It appeared she released her breath at these words. Without looking at him again, she bobbed a hasty curtsy and with a bare, “Good day,” exited the room.
Zach lifted a knee and draped his arm over it, considering Emma Ainsley just now, rather than the substance of the time they’d just shared. It wasn’t easy to separate the woman from her beauty, but then he decided that even as she appeared to have no idea of the spell she cast, her physical loveliness was as much a part of her as was that tender heart, as was her innate sense of responsibility, as was her belief that she was so undeserving of dreams.
He sighed, not without some frustration. He couldn’t deny he was attracted to her, couldn’t deny he wouldn’t mind exploring the fascination. But the allure had been born when he believed her so much less innocent than he now knew her to be. And his present desires merited no more time in his head, as they were now judged inappropriate, and ultimately would prove ruinous to Emma, if acted upon. When he’d kissed her previously, he questioned why he should feel poorly about it. And even as he knew the answer now—that he had no business dallying with so unsophisticated a creature, that the attraction would fade as had so many others before—he was teeming still with a desire to know more and show her more.
Ah, but that would be a dangerous thing.
She would leave soon, take that cottage as her own, be away from him. He wondered how a little nobody like Emma Ainsley would get on in the not quite sleepy town of Perry Green. It did not sit well with him, her living by herself. He thought it imprudent and dangerous, thought her too naïve and too soft. But he hadn’t cause to gainsay her, or his father’s will. She couldn’t stay on at Benedict House, not without causing ruin to herself as an unattached young woman. This short-term arrangement was acceptable, but if extended, it would only bring her trouble.
If she’d been reared within the city limits, if she had even a scrap of the stained and spoiled mentality of any person, nobility or otherwise, so necessary to escape life uninjured, he’d feel less uneasy with her being on her own. He should take her to London, give her a good dose of what people were really like, surprised she wasn’t more jaded, having grown up in a traveler’s inn. Credit to her mother and her sister, and even the Smythes then, for having recognized the pureness of her heart that she had been kept sheltered.
Take her to London?
Jesus, but it was perfect.
He could conceivably kill the proverbial two birds with one stone. He could introduce her to a larger population, one not always kind—but only briefly, as he’d not be happy to see her lose her untainted perception of people and things—and give her just enough of a taste of the true character of so much of the public. She would then be perhaps better equipped to live life on her own, and he would feel as if he’d had some part in preparing her better for the role.
In addition, the other bird in need of killing might be tackled, if he could convince Miss Ainsley to help him out with a rather frustrating issue he’d been dealing with of late.
Chapter Nine
“I wanted to ask a favor of you,” the earl said to Emma, across the length of the dining table that evening.
“Me?” Her surprise, determined so easily from both her tone and her arched brows, did nothing to diminish how absolutely entrancing she appeared tonight. This, then, must be the best of the lot, from the gowns Mrs. Conklin had acquired, under his instruction and from the dressmaker in Perry Green. While simple, as necessitated by their country setting, the pale blue of the gown was a perfect backdrop to the creaminess of her skin, and the luster of her dark hair.
Zach grinned. “Yes. You.”
“I cannot think of anything you might need from me.” This, with tremendous wariness.
Ah, if only she knew. Zach consulted his plate, pretending a great interest in the lamb cutlets. “I have a dinner party to attend in London. I would like you to accompany me.” He speared a piece of lamb onto his fork and raised his gaze to her.
She stared blankly at him. Almost comically void of any expression, save for her gaping jaw. He had decided to be candid with her when issuing the invitation. Candid, as it were, about one of his goals. “The dinner is at the home of a senior member of parliament, whose support is vital to a bill coming up for a vote in the very near future. A bill I have sponsored.”
She closed her mouth and swallowed. “But why would I attend? I know nothing about bills put before parliament or dining in fine company. I haven’t the wardrobe to do justice to such an occasion, despite how generous you’ve been thus far.” She began shaking her head. “I would only embarrass you. I know nothing of mingling in...those kinds of circles.”
Sorry as he was for her near distressed state, he persisted, “Miss Ainsley, you do yourself an injustice. I assure you, you can more than hold your own.” Meeting her gaze steadily, he admitted, “I asked it as a favor, as the invitation has an objective. May I explain further?” This had been planned as well, having expected her refusal. He’d learned a few things about Miss Ainsley, one of which was that she could not resist giving aid to a person in need. He would exploit that now, and without shame.
She nodded, a small frown coming for his asking permission, he was sure.
“The host and parliamentarian, Lord Kingsley, has a daughter.” Her frown deepened, her mind surely whirring at the speed of light, he believed. “The daughter is—I can think of no kind words, sadly—a hindrance to my goal of speaking to the man in a setting and in a mood that might find him more agreeable to the policy I hope to explain more persuasively.”
“A hindrance?” Now her lovely arched brows rose, high into her forehead.
“She has developed a tendre for me,” he informed her in a level tone. A tendre was putting it mildly. The insufferable lady gave new meaning to the word tenacious, had caused Zach several instances where he’d wished that he could somehow escape any disastrous consequence if he but begged her to close her mouth for five blessed minutes. “Her father has insinuated that he might well find his way to lending his favor to my bill if I could manage to return the...affection—presumably by way of a betrothal. Of course, I have no intention of selling myself to gain votes inside the walls, so I thought—” He stopped as her darling lips began to curve in a mischievous smile.
“You want to bring me along, so the man thinks you have already formed an...attachment elsewhere,” she guessed. Correctly.
He imagined his returned grin might have appeared sheepish just then. Aiming for a more formal, foreboding mien, he straightened and rested his wrists on the edge of the table, reining in the grin. “You have the right of it, Miss Ainsley.” He hoped her seeming merriment over his predicament boded well for whatever her response might be. “I thought if I arrived with someone who seemed to have captured my...affection, it would remove that obstacle from gaining his support.”
She continued to grin, the blue of her eyes brightening as the smile widened. Then she bit her lips, attempting to contain her mirth just as Zach decided she might actually be laughing at him.
“Poor Lord Lindsey, the object of an unrequited affection,” she teased. “How very...pedestrian.”
He rolled his eyes at his, but without rancor, and allowed her to have her fun.
“Honestly, my lord, the idea of so formal a gathering, where I will no doubt stand out like a sore thumb, scares me half to death. Likely I will regret this, but I must say yes, simply because my very inquisitive nature demands that I meet this woman who has so befuddled your political aspirations with her untimely and lamentable fascination with you.”
Aside from the very obvious fact that she was finding great amusement in his predicament, Zach was realizing fantastic pleasure in her just now. He liked that she dropped the mien of suspicion and uneasiness usually worn in his presence, had teased him and smiled so spontaneously in front of him. With him. He liked how her eyes brightened so amazingly with her smile. He liked tremendously her spirit, that this girl who so feared that she would be a fish ou
t of water amongst the ton was willing to accommodate him, because she thought it might prove entertaining and because, he knew, she wanted very much to be useful and necessary.
His gaze settled on her lips, still smiling so prettily, so damn temptingly.
He liked so many things about her.
They departed the very next day for London, Emma seated across from the earl in his fine carriage once again. She fidgeted nervously, plucking at invisible specks from her skirt, aligning the sleeves of her jacket so that they were the exact distance from her wrists, moving her bonnet so that the fringe visible across her forehead was equidistant from left to right.
Oh, but she had not thought this through. She’d agreed under some spell, intrigued by the earl’s near bashful attitude last evening at dinner, as if he’d never in his life asked a favor of another person. Charmed as well by the very idea that she might be of some assistance to him. However, this part was of a more dubious nature, as she couldn’t imagine how anyone might think the magnificent Earl of Lindsey might somehow have formed an attachment to a nobody such as herself.
And then, as if she’d not been nervous enough, as if she’d not already been considering she’d certainly bitten off more than she could ever chew, he’d let it be known today that Bethany would not be able to travel with them, as his townhome hadn’t anyone to look after her while they were out and about. He’d said that his housekeeper there was not the ‘warm and fuzzy type’.
“Calm yourself, Miss Ainsley,” he said now.
Emma raised her gaze from the curled fists in her lap to his eyes, finding the gray to be softer today, the usual intensity lessened. Taking a deep breath, she smiled at him, or tried to. She had said she would help him, and so she would.
He looked incredibly handsome, or more so, in his brocade waistcoat and breeches of buckskin, covered with a claw hammer coat and finished with his usual Hessians. Next to him, and despite her fashionable gown and spencer which she thought unbearably lovely, Emma felt quite gauche, or at least, fraudulent.
“We might contrive to agree upon some back story,” he suggested, “as people may have questions, how we met, how long has it been going on, things of that nature.”
“A fake narrative to give credibility to our fake...attachment?”
He acknowledged her apt sarcasm with a tip of his head. “As it is, the simpler the tale, the easier it is to recall, and to pose as truth. Do not embellish—the less said the better. Let us just agree that we are cousins, of a sort, on my mother’s side. The Morrissey family is much less known than the Benedicts,” he explained. “And you’ve kept to the family home in Hertfordshire until just this year, caring for your ailing mother, which will explain why no one in London is familiar with you.”
“Do I use my own name?” Dear Lord, it sounded dangerously convoluted already.
He frowned. “Of course.”
Emma nodded. Cousins. Morrissey. Hertfordshire. Ailing mother. “All right.” It was here and now that she considered that this scheme seemed suddenly less like fun and more like true deception, and something woeful twisted in her belly.
Her anxiety was quelled somewhat as they neared and then entered the city, and Emma found she could not take it all in, the size and the scope and the height of London. She glanced out the left window and then the right, her gaze filled with wonder. Having never been to London, she truly hadn’t any idea what to expect, but reality gave no legitimacy to any of her previous imaginings. It was loud and big and bustling, as the carriage meandered down city streets, and drivers and pedestrians squawked and chattered, and the roads and sidewalks teemed with people, and the buildings were close and tall and so overwhelming. But she smiled as she soaked it all in. It was all just so fascinating.
As the carriage slowed, to accommodate for the crush of traffic, Emma’s gaze was captured by a couple outside walking upon the sidewalk. The gentleman sported a bright orange tailcoat and a hat longer than his head, while pushing forth a stick of shiny wood with each of his steps. The woman wore the most sumptuous long coat, held together with frog closures and being the exact shade of fresh spring grass. Atop her head sat the most amazing hat Emma had ever seen, being closed about her face with hard scalloped sides, and sporting what seemed like an entire garden at her brow and crown. Their walk was perfectly in tune, even as their garish color choices were not, his left leg and the stick moving at the same time as the woman’s right leg, their stride similar that it appeared almost rehearsed.
Emma pulled her eyes from the stunning couple and met the earl’s gaze, wondering if he’d witnessed so spectacular a sight, but he was not looking out the window as she had been. He was watching her. And the storminess had returned to his gaze, as he watched her so intently.
“What is it?” She asked, believing surely something must have happened since their last words had been exchanged to have wrought such a severe change in him. Gone the affability, gone the near pleasantness, replaced by what she deemed a brooding and quite unnerving glare.
“What is what?” And just like that, his expression was shuttered. The darkness left his gaze, he unclenched his jaw, and he lifted a brow at her with his countering query.
Emma shook herself, loosened her own frown, and turned again to look out the window. She sat primly now, intent on being less the country girl come to town, presuming it was her animated fascination with all the sights and sounds that had instigated his sour countenance of a moment ago.
She nearly startled, only seconds later, when he rapped his walking stick upon the roof of the carriage. But this was only a notice to the driver to stop, and Emma leaned once more toward the window to see what their destination might be.
The earl sprung from the carriage nearly before it had stopped, and well before the driver might have come to open the door. He supposed it would not have been in good form to accost his artless houseguest, and counterfeit sweetheart, within the confines of the carriage and before she’d actually enjoyed even one small part of the city. But damn if his little country miss was not the most amazingly alluring creature, and then even more so when her face lit with such enthusiasm at things to which he’d not give a second notice, including one garish carroty coat and a hat which might draw the attention of as many birds as it did people.
He hadn’t meant to be brusque, or appear surly, but she’d caught him unawares, and in the middle of raking her quite mindfully with his hungry eyes. She’d turned to him, her animated smile a thing to behold, her expressive gaze so damnably appealing. He did not care at all to have been caught gawking at her, as it were. He liked even less that he had, in the first place, been reduced to those simmering and ravenous long looks at her, all the while wondering how he might seduce her and make her his, even as he knew he would—could—promise her nothing.
Ah, if only he were a rogue with less of a conscience.
She hadn’t asked why they had stopped, or where they might be going, only put her hand into his as he helped her alight and continued to swivel her head about, taking in every detail of the dirty, pretentious city.
He guided her into the closest storefront, whose shingle pronounced it as Mrs. Shabner’s modiste. A bell tinkled above the door as he pushed it open and steered Miss Ainsley within. Zach did not visit modiste’s often enough to say that the shop was busy or not, but the front room showed several ladies and one portly and unamused gentleman idling around tables with ready made wares, scarves and gloves and a table of fabric swatches.
Understanding where they were and what they were about, Emma turned and showed another nervous gaze to him. He immediately put her at ease, “It is all very necessary to the ruse, Miss Ainsley.” He held her hand still, because it would show the modiste—who had just come from a back room and noted the arrival of a person of importance and pasted on her prettiest smile—that Miss Ainsley was favored, and thus her treatment would be polite, nearly fawning. He held her hand yet, as well, because he liked the feel of it in his, like the way their hands f
it, and how soft her skin was.
But he did release her hand, after it had been noticed by the shop owner, who ignored the other people browsing to shimmy her way around tables and persons to stand before the earl. Modiste’s had a particular talent, a gift he might have said, for discerning who was monied, and who would be spending.
“My lord,” she greeted him, her painted lips spread wide in her face.
“Mrs. Shabner, I bring you Miss Ainsley,” Zach said. The woman’s gaze raked Emma with enormous judgment from head to toe. “She will need to be outfitted for three days in London.”
He was quite sure he could see her doing math in her head. Her smile grew. “Of course, my lord. Any particular events?”
“One dinner party and one ball. Several daytime—”
“A ball?” Emma turned her face up to him. “Truly?” Her excitement was so palpable, so contagious, he could not help but smile, even as he knew the total cost for this undertaking just went up, as Mrs. Shabner’s gaze was keen as she considered his indulgence.
“Shoes? Hats? Gloves? Undergarments?” Clarified the modiste, with a lift of her brow.
Zach waved the gloves in his hands with some ennui, as was expected of him. “A complete outfitting, if you please. Dinner gown by tomorrow night, and ball gown for Saturday.”
And now the modiste showed a hint of alarm, at which Zach raised a challenging brow. Her gaze narrowed and her smile was tight, knowing he would exit her shop if she could not accommodate him. He could find several who would in a very close proximity.
“As you wish, my lord. Come, my dear.” She led Emma away from Zach, calling over her shoulder as she stopped with Emma near the table of fabrics, “Have you a preference to color?”
“Blues,” he said, decisively.
“Bold?” Wondered the modiste.
Zach leveled her with a decisive frown. “Pastels,” he clarified, answering her unasked question of Emma’s role in his life, paramour or beloved. Supposed beloved, he amended.
If I Loved You (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 2) Page 11