Her Reluctant Groom (Groom Series, BOOK 2)

by Rose Gordon

  Her eyes lit up. “Excellent idea.”

  He shook his head and stepped into his dressing room to change. A few minutes later, he emerged.

  “That was fast.”

  “Doesn't take long when you don't have to shave,” he commented, sitting down to put on his boots.

  She cocked her head to the side. “You don't shave?”

  “No.” He laced his boot. “Hair doesn't grow through scarred skin.”

  “Oh.” She dropped her gaze to her hands.

  He finished tying on his boots and stood. “It might take a while to locate a gown for you. If you need anything, just pull the bell pull. It's over there.” He pointed to the long gold velvet cord hanging by the door.

  Two hours later, Marcus anxiously knocked then burst through the door of his room. Emma was on the bed lying on her stomach with her bare feet high up in the air, crossed at the ankles. Her head was by the pillows with her book in her hands. “Goodness, Marcus.” She closed the book with a snap and shoved it beneath the pillows.

  He chuckled. “You don't have to hide the book from me. I already know you're reading it.” He handed her a thirty-year-old day dress that once belonged to his mother. It was the nicest thing he could find that would pass as somewhat fashionable by current standards.

  “You do?” she squeaked, her eyes wide.

  Marcus shook his head. “I'm the one who brought it to you, remember?”

  She nodded and swallowed.

  “For goodness’ sake, Emma, it's not a crime to read a romance novel.”

  She giggled nervously. “I know.” She shifted her eyes from his and looked to the dress, stockings, and slippers he'd brought with him. “Is there a shift?” she asked, her cheeks turning a light pink.

  “I knew I forgot something,” he muttered, setting the clothes down on the bed. “Do you have to have it?”

  “Yes. Otherwise I'll have to be measured naked.”

  He smiled at the mental image her comment conjured up and only stopped when a pair of balled up stockings rapped his knuckles. “Sorry. I'll be right back.”

  Ten minutes later, he returned with a shift he'd borrowed from his fifty-year-old housekeeper. “Here you are.” He handed it to her. “I see this time you were anticipating my arrival?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, eyeing the ripped seam in the shift.

  “You weren't reading your book this time.” He gestured to the rumpled bed.

  She blushed. “No, I put it away.”

  He glanced down to the nightstand where Moll Flanders lay right out in the open before looking at her again. “Are you feeling all right today?”

  “Yes,” she said with a frown. “Why do you ask?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Not ten minutes ago when I came in here you shoved your novel under the pillow and blushed furiously when I mentioned it, and now it's lying in clear view and you look as calm as an autumn's day.”

  She grabbed the book and jammed it under the pillows. “There.”

  He shook his head and left her to get dressed.

  “Marcus?” she yelled through the door a few minutes later.

  He opened the door slightly. “Is something wrong?”

  “I can't get the hooks in the back of my dress.” She turned her back to him.

  Marcus walked in and shut the door behind him. He'd been fending off awkward stares all morning from his staff because of the sleeping arrangements last night, no need to give them something else to gossip about. Not that it mattered a great deal. He was the master of Ridge Water, after all, and anyone who dared question his actions would find himself seeking new employment—without a reference, naturally.

  The back of Emma's gown gaped open, and he went over to do the clasps for her. A minute or so later he finished and squeezed her shoulders. “You're all ready.”

  Emma turned around, and he couldn't tear his gaze away from where her breasts were threatening to fall out of her bodice. “Was this all you could find?” She aggressively tugged her bodice up, giving Marcus quite a show as her plump breasts bounced and jiggled.

  “Stop fussing with it before you spill out the top.” He scowled at his hoarse tone.

  “I'm fussing with it so I won't spill out the top,” she retorted, giving the fabric a hard yank.

  “I have an idea. In the hall is a shawl that used to belong to Olivia or Caroline or someone. I'll get it for you.” Marcus found the shawl and came back into the room. “Wrap this around you.”

  Emma reached out for it and stilled. “I think I'll survive without it,” she said coolly. “Once the seamstress arrives, I'll have to take my dress off anyway.”

  He walked up to her and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, noting how she stiffened when he touched her with the fabric. “Emma, I know you don't like borrowing other people's things, but the owner of this shawl will not mind. I promise.”

  “Yes, she will,” Emma countered bitterly. “The owner of that shawl never wanted to see it again.”

  “I don't think so. She just forgot about it.”

  Her right hand let go of her bodice, grabbed the shawl, and jerked it off. “She did not forget about it. She discarded it.”

  “Was this yours?”

  “Yes. It was mine, and though I never brought it across the threshold of Ridge Water, I bet I know who did.”

  “Where did it come from?” A knot formed in his stomach. He probably wasn't going to like her answer.

  “Hampton,” she said tightly. “Out of spite for you having ruined her impending marriage, Olivia wrote to Louise, to ask her to come to Caroline's wedding. The day before the wedding, a letter arrived from Louise with her regrets. It included a small package with something for me to wear to the wedding. When Olivia showed me the letter, I recognized the writing as his, not Louise's. While I was reading the note, Olivia took it upon herself to open the package and pull out the shawl. I took it from her and ordered it destroyed immediately. I honestly thought it had been.”

  “Are you sure this is the same one?” he asked, his throat dry.

  She nodded. “It's the same. He always has gifts embroidered with that.” She pointed to the corner.

  Marcus grabbed the fallen corner of the silk shawl and brought it to his line of vision. “Does he often give you gifts?” he asked harshly, running his thumb over the dark red threads that embroidered a bold heart shape with GT & EG inside it.

  “From time to time,” she admitted. “All but that one have found their way to the rubbish bin or a large flame.”

  Scowling because there was no roaring fire in the room, he balled the shawl up. “I'm sorry she did that,” he said on his sister's behalf. Olivia couldn't go a day in her life without making at least one person miserable. Poor Mr. Saxon.

  Emma snorted. “She wouldn't have had the chance if Louise hadn't married such a degenerate,” she muttered, then started. “I'm sorry.” She blushed, presumably at realizing what she’d said and who she had said it in front of.

  “I'm not,” he said honestly.

  She smiled sympathetically at him. “Marcus, I know she hurt you—”

  “No, she didn't.” He sat on the edge of the bed. Against his better judgment, he pulled her to him and settled her on his lap. “Emma, not a day has gone by these past thirteen years that I’d wished I'd married her. Yes, I've wished I hadn't been hurt. And yes, I've regretted that I was unable to finish school or go on the Grand Tour. But not once have I regretted that I didn't marry Louise.”

  “But I thought you were riding after her,” Emma said, her eyes uncertain.

  “I was,” he admitted. “But not for the reason you think. She wanted me to haul her off to Gretna Green, but I refused. She left and said she was going to Hampton because he'd take her. The reason I was chasing after her was to talk her out of running to Hampton and creating a scandal. I'd proposed to her, and though I didn't really want to marry her, I would have. As a gentleman, I was bound to honor my proposal. And I would have—in July. I ru
shed after her because I wanted another chance to persuade her to wait until July when I'd be finished with school.”

  Emma looked at him oddly. “She couldn't have waited that long, Marcus. Even you had to have understood that.”

  “She could have waited three months,” he scoffed. “She just didn't want to.”

  “Surely you didn't expect her to be exposed to the censure and rumors that would have surrounded her once news of her condition was made known.”

  “Her condition?” Marcus said with a sneer. “I wasn't aware she had a condition. I was the one lying abed being tended for broken bones and infected lacerations.”

  Emma frowned. “Marcus, you do know the reason she was in such a hurry, don't you?”

  “Yes. So she could prove once again she could control me.” He forced a thin smile to offset the bitterness in his tone.

  “You don't know,” Emma said quietly, blinking at him.

  “Know what?”

  “Nothing.” She scrambled off his lap.

  He wrapped his arm her around her waist and pulled her back to settle on his lap. “Tell me.”

  She glanced at the floor for a minute then back at his face. He squeezed her waist affectionately to encourage her to speak. She sighed. “Just so you know, I do not think this justifies her behavior, but it does explain it. The reason she ran off with Gregory three days after your accident was because she was expecting.”

  Marcus stomach clenched as if he’d just been punched. If he'd not been hurt, he'd have had quite an eventful year ahead of him. First, a wedding in July, then another man’s bastard that winter, followed by the beginning of a parliament-granted divorce in the spring. Unlike some men of the ton, he would not have accepted her bastard, and if that brat had been born any sooner than nine months after their wedding, he'd have sought a divorce immediately—no matter what kind of shame and scandal it might have brought on him to do so.

  “I'm sorry, Marcus,” Emma went on, her eyes glistening with tears. “I thought you knew all this.”

  He shook his head numbly. Why was she so upset?

  “Then I suppose you didn't know she'd miscarried?” she asked, brushing back a tear.

  “No,” he said softly. “And to be frank, I really don't see why I should care.”

  She sucked in her breath and jumped from his lap so quickly he couldn't stop her. She marched over to the door and wrenched it open.

  “Where are you going?” He came up behind her and held onto the edge of the door before it hit him in the face.

  “To the seamstress,” she exclaimed, picking up her skirt and moving quickly down the hall.

  With a grimace, he walked as fast as he could and snaked an arm around her, hauling her back against his chest. “What was that about?”

  “You're heartless,” she snapped.

  He laughed bitterly. “Pray explain yourself.”

  “You act as if you haven't a single care in the world about Louise's miscarriage.”

  “Why should I?” He tightened his hold. “That has nothing to do with me.”

  She turned around in his hold, her eyes flashing fire. “Doesn't it?”

  “No. Louise and her brats are none of my concern.”

  “How can you say that?” She choked on a sob, and two tears slipped from the sides of her eyes.

  He stared at her dumbfounded. Just because he'd been engaged to the chit didn't mean he held her in any great esteem, then or now. “What are you looking for from me, Emma? A little sympathy? Very well. I'm sorry she had to suffer the pain of a miscarriage. Is that good enough?”

  “No,” she snapped. “You and your black heart don't understand. I don't want you to feel sympathy for Louise. She's the second least deserving person of sympathy I know—right behind her brute of a husband. However, a little emotion on the behalf of your child that was miscarried isn't too much to ask, I shouldn't think.”

  Marcus gaped at her. “That wasn't my child,” he said flatly, loosening his hold on her. “I don't know what she might have told you, but there is absolutely no chance that child could have been mine.”

  She took a step backward. “P—pardon?”

  “I think you understood my meaning. He exhaled and raked a hand through his hair. “Tell me something, Emma. Is the only reason you've bothered to come to Ridge Water these past years because you felt sorry for me about what happened with Louise, the broken engagement, and the supposed miscarriage of a child you were told I had sired?”

  She recoiled at his bitter words. “No, Marcus, those are the reasons I gave myself for why I shouldn't come to Ridge Water.” She spoke in a tone he couldn't identify. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with the seamstress.”

  “Wait.” He reached out and grasped her wrist to stay her. “What reasons do you give yourself for why you should visit?” He ignored the raggedness of his voice and hoped she would, too.

  She pulled her wrist from his hold and took a step back. “Because I love you, Marcus,” she said, turning to walk away, leaving a stunned Marcus with his heart hammering wildly in her wake.

  Chapter 10

  Emma couldn't climb those stairs fast enough. She'd just bared her heart to Marcus, and if he rebuffed her, she'd never recover.

  When he'd denounced Louise's insinuation that the two of them had been intimate, her heart had sung for joy, only to be silenced by his cruel question that followed. Why she had decided to be honest and tell him the truth of her feelings following that, she'd never know.

  Entering the pink salon, Emma paused and caught her breath. This room had been transformed from a quaint little sitting room to a beautiful dressmaker’s shop. A large screen and a dais stood in the middle, with three mirrors surrounding the dais to offer a reflection of all angles. Bolts of beautiful fabric were draped over every surface and hanging from the top of the screen. She swallowed. This was far too much for just two simple gowns. She hadn't planned to let Marcus commission the nightrails and chemise he'd suggested. All she'd won was the gowns, and that's all she would accept.

  “Good afternoon, miss,” Sarah Cole, said, not meeting Emma's eyes.

  Emma sighed. Sarah Cole was a village girl who had become a seamstress. Though Marcus’ staff could be trusted not to start rumors, and Caroline had likely instructed her staff to keep quiet, too, nothing short of a row of a dozen sutures would keep Miss Cole’s mouth closed. By tomorrow, the whole shire would know she was staying at Marcus’ and he was buying her wardrobe. Which would also mean everyone would assume what her sister already had: Emma was Marcus' mistress.

  “Miss Cole,” Emma greeted, looking at the fabric.

  Sarah pulled a sheet of paper out of her apron and pursed her lips as she read it. “It seems his lordship has quite a large list of gowns planned for you.” She stuffed the paper into her pocket. “Why don't you go behind the screen and take off your gown. You may leave on your shift. If you're even wearing one,” she muttered.

  Emma's cheeks flushed, and she went behind the screen to disrobe. She and Sarah had once been friends, but that had ended shortly after Emma discovered Sarah had only been pretending to be her friend to her face while speaking poorly of her behind her back. Ever since Emma confronted her about this, Sarah had dropped all pretenses and said whatever scathing remark she had about Emma to her face.

  “Could I get a bit of help?” Emma called when she realized she wasn't able to undo the clasps by herself any easier than she'd been able to fasten them in the first place.

  Sarah walked behind the screen and methodically undid the clasp. “I do wonder, Miss Green, who helped you into this dress?”

  Embarrassment flooded Emma. “That's none of your business,” she snapped. “Your job is to make me a gown, not speculate on who helped me into my clothes.”

  Sarah laughed. “And what about speculating on who will be helping you out of your new gowns and nightrails?” she asked condescendingly.

  “That is also none of your concern, Miss Cole,” M
arcus boomed from the doorway. “As Miss Green told you, your job is to sew her gowns. Now, I suggest you get to it or you'll find yourself sorely lacking patronage.”

  “Yes, milord,” Sarah said, fidgeting with the clasps on Emma's gown with far more force than necessary.

  When Sarah was done unhooking her metal clasps, Emma stepped out of the dress and tossed it over the screen.

  “What are you waiting for, Miss Green?” Sarah called impatiently from the platform.

  Emma frowned and peeked around the side of the dressing screen to see if Marcus was still in the room. She didn't see him and released a deep breath before walking out.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “I don't know why you're acting so modest when he's seen you in much less before.” She walked up to Emma with her measuring tape and wrapped it around her waist. “Twenty,” she murmured. She grabbed the pencil tucked in her bun and jotted the figure down in her little notebook. She moved tape up to her bust and grimaced. “Thirty-six. If you weren't practically naked, I'd think rolled-up stockings accounted for six inches of that.”

  Emma ignored her. Sarah had a way of getting under everyone's skin, rather like Olivia. In fact, she probably rivaled Olivia with her beastly personality. She blinked away the thought and picked up a stack of fashion plates. “I'll take two gowns in this pattern.” She handed the card to Sarah. “One in blue muslin, the other in green.”

  Sarah clucked her tongue. “Mighty plain, don't you think?”

  “No,” Emma said smoothly. “I think the gowns are just right for a position as governess.”

  Sarah snorted. “Is that what you call it? I believe the correct term for what you are is a mistress, and I highly doubt his lordship will want to take you out looking like a ragamuffin.”

  “And I believe the correct term for what you are is unemployed, Miss Cole,” Marcus said from the doorway. “You have ten minutes to pack your things and be out of my house. You'll have twenty-four hours from then to clear out your belongings from Mrs. Crofter’s store.”