“Nothing,” he replied. But the tone was there, the tone that implied that it wasn’t nothing at all, which of course gave her the immediate need to explain. “My feet often swell,” she muttered. Then, with a more assertive voice, “It’s more comfortable like this, all right?” When he failed to supply her with anything other than a blank stare, she was compelled to elaborate, though heaven only knew why.
“I’m a petite woman. These sort of chairs are made for men—men like you, for instance—who are capable of filling them out. I always feel as if I’m drowning in them, and I cannot slouch back against the back of it—my corset simply will not allow it. Besides,” she continued, “we’ve known each other for years, you and I. I hardly think it makes much difference how I sit.”
A faint smile had begun to tug at Francis’s lips as he envisioned a miniature Emily sprawling about on a giant chair, which was exactly the imagery that she had evoked. But then she had mentioned her corset, and just like that, his mind had stopped, zeroing in on that single word, unable to move beyond it. Still, he looked ready to smile at any moment, except his eyes had taken on a peculiarly distracted look, which in turn made him look like a bit of an idiot.
“Francis?” she asked.
He inhaled sharply at the sound of her voice, then pressed both hands against his eyes, rubbing slightly as if to wipe away the image.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he told her in a slightly irritated tone of voice.
“Perhaps I should go,” she told him, but he immediately stopped her with a sharp “no” that surprised her.
“I think I’ll have a scotch. Are you certain you don’t want anything?” he asked as he rose to his feet and strode across the room to pluck a half-filled bottle off a table.
“Perhaps a small sherry . . . if you have some,” she replied cautiously. Was she actually about to have a drink with Francis Riley, the one person in the world that she always strove to avoid? It had seemed that he had been on the brink of smiling earlier. She couldn’t imagine why. Surely what she’d said hadn’t been all that amusing. Then again, perhaps it had. At any rate, the thought of making Francis smile somehow intrigued her. The idea that he almost had must surely mean that he wasn’t as mean as she thought. Only happy people with a positive outlook on life smiled. And since he had almost smiled, then maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t nearly as bad as she thought.
The notion startled her so much that she let out a loud gasp, which in turn startled him. He spun around, spilling the sherry that he was in the middle of pouring, to give her a quizzical look.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just . . . well I . . .” Darn it! Why was it so difficult to think of a plausible excuse? For lack of anything better, she settled on something completely inappropriate. “I just remembered that I mentioned my corset to you earlier, and well . . . it was really very inappropriate of me. You see, I was babbling on and on, and well . . . I’m sorry.”
“And yet you brought it up again,” he scolded, his hand frozen in midair as his mind turned once again toward that word. Once again that ridiculous urge to hold her that he’d felt in the carriage on their way to London swept over him. If only the woman didn’t happen to be Emily Rutherford.
And yet she had changed. He had noticed it before, and wondered what had brought it on.
Upon reflection, he realized that he need only look in the mirror to find his answer. Pain had changed her. It had wiped away the wishy-washiness that he had always deemed to be her greatest flaw, and made her more direct . . . more blatantly honest. Emily Rutherford had been jaded, and for some peculiar reason, he liked her new personality—in fact, he preferred it. It added a sense of depth to her and made her stand out amongst all the other women who always did and said what was proper. Emily Rutherford had begun to speak her mind, and he was intrigued.
“I completely forgot what we were talking about before you spilt the sherry,” she said in a voice that told him that she was annoyed by the fact.
Walking over to her, he handed her the glass and she took a careful sip, the strong liquid, tinged with sweetness, swishing about her mouth before she allowed herself to swallow. She put the glass down on the round table that stood between their chairs.
“I believe you were telling me about your corset . . .” Francis lifted his glass to his lips in hopes of hiding his smirk as he sat back down. There it was again . . . the image of her corset playing havoc with his mind.
“No, no . . .” She waved her hand dismissively. “Before that.”
“Before that you were saying something about your feet.”
“Oh, don’t be daft, Francis,” she exclaimed with some degree of annoyance. “You know perfectly well that I’m referring to what we were talking about even before that.”
Catching the slight look of surprise on his face, she bit her bottom lip. “Sorry, that was rude of me.”
“Hmmm . . . I rather think I ought to be flattered that you feel you know me well enough to call me daft,” he smiled.
He didn’t make an attempt to hide it this time, and as he watched the look of dismay spreading across Emily’s face, his smile broadened even further. He never would have thought that talking to Emily Rutherford could have forced such a change in him. He was suddenly at ease . . . not exactly happy, but at ease enough to smile, and it felt good . . . really good. “What?” he asked her.
She shook her head in bewilderment. “I’ve known you all these years,” she said. “And yet I feel as though I’m seeing you for the very first time. Odd how much a smile can change your entire appearance. I’ve missed that smile, Francis.” She said the last bit more to herself than to him, yet it made him glad nonetheless. Glad that he had somehow managed to alter her impression of him. And it had been such a surprisingly easy thing to do.
“I asked you if you were looking forward to attending your first ball,” he said. “That’s what we were talking about before you mentioned your feet.”
She stopped for a moment to think. “Oh yes, you’re quite right.”
“Well, are you?”
“I suppose I am in a small way . . . all the excitement of it . . . you know?” She paused as the smile slipped from her face. “But I had hoped I’d be able to enjoy it more. The Carroway ball has taken all the fun out of it. I’m already trying to come up with the perfect excuse not to go.”
“Don’t you dare!” Francis exclaimed. “Emily, you won’t feel better by avoiding the issue.” He leaned forward in his chair and set his glass on the table next to hers. “You need to face both of them, to show them that they don’t have the power to break you.”
“How can you possibly presume to tell me what I need to do?” She rose to her feet and turned toward the door, her voice even, yet suddenly cold. The spark he’d seen in her earlier had dimmed. Instead she looked tired and worn out—defeated. “What makes you such an expert?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Emily,” he grumbled as he got up. He wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into her. In fact, he intended on doing just that as he reached out, grabbed hold of her arm, and spun her forcefully toward him.
She let out a small gasp—complete surprise evident on her entire face, from her wide eyes to her slightly open mouth.
And then he just stood there, not knowing what to do. He looked down into her deep green eyes, only to discover that they weren’t entirely green—they were brown toward the center . . . golden brown. How could he not have noticed this before, he wondered. Then again, he’d never had the opportunity to look this closely.
A few strands of her hair had come loose, dangling mindlessly against her cheek. Lifting his hand, he carefully brushed them away and tucked them behind her ear as she sucked in her breath.
He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his hands, flowing up his arms and outward, until it filled his entire body. His immediate instinct was to pull her closer, to kiss her deeply and passionately on that delightful mouth of hers.<
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But the timing was all wrong. If he kissed her now, he’d be rushing it, and for some peculiar reason (he couldn’t quite comprehend why), it seemed important that he take his time with Emily. Something deep within him warned him not to kiss her at that very moment, but to wait. So instead of pulling her toward him, he straightened his back, let go of her, and lowered his arms to his sides. “You will attend that ball, and you shall do it with your head held high. You won’t cower in a corner or on a bench at the side of the dance floor. You shall dance, Emily Rutherford, and you shall have a bloody good time doing it. Is that understood?”
Emily nodded numbly, both confused and slightly disturbed, though she wasn’t quite sure which sentiment dominated her current mood. Had he said those exact same words five minutes earlier, she would undoubtedly have snapped at him. However, she was incapable of an appropriate rejoinder at that very moment, for her mind had become cloudy and foggy. In fact, she couldn’t recall ever being so befuddled before in her life.
It had almost looked as if Francis had intended on kissing her, right there in the study, in the middle of the afternoon. Francis, whose somber attitude she had barely been able to tolerate only a few days ago. Yet somehow, the world as she knew it had managed to unhinge itself and topple sideways. All of a sudden, Adrian, with whom she had been in love for years, was engaged to someone else—that someone else being none other than her best friend Kate. Kate, who’d had to suffer all of Emily’s incessant chatter about Adrian to such a degree that her ears must have started to bleed. And now, to top it all off, she was beginning to think that Francis might actually like her in more than merely a friendly sort of way, that in spite of how badly she’d treated the poor man over the years, he might actually like to kiss her.
There was no other explanation than the most obvious one of all: she was completely delusional! No, she was mad . . . mad about Francis—no, no, no! She wasn’t—she just thought she might be. She was vulnerable and easily susceptible to any man’s charms. She had been spurned, and therefore (she rationalized), it was only natural that she might (subconsciously, of course) try to interpret a man’s way of speaking or looking at her as a sign that he might be interested in her.
And yet, her whole body had responded to the way he had looked at her. Her heart was fluttering, her stomach was in upheaval, and she felt as if she’d lost her knees somewhere between him grabbing hold of her and then brushing aside her hair. Surely such things didn’t occur from something she had just imagined . . . or did it?
Whatever had happened, she didn’t understand it, and she didn’t even try to, for it made no sense to her whatsoever. She knew only one thing, and that was that she deeply wished he would have kissed her.
CHAPTER TEN
Emily stared into the mirror in front of her as she carefully ran her hands over her pale green gown. Her long hair had been braided and coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck, the shorter strands at the front curled, ever so slightly, in order to frame her face.
She took a slow, deep breath. This was it—the evening that she had been dreading had finally arrived. She had already attended three other balls together with her sisters, including an evening at Almack’s, where they had each received Lady Hawthorne’s permission to waltz. Emily had taken to waltzing immediately, though Beatrice had on more than one occasion insisted that she not smile quite as much as she did—it would give people the impression that she enjoyed her partners’ closeness more than was deemed appropriate.
Emily did try to follow her older sister’s advice—not because she herself cared a farthing for what others might think, but rather to prevent Beatrice from keeling over from sheer embarrassment. It was, after all, Beatrice who had been responsible for their upbringing following their parents’ deaths. Any inappropriate behavior or lack of etiquette would be construed as nothing more than a testament to Beatrice’s failing attempts at educating her sisters properly.
Lady Giddington had accompanied them on each occasion as their chaperone. It was odd, really. Upon meeting her again (after that dreadfully embarrassing incident where she had behaved so rudely that she wondered why Beatrice hadn’t admonished her also), Emily had wondered what on earth had prompted her to laugh in the first place. Veronica had been most kind and helpful toward all of them. Not only that, but it seemed that she actually possessed an extraordinary sense of which dresses suited them best (in spite of the unfortunate blue one that she herself had worn when they had first met). And, she had looked nothing short of stunning in each of the gowns that she had worn since.
Emily looked analytically at her face as it stared back at her from the mirror. Adhering to fashion, she always stayed out of the sun, and therefore had the same pale complexion as everyone else she knew. Yet there was a line to be drawn between fashionably pale and looking sickly, and she rather fancied herself as appearing to be quite sickly looking indeed.
It must be nerves, she thought as she pinched her cheeks in hopes of adding some color. In fact, if she had to be altogether honest, her stomach was completely unsettled and her skin had begun to crawl with anxiety. She felt faint and reached out to her vanity in order to steady herself. This was a bad idea. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was quite possibly the worst idea in the world for her to attend this ball. She ought to stay at home, curled up in bed where she belonged. But . . . Francis wouldn’t allow it. He had said as much, and when she had had the chance to, she hadn’t argued the point. And so, here she was on the verge of collapse, ready to head on out to a ball she was sure to hate.
She sighed one last time, then straightened her back, and turned toward the door.
Gracefully resting her hand on the banister, Emily made her way down the stairs toward the murmur of voices coming from the parlor. Pausing for a moment with her hand on the door handle, she pushed the remaining nerves under a magnificent mask of composure. Then, turning the handle, she nudged the door open and entered.
Francis was in deep conversation with Jonathan, who was always invited to join them. They seemed to be discussing a few of Francis’s investments.
“Perhaps you ought to forget about your other ventures,” Jonathan was saying. “And increase your stock with the East India Company.”
“Perhaps,” Francis agreed with a thoughtful frown. Then, seeing the door open out of the corner of his eye, he turned his head and immediately caught his breath.
How could Adrian have been so stupid? That was the first thought that came to mind as he saw Emily standing there, framed in the doorway with the hallway light glowing behind her. She looked positively stunning.
He had tried to hold his growing feelings for her in check since their meeting in his study. That was almost two weeks ago now and he had managed the feat in spite of how difficult it had been for him.
He had wanted to get to the bottom of his own emotions—to find out if making his intentions known to her would be worth the risk. After all, in spite of their past disagreements, Emily was a sweet girl, so he didn’t want to play the rogue and tarnish her otherwise spotless reputation. If he were to kiss her, he would only do so if he was sure that he might be able to follow through with a proposal of marriage, and marriage was definitely not something to be taken lightly.
And then of course there was her opinion to consider. Would she even care to entertain the thought of kissing him, let alone marrying him? He was willing to bet his life that she wasn’t. Not yet anyway. Therefore, he had made up his mind. He had devised a carefully thought-out plan, its sole purpose being to eventually ensure Emily’s hand in marriage. And he would do it the old-fashioned way—through trickery.
If indeed she happened to be a woman like any other, he knew she must have been thinking of him since he had held her in the study, wondering why he hadn’t kissed her. He had caught her a number of times since then, thoughtfully regarding him as if trying to figure him out.
Even now as her gaze swept across the room, it seemed she made a deliberated effort
not to look at him. But then of course curiosity got the better of her, and her eyes found him. The corner of his mouth drew upward in a crooked smile. Color flooded her face, she looked away, and just like that, he knew that she’d been thinking of him. The thrill of it (though it didn’t show) rippled through his veins. It was all the encouragement he needed in order to pursue her. With a satisfied inward smile, he turned back to Jonathan to finish his conversation.
Emily stood, stranded with her whirlwind of emotions. Had she imagined it yet again? She was sure that he had looked at her with desire in his eyes, and yet he had turned away with an otherwise unmoved expression. It left her feeling rather deflated.
All that nervous energy that she had built up was suddenly gone, and that was when she realized that it had all been for him. She hadn’t thought of Adrian when she had readied herself for the ball. She had thought of Francis, wondering—no, hoping—that he would approve of the way she looked. Yet he had barely given her any attention at all.
The disappointment frightened her. Why would she care about Francis’s opinion? Why did it matter what he thought of her? Once again the cloud of confusion that had become all too familiar over the past couple of weeks washed over her. She turned to Beatrice and Claire, seated on a bench by the window.
“You look particularly lovely this evening.” Trust Beatrice to say something like that. There was no doubt she meant it—Emily just wished that Francis would have said it instead. There she was, thinking of him again. She hated the fact that she thought of him at all. “Thank you,” she replied in the cheeriest voice she could manage. “So do the two of you. Your hair is beautifully styled, Claire, and Bea, your dress complements your complexion perfectly. Well done!”
How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Page 8
