How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back

by Barnes, Sophie

  “I’m sorry about earlier . . . I . . .”

  Instinctively he reached out and placed his hand on hers, squeezing it gently. It was meant as a form of reassurance, a way of letting her know that she wasn’t alone, that she had friends around her, willing to cheer her up and help her through this.

  She snatched it away immediately, her eyes rounding on him with sudden anger. “What are you doing, Francis?” Her voice was harsh.

  For a moment she had him thrown, but he quickly recovered, his eyebrows knitting together in that all-too-familiar frown of his. “What do you mean?” he asked, his hand still resting on the table next to her plate.

  “You and I aren’t friends. We haven’t been for years, so there’s no need for you to pretend.” She fixed him with a level gaze as she calmed her voice. “I’m deeply indebted to you for what you did the other night, though I wish you would have left me to die.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” he asked, his voice rising in anger. “How can you be so damn selfish, Emily, to even think such a thing? I realize that it must be your emotions talking, but still, think of how much pain your death would cause . . . of how many people would be affected.”

  “Ha!” she laughed in a mocking voice as she tilted her head back to gaze up at the ceiling.

  If there had been any tears left in her, she would have cried them then and there. But her tears had run dry, so she just squinted instead, sensing the familiar pain rising in her throat. “I’ve just discovered that the two people whom I used to think of as my closest friends weren’t my friends at all. I was happy, Francis. I’ve always found a way in which to be happy. Even after my parents died, I found happiness and comfort in knowing that Adrian loved me—in knowing that whatever troubles I might come across, Kate would be there to help me through them.

  “She and I used to be closer than I’ve ever been with Claire or Beatrice. But guess what . . . ? It wasn’t real.” She continued, her voice cracking. “Why wasn’t I good enough? Why did he pick Kate over me? He must have known how I felt. . . . Kate certainly did, though it’s been a while since we’ve discussed it. But to tell me like that . . . do you not think it was cruel? Or did I truly deserve it? Because honestly, the way I’ve felt for the last few days . . . I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

  They tore out my heart together, and then they crushed it, without even thinking twice about it.”

  Emily’s eyes met Francis’s. She couldn’t read any sign of emotion in them—just the same, familiar grey coldness. “For whatever reason, I know you don’t particularly like me, and to be fair, I’m not too fond of you either. We’ve had our differences, though I’m not even sure why anymore.

  “We used to be friends,” she whispered, her voice full of regret. He knew she wasn’t just talking about the two of them, that her thoughts included Adrian and Kate. Her smile was gone, and with it, her love for life. Somehow, without fully understanding why, he planned to change that, though he hadn’t a clue how to even begin.

  “I don’t want your pity.” Her voice was suddenly strong and determined. “I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

  “Fair enough,” he told her seriously. “Then you shan’t have it. However, I would recommend that you eat something before we set out. It will be a while before you eat again.”

  Unsure of whether or not this was the right thing to do, the decision had now been made. There was no turning back. She always managed to annoy the hell out of him, though he didn’t understand why. He was even more unsure as to why he wanted to have anything to do with her right now. She was clearly emotionally unstable and would probably be better served if she didn’t have to put up with his constant presence. Hell, he would probably be better served if he stayed clear of her. He always managed to spark her temper, particularly now, after everything that had happened. But perhaps his urge to help her could be attributed to the fact that he had always been the only person in existence who managed to bring a scowl to her otherwise happy face. And now that someone else had been the cause of her unhappiness, he wanted to wring their necks, both of them, for causing her so much grief.

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m taking you and your sisters to London for a while. A change of scenery will do you a world of good.”

  She gaped at him in astonishment.

  “You need to . . .”

  “You have no idea about what I need, Francis,” she blurted out, except that he did. Getting away from this place was exactly what she needed.

  She needed a chance to forget everything that Hardington reminded her of. But to go on a trip to London with Francis . . . it hardly appealed to her at all. He was constant doom and gloom, nothing but frowns—the most unlikely person in the world to turn her mood around.

  “You mentioned that Beatrice and Claire will be coming along also?” she asked.

  He nodded slowly.

  “And where exactly do you propose that we all stay during our visit? We cannot live with you . . . three single women living with a bachelor . . . we’ be ruined before we made it through the front door.”

  “I realize that, Emily.” His eyes held hers as he leaned back in his chair. “Which is why you and your sisters shan’t be staying at number seven, where I live, but at number five instead.” As if to clarify, he added, “Both properties belong to me.”

  “I see.” Emily stared back at him with a large degree of skepticism. “And it is completely vacant?”

  Francis nodded his head. “Nobody has lived there since my father died, though I have invited my great-aunt Genevieve to join us.” His mood seemed to brighten a little at the thought of the old lady. “She’s really quite lovely—my grandmother’s younger sister, to be precise. I’m certain you’ll enjoy her company.” He reached for his teacup. “So as far as propriety goes . . . I daresay that nobody will bat an eyelid.”

  Emily regarded Francis with a great deal of thoughtfulness before giving him the briefest of nods. “Thank you for the invitation,” she finally said. “I accept.”

  It was impossible to read his emotions as her eyes met his for a brief, uncomfortable moment. What a shame that he’d forgotten how to smile. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to have caused such a change in him.

  Thinking of herself for a moment, she couldn’t resist the slightest of smiles. He looked at her quizzically as it faded once more, leaving nothing but sadness upon her face. “I was just thinking that we’ll make a perfect pair among the ton,” she said.

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I believe we shall be known as Mr. and Mrs. Miserable in no time at all.”

  His eyes twinkled helplessly with momentary amusement, though his lips remained tightly drawn. What surprised him was that he rather liked that she had referred to them as a pair. He’d no idea why such a thing pleased him, when only days ago, the mere suggestion would undoubtedly have horrified him. The thought of exploring such a possibility was suddenly very intriguing. “Then we had best not disappoint,” he told her as he stood, held out his hand, and helped her to her feet.

  “I was worried that I would have to face Adrian this morning,” Emily admitted as she sat across from Francis in the carriage. They were on their way to pick up her sisters, who, she was certain, would be eagerly awaiting her. “Thank you for ensuring that I didn’t have to.”

  He didn’t respond, merely gave her his trademark nod, telling her that he acknowledged what she had said. He was content with not talking. The less people said, the less likely they were to complicate things.

  He’d long since gotten used to keeping his own emotions bottled up and therefore had no particular desire to know what other people felt. The truth was that he wasn’t even sure of what he felt anymore. He’d become so used to the wall he’d built up around himself—constructed from so much anger, pain, and frustration that it would be impossible for anyone to scale. And yet . . . he steeled himself for a moment . . . th
ere had been the beginnings of hope today.

  It didn’t take spectacles to see that Emily could barely abide him, and yet for some peculiar reason, amidst her pain, she had managed to inch him a little bit closer to happiness.

  Looking at her now as she gazed out of the window, her eyes blind to the scenery around her, he could almost hear her inner voice screaming. Stray wisps of her dark hair flowed in the breeze, framing her pale skin. It would be good to get some color back in those cheeks, he thought. Even her mouth seemed to have lost its hue. He had always admired how pink her lips could be without the application of makeup, yet now as he looked at them, they appeared faded.

  He knew that their falling out had been entirely his fault. He had changed and it hadn’t been gradual. Something had hardened him, made him bitter and constantly angry. He had taken it out on his friends on numerous occasions, sparking arguments for no other reason than to satisfy his own rage. It was no wonder that Emily hated him.

  The feeling had always been mutual, however. She had been his antagonist—the chirpy, constantly happy, nothing-could-shake-her-love-for-life girl that enforced his bitterness. He had grown allergic to her bubbling laughter that did nothing but remind him that there was nothing to laugh about.

  He had always expected to be gratified to see her lose that spark. The sweet revenge of years’ worth of torment. Yet here he was, angry—not at her, but at those who had so thoughtlessly wronged her.

  If Adrian and Kate were right for each other, wanted each other, then that was one thing. What he couldn’t accept was the way they had both handled it, as if Emily’s feelings meant nothing to them.

  Pulling up to the cottage where Beatrice and Claire awaited them, his mind returned to the present. As Emily turned toward him, her eyes locking onto his, he caught his breath.

  He wanted to make her happy again. He knew that this had been his reason for inviting her to London in the first place. But it was more than that. He wanted to keep her close. For some inexplicable, illogical reason, he wanted Emily Rutherford more than he had ever wanted anything else in his life.

  Perhaps it was rooted in the friendship they’d once shared. Kate could keep her dazzling looks, for all he cared—it was Emily who had always been his favorite. They’d been able to talk about anything back then. They’d shared a freedom with one another . . . the knowledge that they could just be themselves. And of course, the comfort of always having each other to turn to for help and support.

  But when it came to that first love, it was Adrian who’d captured her attention instead of him. He couldn’t blame her, of course—after all, it was difficult to hold a candle to Adrian’s charm. Still, the way she’d stared after Adrian and hung on his every word had irritated him to no end. And then, when the accident had happened, he’d found it impossible to share it with anyone—not even Emily. Instead, he’d pushed her away. To this day she didn’t know the truth about what had happened. He’d wanted it that way. He’d needed to get away from it all, and by the time he returned, he’d completely given up the fight for Emily’s heart.

  But perhaps he could try again now. Thank God Adrian had turned out to be a complete and utter idiot. Now all he had to do was make Emily like him again—not an easy task by any means he acknowledged, but then again, he did enjoy a challenge.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  London

  The carriage drew up to Francis’s Mayfair home on Berkeley Square at some point in the early afternoon. A balding, older gentleman whom Francis introduced as Parker opened the door for them at number five. “Parker is my butler, both here and at Dunhurst Park,” Francis explained. “He will see to it that you are all well settled.”

  “How many are there?” Claire asked in wonderment as she looked about with big round eyes. Being only eighteen years of age she was more easily taken by all the extravagance of the upper class home.

  “There are two maids, a cook, and a scullery maid who are here at all times. Parker, Jonathan Rosedale—my secretary—and Thomas—my valet—travel with me back and forth. Jonathan had an errand to attend to, but will be joining us later this evening.” Francis paused for a moment as if hesitating about whether or not to elaborate. “In truth, Jonathan is more than just an employee; he has been a close friend of mine for many years, even before I hired him—we went to Oxford together. I’m fortunate to have him around.”

  “Will it not be terribly difficult for them all to run back and forth between the two houses?” Emily asked with marked concern.

  “Erm . . . not really,” Francis muttered, suddenly looking nervous. He quickly composed himself before offering the three sisters a brief bow. “It would not be seemly for me to accompany you inside. Parker is very capable—I shall leave you in his care. Good day.”

  Emily stared after him as he headed up the steps toward number seven, opened the door, and disappeared inside. “Is it just me, or did his behavior just now seem rather curious?”

  Beatrice shrugged. “I thought he was quite polite, actually. Shall we go inside?”

  As soon as the front door closed behind them, they spotted Francis entering the hall from another direction.

  Emily’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you would be staying next door.”

  “And so I shall. However, I did think it time to mention that there is a door that connects the two houses—it’s in the library.”

  Beatrice and Emily both gasped while Claire just started giggling. Emily stopped her with a quick nudge to her side. “You deceived me,” Emily said. “You deceived us all.”

  “I have to say,” Beatrice added. “This is highly irregular.”

  “There’s nothing for it,” Emily said, her voice filled with disappointment. “We have to leave.”

  Francis stepped forward. “Look—I realize that this is by no means ideal, but I didn’t think you would have come, had you known.”

  “You would have been correct,” Emily snapped.

  “However,” he continued, seemingly unfazed by Emily’s remark. “As far as anyone will be able to tell, we shall be living in two separate houses. My aunt shall be living with you as an appropriate chaperone and nobody need be the wiser. Besides, it will allow us to socialize without the unnecessary bother of going out and coming back in.”

  “But we will know,” Emily protested.

  “I daresay that you are quite right, my lord,” Beatrice suddenly said, effectively silencing her sister. “Nobody need be the wiser—we shall be happy to remain, provided your aunt is here, as you say.”

  Emily turned to her sister in disbelief. “Beatrice, you cannot possibly mean to . . .”

  “We’ve come all this way for a change of scenery, Emily, and I for one have little desire to endure another three hours by carriage in order to return to Hardington.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Besides, I daresay you’d have little issue with the matter if it were Adrian rather than Francis who was living next-door with an adjoining doorway.”

  Emily could say nothing to that, so Beatrice merely returned her attention to Francis. “So . . . when might we have the pleasure of meeting this aunt of yours?” she asked.

  “I am certain Lady Genevieve will be with us shortly,” Francis said. Then, removing his hat and handing it to Parker, he ran his fingers through his thick hair, ruffling it slightly. Emily stared at him for a moment, stunned by the change in his appearance. Gone was his sleek and carefully groomed look that she had grown so used to. He still looked handsome, but in a roguish way that made her stomach flip as she sucked in a breath.

  Shifting his gaze, his eyes locked onto hers, taking in the look of confusion on her face. Something drew her in—his dark eyes captivating—as a slight shiver ran down her spine. Narrowing his eyes, his expression seemed to change. Gone was the hostility, so that for the briefest of moments, he looked as if he understood her. Then, like a candle being snuffed, the moment was gone.

  It was absurd. Of course it was. She could barely stomach Francis for more than a few
minutes at a time.

  A loud thump brought her back to full awareness. Turning slightly, she spotted an elderly woman with silver hair coming toward them at a crooked gait. Her frame was tiny, but her posture was perfectly straight, her head was held high, and her eyes were so piercing that she could very likely strike fear even in the most courageous of men. Had Francis really described her as lovely? Militant would be a more apt description.

  “Aunt Genevieve,” Francis remarked with a slight bow. “How good of you to join us.”

  Silence followed as Genevieve’s eyes slowly drifted from one face to another, scrutinizing each and every detail about all of them. When she was done, she nodded with great satisfaction, her slim lips widening into a warm smile that instantly lit up her face. The cool façade had completely vanished by the time she stepped forward to welcome the sisters. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you, my dears,” she said. She cast a quick look at Francis. “I see now why my presence here is required, Francis. Shame on you for not telling me how pretty these ladies are.”

  “Well, I didn’t think that . . .” Francis began, while Beatrice, Claire, and Emily, their faces quite flushed with embarrassment, performed a series of awkward curtsies.

  “Tut, tut.” Genevieve wagged an admonishing finger at her nephew. She then leaned forward against her cane and served Beatrice the most inquisitive of stares. “When did you last eat?”

  “I . . .” Beatrice glanced sideways at her two sisters. “I mean, we . . .”

  “When?” Genevieve repeated, her eyebrows meeting in the middle.

  “This morning, my lady.”

  Genevieve leaned back a little. “Well, that really won’t do.” She turned to Francis. “These ladies are as skinny as my cane. You did well in bringing them here, though I daresay we’ll have our work cut out for us if we’re to fatten them up in time for the next ball.”