However, at the time, she’d felt a jolt of fear overtake her that let loose her insecurities. With the way he’d been looking at her and touching her, it had been so easy to forget for a moment that Rathburn could have chosen anyone to help with his deception. He may have only chosen her because some part of him acknowledged that she could never deny him. As he’d proven time and again, he was far too perceptive for her comfort.
She couldn’t risk being lured in by him again. Already, she’d grown far too fond of him. She even enjoyed his rakish flirting. Each time he spoke, he drew her closer to wanting more. More of this closeness. More of Rathburn.
However, that could never be. She needed a well-grounded husband, not one who made her forget herself. So much so that she feared her carefully crafted façade might slip. That everyone would learn her secret.
Though she tried hard to hide it, to fight it, she was too much her parents’ daughter to deny it any longer. At least to herself. She still wouldn’t risk telling a soul of the unfettered urges that came over her, ones that only a brush in her hand and a canvas before her could begin to soothe.
The shame of her weakness brought her back to reality and the impossibility of her fantasy. Not that it was a fantasy, because she would never be foolish enough to imagine that she and Rathburn could ever marry. Well . . . nearly never.
However, there was no way the dowager would approve of her and release Rathburn’s inheritance if she knew the truth about their mock betrothal.
“I do think the pearls are a bit tasteless,” her mother said, pulling Emma away from her conflicted thoughts. “I wish you’d consulted me. I am, after all, the mother of the bride.” She picked up the sketch of the wedding dress and turned it this way and that, her brow furrowed.
Lady Rathburn should have known better than to have left Emma’s mother and the dowager in the same room without a chaperone to keep them on their most genial behavior. There weren’t two more opposing women with stronger personalities in all of England, she was sure.
Emma only hoped that the dowager would still hand over Rathburn’s inheritance once she realized an alliance between their two families would never work. After all, their incompatibility wasn’t his fault.
“Tasteless is a rather ironic word coming from the woman wearing the turquoise beads with the apricot-colored gown, my dear,” the dowager said with a snort. “Perhaps you’d better leave the fashion decisions to me.”
Much to her credit, Celestine Danvers smiled. “I’d rather not see her look like a mourning dove on her wedding day, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Her gown is white with a robe of the palest pink.”
“And weighted with a thousand pearls or more.”
“No doubt, working with clay addles one’s perception over time. There are hardly more than a dozen. I do hope your daughter never suffers the ill effects from any peculiar artistic traits.”
Emma sucked in a panicked breath. “Mother—oh!” She winced when one of the pins pricked her flesh.
The modiste gave her a disapproving glance. “Hold still, if you please. We cannot have a lopsided bride.”
“It’s fine, dear. I’m sure Her Grace cannot fault you for having your own talent. You see, when Emma was younger, she had quite a hand for drawing and painting—”
“Much, much younger. A child, really,” Emma said quickly, trying not to move or breathe. When the dowager frowned, Emma added, “I lost interest years ago.”
“As any girl would once she realized how cruel those who rule the ton can be.”
“Mother,” Emma warned, knowing by the lift of the dowager’s penciled brow that her accusation had hit the target, as intended.
Celestine flipped her wrist. “Oh, Emma. Her Grace and I were just challenging each other’s fortitude.”
“Your mother is quite right, my dear,” the dowager offered, though her mouth was severely pursed in disapproval. “I detest simpering fools more than anything, so she’s bound to be an improvement. At least, one can hope.”
Her mother cast her a wink and hid her smile behind her fingertips as she pretended to study the modiste’s sketch again.
Emma would have liked to breathe a sigh of relief, but she was afraid of the seamstress drawing blood next. Not only that, but she was sure this tête-à-tête was far from over.
“Mother, what were you thinking to leave them alone with each other?” Rathburn stood up from the settee and paced the length of the sitting room. Supposedly, Emma was across the hall, being fitted for her wedding gown. However, he had his doubts it was that simple.
“Relax,” Victoria Goswick said before she sipped her tea. “I have complete faith in Celestine Danvers. She knows how to hold her own.”
He stopped at the door and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. This was a disaster. “Don’t you see? That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. The Danverses are a different breed of people. They hide their strong wills behind an artistic façade. They don’t know the first thing about cowering to a societal beast like Grandmamma.”
His mother grinned. “I know.”
He pressed a fist to the center of his chest and rubbed against the tightness he felt. “Don’t you see? She could easily remove her approval.”
There would be no inheritance. No Dr. Kohn for the hospital. No wedding to Emma. The strange thing was, he was no longer sure which thought bothered him most of all. He’d already gained Collingsford’s agreement to continue paying the laborers, with the promise that he would have the rest of his money as soon as he was wed. There were people counting on him.
Yet, there was also this seedling idea of marrying Emma Danvers. It had already sprouted. And he found he wasn’t ready to pluck it from its root—even if she didn’t see him as a suitable husband.
He frowned at the reminder. Obviously, he would have to convince her otherwise. What was she looking for, exactly? A sedate gentleman who was all polish and no substance, or perhaps the other way around.
“You don’t give your grandmother enough credit. She happens to like strong-willed people. She’s fond of you, isn’t she?”
“Only after I resigned my will to hers,” he grumbled.
After his father had died, gambling hadn’t been an issue. Yet now he refrained from playing a simple round of whist at a party. He’d stopped drinking, as well, though he’d rarely done so to excess. He had a reputation of being a rake, and . . . well, that one was earned. Yet, once he realized that his grandmother refused to release his inheritance because he wasn’t settled, he’d even given up his mistress.
Then again, if he were honest with himself, even that wasn’t as difficult as it should have been. Lily was beautiful and passionate, every dream a man could want. Yet, he’d wanted more. At the time, he hadn’t known what the more entailed. He hadn’t known that Lily was missing a key component that meshed well with his character. He hadn’t known exactly what he was looking for . . . Not until he’d tasted sweet jasmine tea on Emma Danvers’s lips.
Now, he knew exactly what he wanted and was astounded by the fact that he hadn’t seen it all along.
The trouble was, he needed to make her see it as well. He needed to become . . . suitable.
“Sometimes all that’s needed is a nudge in the right direction.”
Rathburn nodded absently, distracted by his new plight. He wondered, and not for the first time, what he would be doing now if not for his grandmother’s interfering clause in his inheritance contract.
It went without saying that he would have settled down at some point. After all, he wasn’t as far gone of a rake as some might have thought. In fact, for the most part, he’d used that first year after his father’s death as a diversion from his true purpose. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know what he was actually doing with his time. Being a ne’er-do-well was the perfect excuse for traveling the continent in search of the ideal surgeon for the hospital without anyone the wiser.
“I’m sure you would have gotten around to
proposing to Miss Danvers eventually.”
He started to nod again in response until his mother’s words filtered in through his thoughts. Stopping mid-stride, he looked at his mother in surprise. It was almost as if she were privy to his thoughts.
“It’s been clear for ages,” she said, smiling, her eyes luminous with unshed tears. “Ever since she waited a year for her debut out of respect for your father.”
He’d forgotten that. No, that wasn’t entirely the truth. The truth was, that might have been the reason he was so drawn to her. At least at first. Now it was more.
“And when you spent most of your free time with the Danvers family, your grandmother and I both thought you’d had an understanding, and that you were waiting for an appropriate amount of time before you announced your engagement.” She sighed in disappointment, blotting the moisture from her eyes with a handkerchief. “Then one year turned into two, threatening a third. Last year, when you kept any possible suitor away from Emma, we were certain of an announcement.”
He frowned, shaking his head. “I wasn’t. I was merely doing the job her brother assigned me. If I saw someone unworthy of her, then I easily warned him off. Which says more about their level of commitment to her than my behavior.”
“If that’s what you choose to believe.”
Ignoring the pointed look his mother gave him, he turned to the open the door. At that same moment, a flustered-looking maid emerged from across the hall. She closed the door and bit down on the knuckle of her forefinger. The instant she saw him, she bobbed a curtsy.
“Begging your pardon, your lord and ladyship. But Her Grace asked for a tray of tea to be brought up.”
“I don’t see why that should be a problem.”
“It was Her Grace’s request for arsenic in the sugar that makes me fret, if you’ll excuse me, your ladyship.”
Rathburn cast an alarmed look over his shoulder.
His mother pressed her lips together to hide the grin that was wrinkling the corners of her eyes. “I’m sure the dowager was merely teasing. You may retrieve the tea tray, without the arsenic.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid curtsied again and left in a rush.
“I don’t know about you,” she said with a shake of her head, “but I won’t be having tea in the blue room today.”
“Mother . . .” This wasn’t the least bit amusing.
“Perhaps I should check on them, after all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Delaney blew into the Weatherstones’ parlor like a hurricane. She closed the door behind her and sagged against it as if the storm threatened to follow her in. “I’m sorry to be late,” she said, flushed and out of breath. Wild copper tendrils snaked out from beneath her sea green bonnet. “I’ve just learned some news . . . and before Bree, I might add. Though this particular time, I cannot crow about it.”
“Whatever it is, it certainly isn’t more important than Emma telling us about how the dowager tried to poison her mother,” Merribeth interjected, leaning forward to pour Delaney a cup of tea.
“Well, I don’t—” Delaney stopped, the ribbons of her bonnet hanging limply in her hand. “It’s true, then?”
Emma shook her head, holding back a sigh. The words news and rumor were essentially interchangeable within their group. “She didn’t even try. The dowager merely made a comment to my mother, suggesting that arsenic was a good way to get rid of unwanted relatives. To which my mother responded that she wouldn’t dream of taking tea with Her Grace, for surely the poison would be mixed in with the sugar. Then Her Grace said it was a splendid idea, and ordered a tea tray, heavy on the arsenic.” She bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. “The maid took her quite too literally.”
“Oh dear,” Merribeth giggled.
Delaney snorted as she sank down onto the settee.
Penelope tried to hide her smile behind her handkerchief, but her eyes were brimming with laughter. “It sounds like quite the eventful afternoon.”
Giving in to the absurdity of it all, she grinned. “Yes, and what’s worse is that I’ll have to return next week to endure it all over again. My mother said she wouldn’t miss it, no matter how fine the sun was shining through the windows.”
“The parlor?” Penelope asked.
“Yes,” Emma sighed. “Her muse is still holding the parlor hostage.”
Placing two macaroons on her plate, Merribeth grinned. “I hope the dress is worth it.”
“Oh, it is,” she assured them, wishing that they’d all have a chance to see it, but knowing they wouldn’t.
“What of Lord Rathburn? Bree was told he nearly burst through the doors to ensure you were not being tortured . . .” Delaney said, her own story apparently forgotten.
“Or poisoned,” Merribeth added.
“Another exaggeration,” she said, hoping the twinge of disappointment she felt didn’t come out in her tone. “He was in the house and was kind enough to escort my mother and me to our carriage. That is all.”
Penelope clucked her tongue and let out a breath, not hiding her annoyance. However, Emma refused to entertain her friend’s notions of how Rathburn held a secret tendre for her. That was merely wishful thinking on both their parts, though more so on hers than on Penelope’s, she’d guess.
She’d spent far too much time wishing lately, and unfortunately, it came out in her painting, which was getting harder and harder to hide.
“It was then that he asked you to the theater, right?” Delaney asked, her cautious tone instantly drawing her attention, as well as everyone else’s. Delaney McFarland was never one to beat around the bush.
Feeling a strange chill of foreboding settle around her, Emma lowered her needlework to her lap. “No, he never asked. It was arranged by his mother. We’ll be watching Othello from the duke’s box.”
Merribeth beamed. “Oh, how lovely. I’ve heard wonderful things about the production.”
Delaney’s expression remained unchanged. “What was Rathburn’s reaction to this?”
Emma thought back for a moment and then frowned. Actually, he had seemed a trifle pale. Then again, she’d attributed that to the mention of the wedding being less than three weeks away. They were running out of time to gain his inheritance and call off the wedding.
However, her friend was acting peculiar and no longer meeting her eyes. “Delaney, is there something you wanted to tell me?”
Delaney sipped her tea and shrugged. “It’s only a rumor.”
Strange. Before, it had been news. Now, that peculiar chill wrapped around her like a tightly cinched corset.
“I overheard it from Elena Mallory outside of Haversham’s.” They all frequented Mr. Haversham’s draper shop. In fact, a mix up in their embroidery orders—for they all lived on Danbury Lane—was how they’d come to know one another in the first place. Setting their orders to rights had brought them an instant bond of friendship and had started their needlework circle.
Elena Mallory also frequented Haversham’s. However, she never shared rumors of pleasant occurrences.
Emma braced herself.
“If you keep us waiting any longer, we’re going to send for your sister,” Merribeth scolded. “She would have told us before she had the chance to draw a breath.”
“You told me to wait,” Delaney blinked innocently, as if she were suddenly possessed by a heavenly host. They all knew better. “So, I waited.”
Penelope cleared her throat and tapped her foot on the soft carpet. “And now we’re waiting . . .”
“So testy. Did it ever occur to you that the rumor might be of a delicate nature?”
Oh dear. This couldn’t be good. Nonetheless, they all leaned forward marginally and held their collective breaths.
Delaney set down her cup and smoothed her skirts. “Once your outing to the theater became common knowledge, so did talk of Lord Rathburn’s previous . . .” She cleared her throat and glanced over her shoulder to the door. “Previous . . .
activities with the actress who plays Desdemona.”
Emma inhaled sharply. Lances of heat pricked every inch of her skin as if she’d fallen into a bed of thistles. All at once, anger spiked within her. The sensation felt hot and uncomfortable . . . and she absolutely refused to identify it as jealousy. After all, the feeling was completely unfounded. She knew the real reason for their sham courtship. She knew Rathburn saw her only as a means to an end. And she shouldn’t allow herself to forget it for a single moment.
“The theater will be packed to the gills and every eye on you, Rathburn, and . . . Lily Lovetree, whom it is said still pines for him.”
“Delaney, really,” Penelope chided, and placed her hand on Emma’s back, patting her as if she were a child. “Did you feel it necessary to add the last bit?”
Merribeth reached over to pat Emma’s other shoulder. “The first bit was bad enough.”
Emma sat up straight, nodded to both Penelope and Merribeth in reassurance, but politely shrugged them off. She didn’t want their pity. “I know of Rathburn’s reputation. It’s hardly a secret that he kept a mistress.”
Although why it bothered her to hear confirmation, not to mention the woman’s name, she didn’t know. Yet, against her better sense, a terrible, yearning twinge stole into her heart. If Lily Lovetree pined for him, then did he feel the same way?
Penelope sighed and shook her head. “I hope you realize that the only reason people are saying such cruel things is because the entire ton is green with envy over your love match. Elena Mallory most of all.”
It was bad news. The worst sort of news, though her friends had no idea how detrimental it was for Rathburn. If the ton was abuzz about his prior involvement—at least she hoped it was prior—then it could spoil his chance to win the dowager’s approval. If that happened, then he’d no longer need Emma’s help. And if that happened, then he might very well seek an heiress to marry after all. The thought gave her a terrible headache. Her stomach twisted in knots at the emptiness she suddenly felt inside.
Daring Miss Danvers Page 10
