How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back
Page 12
“I’m so sorry,” Emily muttered, wiping her mouth and chin with the handkerchief Claire had produced for her. “Please forgive me. I’m not usually this unladylike—how embarrassing.”
“Don’t concern yourself too much about it, Emily,” Francis told her in a soft voice. “We’re all friends here.” He had also had to fight for control at Claire’s words. Emily had thankfully managed to grab everyone’s attention so that none of them saw the cheeky gleam in his eyes or the smile that played upon his lips. “Though perhaps Veronica was right in suggesting that you see a doctor—it seems you have rather an alarming tendency to choke.” He sent her a wink, to which she responded with a glower.
“Well, if you will please excuse me—I wish to retire for the evening. It’s quite late and all this excitement has thoroughly worn me out,” Emily said as she got up from her chair.
“I’m sorry to hear it. I hope you shall be better rested next time, so that you may fully enjoy all that such an evening has to offer,” Francis told her with a devilish smile. The implication could not have been clearer. Yet had she missed it, the roaring fire in his eyes told her that he was not referring to exerting oneself on the dance floor, or participating in amicable conversation.
Heat rose to her face as she flushed with color. She could do little more than send him a look of annoyance as she ignored the warmth that tugged at her belly or her knees that were suddenly weak like pudding. Damn the man and his roguish looks, his Corinthian physique, and his masculine scent . . . she would have none of it—at least not for now. “Good night, then,” she said as she gathered strength and fled the room.
Breathless, she leaned against the closed door in her bedroom, her palms resting against the smooth, cool surface. At least not for now . . . the thought reverberated in her head. He had awoken something in her—a dormant passion she’d never thought she possessed.
As much as she had wanted to remove all thoughts of Francis from her mind, all possibility for that had been dashed away that evening. Each and every corner of her mind was filled with him, relentlessly tormenting and teasing her.
He was like an oasis in a desert where she was parched from thirst. Nothing would satisfy her until she allowed herself to partake in all he had to offer.
All he had to offer.
She trembled slightly, a rush of heat filling her as her thoughts strayed to . . . she gasped in horror. Good Lord!
He must think me a complete Cyprian to have carried on with him the way I did.
She felt mortified, and quickly determined not to let herself get so easily carried away the next time she happened to be alone with him. For some peculiar, unimaginable reason, Francis’s opinion of her had suddenly become vitally important. Something had changed in both of them, she felt, and she didn’t want to ruin it by acting like a demimondaine. Besides, if she allowed him to kiss her like that again, things were sure to get out of hand. She knew she’d wanted it in the heat of the moment, but now that the moment was gone, she was able to think more rationally.
If she allowed Francis to take her innocence, she feared that she might lose her head over him, and that was something that she wasn’t prepared to do. She’d been hurt enough by Adrian already—falling for Francis (as unlikely as it seemed) would be no better. He was not the kind of man who might return her affection, particularly since he wasn’t very affectionate in any way, whatsoever. He was moody, brooding, and stern, though she did acknowledge that he had smiled more in the past couple of weeks than she’d seen him do in the past ten years. It was no matter—her mind was made up—she would not allow herself to fall in love with him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Emily woke feeling lighthearted and giddy as she replayed her kiss with Francis in her mind. Though she had come to terms with the fact that it would never be more than just a kiss, she still felt a strange, newfound sense of connection with him. She wondered if he felt the same way.
Getting up, she threw on her dressing gown and seated herself in front of her vanity table to carry out her morning routine. A maid assisted her with her hair, after which Emily attended to her more personal needs. She then dressed in a light pink muslin dress with small embroidered roses at the hem, finishing with a spray of rosewater across her chest.
It surprised her how quiet the house was. There were, after all, five people living there in total—not taking the staff into consideration. When she entered the dining room, however, she found that nobody else was there, and that the plates on the table were untouched. She was—not entirely to her surprise—apparently the first one to have risen.
It was quite pleasant in a way, she realized. She would finally be able to sit and read the paper in peace as she savored her breakfast. Bacon and eggs had always been her favorite. She’d been most fortunate to indulge in them throughout her stay in Francis’s home. Once the cook had found out how much she loved them, she’d insisted that Emily have them every day.
Pouring herself a cup of tea, she rang for Parker, who arrived within minutes, carrying her food with him on a tray “Good morning, Miss Emily,” he told her with a strained smile.
“Good morning, Parker,” she replied. “I’m sorry to point this out to you, but it seems that there’s a place missing.” The butler regarded her blandly. She would clearly have to spell it out for him. “We are five and there are only four places set.”
“You’re quite right, Miss Emily—so there are.”
There was a long, pregnant silence as he stood watching her. “Well, why on earth is that, if I may ask?” Emily’s voice was filling with aggravation at the butler’s all-too-butlery persona. She wanted answers.
“His lordship has gone out of town. He will not be dining at this table for the next few days. That is why there are only four places set instead of five.”
Emily could scarcely believe it. Francis had left, just like that, without a single word of goodbye to her.
Lifting her chin in hopes of hiding the tremendous disappointment that welled inside her, she thanked Parker for the piece of information, then turned her attention toward her plate. There she sat—long after Parker had left the room—staring at her untouched food, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and questions.
Why did she suddenly feel so damned wretched? She told herself that she didn’t even like the man. Then why did she care? She knew the answer to that one: she cared because she was lying to herself in thinking she did not like him. The truth was that she had come to like him very much . . . too much.
She felt that somehow they had bridged the gap that had lain between them for so many years, and had finally begun to get along. But it was so much more than that. It was as if she’d glimpsed the real Francis—the Francis that had hidden himself away beneath layers of anger, sorrow, and pain. She had found that his eyes could still sparkle and that his lips could still smile, and she realized then—with a pang of guilt—why she had despised him for so long.
When they were children she had loved that smile—the way one corner would edge upward into a cheeky smirk before spreading into a wholesome grin. They had been two of a kind back then—boisterous, teasing, and full of joy for everything that life had to offer. Adrian and Kate had both been more reserved somehow, often embarrassed by Emily’s sudden bursts of laughter or Francis’s playful mockery of everyone and everything.
A sudden smile pulled at her lips as she recalled how scarlet both Kate and Adrian had turned when Adrian’s cook had prepared a caramel pudding for them. The plates had arrived, each with a plump mound of a pudding that had been thoughtfully adorned with a single cherry on the top. “Well, I don’t think I need to tell you all what that looks like,” Francis had exclaimed with marked amusement as Kate’s hand automatically flew to her breast. “I’m sure you can see it for yourselves!”
The truth was, he had been the only one who had truly understood her, and now he had abandoned her, leaving her alone with a sense of humor that no one else would ever understand or appreciate as well
as he had—not even Adrian.
And then another pang hit her. Had she thrown herself into love of Adrian in order to battle her own grief at the way in which Francis had suddenly changed? It was absurd. But what if it was the truth? She’d never understood what had caused such a drastic change in his personality. It wasn’t for lack of asking, but he’d grown gruffer each time she’d brought it up, slowly withdrawing from the world around him until he was just a shadow of the boy she’d known and loved.
Loved.
Emily’s heart leapt at the very idea of it. She’d hated him—despised and loathed him—for shutting her out and turning her away. And over the years she’d forgotten the source of her hate until all she’d known was how little she liked his company, his mere presence, and very existence. And it was all because she’d felt betrayed—because she had loved him.
Emily gasped in horror at the self-admission. What the devil was she to do now? This wasn’t at all what she had planned for.
There was only one thing for it—Francis must never know how she felt about him. He was not one who would ever offer her his heart and soul—he was too gripped by whatever darkness it was that held him. Though he had kissed her—and quite passionately at that—she knew she ought to take it for what it was: a momentary lapse in his better judgment. She would not allow herself to think otherwise. That sort of stupidity had hurt her once before. In a way, she thanked Adrian. He had shown her that a kiss need not, by any means, lead to the altar.
A sudden bubble of laughter spread to her limbs as she pictured a sour-looking Francis speaking his marriage vows as he silently regretted ever having kissed her. She had best keep her thoughts and feelings to herself, for she had no intention of trying to leg-shackle a man who until recently seemed to detest the very sight of her.
“Have you been up long?” Beatrice asked as she entered the dining room, her hair neatly wrapped in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a plain white linen dress, accented by a yellow ribbon that glowed about her waist.
“I suppose so,” Emily replied as she looked at the cold food upon her plate. “I suppose I was brooding.”
Beatrice arched a brow as she took a seat across from Emily. “About anything in particular?”
“Not really.” She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not important.” Then, taking a sip of her tepid tea, “Did you sleep well?”
“Blissfully so.” Her sister smiled, a dreamy look still heavy in her eyes.
“And Claire? I trust she’s still fast asleep?”
“Oh yes,” Beatrice chuckled. “Heaven knows that girl is a renowned sleepyhead. I’m sure she’ll be down soon though.”
“Good morning, ladies,” Jonathan said as he made his appearance.
“Oh, good morning, Mr. Rosedale,” Emily smiled as her eyes strayed to her sister’s flushed cheeks. Beatrice merely nodded an embarrassed greeting from behind her teacup while Emily did the best she could to contain her curiosity.
“It appears that Francis has gone out of town,” Jonathan told them. “He left a note for me—doesn’t say when he’ll be back.”
So it had been a spur-of-the-moment idea, Emily thought. She couldn’t help but wonder if it had anything to do with her, but she soon determined that was ridiculous and pushed the thought aside. “Did he say where he went or why?” she found herself asking.
“He went home,” Jonathan told her. “To Dunhurst Park. He didn’t say why.”
“Oh,” Emily whispered, so softly that nobody heard her. “Do you know when we might expect him?”
“I do not, though I imagine that he shall return as soon as possible. He would not leave his guests alone for an extended period of time, I assure you.”
As Jonathan left them again in order to return to his work, Beatrice lowered her teacup with a shaky hand.
“Why, Bea, I do believe that you are smitten,” Emily told her.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Beatrice muttered. “I simply like the man—that is all. He’s . . . nice.”
“The whole world can see that that is clearly not all,” Emily expressed. “I can’t imagine anything ever being as red as your face was when he said good morning.”
“Dash it all—was I that obvious?”
Emily laid her hand on top of her sister’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Not to worry. I don’t believe he noticed—he seemed rather caught up in Francis’s sudden departure.”
“A bit odd, that . . .” Beatrice mused. “I wonder what the hurry was.”
“Me too,” Emily told her.
I do hope that it wasn’t because of me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Where is she?” Francis’s voice was filled with rage as he flew up the steps of his home at Dunhurst Park. He had ridden without pause after receiving the urgent message, finally arriving three hours later.
“In the drawing room, sir,” the housekeeper told him in a fluster as she rushed to keep up with him. “She’s been shouting all manner of abuse at the servants. A number of them won’t have it any more—they’ve threatened to leave—and I . . . well, I’m inclined to follow their lead, though I do beg your pardon, sir.”
“For the love of God, Mrs. Reynolds, how long has she been here?”
“Since yesterday afternoon, sir—she slept in the library,” Mrs. Reynolds told him, looking thoroughly perplexed. “We tried sending her away, but she wouldn’t have it—insisted we contact you immediately, or else. I didn’t know what else to do, what with Parker being away and all.”
“One day and half of my staff is already threatening to resign? I never took her for anything less than a cankerous shrew, but . . .” His words trailed off. “She must have been trouble, indeed, if even you have become eager to leave.”
“I do apologize, sir. I surely hope it will not come to that.”
“As do I, Mrs. Reynolds, as do I,” Francis bit out as he strode down the hall and into the drawing room.
“What do you want?” Francis’s voice sliced through the air as he regarded the woman who sat so elegantly on the silk brocade chaise. Her auburn hair was knotted at the nape of her neck, while fashionable ringlets framed a face that was, indeed, quite pretty. She wore a white dress with wildflowers embroidered along the hem and a hat on her head, adorned with a green satin ribbon.
Francis’s eyes were cold as ice, his mouth drawn tight over gritting teeth. Oh, how he longed to be rid of her.
If she detected his wrath, she pretended not to notice as she smiled at him sweetly. “Ah, Francis—at last. I have so been looking forward to seeing you again. Please, won’t you come and join me?”
He walked toward her, the hatred fierce in his dark eyes. Yet she held his gaze, unflinching—that pleasant smile still pasted on her lips—such an image of kindness. But to him she represented anything but. In his eyes, she stood for everything that he had lost. This creature that sat before him was by no means a lady. On the contrary, she was a cold and calculating bitch, and he must not allow himself to be ensnared by her pretenses.
“How have you been, Francis?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“I don’t believe you came here to ask about my well-being, Charlotte,” Francis sneered. “In fact, I very much doubt that you give a damn.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed slightly at the comment. She puckered her lips, then rose to her feet in a stately fashion. “You’re quite right, my dear.” Her voice was silky soft as it drifted through the air. Francis flinched slightly at the endearment, his eyes darting instinctively across the room to where they settled on a painting on the wall. He loved that painting, and he looked at it now, imploring it to help him get through this horrid affair.
A beautiful woman stared down at him, her big round eyes filled with happiness. Her hair was dark blonde, falling in loose tresses about her heart-shaped face, and her eyes were the brightest blue. Elisabeth Riley—the beloved woman who had raised him—looked truly enchanting in her portrait.
“She was so weak in character, you know.” Charlotte’s words slashed at his heart.
He whipped his head around in her direction. “Watch your mouth, Charlotte,” he warned.
“Or what?” she asked as she tilted her head. “Come, Francis. We both know you can’t touch me. I have the upper hand—remember?” Her voice was taunting to his ears as she leered at him from behind those fluttering lashes of hers. “I’ll never forget how she begged for her husband to come to her at night instead of to me . . . the look of despair in her eyes when she saw that I was far more tempting. Pathetic, really!”
“This is still my house, Charlotte, and as such, I will ask you as nicely as I can to refrain from mentioning my mother.” His voice was so sharp it would have felled an army, yet Charlotte remained seemingly unperturbed. Her words, however, had set his blood boiling. His hatred for her ran deep. In time he would find something . . . some way in which to make her pay.
She gave a small, bubbling laugh as she clasped her hands in front of her in rapt amusement. Then she shook her head. “Oh, Francis,” she mused. “Dear, dear Francis.” She paused for a moment as something within her shifted. He had seen it happen before and knew that her act had finally come to an end. Coldness descended upon her like frost on a winter’s morning. The warmth was gone from her eyes, replaced by an icy glare. “I am your mother. Don’t think for a minute that I intend to let you forget that.”
“You are mistaken, madam,” he told her coolly as he pointed toward the painting of Elisabeth Riley. “She was my mother—my true mother. You are nothing but a bit o’ muslin, a Cyprian, a demimondaine—I’ll let you pick the term you find most fitting, shall I?” His eyes mocked her relentlessly.