Daring Miss Danvers Page 5

  “When he receives his inheritance, no doubt,” his grandmother said, never one to keep her judgments to herself. “Is the reservation with him, that he may find a better prospect once he is wealthy? Or does it lie with you, in that you are uncertain of his character?”

  Curious about Emma’s answer, farce or not, Rathburn peered through the crack. The view only afforded him the reverse image of the room by way of a wide, framed mirror along the back wall. Yet, from there, at least he could see the group.

  Although, group wasn’t exactly what one would call it. There were only three ladies in attendance—Emma and his grandmother and mother. They flanked Emma on either side, with a low oval table between them. It seemed less an afternoon tea and more an inquisition.

  “Neither, Your Grace,” Emma said before she took a sip from her blue-laced cup. Even after the insult to her character, she was the epitome of poise. Surely, his grandmother could find nothing wrong in her manner or appearance. Not a single strand of her lustrous mahogany hair was out of place. Her flawless skin invited the eye to admire her features, the subtle arch of her brow, the rich brown of her eyes, the straight line of her nose, the gentle slope of her cheeks to her chin, and her mouth . . .

  The mouth that preferred jasmine tea over black, and sugar over lemon.

  He could still taste her. Still feel the way her slightly plumper upper lip nestled perfectly between his. Still hear the way she’d purred. Had he ever heard a sound so indescribably erotic? Of course, he’d made many women purr, moan, groan, cry out in ecstasy, but none had ever sounded quite like her. He wanted to taste that sound, devour it, devour her . . .

  Damn. He drew in a shaky breath. Where had that thought come from?

  A dark, dangerous place, he warned himself. Thoughts such as those were likely to get him into trouble. And he’d spent the past few years steering clear of trouble.

  He drew in another breath and cleared his mind. This was no time for distraction.

  “I’m on pins and needles awaiting your explanation.” His grandmother lowered her own teacup, angling her chin the way she did when keeping a person under scrutiny. Her wavy, dove gray hair was pinned at the base of her neck. Never one to be called flamboyant, she wore a modest amount of jewelry, and a sedate lavender frock with a white ruffled collar.

  Emma swallowed, her slender throat clenching and releasing. “Since your grandson and my brother have been friends for so many years, we thought it wise to tread carefully in new waters,” she said, keeping her tone steady and managed to smile. “So to speak.”

  Yes, tread carefully, he mused. She was his friend’s sister. If Rafe Danvers found out that he’d drawn her into his ludicrous scheme, he’d be furious. Then again, if Rafe found out that he’d kissed her, he’d demand Rathburn’s blood in payment.

  Clearly, this mock courtship was not a good idea. There was too much at risk now. Now that he’d kissed Emma. Now that he wanted to kiss her again . . .

  No! He couldn’t think about that. After all, he’d promised her and her parents that she would get out of this farce unscathed and still marriageable. If nothing else, he was a man of his word. Wasn’t he?

  His grandmother picked up her tea again and nodded. “That is wise, I suppose, though you cannot truly know what marriage is like until the deed is done. I see no true reason to tread. No, you must dive in headfirst . . . So to speak.” She turned to address his mother. “What about you, Victoria? Do you get along well enough with Emma’s mother, even though she considers herself an artist?”

  “Celestine Danvers is a lovely woman,” Rathburn’s mother said with a small smile. She hadn’t actually smiled, not like she used to, in years. Not since his father had died. In fact, she still wore gray as if on the fringes of mourning. He hoped that once Hawthorne Manor was repaired, her smile might return. “While we don’t often attend the same functions, when we’ve had the Danverses over to dinner, I’ve found them quite charming. Regardless, none of that matters. Oliver will be marrying Emma, not her parents.”

  His grip on the door handle froze. Oliver will be marrying . . . He’d never heard those words before and certainly never imagined that Emma’s name would follow. He expected an icy flood of panic at any moment.

  “He’s marrying into her family as much as she is into ours,” his grandmother interjected. “Their children will be a product of both houses, whether we like or not. Although there must be someone respectable in the line, or else Miss Danvers would not be here.”

  Their children. He waited for the swift dampness of his palms, or, in the very least, a headache.

  Yet, as the minutes ticked by, he felt perfectly calm. The only sound he heard in the pause of conversation was the steady beating of his heart inside his chest. He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  “Emma has merit on her own,” his mother added smoothly. “Besides that, Oliver is fond of her. That should count for something.”

  He caught himself nodding in response to the statement, as if it were a well-known fact. Of course, he was fond of her and her family. Yet, he couldn’t help but notice how the way his mother had said it gave the words an entirely new meaning.

  No. He shook his head. This was not how this was supposed to go. He’d come here for a purpose and then found himself lingering like a fool who didn’t know his own mind.

  “Merit enough for you and I, perhaps,” his grandmother added. “However, that isn’t to say he isn’t using the poor girl to gain his inheritance.”

  “Mother!” His mother sent Emma a look of apology.

  “It’s all right,” Emma said, not displaying an ounce of the panic he knew she must be feeling. “Lord Rathburn’s interest left me suspect as well. At first.” Perhaps only he noticed the slight tremble in her hands as she set her teacup and saucer on the table.

  It was time to stop lingering in the shadows. He only hoped the right words would form on his lips that would save them both from certain disaster.

  “He is quite my opposite in both appearance and unreservedness,” she continued, without noticing that he’d opened the door to the gallery. “When he first approached my parents and then me with his intentions, I thought he was joking, playing a trick to tease me and see how gullible I was. However, those thoughts were more from my own insecurities than from his true self. Once I pushed those aside, I saw him clearly for the first time. He requires my company because I am his opposite, not despite it.”

  “So true,” he announced, striding toward the group. Emma sounded downright convincing. Once he got them out of this, he would buy her a new pair of gloves. “She is the chain at my ankle that keeps me tethered to the earth. Hello, Grandmamma.” He bowed formally and then leaned in to buss her papery cheek. “Mother.” He repeated the action after stepping around the table. Then he simply smiled at Emma. “The incomparable Miss Danvers.”

  She blushed, granting him a poetic greeting without saying a word. A convincing response for their audience. Perhaps she deserved a new bonnet as well.

  “A chain, did you say?” His grandmother chuckled. “You have the queerest way of complimenting your bride to be.”

  “Ah, but she understands me,” he said as he exchanged a look with Emma, hoping she understood that there was still a way out of this. “As for her brother . . . well, that’s another story.” He cleared his throat and widened his eyes, certain that ought to plant the seed of discord.

  Beside him, his grandmother ignored his efforts and lifted her hand to the servant standing near the door. “Make sure a formal announcement of my grandson and Miss Danvers’s betrothal is in the Post in the morning. See if Saint George’s is available four weeks from tomorrow.”

  “Wait—” he started to say, but the word stuck in his throat, scratching the flesh surrounding his vocal cords. He coughed in an effort to dislodge it, but before he could, it was already too late. The servant bowed and summarily disappeared through the doorway.

  Emma went still, her gaze fixed on him. Stop coughin
g and say something, he could almost hear her saying.

  Four weeks? He could hardly think. He thought he’d have at least two months of playacting ahead of him. Now, panic finally set in as he scrambled for what to say.

  Perhaps, he could list a previous engagement. A . . . an appointment for throat surgery to get rid of his damnable cough. In an impatient gesture, he reached down for Emma’s teacup and drained the last of it. Black tea with lemon, because his grandmother frowned upon sugar. He felt an odd twinge of sympathy as he swallowed the bitter brew. He’d done this to her, and now . . .

  They were in this together.

  “The perfect day for a wedding,” he said in place of any other excuse. Besides, there was no tactful way to get out of it this instant. He would need to prepare a speech for his grandmother. In the meantime, they’d have to use a backup excuse. Set the stage for discord, or simply state that they still weren’t certain they’d suit because . . . Hell, if she didn’t have reservations regarding his character, she should. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Emma swallowed. “As am I.”

  “Then why do you both look like you’re ready to jump over a cliff and smash yourselves onto the rocks below?”

  “Not at all,” he said, concealing the sudden bubble of amusement that threatened to come out as a maniacal laugh. He was fairly certain Emma didn’t find this the least bit funny. He thought of a quick excuse. “It’s just . . . there’s so much to be done. I’ll . . . need to arrange a wedding trip.”

  Emma’s gaze stayed with him, as if holding onto a lifeline. “There are so many things to consider. After all, I haven’t even thought about a dress, or my maids of honor, or the flowers. Perhaps more time—”

  “The dress!” His grandmother exclaimed, taking her pearl handled cane from the arm of the chair. “My dears, we must call upon Lady Valmont this instant. Her modiste makes the most remarkable gowns. Truly, Valmont wouldn’t be half the rage she is if not for the way her clothes make her look. Abominable posture, you know.”

  His mother stood and rang for a carriage. He made the mistake of looking at her and seeing a true and genuine smile. His mother was happy about this wedding. Happier than he’d seen her in years. She lifted her gaze to his, and he saw her eyes glisten with unshed tears. In that moment, he knew he was doomed.

  Only a fool would let her down.

  As his mother and grandmother made their way to the door, Emma stood. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she implored in a whisper.

  He nodded by way of reassuring her. Yet, to himself he added, “So do I.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  The esteemed Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat announces a much anticipated and happy union . . .

  Emma stared at the morning’s Post, and looked for any sign that this was indeed a mock betrothal. Unfortunately, it seemed far too real. After all, betrothal announcements rarely made it into the newspaper. No doubt, this would cause quite a stir. Not only was it staring baldly back at her, but it was worded in a way that gave every impression that the dowager had designed the match herself.

  Now Her Grace’s reputation was on the line as much as Emma’s.

  Briefly, she wondered if her parents would feel an ounce of guilt upon reading this. After all, they were part of the ruse and should—

  The door to the morning room opened. Emma hastily tucked the copy between the cushions of the mauve loveseat. She’d managed to swipe it from Parker before he ironed it, hoping no one else had seen it first. She didn’t want the servants to know what a liar she was. After all, they knew Rathburn came over only to visit Rafe. His sudden interest in her must seem highly suspect.

  Lucy placed a tray with a steaming pot of tea, a cut glass dish of biscuits and buttered scones, and a stack of flowered plates, along with several cups. Before she left, she bobbed. “Mrs. Newman expected you might have callers, Miss, considering the announcement in the Post and all. She also wanted me to offer congratulations from the entire staff.”

  Emma studied her expression, but surprisingly didn’t find even a hint of astonishment. Hmm . . . Perhaps the servants weren’t as observant as she’d always assumed.

  “Thank you, Lucy,” Emma said, and questioned why she’d even bothered to hide the paper. The moment the door closed, she snatched it up, smoothing out the wrinkles and read it again.

  She drew in a breath, hoping a gulp of air would chase away her sudden lightheadedness. What she wanted to do was go back to bed, close her eyes, and see if the next four weeks could pass quickly so this entire affair would be nothing but a memory. Unfortunately, she possessed enough sense to know avoidance wasn’t a solution.

  No sooner had she heard a knock on the door and tucked the paper beneath the cushion once more than the door opened. Penelope, Merribeth, and Delaney filed into the room. Without a word, they sat amongst the overstuffed chairs opposite the loveseat.

  Oh, dear. One look at her friends told her that she wasn’t the only one who awoke early and read the society pages. Though their expressions were carefully reserved—no doubt, a chastisement for not hearing the news firsthand—their eyes were bright and brimming with unfounded excitement.

  “Good morning,” she said, affecting a cheerful smile.

  Merribeth withdrew a cutout from her reticule and placed it in the middle of the table. Emma knew without looking that it was the announcement of her engagement to Rathburn.

  Her head went hazy again. What would she tell them? The entire truth was out of the question, since it pertained to Rathburn and his personal financial matter. Yet, she didn’t want to lie to them either.

  “You said nothing the other day. Not an inkling. Bree knew before I did,” Delaney grumbled and reached forward to snatch a biscuit from the tray. “She came bounding into breakfast waving the paper madly. It thrilled her to no end to see the surprise on my face.”

  Emma felt ashamed. “I should have sent word to each of you. However, if it makes any difference, it surprised me, too. In fact, I’m still trying to decide how I feel about it.”

  “I don’t know why any of you were surprised,” Penelope added, grinning mysteriously as if she held the answer to the Sphinx’s riddle. “It’s been clear for ages how they feel about each other.”

  Emma stared at her friend as if she’d grown two heads. The only thing that could have been clear for ages regarding Rathburn was how much he strove to irritate her. She knew for a fact that she never said flattering things to her friends about him. She’d been careful not to make slightest mention of how his inappropriate flirting stirred her imagination. After all, he was a notorious rake—or at least he had been—and any sensible woman knew not to lose her head over a smooth-tongued devil.

  “You’re joking,” Delaney said, taking the words out of Emma’s mouth. “I didn’t have a clue, and I don’t feel like a dunderhead admitting it either. I always thought Emma disapproved of Rathburn and his reputation.”

  She nodded, opening her mouth to respond, but Merribeth spoke first while brushing the crumbs from her lap. “Of course, he’s vowed to change all that. He must have, otherwise Emma would never have accepted him. It’s quite romantic if you think about it.”

  Romantic? Hardly. But she couldn’t come out and tell them the circumstances. After all, word must never get back to the dowager or this entire charade would be for naught.

  Now, they were all waiting for her to speak, gazes glued to her.

  “Tell us what it was like,” Merribeth said on a wistful sigh. “Did he ask your father first?”

  At least with this, she could tell the truth. “He spoke with both my parents. And then they called me into the study.”

  Delaney took a biscuit. “Were you surprised?”

  That was putting it mildly. “Oh, yes. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why they were all together, watching me carefully as if I might suddenly break out into song.”

  “And then . . .” Merribeth had stars in her eyes. Oh, if she on
ly knew the truth.

  “Then, my father spoke and stated the reason for Rathburn’s visit.” She drew a breath, feeling her pulse rise as if it was happening all over again. “I could hardly believe it.”

  Penelope tutted. “Oh, come now, you must have suspected something. Especially with the way he looks at you.”

  She shrugged. “He looks at every woman that way.” As if he were slowly peeling off the layers of their clothing with his eyes, she thought crossly.

  “Not the way he looks at you.”

  Again, she stared at Penelope in complete disbelief. “He’s a terrible flirt.”

  “True. He does have a way of offering a compliment that makes one feel . . . exposed.” Merribeth blushed but received a nod from Delaney.

  Even Penelope laughed. “But he’s easily forgiven when it’s obvious he isn’t serious. Not like the way he is with Emma.”

  Emma shook her head. Because of the announcement, they were seeing things that simply weren’t true. “He likes the game. The play of back and forth.”

  “Now that I think on it, when he teases and flirts with you, his entire demeanor changes,” Merribeth said as she took a chocolate biscuit and nibbled the outer rim. “He turns serious.”

  “I would say predatory,” Delaney added in a scholarly tone, as if the notion had been hers from the beginning.

  “Or maybe possessive.”

  “Oh, yes,” Merribeth agreed with Penelope’s statement. “That is the perfect description. After all, he kept away your other suitors last Season.”

  A fact for which Emma would not soon forgive him. “That was Rafe’s fault for asking Rathburn to look after me while he was away. He simply took matters too far by hovering over me at every ball.” And glowering at every gentleman who came near.

  “That’s when he introduced you to the dowager.” Delaney tapped her finger against the side of her mouth thoughtfully. “He was laying the foundation to build on later.”

  “No. It was to keep me occupied and on edge so that he had the freedom to flirt with other ladies.”