She’d been willing to marry Adrian in a heartbeat, knowing full well that he didn’t love her as much as she’d loved him—as it turned out, he hadn’t loved her at all. And with him, she’d never experienced that spark that she felt each time Francis looked at her or touched her.
Francis had only one thing against him, Emily decided. He had secrets, dark secrets, but somehow he’d still managed to brighten in her presence these past few weeks. He’d opened himself up to her, even though he hadn’t shared his secrets with her. She didn’t want to press him, and yet, she didn’t want there to be anything between them.
“All right, Francis,” she told him. “I’ll accept your courtship, on one condition.”
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.
“You know everything there is to know about me, and what you don’t know, I will readily tell you if you ask. I refuse to enter into a marriage that’s filled with secrets, and I know that you have secrets—unpleasant ones, if I’m not mistaken.” He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. She couldn’t help but notice an ominous shadow flickering across his eyes, though. She shuddered, but pressed on. “You don’t have to tell me now, or tomorrow, or even the day after that. But you must tell me before you ask me to marry you, for I will not say yes unless you tell me what it was that had such a dramatic effect on your life that it’s still affecting you to this very day.”
He sat in silence for a moment, a struggle raging within him. He longed to tell her—in fact, he’d decided to do just that when he’d returned to London from Dunhurst Park. But now that she was sitting there, asking him point blank about it, he lost his nerve. Later, he thought. I’ll tell her later. He nodded slowly. “You have every right to know, and I promise you that I will tell you, just not right now. I’m not ready, Emily, and besides, I’ve no desire to ruin our chance to spend an enjoyable day together. So, since it’s just the two of us . . . I thought I might take you to see the Dulwich Gallery. Would you like that?”
“Oh, you know that I would!” Emily exclaimed. “I haven’t been to a picture gallery since . . .” she paused. “Well, in more years than I care to remember. Who do they have on display? Do you know?”
“Well, you know I’m not so good at remembering the names of the artists—I just enjoy looking at the paintings—though I do recall seeing a Rembrandt there.”
“Really? Oh Francis, when can we go?”
“Why don’t you have a little something to eat first—you’ve done nothing but sip your tea since you walked in here—and then we can be on our way afterward. We’ll ask your abigail to come along and chaperone, so that Beatrice doesn’t jump to any conclusions. And then perhaps, once we’ve had our fill of art, we can take some refreshments at Vauxhall Gardens.”
Emily beamed with delight, all worries of buried secrets and impending marriage proposals forgotten. “It sounds wonderful, Francis—I can’t think of any other way in which I’d rather spend the day.”
“I can,” he told her with a devilish smile as blatant desire flashed behind his eyes. “Unfortunately we’ll have to wait on that a while longer.”
Emily was sure that her entire body must be flaming red from blushing. “Unfortunately, indeed,” she muttered as she reached for a scone in an attempt to quell the tightening in her belly and the rush of heat that had quickly spread to the place between her thighs.
“Oh Francis, do come and take a look at this. What you’re looking at there is far too dismal.”
“It matches the drabness of my soul,” he told her as he eyed the painting of the windmills, cast against the darkening skies of an impending storm.”
“Are you not in the least bit happy then?” she asked with a twinge of sadness.
“Emily, I haven’t been happy for so long . . . but I find that when I’m with you, there’s still a spark of hope that happiness may one day be restored to me.”
“Then come and look at this,” she urged him brightly. “If you keep surrounding yourself with dreariness, you’ll never be able to rid yourself of it. You have to try to let a little light into your soul, to battle the darkness.” Moving away from the picture of his choice, he strode toward her. “Now, tell me what you see,” she told him.
Francis studied the painting before him. “I see a number of ships at different distances from the shore,” he told her. “And there’s a rowboat, too, with some sailors in it.”
“That’s right. Now, tell me what feeling it evokes in you.”
“I’m not sure, I . . .” he paused, a bit puzzled by her question. “Peace and tranquility, I think.” His eyes widened in astonishment as he noticed the plaque that hung beneath it, carrying the title.
“That’s right,” she said. “It’s called A Calm. It’s by Van de Velde, who’s especially famous for his seascapes. I’ve seen a few lithographs of his work, but they were all in black and white—the color makes a world of difference, don’t you agree?”
“I never thought I’d find a painting of ships on the water to be so beautiful,” he told her. “In fact, I must confess that I probably wouldn’t have given it a glance if you hadn’t drawn my attention to it. Thank you, Emily.”
“It’s the blues, you know.”
“The blues?” he asked as he looked at her quizzically.
“The tones—the way in which he makes the sky glow with light and how the water shimmers. The title is so very apt.” With a small sigh and a final glance, Emily moved on to look at the next painting while Francis remained transfixed.
Never in his life had he thought to enjoy a museum visit as much as he was enjoying this one. It was as if each painting had a story to tell, a story that he was incapable of reading without Emily’s help. He felt as though he’d always been blind and that Emily had just now granted him the gift of sight. He could think of nothing to say to her that might accurately convey his gratitude.
He caught up with her a moment later. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s quite as appreciative of art as you seem to be,” he told her with a gentle smile as he came to stand beside her.
“I believe that I appreciate it because I understand it. I think it would be difficult to appreciate something that one did not understand. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“And yet, most people appreciate love, or the act of being in love, though it’s often quite impossible to understand the logic behind it.”
“Perhaps there is no logic. Perhaps that’s what makes it so thrilling, and perhaps it’s what makes love so much like art. Art isn’t logical, Francis—it’s emotional, irrational . . . it’s meant to stir your soul and your senses. A work of art is not simply a depiction of a flower, a landscape, or a portrait of someone—it is rather an insight into the artist’s soul, a window if you will.
“Take this painting over here, for instance, of the Immaculate Conception by Murillo. The artist clearly poured his heart into it; such beauty and perfection could never be attained otherwise. Look at the Madonna’s poise, the light that surrounds her, and the attention to detail—one is tempted to believe that it’s possible for her to step down from the canvas and into this very room.
“Art challenges our mind, Francis. It makes us question the world around us, and it allows us to view it in a different light or from a different angle—it’s enlightening. In truth, I dread to think of what the world would be like without it. I believe our lives would be quite dull, indeed.”
They both stood silently, looking up at the beautiful woman that stood amidst the clouds, surrounded by angels. “You’ve given me a great gift today, Emily,” he told her.
“How so?”
He paused for a moment as he wondered how he might best explain himself to her. “I feel as though I’ve been hearing music around me all my life without actually listening to it. You’ve taught me how to listen, Emily.” He took her hand in his and squeezed it. “Thank you,” he whispered and was rewarded by a dazzling smile.
It was six by the t
ime they left the museum and entered onto Gallery Road. The evening air was balmy, so they decided to walk for a while, taking Croxted Road up to Brixton, where Francis hailed a hackney to take them the rest of the way.
By the time they arrived at the entrance to Vauxhall Gardens, it was just past seven o’clock. They paid for their admission and entered onto the Grand Walk, where freshly raked gravel suddenly crunched beneath their feet. Emily sucked in a breath at the sight of the nine-hundred-foot-long walkway that was flanked by elms on either side. “Shall we?” Francis asked as he offered her his arm. “Supper generally begins at nine, so we can take a turn of the gardens until then.”
Resting her hand on his arm, Emily allowed him to steer her forward between the gathering crowds. Never in her life had she seen so many fashionably dressed men and women gathered together in one spot—not even at Almack’s. The sight was so spectacular that she could not stop herself from staring, her head turning from side to side so as not to miss a single thing.
Francis grinned down at her. “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he mused.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Francis,” she muttered, suddenly painfully self-aware. “I don’t mean to act like a gawking imbecile . . . but . . . oh my goodness, would you look at that lady’s hat!”
“Please tell me that you do not like that catastrophe,” he said with apparent alarm.
“Oh no,” she assured him. “But it’s quite extravagant nonetheless—from an artistic viewpoint, of course.”
“Of course,” he concurred, trying desperately to stifle an impending burst of laughter.
He led her all the way down toward the bottom of the walk, stopping along the way to buy an ice for each of them. They found a bench on which to sit as they enjoyed their refreshment, watching the vast variety of people passing by, quietly commenting on their appearances from time to time.
Continuing on their way, Francis steered Emily right toward the Southern Walk. Once again, Emily found herself struck with wonder and admiration at the sight of three triumphal arches that were spread out along the length of it. As they passed under the last one, Francis nudged her in the direction of the grove. “Let us enjoy the music for a while,” he suggested. “There’s still half an hour until nine o’clock.”
Taking a seat on one of the many benches that lined the periphery, they allowed the music to waft over them. Neither of them spoke until it was over. “I could sit here forever,” Emily told him.
“I know what you mean. However, I do believe that it’s time for supper.” He rose, reached out his hand, and helped her to her feet.
Passing a statue of Handel, they entered a semicircular plaza surrounded by twenty supper boxes, all painted in bright colors to depict children at play, adults’ pastime activities, and scenes from the theatre. “They’re so beautifully painted, Francis. And the way they’re lit up . . . as if the murals are glowing . . . I must admit, I never thought to see a place such as this. I believe it’s my turn to thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he told her as he turned his head toward her with a smile.
They ordered some thinly sliced ham, a selection of cheeses, and some sweetmeats. Francis asked the waiter to bring them a decanter of arrack punch so that Emily might try the specialty. “Come, try this,” he told her once the food had arrived. He held a piece of sweetmeat up to her lips and slipped it into her mouth. Her eyes opened wide in appreciation. “Now follow it with arrack.”
The rich flavor of the confection mingling with the liquor made for an extraordinary gustatory experience. Emily closed her eyes, savoring every moment of it as Francis watched her with delight, happy to see the joy that she took in such a simple thing.
Her eyes flew open at the sudden sound of whistles blowing. She looked about to find the source. In astonishment she watched the gardens flood with light as hundreds of globe lanterns came ablaze. “Incredible,” she sighed. “How many do you suppose that there are?”
“Well over a thousand, if I’m not mistaken.”
Emily shook her head in wonder as she reached for a piece of ham. “This place truly is magical, I believe. It just continues to impress me.”
“Just wait until you see the cascade,” he told her.
“A waterfall?” she asked in astonishment.
He nodded. “Yes, you’d better hurry up and eat so we’ll be ready when it begins.”
“How will we know when it begins? Oh, Francis, we mustn’t miss it.”
He grinned at her. “There’ll be a bell,” he promised. “Now, how about a dessert plate with a selection of tarts, cheesecake, and some fresh fruit?”
“Sounds divine,” Emily told him dreamily as she finished the remainder of her arrack. “Perhaps with some coffee?”
“I didn’t think you drank coffee,” he teased as he leaned toward her, brushing her cheek with his lips.”
“Just because you’ve never seen me drink it, doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy it.”
“Hmmm . . . I can’t help but wonder what else you might enjoy doing . . .”
“Francis!” Her cheeks filled with color as she glanced across at Mary, who was seated on a bench within a reasonable distance of them. The maid was paying more attention to the crowd passing her by than she was to either Emily or Francis, however.
There was no doubt in Emily’s mind that Francis was extremely aware of this, for in the next instant, she felt his hand grip her thigh beneath the table as he fixed her with a heated stare. A sudden primal urge to let him ravish her there and then hit her like a blow, knocking the air out of her. “Oh God, Francis,” she groaned, her eyes swimming with desire.
“I’ve never felt this strongly for any woman, Emily. Just thinking about you—and the evening we shared in your bedroom—makes me hard.” She whimpered slightly as she felt his grip tighten. “Do you have any idea how much I want you, Emily?” he asked. There was an almost desperate tone to his voice as he posed his question to her.
“I’m barely able to think of anything other than your hands on me, Francis. In fact, I think you’ll find that my need is just as great as yours.” She swallowed hard, then set her mind to slowing the beat of her racing heart.
“For pity’s sake, Emily.”
She eyed him warily. “Do you intend to seduce me before our wedding night, Francis?”
His hand was gone from her thigh the moment the words left her mouth, and she couldn’t help but feel a surge of regret, as if she’d lost something very dear to her. “No,” he told her with a hint of severity, determination clear in his eyes. “Some things are sacred.”
“Then why? For heaven’s sake, Francis, why would you . . .” The disappointment she felt at his sudden righteousness was so overwhelming that she felt she might scream with frustration.
“I wanted you to understand that what I feel for you is more than a passing fancy. I want to share my bed with you every night for the rest of my life. And when we’re out of bed, I want to spend my days talking to you, sharing my thoughts with you, and listening to everything that you may wish to tell me. I want to see you laugh, Emily, because when you do, the whole world seems to brighten with your happiness.”
The sound of a bell ringing was followed by a loud bustling all around them as men and women rose to their feet, all intent on viewing the cascade. “Come, Emily,” Francis urged her. “Let us hurry so that we can find a good vantage point before the crowd closes in around it.” He quickly handed a wad of money to their waiter as he hauled Emily out of her seat and hurried her along at a brisk pace.
They pushed themselves forward until they stood at the very front, to find themselves looking at a miller’s house standing next to a frothing waterfall. At the bottom of the waterfall, the churning waters drove a huge wheel attached to the side of the house. The color of the water changed from blue, to green, to red as different lights illuminated it.
Unable to tear her eyes away from any part of it, Emily looked on in wonder, not uttering a single word for
the fifteen minutes that the spectacle lasted. Finally, the water slowed and the crowd began to disperse.
“It never would have occurred to me that watching water flow could be so mesmerizing,” she muttered as she turned back toward Francis. “Thank you for a wonderful day and evening.”
It had been wonderful, he agreed, as he took her by the arm and began leading her back toward Vauxhall Road—unbelievably wonderful. And while he’d never much cared for the notion of marriage, he suddenly had an urgent need to cart Emily off to the nearest church. The sooner they spoke their vows the better, he decided—especially if she was going to remain chaste until her wedding night.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“A letter came for you yesterday, Miss Emily,” the butler told her as she arrived for breakfast the next day.
Beatrice and Claire were both enjoying a hot cup of tea and some scones with strawberry jam as she walked across to the table. “Thank you, Parker,” Emily said, taking the letter from the tray that he was holding out to her. She then looked at her sisters as she took her own seat at the table. “I didn’t see either one of you yesterday. Francis mentioned something about a bonnet. Did you find it?”
“Oh yes,” Claire replied. “It’s the most splendid thing in the world. Don’t you agree, Bea?”
“It is lovely,” Beatrice agreed. “And I’m sure that I never would have heard the end of it if I hadn’t gone with you. Sorry we left you here alone, Emily, but your sister insisted that if we did not hurry, then someone else was sure to buy it.”
“That’s quite all right,” Emily chuckled. “As it turned out, I had a rather splendid day together with Francis.” It was impossible for her to hide her joy as the corners of her mouth edged upward into a happy smile.
“Really? Well, what did you do? Surely you weren’t alone with him?” There was a mischievous gleam in Claire’s eyes that told Emily that she almost wished it were so.
How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Page 16
