The door closed.
Coming out of her shell? Coming unglued was more like it.
Emma made her way to one of the windows that banked the fireplace on the far side of the room.
“You’ve agreed, then?” Rathburn asked, never sounding less certain to Emma than he did at this moment. “It’s difficult to tell. Your parents seem to think you’ve made up your mind; however, I’m still waiting for a definitive response.”
“I can’t believe we’re even discussing this,” she said in disbelief, staring outside. A row of daffodils lined the narrow path between the house and the garden wall. New glossy shoots of ivy climbed up the rust-colored brick. The world outside was bright and blooming, not a cloud in the sky. It seemed unfair, really. Her mood all but demanded a rumble of thunder and dark, threatening clouds. “You realize, don’t you, that you’re ruining my chance for a normal, happy marriage?”
“We’ll make sure it doesn’t go that far.”
We’ll make sure, as if they were in this together. Ha! She turned to face him. “How?”
He stared down blankly toward the Axminster carpet, his brow furrowed as if he’d been wondering the same thing. Then suddenly, he looked up, his eyes alive with fresh perspective. “Perhaps we won’t even have to attempt a mock betrothal. We’ll simply have an understanding. Or, at most, be formally engaged for the duration of her stay. Then, after a time, we’ll have a disagreement that separates us.” He brushed his hands together as if the entire ordeal were a pile of crumbs easily dislodged. “Simple as that.”
Hmph. If only. “Since you seem to have this all figured out, what happens if she wants to wait until after we are married before she hands over your fortune?”
She expected to see all the color drain from his face at the prospect. Instead, he held up a finger and grinned. “I’ve thought of that, as well. We’ll simply get an annulment. I’ll settle a small fortune on you for a trip abroad. Then, when you return, it will be like nothing ever changed. You’ll procure a husband readily enough, I’m sure, once they realize you are wealthy.”
“Precisely what I’ve always wanted. To be loved for my money.” Oh no, she was starting to sound like her father. His exact reason for keeping her dowry so low was to keep fortune hunters away. She’d always felt cheated because of it before. Yet now, when threatened by the probability of having a man marry her for her money, luring him in such a way seemed tawdry.
Rathburn didn’t respond. Not that she’d expected him to. He was still waiting for her answer.
Emma drew in a deep breath as if preparing to dive off a cliff into dark, murky water. “You’re confident this ruse won’t get that far?”
He nodded. “We’ll make it perfectly clear that we’re incompatible. That scenario shouldn’t be too difficult to present.”
“True.” Was she actually considering this? Perhaps insanity did run in the family. Although, if everything went as planned, it wouldn’t be too terrible a venture. After all, she finally had her parents’ approval, a feat indeed. In addition, Rathburn had come to her—her—for help. How could she turn her back on him?
Still, if this had been anyone other than him . . . “I don’t know why I’m doing this.”
“But you are . . . doing this?”
She closed her eyes, knowing that if she agreed there would be no turning back.
After a moment, Emma met his gaze and nodded.
His shoulders sagged in visible relief and he tilted his head back as he let out a breath. The tight cording of his throat bunched as he whispered his thanks to the ceiling. His Adam’s apple lifted above the knot of his cravat and then disappeared beneath it. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, the sight held her attention. Her own hand lifted to her throat as she swallowed, leaving her to wonder why her pulse was suddenly so quick.
When he resumed a proper stance and regarded her with a wide grin, she quickly averted her gaze and lowered her hand. “Then it is settled.” He strode forward, his pleasure in the outcome of their conversation evident in each confident step. “Shall we shake hands to seal our bargain?”
Not wanting to appear as if she lacked confidence, she thrust out her hand and straightened her shoulders.
He chuckled, the sound low enough and near enough that she could feel it vibrating in her ears more than she could hear it. His amused gaze teased her before it traveled down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder and down the length of her arm. He took her gloveless hand. His flesh was warm and callused in places that made it impossible to ignore the unapologetic maleness of him.
She should have known this couldn’t be a simple handshake, not with him. He wasn’t like anyone else. So, why should this be any different?
He looked down at their joined hands, turning hers this way and that, seeing the contrast no doubt. His was large and tanned, his nails clean but short, leaving the very tips of his fingers exposed. Hers was small and slender, her skin creamy, her nails delicately rounded as was proper. Yet, when she looked at her hand covered by his, she felt anything but proper.
She tried to pull away, but he kept it and moved a step closer.
“I know a better way,” he murmured and before she knew his intention, he tilted up her chin and bent his head.
His mouth brushed hers in a very brief kiss. So brief, in fact, she almost didn’t get a sense that it had occurred at all. Almost.
However, she did get an impression of his lips. They were warm and softer than they appeared, but that was not to say they were soft. No, they were the perfect combination of softness while remaining firm. In addition, the flavor he left behind was intriguing. Not sweet like liquor or salty like toothpowder, but something in between, something . . . spicy. Pleasantly herbaceous, like a combination of pepper and rosemary with a mysterious flavor underneath that reminded her . . . of the first sip of steaming chocolate on a chilly morning. The flavor of it warmed her through. She licked her lips to be certain, but made the mistake of looking up at him.
He was staring at her lips, his brow furrowed.
The fireflies vanished from his eyes as his dark pupils expanded. The fingers that were curled beneath her chin spread out and stole around to the base of her neck. He lowered his head again, but this time he did not simply brush his lips over hers. Instead, he tasted her, flicking his tongue over the same path hers had taken.
A small, foreign sound purred in her throat. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Kissing Rathburn was wrong on so many levels. They weren’t truly engaged. In fact, they were acquaintances only through her brother. They could barely stand each other. The door to the study was closed—highly improper. Her parents or one of the servants could walk in any minute. She should be pushing him away, not encouraging him by parting her lips and allowing his tongue entrance. She should not curl her hands over his shoulders, or discover that there was no padding in his coat. And she most definitely should not be on the verge of leaning into him—
There was a knock at the door. They split apart with a sudden jump, but the sound had come from the hall. Someone was at the front of the house.
She looked at Rathburn, watching the buttons of his waistcoat move up and down as he caught his breath. When he looked away from the door and back to her, she could see the dampness of their kiss on his lips. Her kiss.
He grinned and waggled his brows as if they were two criminals who’d made a lucky escape. “Not quite as buttoned-up as I thought.” He licked his lips, ignoring her look of disapproval. “Mmm . . . jasmine tea. And sweet, too. I would have thought you’d prefer a more sedate China black with lemon. Then again, I never would have thought such a proper miss would have such a lush, tempting mouth either.”
She pressed her lips together to blot away the remains of their kiss. “Have you no shame? It’s bad enough that it happened. Must you speak of it?”
He chuckled and stroked the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip as his gaze dipped, again, to her mouth. “You’re right, of course. This will have to b
e our secret. After all, what would happen if my grandmother discovered that beneath a façade of modesty and decorum lived a warm-blooded temptress with the taste of sweet jasmine on her lips?”
She was saved by another knock, this one on the study door. Parker entered the room, a burnished bronze salver in hand. By this time, they were a respectable distance apart and her expression was back to its usual cast of disapproval. The butler presented her with an invitation. “This just arrived, Miss.”
“Thank you, Parker.” And when he exited, he left the door open. Bless his soul.
Apparently, Rathburn found that amusing as well. “That will be an invitation to tea from my grandmother. Her seal’s on the back.”
Tea with the dowager. Engaged to Rathburn. Could her day get any worse?
Before she could open the missive, he took her hand and bowed over it, lifting his head just enough to wink at her as he pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Until tomorrow, Emma—”
She yanked her hand out of his grasp. “If you call me Emmaline after what I’ve done for you, then so help me, I’ll toss this invitation into the fire.”
He laughed, the rich sound tingling inside her ears and along the soles of her feet simultaneously. The sensation took her by complete surprise and left her staring after him as he walked toward the door.
Before he left, he turned and bowed once more. “Until tomorrow, Emma—mine.”
CHAPTER FIVE
* * *
“What do you mean, you’re not going?” Emma said, the following afternoon.
Her mother pushed away a fall of hair from her forehead. “My muse is calling me.” Then she turned and took a sharp, scoop-shaped tool from the tray and scraped the clay off her sculpture. As she moved around the unidentifiable mound, long beige ribbons fell to the floor, where she stepped on them, much like Emma’s hopes for an ordinary day. “The purpose isn’t for the dowager to learn more about me, anyway. She wants to size you up and see if you fit the proper mold.”
It was difficult for Emma to remember back to a moment ago—the moment before she’d opened the parlor door to find her mother with her face spotted with bits of dried clay, her smock and apron in even worse shape—when she’d actually thought that having tea with the dowager wouldn’t kill her. After all, she’d worn her most sedate day gown, a lovely wheat-colored muslin. In addition, she’d fashioned her hair in braids to frame her face and pulled them together in a twist in the back. All in all, she’d felt quite good about her chances of having the dowager find fewer things wrong her.
If only.
“Of course she does,” Emma said, unable to hold back her exasperation. “But you didn’t think I’d want support?”
Her mother stopped and stared at her. “From me?”
Was that so difficult to believe? “Yes, from you. You are my mother, after all. You did help me into this mess. The least you could do would be to help me through it.” She closed her eyes.
“Emma, I’ve never heard you say such things before.”
That’s because I’ve been holding them in for years. Some of them were bound to bubble out eventually. She shook her head and drew in a breath. Clearly, the Danverses’ insanity was starting to affect her too. She must work harder to rein it back in. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Mother. It must be my nerves—”
“No, don’t apologize.” Her mother’s face broke into a grin. “I like it. We’re finally talking. Of course, we used to talk all the time when you were little. We used to sit and draw pictures for hours on end, chatting about this and that.” As if they were playing a parlor game of copying each other’s gestures, her mother shook her head and drew in a breath. “But every girl needs to separate from her mother in order to find the woman within.”
Emma relaxed. “Then you’ll go.”
“No, dear,” she laughed and went back to her sculpture. “You don’t need me to face the lioness in her den. This tea is all about testing your mettle.” She pointed the scraping tool at Emma and smiled as if she had every confidence in the world. “Well, let them test you and find that you are the genuine Emma Danvers.”
Didn’t her mother realize that she was the only person in the room who possessed that confidence? “But—”
“You’d best not be late, dear. It will take Maudette an age to get from the door to the carriage and then to the door of Rathburn’s townhouse.”
Emma started counting in Latin before she left the room.
The entire mock courtship was a disaster waiting to happen.
In his own defense, Rathburn had never thought Emma would agree in the first place. Quite honestly, he thought she had more sense than that. He’d counted on it. Because if she’d have refused, he would have been forced to find another way out of this predicament.
Not that he’d had other options. He’d gone over all the possibilities until every single one was eliminated. Every option, except one: his sham betrothal to Emma Danvers.
Now he was left with the all-too tempting possibility of perpetuating the lie he’d told his grandmother months ago. Not that lying tempted him. No, in fact, he loathed it. The tempting part was Emma herself, and her surprising response to his kiss.
He should’ve known better than to give in to impulse.
Yet, if he were honest with himself, the impulse had been there for years, chipping away at the barrier between his sense of honor and his . . . less honorable intentions.
In truth, he’d never thought Rafe Danvers’s sister would tempt him. After all, she did everything she could to blend into the woodwork. Quite literally, with her constant parade of cream dresses with brown trim, brown bonnets, brown shawls. At society functions, even her actions and words were wooden, almost always upholding the highest degree of propriety.
Yet, it was the almost that intrigued him. It was the almost that made him tease her, to see what she might say or do. Like yesterday in her father’s study.
Rathburn closed his eyes and considered counting in Latin, but that would only remind him of the way her mouth moved when she chanted the numbers over and over. He needed no reminder of her lips. He’d lain awake all night tasting sweet jasmine and wondering why he’d ever been so stupid.
Now, warning bells rang in his ears each time he thought of her. He feared that this mock courtship would turn into far more than he bargained for. It wasn’t as if he could avoid Emma while his grandmother was here. No, he was obligated to wait on her, take her to assemblies and on drives through the park, attend family dinners . . . and all the while, he would be thinking about the taste of her kiss and the sweet sound of her pleasure.
An unexpected development, to be sure. One that he had no idea how to resolve without risking everything in the process. His inheritance, for one thing, but more important was his friendship with Rafe and his relationship with the entire Danvers clan. Since his father’s death, they’d been a second family to him, and Rafe like a brother.
Rathburn scoffed in self-derision. Like a brother, and yet I have every intention of deceiving him, of keeping this mock courtship from him, knowing full well that he would never consent? I am a prince among men, to be sure.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, shutting the guilt away for the moment.
Strangely enough, her parents hadn’t been surprised by his plan. In fact, they’d seemed eager to grant their approval, merely upon his word that he would do everything within his power to keep Emma’s reputation spotless.
Yesterday, their easy acquiescence had both honored and relieved him. However, today, he felt like a fool for not foreseeing this sudden complication. Her kiss had awakened the rake within him from obligatory slumber. For the first time in months, he didn’t close his eyes and see the incomplete structure of Hawthorne Manor, or even the future Goswick Hospital. Instead, he saw her eyelids drift closed and the rosy tip of her tongue dart out to taste the dew on her lips.
How could he have been stupid enough to give his word, only to put her parents’ high regard in je
opardy? Clearly, he hadn’t considered how a simple kiss to seal a bargain could complicate his entire plan.
A simple kiss? He scoffed again.
By the time he returned to Grosvenor Square, part of the day had gotten away from him. He’d spent most of the morning south of town, making a list of all the unfinished projects at Hawthorne Manor.
Now, as the servants delivered the tea trays to the drawing room of the townhouse, he realized it might be too late to speak with Emma privately.
However, there was another option. He walked around to the second entrance of the drawing room with the hope of gaining her attention without causing a scene. Once there, he stepped through the gallery and toward the adjoining door opposite.
Listening at the door, he heard their cordial greetings and breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t too late, after all. He could still back out of this ruse. Perhaps he would simply try groveling at his grandmother’s feet and see how far that got him . . . again.
“Miss Danvers,” he heard his grandmother say, her voice ringing up to the coffered ceiling of the drawing room as if she were the queen addressing her court. “I’m told you have an understanding with my grandson, yet there’s been no formal announcement of betrothal. Would you care to explain this?”
He gritted his teeth. Leave it to his grandmother to cut through all niceties and plow directly to the most important issue in her mind. He had no idea how many ladies were in attendance, but if his formidable grandmother began with a question so direct, it was bound to get worse.
“We were waiting for an appropriate time,” he heard Emma say, her voice calm and self assured as usual. He felt a surprising swell of pride in his chest, knowing that if anyone could handle the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat, it was Emma.
Carefully, he turned the handle and opened the door an inch, then two. He held back from pushing it too far, then waited a moment, listening to see if they’d noticed the movement.
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