The Viscount's Rose (The Farthingale Series Book 5)

by Meara Platt

  Her mouth was drawn in a taut, thin line. “Are you through lecturing me?”

  “Not nearly through.” After all, he’d earned the right to speak his mind by pulling her out of the rubble, hadn’t he? “What of your season? It’s hardly under way and you’re already hurt. I’m sure your parents put a lot of time and effort into launching you into society. They’d much rather see you married than injured… or worse.”

  Nicola was nodding as he spoke, a rare moment when he and his sister agreed on something. “My brother’s right, Rolf. You can’t put your life at risk for the sake of a dish or vase, no matter how beautiful. We’re in our debut season. We promised to get through it together, so you ought to be thinking of balls and courtship and handsome eligible bachelors, like Julian, for example.”

  He glowered at his sister. “But not me.”

  Rose’s eyes rounded and she blushed in obvious embarrassment. “Of course not, Lord Emory. I wouldn’t presume. I’m most grateful for your assistance and promise to be more careful. You’re right, of course. It galls me to have them win, but I suppose they have for the moment. My family will be relieved. As you said, they brought us to London in the hope we’d find suitable husbands.” She glanced at her ankle and then looked up and cast him a wan smile. “There’ll be no dancing for me for a while. In truth, I was never very good at it anyway.”

  Perhaps he’d been a little too stern with her. “I’m sure you’re an excellent dancer. I’ll claim the first waltz once you’ve healed.” Oh, hell. He shouldn’t have said that. Now Nicola will think her matchmaking scheme had worked when nothing was further from the truth.

  Rose shook her head and laughed lightly. “Prepare to have your toes stepped on, my lord.”

  He arched an eyebrow and grinned. “I’ll wear my thickest boots.”

  “Our Uncle George is a doctor. He’ll properly tend to my ankle when he returns.” Rose didn’t mean to appear unappreciative, but she sorely wished Lord Emory would leave before he lifted her into his arms again and insisted on carrying her into the house. She’d rather manage on her own even though her ankle was sore.

  It wasn’t broken, but Lord Emory had not given ground on tending it. He’d put a cold compress on it and then bound her foot and ankle with the bandages Pruitt had retrieved from her uncle’s quarters. She was in as good a shape as could be expected; even Uncle George would commend him on the admirable job he’d done. “My uncle’s an excellent doctor. The best in London.”

  Lord Emory, who was still kneeling beside her, arched an eyebrow and looked up at her, his expression a mix of cynicism, tender indulgence, and something else she didn’t quite recognize. Whatever it was, it made her heart beat a little faster. “So you’ve told me three times already, Miss Farthingale.”

  “Well, he is.” In truth, Lord Emory had taken excellent care of her, his medical knowledge obviously learned in the midst of battle, which only made her like him all the more for the attentive care he must have given the soldiers under his charge. He was smart and brave, and now that he’d wiped the grime off his face she could see that he was irresistibly handsome. His dark blond hair fell in thick waves almost to his shoulders, and the appealing glint in his dark green eyes made her melt a little each time he smiled.

  She liked his smile.

  He was muscled, too. She’d felt the sinewed tension along his arms when he’d carried her out of the shed and again when he’d insisted on carrying her to the tea table. Being a damsel in distress wasn’t so bad when one’s savior was as handsome as Lord Emory.

  She studied his graceful movements as he rose from bended knee and took a seat beside her, noting the muscled ripple of his broad shoulders clearly outlined beneath his white lawn shirt. His jacket was ruined so he hadn’t been able to put it back on. “Uncle George will properly tend to my ankle,” she repeated. “You needn’t wait around for him or my parents. I’ll manage quite well with the help of my sisters and our staff.”

  He smiled at her again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It was a miracle she hadn’t melted into a complete puddle by now. Nicola had been right about her brother. He was charming, but Rose knew better than to mistake his politeness for anything more. “Are you that eager to be rid of me, Miss Farthingale?”

  Lord Emory was experienced and sophisticated and knew how to go about in society. He ran with a fast crowd. Despite the unusual manner in which they’d met, she was ordinary in every respect and he probably considered her excessively boring. “Not at all, my lord. I have no wish to be rid of you. After all, you saved me and for that you shall always be welcome in the Farthingale home. But I suspect you’ve reached your limit of polite conversation and are eager to be on your way.”

  “Do I look as though I’m eager to be anywhere but here?” He was still smiling and she was still melting. Drip, drip, drip. Her little puddle would soon be a pond. With ducks swimming in it. And a swan or two gliding across it.

  She cleared her throat. “Well, no. But you must find my conversation quite dull. You’re too polite to show it.”

  The twins weren’t nearly as polite. Having gobbled their ginger cakes, they sat fidgeting and bored until Rose took pity on them and gave them permission to return to the house. As they rose along with their governesses, Lord Emory also got to his feet. “Lily,” he said with quiet authority, holding her sister back as the others walked ahead, “I’m curious about your stash of explosives. How did you come by it? May I see?”

  She nodded. “I found a large pouch when we’d all gone down to see Uncle Harrison’s regiment ship off for France last week. I tried to return it once I realized what it contained, but everyone was too busy to pay me any notice. So I brought it home. It’s hidden under my bed.”

  “Under your…” Lord Emory’s eyes rounded and his mouth gaped open for an instant before he seemed to recover. “I’m good friends with the regimental commander. Will you permit me to return it to him?”

  If Rose could have jumped to her feet and hugged him, she would have done so. “An excellent idea, my lord. This is the perfect solution, and it can all be done quietly.”

  Lily frowned. “Shouldn’t I tell Papa first? I’ve been meaning to show it to him, but he and Mama are always so busy lately I can’t seem to get their attention.”

  “We’ll figure it out afterward. Bring Lord Emory the pouch.” Rose shook her head and released a groaning laugh as Lily skipped off. “Brilliantly done, Lord Emory. Thank you.”

  He chuckled. “And now, what were you saying about my being bored? Because I don’t believe I’ve ever spent a more unusual afternoon.”

  “You’re right, of course. I only meant that you don’t strike me as a tea and cakes sort of gentleman.”

  “Is that the only reason you want me gone?” He arched an eyebrow, looking impossibly irreverent. “Or are you worried that I’ll give your parents an accurate account of what happened today?”

  Well, perhaps there was a little of that. “My ankle is bound, my gown is covered in soot, and the kiln is damaged. I think they’ll suspect all is not as it should be. If you’re worried that I’ll understate the danger, rest assured the twins will not overlook a single detail. They’ll probably embellish the story and have you dueling a marauding pirate or two at some point in their retelling.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and laughed. “I like your sisters, even though my eyes still cross whenever they stand together.”

  “Rolf has two more sisters,” Nicola said, her own grin wide and her eyes revealing her triumphant joy in finally getting her and Lord Emory to meet. “The twins are the youngest, but there’s also Laurel and Daisy. Laurel will make her debut next year and Daisy the following year.”

  “You all have floral names except for Dillie,” he noted, nodding as Rose offered him more tea. He really was being quite attentive and polite, not at all impatient as Nicola had described him.

  “Her real name is Daffodil, but she’s not very fond of being called that. Yes, we’re all name
d after flowers although our parents sometimes think they ought to have named us Nettle, or Thorn, or Bramblebush. We vex them at times.”

  He was smiling at her again in a charmingly seductive way that tempted her to rethink her decision to hobble into the house on her own. Why was it so important? Couldn’t she pretend to be a delicate female in distress and feign endless gratitude when he lifted her into his manly arms and carried her inside?

  The wind began to pick up and the white clouds suddenly turned gray, obscuring the sun. Lord Emory glanced up. The wind ruffled his blond locks, brushing them back to accentuate the strong angles of his cheekbones and firm jaw. “Looks like our run of good weather has come to an end. Miss Farthingale, let me help you into your home before the rain pours down and turns the dirt on our clothes to mud.”

  Pruitt must have also noticed the sudden change in the weather. He hurried out with two footmen to clear away the tea and linens. “May I help you, Miss Rose?”

  Lord Emory moved possessively close. “I’ll take care of her, Pruitt. See to the tables.”

  Rose regarded him curiously. Nicola wished for a match between them and had never been subtle in her desire, but Lord Emory’s name was already linked to a recently widowed countess, a renowned beauty who traveled in his elegant circle. He reportedly was infatuated with her, if one were to believe the gossip rags, although he didn’t seem to be the sort to be led about by the nose by any woman.

  But what did she know about men? Or love?

  Nothing, obviously. Her senses were still addled, for Lord Emory appeared to be interested in her beyond a casual concern for her injured ankle even though she knew it couldn’t be so.

  Shaking her head, Rose stood and carefully tested her injury by putting delicate weight on her foot. “Crumpets!” She winced as a lightning bolt of pain tore upward from her swollen toes and straight into her temples. “Very well, I’d be grateful for your help. I’ll never make it into the house on my own without falling flat on my face.” Her ankle was already throbbing and she had yet to take a single step.

  He seemed relieved that she made no protest, but at the same time, his body tensed the moment he lifted her into his arms. Had she said or done something to displease him?

  Was she too heavy?

  Those ginger cakes were awfully good.

  “Where should I set you down?” he asked, striding into the house with her nestled in his arms as though she were no burden at all. Apparently she was not too heavy for him and he seemed quite capable of holding her in his arms for hours.

  She pretended to think about the question, for she was in no hurry to respond. She liked the solid feel of his arms and had an artist’s admiration for the firm, masculine contours of his body. “The salon, I think. On one of the stools beside the fireplace.”

  “On a stool?” He frowned.

  “Our clothes,” she reminded him. “I’d hate to ruin my mother’s new furniture. She took ever so long to find just the right shades of blue silks and brocades for the seat cushions and drapes.”

  Instead of doing as she suggested, he called to Pruitt to have one of the maids fetch an old sheet and spread it over the sofa.

  “At once, m’lord,” he replied without so much as batting an eyelash. Pruitt had been with the Farthingale family long enough never to be surprised by anything that happened in the household.

  Rose remained in Lord Emory’s arms until the task was accomplished, all the while itching to run her hands along the breadth of his chest and shoulders. She didn’t think he’d understand the artistic purpose to her touch, but he also had an interesting face and well-formed limbs that merited further study.

  She liked the shape of his mouth, but he would mistake her intentions if she lightly ran her finger across it.

  He settled her on the sofa and then took a seat beside her because his clothes were as soot-covered as hers were and he couldn’t sit anywhere else without dirtying the expensive fabrics. “Your shirt and jacket are likely beyond repair. Please allow me to pay for any damage.”

  His eyes widened. “No, Miss Farthingale. It isn’t necessary.”

  “But—”

  “Consider it my punishment for not coming to visit you sooner.”

  Her smile faltered. “Punishment? You were avoiding me? And now I’ve bored you to tears. Of course I have. Maybe that’s your punishment.”

  Nicola leaped to her defense. “Rolf, you are delightful as always. Pay no attention to my beast of a brother.”

  He let out a soft groan that ended in a seductive growl. Despite her embarrassment, a tingle shot through her as her body responded to that very male, very animal sound.

  “I didn’t mean…” He ran a hand through his hair again. “I had a perfectly acceptable time with you, Miss Farthingale. The visit is not a punishment at all. Indeed, I plan to call on you tomorrow if you will allow it.”

  Nicola’s eyes rounded in surprise and Rose could see that her friend was almost squealing with joy. She would have been excited too, but his meaning was obvious. He took no pleasure in seeing her. He only meant to stop by to ensure that his medical attention had done the trick and perhaps to report that the pouch Lily had just brought down was now safely returned to the regimental headquarters. “Lord Emory, you and your sister are always welcome here. But it isn’t necessary. As I mentioned, my uncle is one of the most capable doctors in London. I’ll receive the best care possible.”

  He nodded. “Then that settles it.”

  Rose nibbled her lower lip to stem her disappointment. Fool! He offered to visit and you rebuffed him!

  What was wrong with her? She’d enjoyed his company and now he would never call on her again. Perhaps it was for the best. She liked him.

  Probably more than was wise.

  She felt the graze of his fingers against her forehead as he brushed back several locks that had fallen out of place. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Farthingale.”

  She glanced up, confused. “You will?”

  He nodded. “There’s a saboteur on the loose. I’ll be staying close to you until we find him.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “THERE HE IS,” Rose whispered excitedly the moment she noticed Lord Emory enter the Farthingale parlor and make his way toward her with a casual ease. She tried not to fuss with the lilac ribbon wound through her hair or her new gown of delicate lilac silk, but it was hard to appear calm when her heart was pounding through her chest.

  “Crumpets! Is that Nicola’s brother?” Laurel asked, craning her head to steal a better look at him while he stopped to pay his respects to their parents and the other elegant visitors who’d stopped by today. Although the Farthingale family was new to Mayfair, her father and uncles had extensive connections among London society so there had been a constant flow of friends and family through the townhouse since their arrival a few months ago.

  Daisy grinned at her. “The twins weren’t exaggerating. He’s very handsome. Quite the Corinthian.”

  Rose shook her head and sighed. “He’s also taken, if Nicola is to be believed. Apparently Lord Emory is often in the company of Countess Valentina Deschanel, and I hear she’s sophisticated and stunningly beautiful. Even her name sounds beautiful. Valentina.” Hers was just plain Rose, or worse, her friends insisted on calling her Rolf, which wasn’t even a proper girl’s name, but one better fitting for a dog.

  “Nicola disapproves of her,” Laurel pointed out with a look of determination that caused Rose to chuckle. She loved her sisters and was particularly close to Laurel since they’d shared a bedchamber for all of their lives. For this reason, she understood Laurel well. If Laurel were a knight, she’d already be tossing down her gauntlet and challenging the countess on her behalf.

  Still grinning, Rose shook her head again. “It signifies nothing. He won’t listen to his sister and he’ll probably offer for the countess before the season is over.”

  “All the more reason to do something about it before it’s too late,” Laurel insisted.
>
  “No. It’s none of our business.” Her grin slipped a little. “I know you mean well, but I can fight my own battles. Lord Emory is exceptionally handsome, I will admit. But he isn’t the only bachelor in town.”

  Daisy gave her a pitying look and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rose. I can see that you like him.”

  “Nonsense, I don’t even know him.” But the sudden heat to her cheeks probably gave her away.

  “Ooh, he’s coming our way!” Daisy jumped up and grabbed Laurel’s arm. “Quick, let’s go help Mama. I’m sure she needs us for something important.”

  Her sisters giggled and darted away just as Lord Emory reached her side. Could they be more obvious? He took a step back to avoid being run over and then arched his eyebrow and cast her a knowing grin.

  She winced. “I apologize for my sisters, Lord Emory. They seem to have developed a shocking lack of manners.”

  “I have sisters, too. Two besides Nicola.” He shook his head and laughed, a deep, resonant rumble that felt like a caress against her skin. “As well as two younger brothers who have made it their life’s ambition to irritate me whenever possible.” But he spoke the last with such affection she knew he loved his siblings.

  He shifted closer. “How is your ankle?”

  “Still swollen and not a pretty sight at the moment, but Uncle George assures me the yellowish-purple bruising is a sign that it is on the mend.”

  He nodded. “Well, the rest of you looks passable… more than passable.” He leaned close enough for her to catch the scent of lather and sandalwood along his jaw, a subtle male scent that caused her already pounding heart to beat even faster. “Are those violet flecks in your eyes?”

  “What?” Goodness, why was he looking at her eyes? “No, they’re just blue.”

  “Violet, too,” he insisted. “Indeed, most unusual. And there… a hint of silver gray, as well.”

  “Are you an artist? No one’s ever commented on the color of my eyes before, but you seem to notice everything.”