How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back

by Barnes, Sophie

  “And you, sir, are nothing but a by-blow,” she scoffed.

  The words were like a slap across his face, though he did not show it.

  How he longed to wring the vile woman’s neck, but by some miracle he managed to restrain himself. He would not see himself incarcerated on her account.

  He would never understand how his father could have kept her as his mistress for all those years, but then again, she was a fabulous actress who had no doubt captivated him with a wonderful performance.

  He strolled over to the window and looked out over the garden. The sunny day with cloudless skies was in stark contrast to his mood. Finding no solace in it, he turned away. “I would be much obliged if you would please get to the point,” he told her. “I assume you’ve come to get more money. Am I correct?”

  Her countenance was once again as sweet as a five-year-old girl in pigtails. “Why, Francis, that’s just the thing. How clever of you to have figured it out,” she drawled.

  “How much?”

  “Oh . . . shall we say . . . five thousand pounds for now? I think that sounds fair.” She nodded affirmatively.

  “Fair?” Francis’s voice reverberated through the room. His eyes were knit close together in apparent outrage. “It’s not fair by any means, Charlotte. It’s madness! Do you have any concept of money whatsoever, or did you just throw a random number out there in hopes that I wouldn’t question it?”

  The insult struck her unawares. She took a sharp breath as heat rushed to her cheeks. Few things rattled her, but clearly his implication that she was intellectually handicapped was definitely one of them. Francis saw her push her uncertainty aside, determined instead to focus on his weakness.

  “I believe you have forgotten the letter that I have in my possession, Francis,” she declared. All emotion had vanished from her face as her unfeeling eyes met his. “Five thousand pounds, Francis—that is the price that you must pay if you wish for that letter to remain a secret. If you don’t pay it,” she smirked, “then you shall be as ruined as I, for I will indeed publish it for the entire world to see. Don’t doubt for a minute that I won’t.”

  He let out a ragged sigh as he bent his head in contemplation.

  There must be a way out of this mess, he thought.

  How can I get rid of her? I’ll be paying her off for years to come as long as she’s holding that damn letter over my head.

  But for now, he would have to give her the money, he reckoned, and then he would sit down and try to think of a more permanent solution.

  His face was grim as he looked back up at her. “Very well,” he nodded. “You may come and collect it tomorrow. Now get out of my house before I have you thrown out.”

  “That’s better, my dear,” she purred as she strolled toward him. She clasped his chin in her hand, then, leaned toward his cheek for a farewell kiss.

  He pushed her away so vehemently that she twirled about, stumbling over her own feet, yet she managed to retain her balance. “Why, Francis, darling,” she said as her hand rose to her cheek in a look of surprise that was fairly overdone, even for her. “Don’t tell me you do not love your own mother. I’m not sure if I could bear it.”

  Her tone was so sarcastic that it gave Francis the urge to beat her over the head with a mallet. “Madam, if it were up to me, I would have you drawn and quartered. Now, I bid you good day.” Turning on his heel, fully intent on leaving her presence if she would not leave his, he headed for the door.

  “Not to worry, my dear,” she called after him. “I will always love you, Francis—even if it is only for your money!”

  A wild cackle spread through the air, following him like wildfire as he rushed to get away from her. Seeing her again after so long . . . speaking with her . . . the touch of her hand on his chin . . . Francis shuddered. He felt much the same as he would have, had he just been covered in fecal matter. He needed a bath, immediately, and then he would go for a ride to clear his head.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Francis spent the next three days in his own company. He had been forced to meet with Charlotte again in order to hand over the five thousand pounds—something he had done with great reluctance. But he didn’t want his family name tarnished, either—least of all by a woman like her.

  His mood was darker than it had been in a while. It had been just over two years since Charlotte’s last visit, and he had grown comfortable, ignoring the fact that she would inevitably call again once her funds ran out.

  If only there were a way for him to get his hands on that blasted letter, he thought, as he marched across the moor, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. A gust of wind picked up, blowing the tails of his coat out behind him and catching hold of his hair.

  So much anger and pent-up rage coursed through his body, tensing each and every muscle so tautly that he was sure his head would fly off from all the pressure. He needed an outlet, some means by which to release so many years of harbored pain. Looking around, he saw nobody. He had ridden out onto the moor, haphazardly flying across the billowing blanket of lilac heather, with no other thought than to get away from it all. Dunhurst Park would be at least five miles away.

  Standing there now beneath billowing clouds, his horse tethered to a tree, he basked in the feeling of the wind, whipping against his face. Then, having filled his lungs to the limit, he expelled the air in a beastly roar that would have sent any lurching demons scampering back to hell.

  Just then, the clouds broke above his head in a heavy downpour that had him soaked within a minute. Clasping his hands to his shoulders, he looked upward as the water washed over his face. He felt depleted, yet somehow better than he had in a long time. For the first time since his arrival, he finally felt as if he might be ready to return to London.

  Until then, he had known that he would have been terrible company. He feared that he might take his anger out on Emily and her sisters. Indeed he knew that he would, for it had happened before, and it was not something that he wished to see happen again. He was a gentleman, after all, but it was more than that. He finally felt as if he was making progress in bettering Emily’s opinion of him. Emily . . . her face shone in his memory like a beacon of hope, and he realized then not only that he missed her, but how much he suddenly needed her.

  All those years he had shied away from her, jealous of her happiness, her joy—hating her for it. He had sought refuge with his demons in a cold and lonely place, wallowing in self-pity and anguished contempt for the world that surrounded him.

  Yet now it was as if he’d been given fresh sight. He had happened to see her at her worst—suffering and hurt, her heart broken in a thousand little pieces. But then, like a trampled flower, he had watched her regain her strength, rise up again, and fell her opponents with a few words of kindness and regret. He was in awe of her—if any such thing were possible—and indeed, he knew that it was from the way he now felt.

  She had proved to be a better person than anyone he had ever known—more righteous, more honest, and braver. And then, after all the years where his constant anger had divided them, she had allowed him to re-enter her realm of happiness again. They had talked, and though he hadn’t quite laughed, he had come closer to freeing himself in her presence than he’d ever come before.

  Just looking at her enchanted him. The way one could see the laughter in her eyes before it ever reached her lips. And then, when she finally did laugh, the uninhibited delight that she embodied was so infectious that none in her presence could help from laughing, either—regardless of whether or not they knew the original cause behind it.

  More than that was his discovery of how insightful and well read she was. He was slightly ashamed at how surprised he had been to find that she had been capable of conversing on topics other than women’s fashion plates, or other such nonsense. As children, their focus had been more on play than on serious dialogue, and so it had never been an issue. But he was immeasurably pleased to find how knowledgeable and well educated she’d become. In
short, he was exceedingly proud of her, but more than that, he admired her tremendously.

  His thoughts went to the kiss they had shared. He shouldn’t have done it—he knew it had been wrong—but he couldn’t help himself. And then, it had felt so right, so perfect, and she had kissed him back. His heart soared at the thought of it. Emily Rutherford had not pushed him away by any means. She had clung to him, run her fingers through his hair, and shared in the passion of the moment as his equal. And when he’d grazed her breasts with his lips, she’d sighed and moaned—a sound so pleasing to his ears that his blood had caught on fire.

  There was no turning his back on it. Whatever problems he had with Charlotte, nothing was going to snuff this light that had been rekindled in his soul. He wanted Emily and he would be damned if anyone was going to stand in his way.

  It was late afternoon when he returned to Dunhurst Park, leaving puddles in his wake as he darted up the front steps. The rain had subsided, allowing for rays of sunshine to break through from between the clouds. An eager pair of robins emerged from their nest and took flight, darting across the sky.

  In his room, Francis quickly removed his wet clothes, managing quite nicely without his valet, whom he had left behind in London. He then pulled on a fresh pair of beige leather breeches, a crisp white linen shirt—the neck of which he wrapped in a cravat—and a pair of light brown hessian boots. Donning a white waistcoat, he threw on his black coat, picked up his kidskin gloves, and headed out the door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was nearly midnight by the time Francis arrived at his home in Berkeley Square. Stepping inside, he was faintly surprised by the dim glow of light coming from his study down the hall. Perhaps Jonathan was working late, or merely enjoying a quiet glass of port before returning home. He wouldn’t mind a glass himself, he thought, as he pulled off his gloves, laid them inside his hat, and placed the hat on a side table for Parker to tend to later. Unbuttoning his coat as he went, he made his way toward his study, managing to unfasten the last button as he reached the open doorway.

  With a deep breath, he wandered inside, relieved to be back in the warm evening glow of his favorite room in the house. Looking about, he immediately caught his breath as he regarded the slight figure neatly curled up in one of the leather chairs.

  There, fast asleep, her lips slightly parted in slumber, lay Emily. She had been right about the chair being too big for her, he thought with a smile as he watched her nestled on the seat, her feet tucked up beneath her. At the foot of the chair lay a book. Francis picked it up to find that he was holding a brand new copy of Sense and Sensibility by a certain Jane Austen. Curious of its content, he scanned the back of the dust jacket, only to conclude that it must belong to Emily. Ever the romantic, he thought musingly, as he laid the book carefully on the table next to her chair.

  He stood for another moment, watching her rest, his eyes drawn hypnotically toward the rise and fall of her breasts as they strained against her bodice, swelling lusciously at the neckline. His stomach tightened as a wave of heat rushed over him, settling deep within his loins. His urge to reach out and touch her was overwhelming, yet somehow he managed to avert his gaze. One touch would never sate his appetite—of that he was certain. Instead, he proceeded to turn off the lights. Then, with a conscious effort to think of anything other than Emily’s warm and pliable body, he stooped to gather her up in his arms.

  Fresh quivers ran down his spine as her scent, a soft fragrance of roses in bloom, enveloped him. He cursed beneath his breath at his apparent lack of self-control. What was he thinking, getting this close to her? She shifted slightly in her sleep, her head tilting backward in a pose that beckoned for him to brush his lips against the delicate curve of her neck. With an inward groan, he tightened his hold on her for fear that he might otherwise drop her right there on the stairs. Taking a deep breath, he tried to focus on each of the steps he took as he approached her bedroom.

  Fumbling with the door handle as he juggled her in his arms, he finally managed to open the door and enter the room, kicking the door shut with the heel of his foot. He then crossed the room to her bed and gently settled her on top of the golden brocade bedspread.

  Turning on the light next to her bed, he straightened himself to look at her, wondering if he ought to cover her with something. His own body came to mind, but he quickly trashed that thought with a mounting degree of annoyance. He was, after all, a gentleman—he tried to remind himself.

  Clenching his fists, he turned away from temptation, intent on fleeing the room before he happened to change his mind.

  “Francis?” Her voice was music to his hears. Oh how he’d missed it for the past few days. He ought to ignore it, to pretend he hadn’t heard her and just leave, but his feet were somehow glued to the floor.

  “You fell asleep in the study, Emily,” he told her in a soft whisper as he turned his head to look at her. She had turned onto her side, partly risen as she rested on one of her elbows, her eyes still drowsy from slumber. His eyes roamed over her. Her hair was tousled, her bodice askew, yet he’d never thought she looked more beautiful.

  As she moved slightly on the bed, he watched in silent disbelief as one of her breasts rose over the neckline, showing off a pink nipple, so ripe that Francis’s mouth went dry and his pulse quickened to a deadly pace. “I should go,” he told her in a hoarse voice, wishing he had the power to look away from her inviting body. She wasn’t even aware of what she’d just displayed for him as she lay there, the hint of a pleasant dream still upon her face.

  “I was hoping perhaps we could talk,” she told him as she got up and came toward him.

  “Emily,” he murmured as he put up his hands to stop her from coming any closer. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  She paused in mid-stride, a pensive look upon her face as she licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. Francis felt the all-too-familiar throbbing as his manhood strained against the seam of his breaches. Never in his life had he been so aroused from just looking at a woman. . . . Hell, she wasn’t even naked!

  “Francis? Are you all right?” she asked. “You look unwell or as if you’re somehow in pain.” She looked genuinely troubled. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”

  Francis groaned. Her questions were so innocent. If only she knew that she was the cause of his torment. Yes, he thought, there is something you can do for me—throw yourself on your back and let me explore you; let me ravish you with kisses and taste every inch of your divine body.

  Instead he just stood there, not knowing what to say or what to do. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew what to do, what he ought to do, but he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to leave, to turn around and walk away. He wanted Emily and he wanted her to tell him that she wanted him too.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she told him suddenly, without warning.

  “Oh?” His voice was curious, his eyes dark and searching.

  She thought she detected that same simmering heat that she’d seen the other day in the study when he’d kissed her, but she wasn’t sure. She’d been thinking about nothing but that kiss ever since he’d gone away. How she longed to be kissed like that again, somewhere where they would not be so easily interrupted. Somewhere like right here, right now.

  She knew that she ought to be ashamed to think such things; it just wasn’t proper for a lady to have such impure thoughts. And her thoughts about Francis were very impure. What made it feel less indecent, however, was that she was becoming increasingly certain that he’d been having the same impure thoughts about her—and nothing excited her more.

  But how would she broach such a delicate subject? Perhaps if she didn’t look at him, talking about it would be easier. She turned away from him, her hand resting against the foot of the bed. “I was wondering why you went away,” she said.

  Silence filled the room and for a moment she thought he might not tell her, but then he did. “There was a personal matter that I nee
ded to attend to. It’s a rather delicate situation, really. I’d prefer it if we didn’t discuss it right now—perhaps tomorrow, or the day after that. In fact, there’s a lot that I need to tell you, Emily. I’ve kept it all inside for years, and I believe it’s time that I spoke to somebody about it. And truth be told, there’s nobody I’d rather share it with than you.”

  On his ride back to town, he had realized that the only person to whom he wished to divulge his secrets was Emily. Emily, the one person who had always urged him to tell her what was on his mind—at least in the beginning, before she grew tired of being constantly rebuffed. But there was a time and a place for everything, and this was most definitely not the time or the place for him to bare his heart to her.

  “So it had nothing to do with the kiss?” Her voice was so low that he had to strain to hear her.

  “Of course not,” he heard himself saying. “Why would you think that?”

  “Why indeed?” she sighed, the hint of mockery barely present in her voice. “Because you left the very next morning, without any explanation or even a goodbye. What was I to think?”

  “Like I said, I left because there was a personal matter that needed my attention. It had nothing to do with you, or the kiss.”

  “Did you like it then?” She gasped as soon as the question left her lips, horrified at her own candor.

  “If you’re referring to the kiss, then yes, I did, Emily. I liked the kiss a great deal.” He paused, watching her with great intensity. He could almost feel the heat that was flushing her face, for it was surely the same as what filled his own.

  And then she turned to face him and he looked into her eyes, the hunger there mirroring his own. “Would you like to kiss me again?” she murmured.