Daring Miss Danvers (9 page)

“All it tells me is that he has a single-minded determination to gain his inheritance.” Once he had it, he’d no longer see her as any sort of option. Not that it bothered her. It was just . . . she was beginning to wonder, and not for the first time, how she would manage to escape this mock betrothal unscathed. Because, while she professed to disapprove of Rathburn, that wasn’t entirely accurate. In fact, the truth was far more complicated than she cared to think about.

Reputation notwithstanding, she was actually beginning to worry about her heart.

“Or perhaps the inheritance is simply an excuse, and his single-minded determination has everything to do with you.”

“Penelope Weatherstone,” Emma tsked. “It’s quite obvious marriage has gone to your head.”

She beamed, her eyes dancing. “Just wait. It will happen to you too.”

A shadow crossed them, causing her to look up.

“What will happen to Miss Danvers?” Rathburn asked.

Emma started. How long had he been standing there? He nearly grinned at her as if he were savoring an amusing secret. The gold flecks in his green eyes seemed to capture the brightness of the sun, especially when he glanced down to her mouth. Perhaps it was her imagination, but his gaze lingered long enough for her to feel the warmth of it. He seemed quite determined to make Penelope and everyone in the park believe this mock courtship of theirs.

Thankfully, Penelope kept her wits. She surreptitiously plucked the paper out of Emma’s grasp and refolded it before hiding in her reticule once again. “We were just speaking of felicitations in marriage.”

He leaned forward and took Emma’s hand, lifting it to his lips. “What a coincidence. My mind was similarly engaged.”

Emma snapped out of her momentary sun blindness when her eyes threatened to roll to the back of her head. He was terribly good at pretending. She must remember that in the future. “There is no need to keep up pretenses in front of Penelope. She knows about our bargain.”

Rathburn didn’t blink an eye but kept his charm at full potency. He tugged her to her feet and chuckled when she was forced to place her hand against his solid chest or crash into him. “Your eagerness to end this pretense is admirable, darling,” he teased, whispering low into her ear. Then he backed away before she had the chance to swat him. “However, I sought you out for a perfectly innocent proposal.”

Innocent, Rathburn? Certainly not. “Dare I ask?”

R
athburn had never been so nervous in all his life. There was no accounting for it, really. He’d had workers here for two years. His two closest friends, Weatherstone and Danvers, had both stopped by on occasion. Even Gabriel, his fellow ne’er-do-well cousin had shown up, needing a place to hide out from his father, the austere Duke of Heathcoat. And yet, this was somehow different.

Now, Weatherstone’s wife and Danvers’s sister were about to see it. Or, more to the heart of the matter, this was the first time
Emma
would see the work he’d had done.

Her opinion mattered to him. So much so that his palms were slick with sweat beneath his driving gloves. He pulled them off with his teeth as he drove the curricle up the long driveway to Hawthorne Manor.

He blamed that kiss and those flowers. Ever since the Sumpters’ musicale, he couldn’t shake loose the seedling idea. The damned thing had taken root.
What if
. . . kept turning around in his mind, occupying his thoughts.

What if
he married Emma Danvers?

With an actual marriage, at least his wayward thoughts would end in an honorable result. Surely, her brother could credit him for that and not slay him at dawn in a field of honor.

Marrying Emma Danvers would certainly be simpler than plotting an end to their betrothal and fabricating a story to back it up while still remaining friends. Not to mention, much easier than getting an annulment after they were married. And . . .

She could be his.

The idea appealed to him.

Now, it was a matter of seeing if Emma felt the same.

He looked ahead, mulling over his options as the house came into view. Only the rear wing had been destroyed by fire, leaving the front much the same as it always was. The russet brick structure was three generous stories high, with rows of tall, mullioned windows topped with fanlights and trimmed in white stone. Gothic arched dormers jutted from the dark slate roof, matching the dramatic arch over the wide doorway. Single-story structures banked either side of the house. Encased with even more windows, they acted primarily as a conservatory and an orangery. Cobblestones lined the driveway and circled around the reflecting pond in front.

From this vantage point, the rear of the house wasn’t visible. Even though the manor wasn’t entirely finished, the main structure had been repaired, the brickwork done, the windows in place, the interior walls coated with smooth plaster.

“It’s lovely,” Penelope said quietly.

It was the first thing anyone had said since the house came into view. With his nerves so high, he hadn’t noticed the still reverence that seemed to settle over them. Rathburn had been here nearly every day during the past three years, and so he’d grown used to seeing it. Used to remembering the awful night of the fire.

Occasionally, he still had nightmares.

Yet, for the most part, he’d come to terms with the loss of his father, knowing with every fiber of his being that his father would not want Hawthorne Manor to remain a shrine. Growing up, he’d had so many happy memories among these walls, he was certain they were lingering here, waiting to be rediscovered. His father had worked tirelessly to ensure Hawthorne Manor’s longevity, and to bail the family title out of debt. Rathburn knew from the first that his father would want him to repair it, to live here with his own family and start again. Perhaps then, he could begin to make amends for the life he’d led.

“I’ve always thought it the finest of houses,” Emma said as he slowed the horses to a stop and set the brake. When she turned her gaze from the house, he saw beneath the brim of her caramel-colored bonnet to the tender apprehension in her warm brown eyes.

“Then, perhaps, you’ll help me make it that way again.”

Startled, she lifted her face, her expression more alarmed than pleased. “Your wife will want that honor, I’m sure.”

Before he could offer an outrageously bold comment about how she might want to get used to the idea, one of his footmen came out to assist Penelope to the ground. For now, Rathburn held his tongue and hopped down.

Not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to assist Emma, he took her hand. She looked over her shoulder to where Penelope was descending with the aid of Harrison and the step. However, Rathburn tugged Emma out of the seat and slipped his hands to her slender waist, lifting her cleanly out of the curricle to stand her before him.

“You are right, of course,” he said with the pretense of responding to her comment. In actuality, he merely wanted the excuse to keep her near. A moment longer to keep his hands on her waist, just above the subtle flair of her hips.

Until this moment, he’d never had confirmation of her shape. They’d never danced. She wore the usual style of dress that young women preferred—high-waisted and made of muslin or silk or whatnot, conformed to fit the bosom.

In that regard, he’d admired Emma’s figure on a multitude of occasions. Her breasts were quite perfect, round and supple, teasing him with the barest hint of her décolletage in her evening gowns. Now, beneath her dress and spencer, the luscious objects of his admiration were rising and falling with her quick breaths. Yet, Emma was modest to a fault, and she wore a frustratingly sturdy petticoat that kept errant breezes from outlining her form.

However, he kept his hands on her. His thumbs rested just inside the gentle slope of her hips. Unable and unwilling to help himself, he traced the top portion of the angled feminine bones, the likes of which he was quite familiar with on other women. On Emma, this was new territory, an adventure of pure pleasure, traversing over the flesh that was hidden beneath layers of fabric. He could feel the enticing heat of her body seep through his fingers.

It occurred to him that she’d made no move to retreat. She gave no indication of displeasure at being so near, of having his hands on her. Instead, her gaze traveled up from the buttons of his waistcoat, to the pin in his cravat, and then finally to his mouth.

She licked her lips. “You were saying?”

Her voice came out as a breath and the sweetness rose to greet him, intoxicating him for a moment, and giving him the foolish thought of lowering his head, of kissing her in front of Penelope, Harrison, and the other members of his staff peering out the windows—and even that didn’t deter him.

Yet, before he could, the horses snorted and whickered as if they were laughing at him for losing his head. And rightfully so.

Rathburn lowered his hands and took a step back. Clearing his throat, he forced himself to look anywhere but at Emma’s tempting lips. “I would like your opinion, all the same.”

“Of course,” she said, albeit a little breathlessly. She looked marginally relieved, which didn’t sit well with him. “You know me well enough to believe I wouldn’t be able to withhold it regardless.”

Her laugh sounded a bit forced, making him want to put her at ease again. He offered his arm. “True enough. Perhaps you would even grant your bold opinion on my garden.”

This time, her laugh came easier, and he was glad for the pleasant sound humming through his ears. “I should love nothing more.”

S
ince this was Penelope’s first visit to Hawthorne Manor, Rathburn first led them through the old portion of the house that hadn’t been touched by the fire. It was much unchanged since Emma had last seen it. The rooms were still elegantly furnished, with windows aplenty to fill each space with light.

Her mother would probably want to convert the entire first floor into a studio.

Never mind the beautiful oil paintings on the wall, the rosewood and marble tables, the luxuriant carpet and upholstered furniture, or the plaster moldings that lined the ceilings, doors, and windows. No, her mother would barge in one day, proclaiming that her muse must not be denied and then pile everything into a corner and drape a sheet over it.

Emma shuddered at the thought. She was actually worried about it, until she remembered that this wasn’t going to be her home. She wasn’t going to marry Rathburn, and therefore needn’t be concerned.

She waited for relief to settle her sudden rise of nerves, but she felt a peculiar tightness in her chest instead. If she didn’t know herself better, she’d almost believe it was disappointment.

Thankfully, she knew herself better. Most likely, the sensation came from indigestion from the roasted nuts she and Penelope had shared in the park.

“Are you unwell?” Rathburn asked, keeping his voice low as if not wanting to disturb Penelope, who was studying the woodland painting of Rathburn’s hunting box in Scotland over the library’s fireplace.

The tightness returned with another twinge as she looked up into his face and saw his friendly concern. “Perfectly well. I was just imagining how my mother would want to convert each of the front rooms into an artist’s studio,” she said with a forced laugh.

“Now I feel unwell.” He made a show of shuddering, drawing out a genuine smile from her lips. “Do you think, perhaps, we could offer her a room on the second floor instead? I’m certain we could discover one that no one ever uses.”

“Oh, it would all depend on the light,” she added with a dramatic flip of her wrist. And actually, the light in here
was
perfect. Not to mention the view from the windows of the lush, rolling hills that led to the copse of trees bordering his property. She felt her hand twitch, suddenly feeling empty without a brush within it or a canvas before her.

Emma shook herself from the notion. She’d vowed years ago not to let those impulses rule her. After all, members of society must rise above them or risk the
cut direct
. “Thankfully, this won’t ever be a problem we’ll have.”

“How so?”

She blinked. “Because we aren’t actually getting married, Rathburn.”

“Ah, yes,” he added with a chuckle and reached out to brush the backs of his fingers against her cheek as if to tame an errant lock of hair. “I keep forgetting.”

Every time he touched her, thoughts scattered like charcoal dust from a sketchbook. Her vision went hazy. All senses arrested on the place his flesh touched hers. The same way it had when his hands had lingered on her hips after he’d assisted her down from his curricle. It took a great deal of effort to remind herself that this was all a pretense for Rathburn, and that he was exceedingly skilled at flirtation.

She took a step apart from him and adjusted her glove. “Well . . . don’t.”

“I can’t make any promises.” He offered a rakish grin as he inclined his head. “Would you like to see the kitchens now? I’ve a sudden need to put something in my mouth.”

Flustered, but not wanting to let on, she nodded and hoped her cheeks weren’t as pink as they suddenly felt.

The three of them walked through the older portion of the house and into the new. It was a seamless transition. If she hadn’t been here before, she wouldn’t have noticed. The only difference was the walls. They were plastered, but not painted. Of course, there were no art or furnishings either. Yet, the floors were a perfect match in color and grain.

From the corner of her eye, she noted that Rathburn glanced over at her once they entered. She felt that tightness in her chest again and realized, quite unexpectedly, that it wasn’t disappointment or indigestion at all. It was longing.

Oh dear
. On one hand, she felt sad that he’d lost his father in the terrible fire. She also felt a mixture of sadness and pride at the fact that he’d done all this on his own for the past three years. But most of all, she longed to . . . undo the tragedy from his life. To return everything he’d lost. Every hope, dream, and most important, his family.