Braedon melted against the seat. Damn and blast, why did he utterly lose the power of speech whenever she did that? When she smiled as though he was the only thing in the world that could give her pleasure, so trusting, so beautiful.
There were no words that could adequately explain how he felt about her.
Mistress. It was a cold word, transactional. She needed money, a protector. He was not the sort of gentleman to take advantage of her. She was struggling, and he could make her life so much easier––but the last thing he wanted was for Emma to accept being his mistress simply because she was desperate.
He would not take advantage of her, but he could not restrain himself from expressing his feelings, either.
Damn and blast it, Braedon thought. Why was this so difficult?
Just as Braedon opened his mouth, the carriage came to a juddering halt, and Emma lifted her head.
“Are we here?”
“Yes.”
Emma stretched. “And far quicker than I would have liked. I should have slipped your driver a shilling or two, asked him to take the long way around.”
Despite her jovial words, there was a sadness in her smile that broke Braedon’s heart.
“I already did,” he said gently. “We have already been at least twenty minutes longer than we needed to be. I hoped you would not mind.”
She laughed. “Yet that time just disappeared, and I want more. I want more time with you.”
Braedon’s mind instantly went blank, unable to find the carefully constructed words he had agonized over.
He had to speak. He could not simply allow Emma to enter her rooms without knowing how he felt. What he wanted. The hopes he trusted they shared.
“I…I greatly enjoyed this weekend, and––”
“As have I,” Emma interrupted eagerly.
Braedon nodded. Had his mouth ever felt so dry? “It would be wonderful––at least, I believe it would make me very happy if…if every weekend were like that.”
Emma was silent and clasped his hand as they sat in the carriage. Braedon swallowed again. Now he had started, he needed to get this out. What was the worst that could happen?
That she declined him. That she had no wish to be his mistress. Worse of all, that she laughed in his face for the presumption.
Braedon looked into her eyes. No. Emma would not do that to him.
“In short, Emma––Miss Tilbury,” he corrected hastily, “I am asking…I am asking…”
“Fitz,” said Emma in a low voice.
Braedon nodded, not trusting his voice.
“May I…may I ask you a favor?”
It was not what he had expected, and Braedon knew if he did not manage to get this out, he would struggle to find another natural opening––but the temptation to leave the difficult question to another day was too great.
“Of course,” he said, grasping at the easy way out. “Of course, anything you want, anything at all. You only have to ask.”
He probably should have inquired as to the details of the favor before he agreed to it.
But in that moment, he would have done anything for Emma Tilbury. He cared about her; the emotions she stirred were so complex, he was still not entirely sure what they were.
What harm could it bring?
“The thing is,” Emma said delicately, her gaze dropping, “and I would not bring this up, Fitz, except that I need a gentleman’s support. I cannot do it alone.”
“And I am happy to be of service,” he said eagerly, feeling her warm fingers entwining his own.
“That is because you are a wonderful man. Well…in truth, I have left something personal in Marnmouth’s possession, and I am too embarrassed to ask for it back.”
Emma glanced up with these words, but Braedon had frozen in his seat. Marnmouth. She wanted him to help her with a favor about Marnmouth.
The last person he wanted to talk about was Marnmouth right now, just as he is about to ask his mistress to be his own! Could she not see that even by mentioning him––
Braedon’s thoughts, hurried and frantic, slowed. Emma looked, for the first time, nervous. Something important rested on this favor, something she could not––as yet––express.
“I know Marnmouth,” said Braedon slowly. “Though a stern and at times self-righteous man, he is not a cruel one. I am sure if he knew he accidently held onto one of your possessions, he would be happy to hand it over to you. Why not just ask for it back?”
People walked past the carriage, their outlines darkening its windows, while Braedon’s gaze remained entirely focused on Emma.
Her eyes. Full of fear––no, not quite fear, but concern. More concern than should ever exist in that sweet face.
“Yes. Yes, you do know Marnmouth, Fitz,” said Emma in a hesitant voice. Braedon had never known her to be this cautious in her words. “As you can imagine, the Earl of Marnmouth is not exactly on speaking terms with me.”
Braedon nodded. Few men were, with mistresses they had cast off years before.
“But you are. You visit him all the time. You go into his townhouse, and that means…well. You could find it for me. The ring. You could bring it to me.”
Emma’s eyes were wide, as though attempting to tell him something beyond her simple words. For a moment, Braedon did not understand. He waited, hoping comprehension would dawn––and then when it did, he was certain he had misunderstood.
“You…you are asking me to steal it? From Marnmouth––you are asking me to steal from an earl?”
“Not stealing!” Emma said swiftly. “It belongs to me, Fitz, so it would not be stealing at all. All you would be doing is collecting it for me.”
Braedon continued to stare in horror. This was not what he had expected at all, these special last minutes of conversation before Emma was forced to leave him.
His mind had been filled with visions of passionate embraces, kisses, murmured words of affection, perhaps even––if he had managed it––an agreement that she would be his.
But a theft?
“He keeps it in his riding boots at the back of his closet, I could find it blindfolded if I could get in––but he’s taken my key,” Emma said quickly. “I would not ask this of you if I was not desperate, Fitz. I have thought about it from all angles, and I cannot see another way.”
Braedon nodded mutely. The more she spoke, the more it made sense. In a way, he was merely collecting it, as though this ring had been sent to the jewelers for a clean.
Somehow, sitting here with Emma, her hands in his, her pleading eyes looking up at him, it did not feel so insurmountable. If anything, it felt…simple. Go in, get the ring, have a good evening, which he would have done anyway, and then return the ring to Emma.
Braedon swallowed. Should he feel more uncomfortable about this? Were his morals being worn down before his eyes, his concern for the rights of his friends––a gentleman with a few faults, but didn’t they all?––melting in the face of a pretty woman.
Emma could ask almost anything of him at this point, and he was likely to consent. Christ, he would go to the ends of the earth for this woman.
And the worst thing was, she knew it.
When one thought about all the things she could have asked of him, Braedon reasoned, merely going to a friend’s house and picking up an item that already belonged to her was hardly a favor. It was more an errand.
It was in that moment that it struck Braedon, like a thunderbolt from the heavens.
He didn’t desire Emma. Well, he did, too much as it happened. But he didn’t just desire Emma. No, the emotions he felt for her now were highly complex, far more intricate.
He was falling in love with Emma Tilbury. The mistress of society.
How could he say no to the woman he loved?
“It sounds like a fair enough request,” he said finally, heart sparking with pleasure as she smiled. “Though I give you fair warning, I cannot predict when I will be able to complete the task. I will need to wait for an i
nvitation––if I merely turn up at his townhouse, he may be suspicious.”
“You clever man,” said Emma, and then she was kissing him, Braedon’s hands on her behind and the scent of her hair in his mind, utterly overwhelming all he was thinking.
Before he could take it all in, absorb every sensation she had gone. The carriage door had opened, and Emma had jumped out, a wicked smile on her face.
“Thank you for the gift of your company, my lord,” she said loudly for the benefit of passersby than himself. “Let me know when you have it.”
“Emma––” began Braedon.
It was too late. Emma had closed the door of her rooms with a snap, her trunk already placed by the door by the driver and scooped up in an instant. He was alone.
Braedon fell against the seat of the carriage and blew out slowly. Well. That was Emma Tilbury. It was a wonder Marnmouth ever felt able to let her go! If he were not careful, he was going to be in real trouble, and then where would he be?
“Where to, m’lord?”
Braedon jumped. He had not noticed his driver appearing at the carriage door. “To?”
His driver frowned slightly. “Aye, where to? Home?”
“Home?” repeated Braedon wildly. He needed to get a grip of himself if he was going to steal––take––from Marnmouth. “Yes, home. And quickly. Thank you.”
As the carriage started to trundle forward, Braedon attempted to gather his thoughts, but they were whirling so wildly, the best he could do was snatch them as they passed.
What was he getting into?
It wasn’t stealing, he thought wildly as the carriage rattled down the street and settled outside his London townhouse. It was retrieving. There was naught wrong with that, was there?
Braedon swallowed. It could be days, weeks until he received an invitation from Marnmouth. There was no point in getting worked up over it now.
His heart twisted as he stepped into his hallway and saw a well-known seal on an envelope on the mantlepiece.
Marnmouth’s seal.
“Ah, your lordship, you are finally home,” said Fisher, who appeared as though by magic. “You will be pleased to hear that the new cook has accepted her position and starts tomorrow. Yes, an invitation for you from the Earl of Marnmouth. It came yesterday, and as I knew you were returning today, I saw no need to send it on to Tidgley Manor.”
Braedon reached for it, attempting to keep his face calm. “Ah, how kind of him. Thank you, Fisher.”
The old servant recognized the dismissal as Braedon glanced down at the short letter. Tomorrow. The invitation was for tomorrow.
That left him but one day to ensure he had specific instructions from Emma on where to find this dratted ring of hers. At least, once he had found it, he could enjoy the evening with Marnmouth. If he could stop thinking about Emma, that was.
The following night, Braedon stood outside Marnmouth’s townhouse in the rain.
That was why when the butler opened the door, the servant immediately took a hasty step back as Braedon entered.
“Ah, your lordship––damp out, is it?”
Braedon tried not to glare at the butler. He was sure he looked utterly bedraggled; his hair was slick against his head, his greatcoat was dripping on the tiled floor, and as he took another step into the hallway, his boots squelched horribly.
“Yes,” he said unnecessarily, and then because it would only drive his point further, “and I hope you do not mind me sitting on your furniture like this. I am sure a few damp stains won’t hurt anyone.”
He saw the flicker of irritation on the man’s face and held his breath.
“Well,” said the butler, turning up his nose. “Let us see what my master says.”
The moment the butler opened the door to the drawing room and Braedon stepped in, there was the inevitable outcry.
“Ah, there he is! I thought you had got lost, Braedon, but it simply isn’t that big!”
Marnmouth grinned at his latest visitor, and Braedon smiled weakly.
“’Tis a downpour out there!” he said, in an attempt at his jovial self. “I don’t know how you two managed to avoid it!”
There were two others with Marnmouth, as his invitation had indicated: the Earl of Chester and the Duke of Larnwick. Both were trying to hide wide grins, neither of them doing very well.
“Goodness, yes, you are a little damp,” said Marnmouth with a laugh. “McCall, would you mind taking the viscount upstairs and helping him to dry off? There should be some things of mine he can borrow for the evening.”
“Of course, your lordship,” bowed the butler. “This way, sir.”
Braedon turned to follow the servant out of the room, and before the door closed, he heard one last remark from Chester.
“Poor old Braedon! He always manages to draw the short straw!”
Braedon could not help but agree, given the circumstances. Life had not suitably fitted him for crime if that was what this was, and he felt miserably uncomfortable in his sodden clothing.
“My master’s dressing room,” said the butler, rather unnecessarily.
There was nothing else this cavernous room could be, filled top to bottom with drawers, shelves, and hangers for all sorts of things. Braedon could see a hunting suit, two large fur coats, obviously intended for the worst of London’s winters, and bizarrely, some sort of uniform. Marnmouth had never been in the army, had he?
“I will put out a few options for you, my lord, along with a towel,” said the butler. “Then I will send in my master’s valet to help you with––”
“No!”
The butler raised an eyebrow at the sudden response. “My lord would prefer to dress himself?”
Braedon nodded, spraying water around the room. “I can manage quite well, thank you.”
Closing the door behind the servant with a snap, Braedon leaned against it. Taking a deep breath, he listened. The butler had stepped away, and there did not seem to be anyone else coming. This was his moment. He did not have long.
What had Emma said? He had called on her only that morning to let her know that this evening was the invitation.
“You’ll find it hidden right at the bottom of a pair of riding boots, on the back left as you walk in. You can’t miss them!”
In his haste and blind panic, Braedon did miss them. It was only after closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, stepping back, and looking again did he notice them. They had been moved to the other side of the room. It was no wonder, he supposed dully. It had been nigh on two years since Emma had been in here.
Pulling the riding boots towards him, he tipped them upside down––and a ring box fell out.
Braedon opened it, saw a gold signet ring as described by Emma, and pocketed it. Then he removed it from his soaking wet pocket, hastily peeled off his sodden clothes, and pulled on Marnmouth’s dry ones.
There was something rather distasteful about wearing Marnmouth’s clothes as he something from the man’s house to give to the man’s old mistress.
Still, there was something reassuring about the feel of the ring box in his borrowed waistcoat pocket as Braedon went downstairs to join his host and their friends. He had done it. He had completed the favor Emma had requested of him.
It was with a rather sheepish smile that he entered the drawing room downstairs.
“Thank you, Marnmouth,” Braedon said with a smile, heart racing. “If I am honest, I was surprised at the invitation at all, and I am most grateful for the lending of your clothes.”
“Surprised at my invitation?” Marnmouth said with a raised eyebrow, pointing to a seat by the fire. “Why?”
Braedon tried to collect his thoughts as he sagged into the armchair. Think, man! “Well, I always manage to put my foot in it somehow!”
What was he becoming? What would his obsession for Emma lead him to do next?
Chapter Thirteen
Emma Tilbury had never been a pacer. Not in all her life––not even when pacing would probably have
calmed her down, given her some time to breathe.
That was because she had never had a real, genuine cause to be nervous.
No, Emma was always the person making other people nervous. She was more accustomed to being the person in charge.
Gentlemen, bless them, were so easy to manipulate. If one could not control men, then you had very little opportunity to be in charge of anything.
She was not in control today. No, she was at the mercy of another, and that frightened her.
Fitz.
They had gone riding here once. Emma smiled wryly as she looked at the trees where she had stolen her first kiss. She could never have predicted how deeply she would feel for him. How much she would be dependent on him for a smile, a reason to find joy in the day.
The weekend they had spent together at Tidgley Manor had demonstrated just how much she could give joy to Braedon.
But as she waited for him, Emma was unsure how she had given such power to him. She had always taken care never to let her emotions get involved.
Marnmouth did not count. She had lived with him for almost seven years. If she had not fallen in love with him, she would have been…well, some sort of monster.
So, who had the power now, her or Fitz? Emma bit her lip. She felt something for him that was certain, though she was not entirely sure what it was.
A woman was approaching, eyes carefully averted to make it absolutely clear she had no wish to speak with Emma. Her bonnet was so far tilted that Emma could only make out who it was as she walked by.
Mrs. Chesworth. Evidently, there must be a new piece of gossip about herself that Emma hadn’t heard yet. Though that thought may have made other ladies blush with concern, Emma did naught but shrug and continue her pacing. In a way, it did not matter. There was always going to be gossip about Miss Tilbury, and there was no point getting upset about it. If one thought too much about it, one would have no time to think of anything else.
“Where are you, Fitz?” Emma muttered to dispel the tension curled up in her heart.
It had been last night, Marnmouth’s party. Fitz had turned up at her rooms, and Emma had been grateful she had bothered to dress as she had no intention of going out. Sharing a careful description of where the dratted ring was, Fitz had looked nervous.
Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11) Page 12
