Daring Miss Danvers

by Vivienne Lorret

  Or sometimes lifting her to straddle him, his hands touching every inch of her flesh, eliciting whimpers from her until she crashed in ecstasy over him . . .

  Or sometimes he would simply roll to his side, his chest against her back, his hands liberating her from sleep as he entered her, unhurried, making love for hours with the rain sounding like music against the windows.

  Now, that sound aroused her. The rain, she realized, was like her. For weeks the deluge held back, accumulating an endless river of unspoken desires and longing. Then, finally, it broke free. Marrying Oliver had brought on a storm of emotion in her that she could only release while making love.

  Emma likened herself to a blank canvas. Rathburn’s hands, fingers, mouth, and tongue were the brushes he used to bring her into being. He’d spent days proving what a master artist he was. Now, she felt as if she were on the cusp of emerging as a new woman.

  However, the idea of becoming a stranger to herself was still a bit frightening.

  Beneath the covers, she turned, ready to wake him with her mouth as she’d intended last night. She’d recently discovered this had the ability to turn his speech into an incoherent jumble of sounds, but always ended in a passionate groan of her name. With her eyes still closed, she reached for him—

  But he wasn’t there.

  Her eyes opened. The bed was still warm, telling her that he’d slipped away a moment before she’d woken to the sound of the rain. “Oliver?” Holding the sheet to her, she sat up and looked around the empty chamber. The door leading to her dressing room—and beyond that, his bedchamber, which he never used—stood ajar.

  Hearing her, he strode through the door, shrugging into a gray morning coat that made the green of his eyes more pronounced. “You’ve trained me well, my darling,” he said with his almost grin. Yet, for some reason amusement did not reach his gaze. “My name from your lips sends me scurrying to your side.”

  Stopping beside the bed, he leaned down and kissed her. On the forehead. She felt slighted. For that matter, why was he dressed already? He hadn’t mentioned any plan to leave at daybreak.

  Yet, instead of asking him directly, she pointed out the obvious. “It’s raining.”

  He made a show of looking to the window and back to her, one brow raised as if to ask why this was supposed to be significant. “So it is.”

  If she’d had a cup of steaming chocolate on the bedside table, she would have taken a sip, hoping to remind him of that elicit promise he’d made a month and a half ago. Instead, she was forced to be more direct. She lifted her gaze, already feeling a blush creep to her cheeks. “You’re not in bed.”

  He turned away, his fingers busy with his cufflink instead of her body. “I have an errand to run.”

  Emma felt a chill of uncertainty sweep the length of her spine. He was different today. Distracted. His cool regard didn’t sit well with her, especially after last night. There had been moments when she felt bonded to him like never before, as if they’d exchanged pieces of their souls. She wanted to feel that way again. Always.

  Yet, now something had changed. “So early?”

  “Yes. I’ll likely be gone most of the day, as well. However, I thought you would enjoy a day free to attend your needlework group. I can drop you at the Weatherstones’ if you are ready within the hour. Otherwise, I’ll order a second carriage brought around.”

  From the clock on the mantle across the room, she noted it was already half passed. There wasn’t much of a chance for her to get dressed and seduce him properly in such a short span of time. Then again, she was willing to have him any way she could get him.

  Needing reassurance, she let the sheet and blanket fall down to her waist, exposing her bare breasts. Even without looking down, she knew her tender nipples were taut and eager for his attention. “Perhaps you could help me dress.”

  His back to her, he stilled as if his ears were tuned to the quiet whisper of the sheet sliding over her skin. She could tell by the way his shoulders strained the fabric of his coat that he tensed. “I’ll be more than happy to summon your maid,” he said, his voice a low rumble, letting her know he knew exactly what she wanted.

  Not only that, but the husky timbre let her know he wanted the same thing. So, why didn’t he turn around?

  His rejection stung, a sharp stab in the center of her chest.

  Reaching for her dressing gown draped over the foot of the bed, she slipped out of bed and pulled it on. She stepped toward the window to watch the raindrops snake haphazardly down the diamond panes. His distance and reluctance to come back to bed shocked her, unsettling her in more ways than she wanted to think about. Their bargain, the quashed annulment, and all the things they hadn’t said were in the room like an abyss yawning between them.

  Then again, perhaps there was another errand that was of the utmost importance. A task he’d been neglecting the past two weeks—

  It came to her suddenly. The hospital, of course! That must be where he was going. After all, he’d been absent since their wedding day.

  Emma expected to feel relief. Yet, if he were spending the day readying the hospital for completion, then why wouldn’t he simply say so?

  It was impossible not to wonder at his reason, and not to feel wounded by being left out of something that was so important to him.

  “It’s fine,” she said, not wanting to imagine the worst, not wanting to think that maybe he wasn’t going to the hospital at all, but somewhere else he didn’t want to divulge. “Go on with your plans. I’ll have the carriage ordered after I have a bath. Oh, and don’t forget our dinner this evening.”

  Their first dinner as a married couple with his mother, his grandmother, and her parents. Her parents, she was sure, were expecting to see evidence of a perfectly content union.

  The dowager was merely expecting perfection.

  Emma was afraid of letting everyone down.

  “I won’t,” he said, his voice across the room. “And, Emma?”

  Afraid that her expression would reveal too much, she didn’t turn. “Yes?”

  “There are things”—he drew in a breath—“things we should have discussed before all this, I’m sure. It might be too late now, but perhaps before dinner we could . . .”

  Too late now? Her heart stopped.

  “Of course.” She couldn’t catch her breath. This was the first time in weeks that she’d felt as if she was nothing more than a means to an end. A way to gain his inheritance. Surely, she meant more to him than that by now. But perhaps, if he knew how she felt, how much she loved him . . .

  “Oliver,” she said with quiet uncertainty, exhaling a breath that fogged the glass. “There’s something I need to tell you as well.” She turned, hoping the sight of him would give her the courage to continue. However, when she did, she found herself completely alone in the vast chamber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  * * *

  By the time Emma stepped into the Weatherstones’ parlor, all her friends were present.

  A sudden burst of glee and welcome came at her unexpected arrival. They each rose to greet her. Though Penelope a bit more carefully than usual, as her faintly rounding form decreed.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Penelope said with a smile and warm embrace. Then in a whisper, she added, “Since you’ve been absent for the past two weeks, I trust marriage suits you well.”

  Even though this morning’s rejection had left her confused and admittedly hurt, memories of the last two weeks brought a blush to her cheeks. Whatever was lacking in their marriage, passion certainly filled the void . . .

  Or at least it had. Until this morning.

  She refused to think about it now. “It’s been . . . unexpectedly wonderful.”

  “Lady Rathburn, do sit beside me,” Delaney said with a cheeky grin as she patted the cushion beside her on the settee.

  Emma drew off her bonnet and gloves and laid them on a side table. Taking the opposite chair, Merribeth smiled, though her usual brightnes
s was somewhat diminished. “It’s good to see you, Emma.”

  “It’s nice to be back,” she said, meaning it. She’d missed the familiarity of their group and visiting with her friends. Especially today when she felt as if she’d lost her best friend.

  Stepping around the table, she took her place beside Delaney. The group was unusually quiet. Normally, by now they’d have resumed talk of the latest gossip. Instead, there was a very pregnant silence, telling her that she’d missed a great deal in the past two weeks.

  Her gaze stayed with Merribeth. “What’s happened?”

  Her friend tucked the needle into a bare scrap of cambric and set her embroidery hoop aside. “I suppose it’s best if I simply come right out with it,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “Mr. Clairmore and I . . . have ceased our involvement. But no—that makes it sound like I had a say in the matter. I’m botching this already, and I told myself I wasn’t going to let it bother me for another minute.” She huffed out a breath and a flash of anger lit the sky blue depths of her eyes. It was startling to witness only because Merribeth never got angry. “He has ceased our involvement. And furthermore, he’s also decided to marry Miss Codington.”

  “The vicar’s daughter?” Emma gasped, stunned. Merribeth had known Mr. Clairmore for most of her life. More years than Emma had known Oliver, and even longer than Penelope had known Ethan. It wasn’t possible. It was so unexpected. So sudden.

  She never would have believed such a thing could happen . . . until today. Until Rathburn’s obvious change in demeanor. Now, she feared she was experiencing firsthand how unpredictable a man’s heart could be.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she was certain they weren’t all for Merribeth. She reached forward and took her friend’s hand. “I’m devastated for you.”

  Merribeth batted away her own tears as if refusing to let them fall. “As you can imagine, I was devastated, too . . . for about three minutes.” Her eyes narrowed and the infamous Wakefield brow made an appearance. “Then I made the mistake of asking him how he could be so certain of his affection for her when we’d spent years planning to marry. Oh, why didn’t my aunt ever teach me that I should only ask questions I truly want answered?”

  Emma understood this too well. Hadn’t that been the reason she avoided asking Rathburn about his inheritance? She didn’t want to risk having him tell her outright that it was all settled because of their bargain and thanking her for her part of the deception.

  “Mr. Clairmore responded by saying,” Merribeth continued, her tone incredulous, “that her lips tasted like summer wine and her skin was soft as butter.”

  “Summer wine?”

  “And butter.” Merribeth jerked her head in a nod and then lifted her hands in an angry gesture. “How could I have trusted my heart to a man who delights in . . . in fondling dairy?”

  “I think he meant to say—”

  Another flash ignited. “I understand the inference, Delaney. I’ve turned his words over so many times in my mind that I know quite clearly how he knows her skin has the same texture as butter.”

  “Slippery,” Penelope added in a rush.

  Emma nodded. “Greasy.”

  “Her face must be covered with pockmarks,” Delaney said.

  Merribeth let out a slow breath. “Thank you. I’m certain she’s quite hideous, as well. It will serve him right if he does marry her.”

  “You believe he doesn’t intend to marry her?”

  “How can I when we’ve been engaged to be engaged for five years? He will probably string her along for a time before he realizes his mistake in losing me,” she said with an edge of her old certainty returning. “By then it will be too late. I’m not going to waste another thought on Mr. Clairmore. I’ve wasted years on him already.”

  “Brava,” Delaney said. “We’ll find you a far better candidate for husband before the Season ends.”

  “Yes,” Penelope added. “I’m certain he’s out there.”

  “This is my third Season,” Merribeth pointed out. “I haven’t been courted by a single gentleman.”

  “That’s because every eligible gentleman assumed you were nearly betrothed. Perhaps you’ve known him all along but he’s been too shy.”

  “Shyness is the last trait I’d ever look for in a husband again. If there were a suitable gentleman out there, he’d have found me by now, nearly betrothed or not. I’ve given it a great deal of thought,” she said with a firm nod. “I’ve decided that I’d rather meet a man who’s impulsive, passionate, and completely irredeemable than to waste any more time on fools.”

  “Don’t make any rash decisions,” Emma said, reminded of her own. The rash decision to go along with Rathburn’s scheme was only leading to her heartbreak. Then again, it had also given her the best two weeks of her life, as well.

  “Since my social calendar has been cleared, due to recent events, rash decisions are nearly all I have left.” She released a sigh and then shook her head as if to pretend she hadn’t just said something completely out of character. “Oh, you know me better than that. Clearly, I’ve allowed my romantic sensibilities too much freedom. What I need is certainty. Right now, the only thing I’m certain of is that my aunt and I are attending a house party in Suffolk at Lady Eve Sterling’s estate. After that . . . I’m not certain of anything.”

  “I think we can all agree that Mr. Clairmore was undeserving of your affection and devotion,” Penelope said, earning nods of agreement from Emma and Delaney. “But don’t allow his behavior to dictate your life.”

  “She’s right,” Delaney chimed in. “You deserve to find a man who’ll sweep you off your feet. A man who’ll write sonnets about your lips—and good ones, too, not paltry comparisons to summer wine. You deserve to find love and settle for nothing less.”

  Merribeth blinked back tears again. “Since when did you become a romantic?”

  “Romantic,” Delaney snorted, but two spots of color rose to her cheeks, turning all attention to her. “I’m merely supporting my friend in her time of distress. Helping her to find a worthy candidate.”

  None of them believed her, but they didn’t press further. After all, Delaney could be inordinately stubborn when she wanted to be.

  “I’m certain even the most worthy candidate would choose a bride with a dowry as opposed to one with none.”

  “At least without one, you’re certain to find a man who loves you and not your fortune,” Delaney said quietly.

  Or marries you in order to gain his inheritance, Emma thought. Although she didn’t speak the words aloud, Penelope seemed to guess what she was thinking. They exchanged a look. Hers filled with doubt and her friend’s with reassurance.

  It wasn’t fair to her, with the way she felt and doubted everything about her marriage to Rathburn. And it certainly wasn’t fair to him, having waited so long for his inheritance only to have it withheld by his grandmother when it should have been his years ago.

  Emma’s heart broke for Merribeth, but she also admired her certainty. Her friend had a plan and was determined to follow it, rash though it may be. Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about what Delaney had said, as well. Didn’t they all deserve to find love and settle for nothing less?

  Her hands shook when she picked up her needlework. She knew instantly that she wouldn’t be able to sit here for the next hour or two and pretend her nerves weren’t frayed. Pretend that her heart wasn’t breaking.

  “Emma, is everything alright?” Penelope asked.

  She placed one hand over the other and affected a small laugh. “Perhaps I am out of practice.”

  “Do you know what I think?” Delaney offered, hastily stuffing her needlework back into her reticule. “I think we could all use a distraction. After all, new ribbons arrived at Haversham’s today and I’m dying to see if I can convince my newly married friend to buy the crimson. It would look splendid with your coloring.”

  “Crimson?” Emma had never worn such a bold color. Surely, the dowager wouldn’t app
rove.

  Merribeth tucked her needlework away and sat on the edge of her cushion. “It would be lovely. Besides, now that you are married, a whole world of color is yours for the taking.”

  “Or the wearing,” Penelope added with a grin. “I think it sounds like a splendid idea. After all, the rain has stopped.”

  Mention of the rain only reminded her of this morning. Melancholy threatened to return. Yes, she needed a distraction.

  “Then, it’s settled.” Emma was determined to put her fears in her reticule with her needlework and synch it closed for the remainder of the day. Perhaps a bit more color in her life was all she needed.

  They spent most of the afternoon at various shops, in addition to stopping by a tea room.

  At Haversham’s, Emma chose the crimson ribbon, a peacock blue, an emerald green, and a yellow so bright it reminded her of daffodils and one of her mother’s more garish gowns. Although it was all wrong for her coloring, it was too cheerful to leave behind. She needed all the cheer she could get.

  As the afternoon progressed, she kept careful watch of the time, not wanting to return too late. Even though she’d planned every detail and left her orders in Mrs. Stillson’s capable hands, she had to arrive in time to dress for dinner and make certain everything was perfect.

  Tonight was a night to prove herself worthy.

  They were just leaving the flower shop with a dozen pink roses Emma wanted to use as a centerpiece, when they crossed the path of Elena Mallory on the busy street.

  Their nemesis stopped instantly, her dark eyes going wide and her mouth open like a fish at market. “Why, Lady Rathburn, what a coincidence. Imagine who I should find after just having received the most delicious morsel of news only moments ago.”

  Emma bristled, but inclined her head. She had gall in abundance, this one. Only a month past, she’d tried to embroil both her and Oliver in a terrible scandal. “Miss Mallory.”