Daring Miss Danvers Page 11

  “Of course,” she said, trying to sound like she believed it, at least to the others who didn’t know about her bargain.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Delaney looked crestfallen.

  “How could you not have?” This time it was Emma who reached across the table to comfort her friend, taking her hand. “For the first time in an age, you were the proprietor of gossip concerning your friend, and all before Bree caught wind of it. I don’t blame you. In fact, I’m grateful to know why everyone will be staring at me tonight.”

  Even so, the displeasure she felt at being the object of pity and curiosity paled in comparison to the burning jealousy that erupted at the thought of being in the presence of a woman who’d spent time in Rathburn’s arms and tasting the pleasure of his kiss.

  “Never fear,” Delaney offered, squeezing her hand in return. “Rathburn couldn’t care a fig for a harlot like her.”

  “I’m certain he won’t even look her way this evening,” Merribeth promised, placing her hand on top as if they were the Knights of Camelot. Penelope was the next to proclaim her fealty.

  However, the chorus of “never fears” and “I’m certains” failed to ease her mind. She didn’t want to see the woman who’d possessed every bit of Rathburn. The woman who didn’t fear losing the dowager’s approval. The woman who didn’t hide what she was for the sake of blending into society.

  It wasn’t fair. Emma was only now beginning to realize how much she stood to lose, and how much she wanted to believe Rathburn could be hers to keep.

  Persevering in the face of misery, she smiled at them all. “You’re right, I’m certain.”

  “So, tell us about the dress,” Merribeth said, the first to resettle herself in her seat and resume her embroidery. “I’ve heard there are over a hundred pounds of pearls to be sewn on.”

  “I heard it was two hundred,” Delaney said with a needle between her teeth.

  Not to be outdone, Penelope interjected, “I heard three.”

  “And I heard,” Emma added cheekily, “that it will take a coach and four to drag me down the aisle.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  Rathburn adjusted the tails of his evening coat as he fought for a comfortable position in the theater box chair. In front of him, his mother and grandmother hadn’t so much as fanned themselves or fidgeted. Other than his grandmother’s occasional lifting of her lorgnette, he wouldn’t even know if she’d turned into a statue.

  Beside him, Emma hadn’t moved either. She sat rail-straight and stared toward the stage, her expression filled with the unease of one approaching a great abyss.

  She hadn’t said more than a half dozen words to him the entire evening. Although, he wasn’t a font of conversation either. In fact, everything out of his mouth seemed stilted and forced. He’d felt this way ever since yesterday, when his mother had said they were attending the theater.

  The theater. He’d known Lily was in this particular production. She’d been rehearsing for the role when he’d ended their yearlong . . . arrangement. At the time, she’d taken the news rather dramatically, as expected. After all, that was who she was. She was used to playing a part every day. There had even been times when he didn’t know what to expect from her. She was very unpredictable. For the first few months, that quality had been exciting. In addition, she’d demonstrated things he’d only read about in Arabian fiction.

  Yet, there were times when he didn’t want a performance. He’d tried to get to know her, learn about her life and whatever dreams she had. He’d wanted to be her friend. She went along with it, of course. However, after her story changed time and again, he found his excitement waning. Apparently, for her, answering his questions had been nothing more than an acting exercise.

  So, when his grandmother refused his request for his inheritance a few months ago, citing the fact that he was still causing rumors to run amok, it was quite easy to break it off with Lily. He’d even introduced her to a very appreciative sycophant—a widower with more money than he knew what to do with. In the end, they’d both gotten what they wanted, no matter what the current rumors throughout the ton were.

  Rathburn glanced over at Emma. Tonight, she wore her hair up off the nape of her neck, with a fall of mahogany curls sweeping forward. This time, she didn’t wear the flowers he’d sent. Instead, she wore a white silk ribbon in her hair, fastened with a bronze brooch that matched the hue of the sash tied at the waist of her snow-white gown. However, she had brought the flowers along—in a small bouquet of tiny white blossoms that she held in her lap.

  She glanced at him and then went back to watching the play. There was a distinct coldness in her usually warm, brown eyes.

  Suspicion entered his mind. He felt a chill rush through him and wondered if she might know the reason for his discomfort this evening. Had she heard the recent rumors?

  He shook his head. Knowing Emma as well as he did, he knew that she wouldn’t have been able to hold her tongue for this long if she knew. She would have called him out from the start.

  “She’s very beautiful,” she whispered.

  Rathburn stilled. There was a razor-sharp edge in her tone he’d never heard before. He turned to look at her again, wondering. She speared him with a glacial stare.

  Oh yes, she’d heard.

  He cleared his throat and kept his voice low so that his mother and grandmother wouldn’t overhear. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said, the actress who plays Desdemona is very beautiful.” She pinned him to the spot with that look. Then, for an instant, he imagined a swift bolt of lightning flashed in those chocolate depths. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  He cursed silently. Swallowed. “She pales in comparison to you.”

  “Pale? Yes, her hair is quite pale.” She glanced down to the stage again. “Perhaps you prefer pale hair. Truly, she’s quite stunning and vibrant. I imagine she has a great many admirers.”

  This time, when she returned her gaze to his, he saw that he’d been mistaken. She wasn’t angry. She was hurt, wounded. Perhaps even jealous? The last thought shot a jolt of warmth through him. If she was jealous, then perhaps she saw him as more than an unsuitable husband. Not that he could ask her now, or continue this whispered conversation in full display of the ton. Many lorgnettes had been trained on their box for the first two acts.

  However, he knew he must stop Emma from believing he cared anything for Lily now.

  The stage lights dimmed. Intermission. Rathburn hadn’t been paying attention. Now, he took it as an opportunity to speak with Emma alone.

  In the hall, he heard the voices of the Hastings leaving their box for refreshments below. He stood. “Miss Danvers, would you care for a glass of punch this evening?”

  “That would be lovely,” his grandmother answered instead. “Bring enough for all of us, if you will.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll need an extra set of hands for that,” his mother chimed in. “Emma, why don’t you go with him?”

  Emma nodded stiffly and rose from her seat. Out in the hall, he took her by the hand and pulled her into the curtained vestibule past the Hastings’ box.

  “Rathburn, really, I’m in no mood for games,” she whispered and tugged her hand free.

  Before she could walk past him, he placed his hands on her shoulders, imploring her to stay with a look. He leaned in so their conversation would not be overheard.

  “My parents were not typical among the peerage,” he said, hoping to get his point across quickly. They didn’t have much time. “When they married . . . they were true to each other.”

  She tried to shrug him off. “I don’t see why you felt the need to tell me that.”

  He tried again. “Emma, I cannot change my past, but if we were to marry—”

  “We would get an annulment.” She lifted her chin, pressing her lips into a firm line.

  However, her action had the opposite effect she’d intended, he was sure. It brought their faces close
r. Their mouths mere inches apart. He saw the moment she realized it too, noting with pleasure the widening of her pupils.

  “If we were to marry, and if an annulment were not possible,” he added, speaking softly, holding her gaze, “I would be true.”

  Her lips parted on a soft gasp at his declaration. “You cannot promise such a thing. You enjoy your life the way it is, free and unhindered. You’re only saying this because—”

  “In all the years you’ve known me, have I ever made a declaration I didn’t stand behind?”

  He licked his lips, tasting her sweet breath. Her lashes lowered, her gaze dipping to his mouth. Adjusting his hold, he slipped his thumbs beneath the cuffs of her cap sleeves and stroked her flesh. He only wished he wasn’t wearing gloves and could feel her skin against his, free and unhindered. At least she was right about one thing. As for the rest . . .

  The air felt alive in this small space, flaring around them like sparks shooting from a fire. Tiny embers cascaded down his skin, making him long to do more than caress her shoulders. He wanted to feel her against him. Feel his body pressing into hers. Watch her eyes as they darkened with desire . . .

  The inches between them were dwindling like the last remnants of his control. Only he wasn’t the one closing the distance.

  Much to his surprise, Emma took a step closer. Her slippers brushed the inside of his boots. Her thighs lightly grazed his with barely enough pressure for him to notice. But he did. The surge of blood to the heated space between them made him hard as forged iron.

  He wasn’t the only one affected by their nearness. Her eyes were back to being the color of steaming chocolate. He ached with thirst.

  Boldly, she brushed her lips across his, not in a kiss, but in something elementally more substantial. “Then if we were to marry—”

  “And an annulment were impossible,” he added, feeling his breath slide into her mouth and tasting her response in return. If she kept looking at him that way, then an annulment would definitely be impossible. In fact, he would need a special license in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

  She trembled, but held his gaze. “I would be true, as well.”

  Rathburn wanted to kiss her, to plunder the depths of her sweet mouth—

  Voices nearby put a halt to his desires. Disappointed, and yet filled with a strangely potent satisfaction, he took her hand and pulled her out into the hall.

  Thankfully, the Hastings had their backs turned, carrying on a conversation with his grandmother. Intermission was nearly over, and so he slipped past the Hastings, ducking his head a little so his grandmother and mother wouldn’t see them coming from the opposite direction of the lobby. Then, he headed through the rotunda and down the staircase.

  At the bottom, Emma pulled her hand free. “As much as I love being dragged behind you . . .”

  He turned with a ready apology, but stopped when he caught her grinning at him. Then, just because it suited him, he snatched her hand again and brought it to his lips. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

  She tried to slip her fingers free again, but this time he wouldn’t let her. “You are too bold, Rathburn.”

  “We are betrothed. A press of the hand is perfectly acceptable behavior,” he said as he tucked it into the crook of his arm. Then he turned and bent to her ear. “Besides, it’s far more acceptable than what we would have been doing if the Hastings hadn’t returned.”

  She shushed him, her face a mask of disapproval. However, the blush on her cheeks gave her away. “You know nothing of the sort.”

  The rake in him grinned at her, but he held his tongue.

  “Oh, Miss Danvers,” someone called from behind them.

  Rathburn and Emma turned as one and saw not one, but two of her friends rushing to greet them. The one with the vivid red hair spoke first and linked with Emma’s free arm. “Pray, forgive me,” she said, her voice louder than necessary. “Our conversation was cut short when I spotted Miss Wakefield on the stair.”

  Rathburn furrowed his brow and saw that Emma looked equally confused by this greeting.

  Then Emma laughed and leaned in to whisper, “Delaney, since when do you use a phrase like ‘Pray, forgive me’? Is the dour Miss Pursglove, nearby?”

  “Heaven forbid!”

  Her friend with the dark hair subtly motioned for them to step out of the refreshment line. The soft strains of music began, signaling the end of intermission. They had only a moment.

  Compelled by the unknown mystery that caused her friends to worry, Rathburn motioned to the server to set aside four cups of punch before they walked near the alcove beneath the stairs.

  “Emma, I had to find you right away,” Miss McFarland said. “Merribeth and I were seated directly below the Earl of Marlbrook’s box, where Elena Mallory was seated.”

  He felt Emma stiffen, her fingers curling around his forearm. Apparently, this wasn’t good news.

  Miss Wakefield spoke next. “She made a terrible fuss about seeing you and Lord Rathburn leave the box, but even more when you didn’t emerge from the stairway.”

  Emma swallowed. “How terrible?”

  “She said that she wouldn’t be surprised if the Post mentioned how Miss D—’s coiffure was mussed after the first intermission, proving once and for all that Lord R— was a true fan of the theater.” Miss McFarland gave her a thorough once-over. “Thank goodness. Not a thing out of place.”

  “That’s because,” Miss Wakefield added, “Miss Danvers and Lord Rathburn were merrily conversing with us the entire time.”

  Emma relaxed for an instant, but then went rigid again. “But what if someone spied the two of you where you professed not to be?”

  The redhead shrugged. “Then they were mistaken.”

  “And we are just about to return to our seats, speaking very loudly about our amusing conversation,” Miss Wakefield said, but arched a wickedly intimidating brow at him, no doubt chastising him for getting her friend into a sticky situation.

  He took it on the chin like a man and inclined his head. “Don’t forget how you were both delighted to receive an invitation to a spring picnic at Hawthorne Manor.”

  Both of her friends lit up at the invitation. Emma herself lifted her gaze, awarding him with a smile so true it nearly stole his breath. He felt redeemed.

  “Pray, forgive me, Lord Rathburn,” Miss McFarland said with a wink to Emma. “But I seem to have forgotten the date already.”

  “A week from today,” he offered, hoping he could achieve a great deal in the next few days.

  “Splendid!” Miss Wakefield added before they said their goodbyes to Emma and returned to their seats.

  A servant came up to them, carrying a tray of punch-filled cups. Rathburn asked that they be taken up to the Duke of Heathcoat’s box, then made sure to follow closely so that he wouldn’t put Emma in the path of scandal again.

  She blew out a breath. “That was a close call.”

  “Yes. Apparently, Miss Mallory is no friend of yours.”

  Emma shook her head. “And all because of a simple conversation.”

  He frowned and slowed his steps, as they were nearing the top. “Was it merely a simple conversation?”

  “How can it be otherwise? Everything that was said, every promise made, was surrounded by a very large if.”

  “If we marry in twenty days, you mean,” he said, though he was having difficulty believing what he was hearing. Surely, she couldn’t still . . . “You still believe nothing has changed.”

  How could that be, when everything was patently different for him? What would it take for her to see things as they truly were? How he’d changed? How he was serious?

  He was tempted to march straight up to the box and confess the entire mock betrothal to his grandmother, solely so he could propose to Emma earnestly. However, her next words stopped him from doing just that and made him realize he might have to resort to other tactics.

  “That was our bargain, after all,” she said solemnly, s
lipping her hand free to stand apart from him, and leaving him cold in more ways than one. “This pretense was the first of our promises to each other. If we cannot keep that, then there is no reason to believe in the others we’ve made.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  * * *

  The following morning, the Post made no mention of an encounter between Miss D— and Lord R— scandalous or otherwise.

  Rathburn searched the copy again and again to be sure. He even asked Stewart if he was certain this was the entire paper. When the head butler looked at him peculiarly, he realized that he sounded like a crazed buffoon.

  He probably was. In fact, he’d lain awake all night, practicing the speeches he’d prepared for his grandmother and the Archbishop of Canterbury, listing the reasons why he required a special license. Why he must marry Emma Danvers.

  Yet, in the morning, when it was clear he didn’t need to deliver any speech at all, a rise of unspent energy churned inside him.

  While he kept himself busier than usual of late—primarily to abstain from compiling a list of ways he could get Emma Danvers alone in order to prove to her that his intentions were serious—he gave himself another occupation.

  Restless, he left the townhouse and drove to Hawthorne Manor. It wasn’t uncommon for him to remove his morning coat and roll up his shirtsleeves to assist the laborers. So, when he came prepared to expend more than his share of energy, the workmen kindly let him apply himself to constructing the massive four-poster bed in the viscountess’s bedchamber.

  The servants now referred to it as Miss Danvers’s room, and he’d never bothered to correct them. Referring to it as Emma’s chamber in his own mind was probably the reason why he’d had the plaster workers add sprays of jasmine to the corner molding in the room and over the doors. The finest silk wallpaper decorated the space in a beautiful pearlescent cream color, with ribbons of pink adorning thin stripes of chocolate brown. The colors worked perfectly together, creating a space that was simple and yet elegant, just like the woman who’d inspired his choice.