Without another word, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.
Their lovemaking was quick and passionate. He had a desperate need to feel something other than the hatred and the pain that, though drastically diminished, was still very much present. But loving Emily served to banish the darkness that so incessantly wrapped itself around him—to the point of suffocation.
And Emily . . . well . . . Emily needed to feel that her love for Francis was strong enough to help ease his torment.
Afterward, they lay in silence for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms, enjoying the quiet satisfaction that followed the rush of sexual fulfillment.
“We’ll leave for my estate tomorrow afternoon,” Francis suddenly said. The anger was gone from his voice, replaced instead by determination. “The season is over, anyway.”
“Claire won’t be thrilled to leave Lord Camden behind in London, and I’m certain that Beatrice will be sorry to be separated from Mr. Rosedale.”
“Why don’t we just ask your sisters to join us? Beatrice will remain close to Jonathan this way, and as for Claire . . . Lord Camden has expressed an interest in seeing Dunhurst Park on numerous occasions; I’m confident that he’d enjoy a visit—particularly if Claire is also there. We’ll invite my aunt and Lady Giddington, too—for propriety’s sake.”
“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” Emily sighed as she nuzzled her head against his shoulder. “You are without a shadow of a doubt the most wonderful man I’ve ever known.”
Francis grinned. “And I am fortunate to have found a woman who’s so easy to please and who takes such joy in the simple pleasures of life—those that most would think insignificant.” He kissed the top of her head so that waves of warmth flooded her body. Never had she felt so content, so happy, and so loved.
“Will you tell my sisters that we’re leaving London, or should I?” she asked.
“What do you prefer?”
She thought about it a moment. “I just hate having to lie to them.”
“I know.” He ran his hands lightly through her dark hair, twirling a few loose strands between his fingers. “I realize that you find all of this extremely uncomfortable, and that being dishonest with your sisters is not something that’s easy for you to do. Emily, you’re a God-given gift, and I simply cannot find the words to tell you how grateful I am for you. Thank you for helping me.”
“You’re my husband, Francis; it goes without saying. Everything we do from now on, everything that we face, we face together. I love you and I’ll do everything I can to ensure your happiness, for as long as I live.” She kissed him lightly on his chest as she ran her hand across him.
“So far you’ve proved to be very good at that,” he muttered as he felt fresh waves of heat spreading through his body like wildfire. His left hand found the round fullness of her right buttock and her immediate moan told him she was just as aroused as he.
Their lovemaking was slower this time—more deliberate somehow, as they each strove to show the other how much they cared. When neither was able to bear it any longer, Francis finally entered her with steady ease, kissing and nibbling, lavishing in her sighs of response. She wrapped her legs around him and together they allowed the tension to build toward a crescendo that sent them soaring over the edge.
“I love you with every fiber of my being,” Emily whispered afterward as she lay curled up in his arms.
“As I do you,” he replied softly while his fingers played along her spine.
“Promise me that this will never change, that we will always love like this.”
“I promise you, Emily. With all my heart, I promise.”
Without another word, they both drifted off to a well-deserved sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Emily woke the following Saturday with a sense of foreboding. She had enjoyed the past week that she’d spent at Dunhurst Park, familiarizing herself with what was now to be her permanent residence. Beatrice and Claire had both accepted Francis’s invitation, as had Lady Genevieve and Lady Giddington, while Lord Camden had joined them a couple of days later.
Emily soon realized that her preconceptions regarding Claire’s fiancé had been unfounded. He clearly worshiped the ground that Claire walked upon, and was eager to do whatever he could to please her. Claire, on the other hand, looked radiant with love, and would (to Beatrice’s growing exasperation) continuously find ways in which to be alone with her fiancé.
Beatrice seemed very much at ease, too (when she wasn’t worrying about what Claire was up to with Richard Camden). With the London season being over, and not having to tend to household chores herself, she’d begun embroidering again. She spent hours on end in the privacy of her room, working on what Emily suspected must be a wedding gift for Claire. Only two weeks remained until Claire’s wedding, so there was much to be done in spite of the fact that both bride and groom wished for a simple event with only the closest friends and relatives invited.
But when she wasn’t cooped up in solitary confinement, Emily couldn’t help but notice that Beatrice favored Jonathan’s company. The couple often went for long afternoon walks together, but whenever Emily would bring it up, Beatrice would simply smile and tell her sister that she was jumping to conclusions.
In the evenings, they would all gather in the dining room for dinner, and play a game of cards or charades. Emily particularly favored the latter of the two since it allowed for her imagination to roam free, and generally resulted in more laughter.
Once they were certain that everyone had retired to bed, Francis would invariably join Emily in her bedchamber for a few hours, before returning to his own room.
But that particular evening would be different. Francis and Emily waited in his study until everyone else had gone to bed, each trying to read their own book, only to find themselves reading the same page over and over again. Thoughts seemed to whirl through their heads, allowing them little peace of mind to think of anything other than their upcoming encounter with Charlotte.
“I think it’s time,” Francis finally told Emily. “Let’s get on with it.”
Without further ado, he led her quietly up the stairs and down a long hallway toward the three rooms that had once constituted Elisabeth Riley’s apartment.
A chill settled over him as they walked. It was a dirty business, this, and as much as he looked forward to putting an end to it, he couldn’t seem to shake the uneasiness that stalked him like a shadow. Charlotte was unpredictable; he doubted that she would allow something as important as this to depend on a virtual stranger. She wasn’t the trusting sort, and he feared that she would have prepared herself for the eventuality of being betrayed.
They reached Elisabeth’s anteroom and entered without hesitation.
Emily had seen it once before—right after their return—when she and Francis had gone in search of the amendment themselves, hoping that they might be able to gain the upper hand. Unfortunately, it had been to no avail—they had no choice but to let Charlotte lead them to it. Francis had been surprised—disappointed, even—that Charlotte had been more privy to his father’s last wishes than he. But then, of course, his father hadn’t known Charlotte for who she really was. No . . . the old fool had loved her, Francis thought bitterly.
The room was completely dark, save for the lantern that Francis held out to cast a yellow haze before them. He led Emily toward the far corner of the bedroom, where he handed her the lantern. A soft click told her he’d found the door to the stairwell and opened it. “Do you want me to go with you?” he asked.
“No, it’s best if you stay here,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “If Charlotte’s waiting for me, as I expect her to be, then seeing you will ruin everything, and all that we’ve worked for will be for nothing.”
“What if she means to harm you, Emily? What if she doesn’t trust you? All she needs is for you to unlock the door; once that’s done . . .” He dared not finish the sentence. He loved E
mily with all his heart and was suddenly paralyzed with fear for her safety. “This is a mistake, Emily. I cannot allow you to put yourself in jeopardy for my sake.”
“You are my husband, Francis. If you and I are to have a happy future together, then this matter must be settled immediately. I won’t allow this woman to torment us any longer. Besides, this is not something that you can do alone, and I am only too happy to be able to help you.”
Her words went straight to his heart. What a courageous little thing she was, and the thought that she would do whatever was necessary to protect those she loved—to protect him just as he would do what he could to protect her—filled him with tremendous pride. “I will be here waiting for you,” he whispered as he kissed her forehead, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair. “I love you, Emily.”
“And I love you.”
It was with much determination that she entered the circular stairwell. She was clad in her night shift and a velvet wrap, but the draft that drifted up and around her seeped under her skin anyway, and she soon found herself shivering. She held the lantern high in order to see as much as she could, but once or twice she still managed to miss a step, sending an awful jolt through her bones when she stepped down harder than she ought to.
Eventually, she found the large wooden door at the bottom of the stairs, and setting down the lantern, she moved to unlatch it.
A sudden gust of wind threw it back with such force that it would have knocked her over, had she not darted out of the way. The doorway now gaped open, with nothing between Emily and the darkness that lay beyond the secure walls of the house. A darkness in which she was certain Charlotte stood hidden, watching her. Emily shuddered as she strained to see, but her eyes failed her, and besides, she had no desire to linger for a moment longer. Picking up the lantern, she hastily made her way back up the stairs to the warm embrace that awaited her there.
Charlotte waited in the darkness, just beyond the tree line that surrounded the garden, biding her time. Wrapped in a heavy wool cloak, the large hood drawn down over her head, she had no difficulty staying warm. Still, she found her patience wearing thin. She’d expected Emily to appear much earlier than she did, and couldn’t help but wonder if she had made a terrible misjudgment. But when she finally did appear in the doorway, Charlotte knew that she had found a good accomplice. Her only regret now was that she hadn’t thought of such a ploy much sooner.
She sighed with satisfaction, for it no longer mattered. Soon, Francis would have to give her everything that she’d worked so hard—for so many years—to earn. If he thought for a moment that she’d ever enjoyed his father’s advances and lovemaking, then he was sorely mistaken. Nothing had repulsed her more than George’s hands pawing her, but she had always considered it to be a means to an end, and that had made it bearable.
She needed the money he’d left her if she was to continue living the life of luxury that she’d grown to enjoy. And she had every intention of cashing in tonight. Nothing was going to stop her, not even that unwanted child of hers who now basked in everything that should have been her own. She could barely wait to see the look of shock on his face once he discovered that his father had left half of his fortune to her, including the London home.
Dunhurst Park stood before her now, shrouded in darkness. It looked eerie, silhouetted against the night sky, the wind tugging at the trees. Charlotte shuddered in spite of herself. Few things ever bothered her, yet for some reason, she couldn’t shake the uneasiness that crept over her. Drawing the cloak tightly about her shoulders, she made her way across the lawn.
Once inside the stairwell, she closed the door against the hammering wind, and bolted it behind her, shutting out the worst of the cold night air. But the thin soles of her shoes were a poor barrier against the chill of the stone steps. Impossible hopes of a warm bath entered her mind, and she hurried up the stairs with renewed hopes that her task would soon be complete.
The door to Elisabeth Riley’s bedchamber swung open effortlessly, and without the slightest sound. But Charlotte remained cautious, allowing her eyes to adjust to her new surroundings. She had a clear recollection of what it looked like in broad daylight, and as far as she could tell, nothing had changed since the last time she had been there.
It was shortly before George’s death that he had taken her to his late wife’s room to show her where to find the amendment he intended to leave for her. He’d already been sick for a long time by then, and heaven only knew how sick she’d been of tending to him. But the promise of inheriting half his fortune had sweetened the deal. So, she had somehow managed to continue treating him with care and listening to him recount tales of his youth until she felt just about ready to end his life with her own bare hands.
The minute he’d closed his eyes for the last time however, Francis had swiftly escorted her off the property. She’d been furious with him for denying her the chance to claim her prize, and had made no further attempts at pretense. Then again, it hadn’t mattered. He hadn’t been surprised in the least by the torrent of obscenities she’d thrown his way; he’d already known her for what she was for years.
The vague outline of the bed filled much of the space in front of her now. She moved past it as she held out her hand to glide across the silk brocade bedspread. Her fingers wrapped around one of the corner posts, and she paused to listen—nothing but silence.
Circling the foot of the bed, she crossed toward Elisabeth’s desk. Her hands settled upon the smooth cherrywood surface, resting there for a moment while memories of Lady Elisabeth, seated before it in lavish silk dresses, flooded her mind. How she’d hated her dignity.
She’d been so easy to eliminate. All Charlotte had needed to do was encourage George to indulge in his sexual fantasies with her. She shuddered as the faint taste of bile rose in her mouth. Thank God all of that was behind her now. The next time she took a man to her bed, it would be on her terms.
But Elisabeth had taken it all like a true lady. She’d kept her head held high and remained aloof toward Charlotte, forever addressing her in a manner that made it quite clear that she was superior to her in every way. Charlotte’s eyes narrowed beneath the hood. It had been so very easy. All she’d needed was to get her alone. The pretext that she’d wished to make amends—to teach Elisabeth how to properly cater to her husband’s needs—had been a lure that her ladyship had not been able to refuse. All that had remained was a little push.
Charlotte’s lips drew into a tight smirk. She still recalled the look of surprise on Elisabeth’s face as she fell backward, her golden hair flowing about her face as she plummeted to her death—her neck broken upon impact. And even then she’d looked pretty.
The incident had immediately been ruled a suicide. Everyone knew how depressed Elisabeth had been. All Charlotte had needed to do was compound the matter a little and mourn her loss for all to see. “The poor woman—if only I had known, I might have been able to help her,” she’d said. “How difficult it must have been for her. I should have done more to earn her friendship. Perhaps then I might have been able to prevent this tragedy.” She grinned in spite of herself, unable to fathom how easy it had been to get away with it.
Her fingers now opened the top drawer of the desk. It was empty, but that didn’t worry her. What she sought lay beneath the fake bottom. Pushing down, she eased the bottom of the drawer backward, giving way to a small space that lay hidden beneath. She reached in and pulled out an envelope, her fingers lightly grazing the wax seal that carried George Riley’s insignia. Finally. She let out a quivering sigh, her eyes closing with relief as her grip tightened around the paper.
“I see that you found what you came here for.”
Her eyes shot open to find the room in the process of being lit. She spun around to face the source of the voice, her eyes settling on Francis, who sat comfortably in a beautiful rococo armchair as though he didn’t have a care in the world. What caught her momentarily off guard was the fact that Emily sat beside him, her eyes flash
ing daggers. Clearly she had misjudged the woman. She gritted her teeth, ready for battle.
“Aren’t you eager to read it, mother?” Francis asked as he waved his hand in a nonchalant gesture.
Her heart quickened at the thought of what she held. This would be her salvation, and her lips curled into a hideous snarl as she unmasked her true character. “Oh how I’ve longed for this moment, Francis.” She fixed him with a cold gaze that sent shivers down Emily’s spine. Francis seemed unexpectedly calm and reserved. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve suffered? How much I’ve had to endure in order to get my hands on this? To feel that man’s hands all over me . . . to endure childbirth only to watch you indulge in everything that ought to have been mine. But no more, Francis. Today I get what is rightfully mine.”
“And pray tell, what is that?” Francis asked, masking his growing concern with remarkable perfection.
“Would you care to guess?”
“I would much prefer it if you would just cut to the chase and spit it out.”
“Very well then, why don’t I show you what your father has written with his own hand? You know he revered me. Did you honestly think that he would leave me with nothing? Not a single token of his gratitude?” She chuckled slightly as her eyes fell upon the letter that she held between her hands.
“He left you with five thousand pounds,” Francis stated.
“Come on . . . you don’t seriously believe that I would have settled for so little, do you?”
Francis just stared back at her, a blank expression masking his true feelings of apprehension.
“Here you are, Francis. Why don’t you go ahead and open it? After all, it’s the least I can do, considering that I’m about to take half of what you own.” Francis’s mouth fell open in a blend of genuine surprise and disgust. “What? Didn’t he tell you that he made an amendment to his will? It will be such fun to redecorate the London home; yes, that goes to me as well.”
How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Page 26