Holding the fragile lace up to the dress, Emma said, “This gown is not for ye.” Although Emma was older, their body shape was yet another similarity they shared. Lady Arabelle could easily fit into the gorgeous gown Emma had envisioned wearing to the ball.
Moving the bolt of material out of the way, Emma asked, “Ye’re not really attempting to debauch a man of the cloth—are ye?”
Lady Arabelle laughed. “Of course not. But the man I hope to tempt is as devout in his beliefs as any priest.”
“Who is this man?”
“I’m afraid to speak his name. For if Sebastian were ever to find out, he may never let me out of his sight.”
Emma snorted. Lady Arabelle wasn’t afraid of her brother in the least. “Why? Yer brother is a fair sort.”
“Because the man is labeled a notorious rake…and has been for over a decade.”
Emma stood in front of Lady Arabelle and removed the dress from the woman’s hands. Christopher held the reputation of a rake amongst the Network.
“Lady Arabelle, ye wouldn’t be speaking of Mr. Neale, would ye?”
“Emma, you are my aunt, for goodness sake. You should be addressing me as Arabelle at the very least.”
A burst of fury rolled through Emma. The woman had avoided her question and had again brought up their familial connection that boiled Emma’s blood. “Lady Arabelle, we might be related by blood, but I’m not yer family. I’ve told ye and yer brother countless times I’ll not be claimed as such and have asked ye to stop bouting about such things.”
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