Daring Miss Danvers Page 6

  She received three headshakes. “Surely, you can no longer deny it now. He must have expressed how he truly feels about you when he proposed.”

  Emma hesitated. She hated lying to her friends, so the only thing she could do was focus on what actually happened. “He did say that his grandmother approves of me.”

  Her friends gasped in unison. “The dowager . . .”

  “Approves of you.”

  “Of course she would.” Penelope leaned forward and squeezed her hand. “You could see it plainly in the announcement.”

  “She doesn’t approve of anyone,” Merribeth added in an awed voice as if she’d taken a sip of the elixir of life instead of tepid tea. “That only means one thing.”

  “He’s completely in love with you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Emma said, swallowing down a sudden rise of nerves. Her friends were sure to be heartbroken once their false betrothal was over and they knew the truth.

  “Has he tried to kiss you?”

  Leave it to Merribeth to turn this into a romantic saga. Nonetheless, Emma blushed furiously.

  “More than tried, I’d say,” Delaney snickered.

  “What was it like? Was he swept away in the moment? Were you?”

  “Certainly not,” she lied. “It was a mere formality to seal our bargain.”

  “A woman does not kiss and tell when it comes to her husband, ladies,” Penelope added with a secret smile of her own. “Besides, whatever is between Rathburn and Emma, you’ll witness at the Dorsets’ ball.”

  The three women nodded, as if the knowledge were a common fact. “Nothing will happen at the ball. I’ve more sense than that.”

  “Have you danced with Rathburn?” Penelope already knew the answer. They all knew the answer, but Emma humored them with a shake of her head. Her newly married friend toyed with the fringe of her shawl. “Dancing changes everything.”

  She mulled it over and made a quick decision to avoid dancing with Rathburn at all costs.

  “Too bad there won’t be any dancing at the musicale this evening,” Delaney said with a wink. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”

  Emma’s nerves were still focused on what Penelope had said about dancing and didn’t give much thought to the question. “The fawn evening gown, I suppose.”

  “The plain one with the brown sash?” Merribeth wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  Emma considered the sash more of a russet, not that it mattered. “Then the cream one with the lace filigree at the neck and sleeves.”

  “Oh, that one is lovely.” Penelope reached for the last biscuit on the plate.

  “Yes, but is it enough? After all, she’s essentially making her debut as Rathburn’s viscountess.”

  “Delaney is right,” Merribeth added. “What about pairing it with that beaded ivory shawl you wore at the end of last Season?”

  Emma looked at her friends, grateful for the distraction from her previous thoughts. “I could wear my hair in a Grecian knot.”

  “And your mother’s emeralds, to match Rathburn’s eyes.” Merribeth sighed and they all laughed.

  At least with this entire courtship being make believe, she could allow herself to be immersed in the fun of it. But heaven help her if she started to prefer this lie over the truth.

  Rathburn knew instantly that something was different that evening. He felt it keenly at the base of his skull, a sharp sense of awareness that made everything seem slightly foreign.

  He’d been to the Sumpters’ musicale in years past, usually attending as escort to his mother. Yet, even then he couldn’t quite remember so many nods in his direction. Not to mention—Wait. Did his uncle, the esteemed Duke of Heathcoat, incline his head in approval?

  He shook himself. Surely not.

  It seemed strange that a single announcement in the Post could spawn this. That words printed on a page could make every expression, every sound, every scent seemed more vivid than ever before. He felt as if he were truly living in the moment, present in his skin, not focusing on the future and the list of objectives he had to complete in order to get there.

  He liked this sensation even less than yesterday’s anxiety.

  With Emma by his side, he stepped into the music room. The Sumpters’ musicale was a popular event, one of the first in the Season. The large room opened into the parlor through a set of pocket doors. Aside from the rows of chairs down the center of both rooms, upholstered settees and loveseats were positioned on the fringes of the room and angled toward the musicians. He was fortunate enough to procure a loveseat at the back of the parlor for himself and Emma.

  Taking their seats a moment before the music began, Rathburn drew in a breath.

  Instantly, he stilled. Something was definitely different.

  For starters, he’d never thought a spray of tiny white flowers would bring him to his knees. Or else, he never would have sent them in the first place. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking of them, or wanting to pluck them from where they rested in Emma’s hair.

  Emma glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “Is something amiss?” Her whispered words blended in with the first strains of violin and cello, but they were seated in close enough proximity that he could hear her plainly. Close enough to catch the sweet scent of jasmine perfuming the air around her.

  “No,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Nothing. It’s just that . . . you’re quite lovely this evening.”

  When he’d arranged for the flowers to be delivered to her earlier, he’d done so as a lark, playing his part of the besotted beau mostly out of the need to rile her. Their verbal parries always served to brighten his mood. He’d been certain that by the time he saw her this evening, she’d have daggers at the ready. He assumed she’d have tossed the flowers into the bin and prepared to give him an earful. Or, at the most, accept them blandly and put them into a vase.

  He never thought she’d wear them.

  To make matters worse, she’d fashioned her hair in a stylish mass of curls drawn up from the nape of her neck, and in a spill of rich, glossy tresses over one shoulder. Besting him at his own game, she’d woven the flowers into her hair with the last little buds nestled in the curls against the curve of her breast.

  Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about jasmine and her. Mostly her. Of how her lips tasted of jasmine tea, and how lovely she would look on a bed of white flowers, her dark hair spread out over the coverlet, her body bared to him . . .

  She frowned, the flesh between her brows puckering. “Then why do you look as if you’re in pain?”

  He laid the program for this evening’s music on his lap, hoping no one would notice swell of his erection in his form-fitting evening clothes. He didn’t know what had come over him, or why everything seemed so alive and new to him. This foreign sensation was overriding the semblance of better judgment he’d adopted these past years.

  He only knew one cure for it . . . to unsettle Emma as well. After all, she was too cool and calm, taking all this in stride as if certain of how it would end. Damn it all, but she gave every appearance of trusting him.

  “If you must know, I was contemplating whether I would prefer cups of chocolate or jasmine flowers on a rainy morning.” Flirting was good, he told himself. It was a behavior he knew better than breathing. Right now, he even needed a reminder on how to do that.

  Catching his meaning, she blushed. Quite prettily, as a matter of fact, and looked askance to ensure their conversation was private. “You mean jasmine tea, surely.”

  “Do I?” Rathburn couldn’t help it. He lifted his hand and plucked one of the blossoms from the spot just below her ear and lifted it to his nose.

  Emma’s lips parted and she looked every inch the innocent miss about to be embroiled in scandal. She went so far as to place her gloved hand over his forearm, forcing him to lower the flower. “That is hardly necessary.”

  He looked down at the way her slender fingers curled over the sleeve of his slate gray, superfine jacket. He even
imagined he could feel the heat of her hand, and that she held on to him for a moment longer than was proper before she released him and clasped both hands in her lap. “Necessary?”

  “Your flirtation . . . this pretense . . .” She gestured between them.

  “Ah.” He grinned, enjoying the way her teeth pulled on the corner of her mouth when she was flustered. Withdrawing a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket, he carefully tucked the blossom into the folds. Then, simply to raise her ire, he pressed it to his lips and winked at her before he returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “You’re mistaken.”

  On a huff, she turned forward and stared straight ahead at the musicians. “Hardly.”

  Yes, this was much better. After all, flirting came second nature to him. He felt more like himself. In fact, if he continued like this, he might even manage to convince himself that everything was the same between them.

  Placing his hand on the cushion, he pressed down just enough to cause her to lean toward him. Her shoulder brushed his. He lowered his head and drew in a breath, filling his nostrils with the warm, sweet scented air surrounding her. “The necessity of my actions is not for their benefit, but for mine. You see, it’s taking every ounce of control I have not to kiss you. Right here. In front of everyone.”

  The truth of his words startled him. Yet, weren’t all flirtations based on a semblance of truth? Of course they were, he convinced himself quite readily.

  Still, he never knew how much he’d enjoy telling the truth until he met Emma Danvers. If he were honest with himself—a terrible occupation he’d begun recently—he’d been disguising his truth behind bold comments, and passing them off as mere flirtations for years.

  She slid an inch away from him and he eased the pressure on the cushion so she wouldn’t go too far. He liked feeling her pressed against him. Even though it was only her shoulder, he could easily imagine something far more intimate.

  “Keep in mind that kissing me would not help your cause,” she warned, though her words had gone breathless, likely revealing more than she intended.

  He pondered her statement, and after a moment, he could find no downside. “How so?”

  “Think of the scandal.”

  His gloved finger strayed to the fabric of her gown resting between them. “You mean that, should anyone seated in front of us turn around and discover us, we would be forced to wed.”

  She looked down, following the sweeping motion of his finger for a moment before she pulled the fabric away and smoothed it over her thighs. “Precisely.”

  His gaze lingered on the shape of her legs discernible beneath the creamy silk. They were long and slender. Just above her finely sloped knees, he could see the faint outline of the ribbons that tied her stockings. It seemed far too intimate a thing to notice of Danvers’s sister—even for him. Yet, he felt his heart beat heavy and hard, trying to reclaim all the blood that was now pooling in his groin.

  “Forced to wed in haste, no doubt.” Forced to wed in truth, and with no hope of an annulment afterward without irreparably tarnishing her reputation. Something he’d vowed not to do. He kept his promises. Just like he’d promised his father that Hawthorne Manor would be a home again.

  Oddly enough, the threat of a wedding—and an early one at that—didn’t send icy shivers through him. Before now, he’d never given marriage much thought. His goals were set, after all. First, he needed the money to finish the manor and the hospital and then . . .

  Well, he supposed he would marry eventually. After all, in order for Hawthorne Manor to become a home once again, presumably a family—or more specifically, his family—would live there. In that regard, marriage seemed the most likely outcome.

  A thought blossomed suddenly, as if sprouting from a randomly planted seedling.

  He looked at Emma again, watching the way her expression altered with the music as if she were seeing something within each note. He was seeing something, too. Only not in the music.

  Rathburn knew from speaking with her parents the other day that she hadn’t formed an attachment with another man. He’d wanted to ensure his plan didn’t interfere with any of hers. Last Season, he hadn’t even seen her dance with a single gentleman. Of course, he might have had a hand in that. However, at the time, he’d felt it was his duty. After all, her brother had asked him to look after her.

  Now, with Rafe away again, he was still looking after her. Only it was different now. Much different.

  What if . . . he heard a voice say in the back of his mind as the seedling idea strained against the confines of its husk, stretching out with the solitary tendril of a root.

  “I know what you’re doing,” she said quietly, refusing to look at him. “It won’t work this time, so you might as well give up.”

  “What am I doing, Emma-mine?”

  “Wooing me. Flirting with me to get your way—though I can’t think of what else you could want in addition to my agreement to your scheme.” She responded to his low chuckle by glaring at him. “You seem to think that I agreed to this because I imagined myself half in love with you. I know better. Only a fool would lose her head over you.”

  He studied her intently, hearing the truth of her words, which sparked a question within him. Why had she agreed to his scheme?

  If there was some truth in flirting, then there might very well be truth in denial as well.

  He grinned, at last beginning to understand why everything seemed so different this evening. Because it was different. “I don’t want you to lose your head over me. I quite like it right where it is, blazing chocolate eyes, jasmine-laced lips, and all.”

  What if . . . the voice whispered again. What if . . . she could be mine?

  The thought came unbidden to the forefront of his mind, causing him to draw in a startled breath. The scent of jasmine filled his nostrils, and suddenly he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of this before.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  Penelope pointed to a stone bench just off the park’s walking path. “That looks like a fine place out of the sun. Perhaps I should have brought a parasol after all. No doubt Mr. Weatherstone will love that he was right.”

  “Surely, there’s no need to tell him,” Emma said with a sly grin. She’d left her parasol behind as well, not expecting the gray morning clouds to disappear so suddenly. On such a fine day, the park was fairly bursting with people enjoying the sunshine.

  “If there’s one thing about marriage you will soon learn,” Penelope began with a secret smile of her own, “it’s that one chooses the moments to allow one’s spouse to be right. In such an instance, Mr. Weatherstone gains the pleasure of being right about my parasol, while I will gain the satisfaction of having him fuss over me later. He’s positively obsessed with my freckles.”

  Emma tilted her head to the side and studied the wistful look on her friend’s face. “You actually enjoy it when he fusses over you?” It sounded suffocating. She couldn’t help but think of how annoying it had been when Rathburn’s overbearing presence had chased away all of her suitors last year.

  No, she most definitely would not like her future spouse, whoever he may be, to hover and bother her. As if in direct response to her thoughts of potential suitors, Lord Mabry and Lord Hutchings passed by, both lifting their hats and smiling in greeting as they passed. She couldn’t recall having ever earned their attentions after being introduced during her debut, and so merely offered her own smile in return. How odd.

  “Not always, I assure you,” Penelope added with a small laugh that pulled Emma back to their conversation. “Let’s just say there are certain perks to being married that I did not appreciate when it seemed Mr. Weatherstone and I were destined to remain friends and only friends.”

  Only friends. As in, not lovers. She felt spots of heat climb to her cheeks as she took in Penelope’s meaning. “Marriage agrees with you. I’ve never seen you so happy.”

  “I never expected to be so happy. And to think, we’ll h
ave a child before Guy Fawkes Day.” Briefly, she rested a hand over her still slender middle. “I can’t wait for you to find your happiness with Rathburn.”

  Emma looked away, guilt gnawing at her over the deception. Another gentleman passed by, using the silver handle of his walking stick to tip his hat. Though she didn’t recognize him, she offered the same smile as she had to the other two gentlemen before he walked on.

  “And after last night, your betrothal is being touted as the grand romance of the Season.”

  She’d seen the mention of Viscount R— stealing a flower from Miss D—’s hair in the gossip column this morning. Clearly, it had been a grievous error to make a single alteration to her usual appearance. Yet, receiving the flowers had thrilled her so much that she’d been inspired to wear them. Only Rathburn would dare such a bold flirtation. By sending a bouquet of jasmine flowers, not only did he remind her of their kiss, but he also admitted that he hadn’t forgotten it either. He’d meant to unsettle her, she was certain. However, she’d been so pleased knowing their kiss had lingered with him that she’d suffered a romantic notion to weave those tiny white sprigs into her coiffure.

  Now, she only hoped the dowager wouldn’t think her too flamboyant. Of course, last night she’d seemed to approve, but with the mention in the paper, she might revise her original opinion.

  “All because Rathburn is an outrageous flirt,” she grumbled. Didn’t he realize how his behavior might put his scheme in jeopardy? “I don’t see how his actions caused any difference this year as opposed to any other year. He’s always flouted propriety. I’m surprised he’s allowed in society at all.”

  “There are a good many flaws the ton is willing to overlook when one has a title and one’s uncle is a duke.”

  A fact she knew only too well. If her father had been the son of a duke instead of the third son of a baron, he might never have received the cut direct.

  And she might already be married and therefore unable to aid Rathburn in his scheme.