Daring Miss Danvers Read online

  In the hall, Rathburn went to the wide panels that framed the doorway to the master bedchamber. “These hinged panels will all blend into the wall once the work is complete,” he said as he opened one, revealing a vertical row of fire pails hanging in the hidden compartment.

  Emma looked down the length of the hall and saw similar framing outside of each bedchamber. She exchanged a look with Penelope and saw sympathy for Rathburn in her friend’s gaze. While he seemed pleased with the additions, he also looked lost—he’d done all this but was still unable to go back in time to save his father. It took all of her willpower not to reach out and take his hand, offering her support. And also to let him know that he would never have to suffer that kind of loss or pain again.

  If only she could promise such a thing.

  “This is the viscountess’s suite,” he said, gesturing through the open door for them to precede him. A tingle of awareness brushed down her flesh as she passed him. “My wife’s chamber.”

  She swallowed. His voice, so low and deep, made her forget everything else she’d been thinking for the past hour. Even though the breeze was cool, she felt flushed and too warm. It sounded more like an invitation than a statement.

  “Your wife, who will not be me,” she clarified, needing to feel a sense of certainty.

  Rathburn grinned. If she didn’t know any better, she’d almost believe he meant it as a challenge. Or even more so, a dare.

  She stepped past him, not allowing herself to be drawn in by his flirtations. They’d made a bargain. Had shaken hands on it. Had even sealed it with a kiss . . .

  She let out a slow breath. No, she was not going to think about that kiss again.

  As he passed, he ran the tip of his finger down the back of her arm. Through her sleeve, she could feel the heat of it. Of him. Her vision went hazy again. Convincing herself that he was merely flirting was getting more difficult, especially when she realized how much she wished he wasn’t.

  “Between the rooms,” he said, returning to his tour master duties. “Just beyond the dressing rooms, is my favorite new addition.”

  They followed him, only to pause on the threshold. Both Penelope and Emma gasped, stunned. Creamy marbled tiles covered the expansive floor. In the center of the room sat an enormous claw-foot bathtub. A bathing chamber as large as her sitting room at home.

  “Did you ever see such a thing?” Penelope was the first to respond, walking to the tub to trail her fingertips over the curved rim. She looked over her shoulder at Emma and laughed. “I’d never leave.”

  “You wouldn’t have to,” Rathburn said with pride as he demonstrated the faucet. “Cold water at your fingertips. A drain at the bottom that extends to the garden. A dumbwaiter for hot water. Every possible convenience.”

  “No more lugging the water up the stairs?” A job Emma had done for herself a time or two when she hadn’t wanted to disturb the servants her parents were using as models.

  Rathburn smiled again, pleased. “No.”

  A current seemed to pass between them, a level of expectation coursing through the air. It made her feel . . . foreign. Not quite herself. Almost as if there were suddenly a separate person inside of her, trying to get out. The same person, she suspected, who had imagined him calling her his wife a moment ago.

  The real Emma wanted to escape the sensation as soon as she could. “Was that a sitting room I spied across the hall?”

  Both Rathburn and Penelope looked at her peculiarly. She didn’t bother to explain. She just needed to get out of there.

  It took Emma a few moments before she felt more like herself. It was easy enough for her to accept Rathburn’s part, since he was forever teasing her merely to test her reaction. However, it was exceedingly difficult to tuck her own responses away into that part of her she’d cultivated for the sake of society’s acceptance. She’d learned early on that acceptance was the key to the life she wanted.

  She didn’t want to be whispered about behind open fans, as her parents were. She didn’t want her children to be looked at with pity and speculation. She didn’t want to be judged and found wanting.

  She wanted . . . normal. Mastering the skills of decorum, polite conversation, dressing in a manner not to attract notice, and resisting less conventional urges kept one from being the object of scrutiny. Yet, Rathburn made her want to abandon decorum, dress in a manner to attract his notice, and give in . . .

  Emma felt it building within her more and more lately, seeking a way out. She was ashamed to admit that she hadn’t resisted every unacceptable behavior. Beneath her gloves, she knew she still had a spot of crimson paint as proof, marking her.

  Her greatest secret, and most detrimental flaw.

  She took a breath and inhaled the fragrant cool air. Soon enough, this farce would end. This pretense of affection would cease testing her will. Rathburn would gain his inheritance, and she would return to seeking the well-grounded husband she required.

  Emma knew he appreciated that she’d agreed to his bargain. Admittedly, she was actually pleased he’d come to her for help. Because she wanted to help him. That’s what friends did, after all. Besides, the only reason he’d asked for her assistance was because he could trust her not to get carried away with the notion of marrying him.

  In addition, if the friendly smiles from other gentlemen in the park were any indication, she would be able to make a true and solid match by the end of the Season. She must keep her mind on more prudent thoughts.

  She curled her hands over the railing of the second-story balcony. From the sitting room, the view of the vast pleasure garden was similar to the one from the viscountess’s suite across the hall. The fire had destroyed the tall row of boxwood hedges that lay near the crushed clay path. Yet, beyond the charred and barren stubs of branches, bright golden daffodils and red, orange, and violet tulips colored the landscape. New green shoots on trees and shrubs, along with even more-vibrant buds, were waiting to emerge. In a week or two, a full regalia of bright colors would beckon her.

  Only now, in this quiet moment, with the soft breezes toying with the ribbons of her bonnet, did she admit that she longed to return and witness the splendor for herself.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Rathburn said from over her shoulder.

  This time, she didn’t start at the sound of his voice. Instead, she felt her lips curve. Now that she managed to rationalize away the strange feelings she’d experienced earlier, she felt more at ease.

  Once she had a moment to think about the afternoon, she even realized that his close proximity throughout the past hour’s tour of Hawthorne Manor had been a comfort, instead of the irritant she thought it would be. She didn’t know what had changed, but somehow their friendship seemed more . . . tangible than before.

  He moved next to her, laying his hand on the rail beside hers. Even though an inch of space remained between them, it was as if there wasn’t any separation at all. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the tip of his finger gliding over her flesh . . . She swallowed.

  “Of everything that I’ve shown you today—all the rooms, the plumbing in the kitchen, the bathing chamber—you’re most impressed by an overgrown garden.”

  “You’re mistaken. The house is even lovelier than I remember. And as for the plumbing, I’m both amazed and astounded.” However, at the time, she’d still been reeling from the amount of fire pails she’d seen. Her heart still ached for him. For all he’d suffered.

  “You’re frowning again,” he said.

  She shook her head, pulling herself away from those thoughts. “I was merely looking at the old boxwood.”

  “Once the house is finished, I’ll be able to concentrate more on the garden. Most likely, I’ll plant new boxwood in the row where the old is.”

  “Oh, don’t. Another hedge would only hide the flowers. They’re just beginning to bloom. It would be a shame not to give them a chance,” she said, unable to keep her opinions to hersel
f, just as he’d teasingly predicted. She lifted her gaze and saw they were of like mind, which caused her lips to curve again. “I can’t help it.”

  His hand reached up to tug on the end of her bonnet ribbon, yet without the force to untie it. “What would you have me do instead?”

  Caught off guard by his expression, she tilted her head and studied him for a moment, unable to form a response. Surely, she’d never seen him look at her with such tenderness before. Then again, surely, it must have been the way the wispy clouds flitted over the sun, because it altered in the next instant as his gaze dipped to her mouth.

  Her lips tingled. Reflexively, her tongue darted out to soothe away the sensation. “Perhaps . . .”

  He took a step closer. The cuff of his sleeve glided against her throat as his thumb brushed over her bottom lip. “Was it chocolate or jasmine tea today, Emma-mine?”

  She must have forgotten how to breathe. Her chest constricted with the effort.

  For a moment, she nearly forgot this was nothing more than a pretense and that Rathburn flirted with everyone.

  For a moment, she very nearly imagined he saw her differently. As something more.

  She very nearly imagined he was going to kiss her again, even with Penelope only steps away. Perhaps he was merely waiting for her to ask. Her pulse quickened at the thought. And what’s worse, she wanted to.

  Foolish. Chiding herself, she took a step back. “It’s getting late,” she said, instead of answering him. “I’ll want to rest before the ball tonight.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said with wry half smile, as if he knew her to be a coward. “We can finish our conversation later.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  Emma had once dreamed her debut would be like this. The hushed silence after her name was announced. The blatant looks of admiration. The smiles. The nods.

  Now, she had the approval of the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat, printed for all the world to see. It was as if she were reborn in society.

  Normally, this wouldn’t be cause for alarm. Yet, for the previous two Seasons, she’d come to depend on being looked through in the same manner one would a potted tree, and just as quickly forgotten. Unused to the attention, she momentarily forgot what response was required from her.

  “My dear, it is customary to return a smile when given,” the dowager said, not bothering to curve her lips. “Unless the person or persons smiling do so out of malice. Do you wish me to support you in your snobbery and give the Dorsets and their guests the cut direct? Or shall we continue on and enjoy the evening with all the niceties we can afford?”

  Cringing inside at the reprimand, Emma produced a smile for the other guests. “I’m aware of no malice, just surprised to receive the greeting. Pleasantly so,” she said without breaking her smile. Then as they turned toward the upper gallery that overlooked the Dorsets’ ballroom, she added, “However, I am honored that you would support me if I found enemies here.”

  “Just as I am certain you will soon come to understand my sense of humor,” the dowager said without missing a beat. “If nothing else, you have a sharp intellect.”

  Proceeding up the stairs at a regal pace beside the dowager, Emma felt her forced smile relax. A combination of relief and amusement eased the sudden tension when it occurred to her that the dowager was actually teasing her. In her own way.

  “If intellect is what I have to recommend me, then I must confess to deception as well.” She couldn’t be too sharp witted. After all, she’d agreed to Rathburn’s scheme.

  “And modesty, no doubt.”

  Not wanting to lose the ground she’d gained, Emma pulled the corner of her mouth between her teeth to keep from laughing aloud. “Forgive me if I withhold agreement, for I do not want to add pride to the list.”

  Her efforts earned her a playful swat on the arm from the dowager’s fan when they reached the top.

  Having entered the ballroom ahead of them, Rathburn and his mother were already standing in the gallery, currently speaking with Merribeth and her aunt, Mrs. Leander, along with her friend, Lady Eve Sterling. Delaney and Bree were also there, standing on the far side with the dour-faced Miss Pursglove. With the collapse of her nerves only a disapproving look away, Emma was glad her friends were among their party of spectators.

  Rathburn excused himself from the small group and made his way to her, quirking a brow as he regarded first her and then the dowager. “Grandmamma, is that a smile on your lips?”

  “What a notion.” For his cheek, he received a swat of her fan as well. “Now, hurry along, I won’t have you hovering over our Miss Danvers and scaring away all her partners again. Simply sign her dance card and be on your way.”

  He clenched his jaw and offered a tight smile. “With all the prettiest ladies holding court in the gallery, I wouldn’t dream of leaving.”

  Even though he made the statement with his characteristic teasing air, the hardness in his gaze told her that he was serious. When he turned that look on her, she instantly recalled how Penelope had called that look possessive.

  A secret thrill rushed through her, sending tingles beneath the surface of her skin, and causing gooseflesh to rise on her arms. However, she knew better than to let her imagination run wild.

  “Miss Danvers,” the dowager said, her voice abruptly dowsing the tingles. “Hand him your card so that we can be rid of him before he flatters us to distraction.”

  She swallowed. “I—I don’t have a card.”

  Whatever ground she’d made with the dowager disappeared beneath furrowed scrutiny. “No card?”

  Before Emma could shake her head, the dowager’s censorious glower was cast to Rathburn.

  “Obviously, this is your doing. After all, why would a young woman bother with a dance card if her escort behaves like a barbarian? If you’re not careful, dear boy, you’ll lose your place as my favorite grandson. Your cousin Gabriel is reforming quite well.” By the time she was finished, all the reproach vanished from her tone. Reaching into her reticule, she produced an elegant card and handed it to Emma.

  In turn, Emma handed it to Rathburn.

  He frowned, staring at it with the same intensity he’d used on her, as if he were considering tucking it into his pocket and refusing to return it.

  “One dance,” his grandmother warned. “In such a crush, there can be only four sets before dinner, I’m sure. Since we will not stay much after dinner, you may choose only one.”

  “However, it is also perfectly acceptable if you choose not to dance with me,” Emma added hastily, her heart suddenly pounding in her throat. “After all, I’m certain there will be other occasions . . . in the future.”

  The way his glance speared her, she knew her efforts were transparent. Unfortunately, he took her easy escape as a challenge and wrote his name in bold letters for the fourth set. The waltz.

  Oh dear.

  “Miss Danvers,” he said with bow, returning her card in such a way as to dare her to accept it.

  With his mother and grandmother watching—as well as half the ton, no doubt—she withdrew the card from his fingers and offered a curtsy. “Lord Rathburn.”

  Before he left the gallery, he passed by her slowly. “I look forward to seeing you on the dance floor.”

  His words were more of a promise than a threat, and yet, she wondered if he meant to suggest that he planned to watch her while she was with other partners. A way of keeping his eye on her.

  “Then I shall do my best to procure the most elegant partners for you to admire,” she answered just as quietly and smiled to herself when he stumbled a half-step, his grand exit thwarted.

  He paused at the top of the stair and cast another hard look over his shoulder. Possessive. Another frisson raced through her, this time making the fine downy hairs at her nape stand on end. It was exhilarating as much as it caused her anxiety, and she wondered which sensation would win out in the end. Had he truly always looked at her this way?

  “Allow me,
Miss Danvers. After all, as your fiancé, it is my duty to guide the most elegant partners to you.”

  Before she could inform him that she could acquire her own partners, especially without a glowering brute standing over her, Rathburn turned and swept down the stairs.

  “A valiant battle, my dear,” the dowager said, clucking her tongue. “But I’m afraid my grandson bested you this time. Right now, he’s below stairs finding you the dullest and most repellent partners in attendance.”

  She narrowed her eyes as she watched the top of his ash blond head weave his way through the crowd. It didn’t matter if he did find her dimwitted or unattractive partners. So long as the gentlemen were eligible, she could still find a way to win the battle. After all, he needed a reminder that they were not actually engaged.

  During the first set, she danced with Mr. Bastion, a distant cousin of the Dorsets’. He was exactly her height, with thinning brown hair, fleshy lips, and the unfortunate propensity to spit whenever he spoke. Although ashamed to admit it, she was actually thankful that he seemed too preoccupied with her bosom to offer up many topics of conversation.

  Lord Mosley partnered with her for the second set. She managed to endure thirty minutes of his company without falling asleep. He was a gentle soul, but his conversation was limited to his mother and their home in Derbyshire. Even when she tried to interject a comment about the weather, he responded with the fact that his mother preferred cooler springs that were less sunny.

  She hid a yawn behind her fan as he escorted her to the gallery stairs. If she weren’t suddenly so exhausted, she could honestly murder Rathburn. If he thought for a moment that she hadn’t noticed him smirking at her, he was mistaken.

  Her partner for the third set, a widower who was not much younger than her father, was nowhere in sight. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Pardon me,” a stranger said from behind her. “I believe this dance is mine.”

  Closing her fan, she pasted on her best smile and turned to greet him. Only he wasn’t the same gentlemen she’d been introduced to before. For starters, there wasn’t a single gray hair on his head. Instead, it was black as midnight, even darker than Merribeth’s. His eyes were a captivating pale gray that shimmered in the light of the chandeliers as if they were made of silver satin.