How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back (17 page)

Shocked, yet somehow intrigued by this new piece of evidence, Francis urged for her to continue. “You know how I love to read—I always have. There was a book in my father’s study that I happened to stumble across when I was sixteen. I’d been looking for something with which to pass the time; a novel or some poetry. But instead I picked this book from the shelf. When I opened it and saw what it contained, I immediately hurried it off to my room where I hid it until later that evening.

“The book contained illustrations of a sexual nature—explicit positions that left nothing to the imagination.”

Francis was stunned. Never in a million years would he have imagined that Emily’s father would have had such a book, nor that Emily would have been the sort to secretly read it late at night in the sanctity of her bedroom. The thought was a pure aphrodisiac.

“So, Francis . . . I know that there are ways to . . . to . . .” she trailed off, her embarrassment too great for her to continue.

“To what?” he asked her gently.

She was silent for what seemed like forever. He was about to ask her again, when she turned away. “Nothing,” she murmured, her confidence nowhere to be found.

“Bloody hell, Emily!” He reached out, grasped her wrist, and spun her toward him. “For heaven’s sake, lose your inhibitions and tell me what it is that’s on your mind. I’m not about to judge you. Come on—out with it!”

Her eyes came to rest upon his in a deadpan gaze. She saw the spark of passion in his and it fueled her own. She sagged against him, her arms once again about his neck. “Touch me,” she told him simply, her breath warm against his neck.

He knew immediately what she meant.

“Say no more,” he replied in a strained voice that conveyed with unwavering certainty his craving for her. In one swift movement, he picked her up in his arms and carried her over to a chair, then set her down carefully on her feet. “Don’t move.”

She watched in silence as he unbuttoned and removed his waistcoat, flinging it carelessly on the bed. He then unwrapped his cravat, pulled his shirt from beneath the waistline of his breeches and seated himself on the chair. “Come,” he told her as he reached out his hand and guided her toward him, pulling her in so that she stood between his legs.

Inhaling her scent, he slowly reached down—beneath the hems of her dress, her petticoat, and her chemise—to touch her calf. She stiffened, and drew a sharp breath. He looked up to find her eyes upon him, her face frozen with sudden alarm. “Are you sure that this is something that you want?” he asked with a hint of concern.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving him, not for a second. “All right then,” he smiled. “Just don’t forget to breathe, and try to relax. I intend for you to enjoy this, Emily.”

At the sound of her sigh, his lips broke into a greedy smile. He allowed his fingers to make their gradual journey upward, swirling in gentle motions around the backs of her knees and over her thighs—so whispery soft it sent tingles cascading over her, skimming the surface of her skin. She gripped his shoulders as his hands clasped her buttocks, nudging her closer toward him.

“Turn around,” he said, and as she did, a glimpse of alabaster skin that almost made him spill himself like an untrained youth. He cursed beneath his breath at the injustice of having the moral standing and sense of responsibility that he did. “Now help me pull up your skirts, as high as you can, then sit down on the seat between my legs.”

Without questioning him once, she did as he asked, her bare bottom coming to rest against the smooth silk upholstery. He ran his hands down her thighs and back up again, then pressed faint kisses against the back of her neck, relishing the way she purred at his touch. Then, taking one leg at a time, he picked them up and settled them on either side of his own, spreading her wide. With a slight groan that heated his blood past the level of boiling, she relaxed against him.

Brushing his fingertips softly over her inner thighs in an ever-upward motion, he placed a line of kisses upon her shoulder. When he reached the outermost part of her most sacred place, he pressed his lips close to her ear. “Tell me, Emily,” he whispered, so faint she could barely hear him. “Tell me again. What is it you want me to do for you?”

“Oh God, Francis . . . Francis, please . . . please touch me,” she gasped.

Without further delay, he swiftly moved one hand to her still-exposed breasts, caressing each of them in turn. With his other hand, he gently brushed against her womanhood, sending ripples of ecstasy coursing through her veins. With unparalleled care, he parted those velvety soft layers that surrounded her, seeking the bud that would take her to the highest heights of exquisite pleasure.

He ran his fingers over her so gently that he barely touched her, yet the sensations it evoked within her were electrifying. With soft, circular motions, he rubbed his fingers lightly against her, then slid one finger inside her to feel her moist warmth surround him. She groaned from somewhere deep inside as she pressed herself forward against his hand, quietly begging him for something she did not yet understand. “Yes, sweet Emily, let me show you,” he murmured in her ear.

Pinching her left nipple between his fingers, he withdrew his other hand, added a finger, and plunged inside her again. She whimpered with pure pleasure. “That’s it, Emily, let me show you the stars.” His voice was low and guttural, his breath hot against her neck. Feathering his fingers inside her, he pressed his thumb against her bud and felt her insides contract as she shuddered against him, crying out his name.

Emily soared through space while stars burst around her, showering her with fervent pleasure. Nothing had ever felt so good or so right. Her only regret, as she drifted back to earth, was that he had not been allowed the same release.

“Thank you,” she sighed, resting against him, her body limp with sexual fulfillment. “That was magnificent.”

“You were magnificent,” he told her as he burrowed his head against the nape of her neck.

“Should I . . .” she began, then paused, unsure of how to broach the topic. “The way you touched me . . . couldn’t I do something similar for you?” Her voice quivered with uncertainty and self-awareness. Never in a million years would she have imagined that such a question might leave her lips.

“No,” he told her as he eased her back onto her feet and lowered her skirts around her. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he added quickly, before she could feel slighted. “In fact, there’s nothing I’d like more, but I don’t think I’d be able to leave it at that. Do you understand?” His eyes looked up at her imploringly.

Damn the rules of society. How utterly unfair!

“Yes,” she muttered with great frustration.

He stood up, kissing her gently on the lips. Though she did not look at it directly, she was only too painfully aware of the hardness that still protruded from the crotch of his breeches—a reminder of how little she’d been able to do for him.

“I think it’s best if you get some rest now, Emily,” he told her softly as he brushed his lips against her forehead.

“Yes,” she agreed. “We have Lady Cunningham’s garden party to attend to tomorrow.”

“Oh, is that tomorrow—I had forgotten. Well then you’d better hurry off to bed.” Turning, he headed for the door, then paused and looked back at her. “Emily, I want you to know . . . you matter a great deal to me. This wasn’t something that will be forgotten in the morning. I hope you know that.” Then, turning away from her once more, he opened the door and slipped away, leaving her staring after him.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

E
mily opened her parasol, twirling it slightly between her fingers as she scanned the lawn behind Cunningham House. Everybody worth knowing had shown up, and rumor had it that even the prince regent was expected to put in an appearance.

“I don’t even recognize anyone,” Claire announced from behind Emily’s left shoulder. “It’s all just one massive blur.”

It was true, Emily agreed with a slight twist to her lips. Amongst all the parasols, bonnets, ribbons, and lace that blended together in one single hue of white, it was very difficult indeed to distinguish one person from another. She looked across at Beatrice, whose arm was linked with Jonathan’s. What a handsome couple they made.

“Well, here is one lady who I daresay will never conform to the norm,” Francis remarked, tearing Emily’s thoughts away from her sister. He’d placed himself directly between her and his aunt Genevieve, who’d been determined not to miss this afternoon extravaganza for the world. And, having no desire for anyone to see her with her cane, for fear they might think her old—to be fair, she was only approaching her sixtieth year—she had latched on to Francis’s right arm for support.

Turning her head, Emily immediately spotted the lady in question—it was of course Lady Giddington, hurrying toward them in a bright spray of pink, her straw bonnet overflowing with ribbons and roses.

“My, my,” Genevieve remarked. “She certainly is a splash of color upon a blank canvas.” Then, addressing Veronica more directly, she said, “If only everyone else would be as daring as you, Lady Giddington, then London might not be so dull and dreary.”

“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again, my lady. It has been far too long,” Veronica beamed before turning her attention on Emily, Beatrice, and Claire. “And look at you—how pretty you are, and each with a different colored ribbon about your waists. My dears, there shan’t be a gentleman here who won’t take notice.”

“Thank you,” Beatrice replied, her cheeks turning rosy. “We did try to follow your advice.”

“I daresay that Jonathan and I wouldn’t mind a compliment, too, if you have one to spare,” Francis muttered with a crooked smile. “It does take a fair amount of skill to tie a decent cravat, you know.”

Emily rolled her eyes while the rest of the ladies chuckled.

“Why, Francis,” Veronica continued with an exaggerated note of apology. “I think it goes without saying that you and Mr. Rosedale are the best dressed men here. You must forgive me—it was very thoughtless of me not to point that out sooner.”

“Shall we remain rooted here for the remainder of the afternoon then?” Genevieve asked impatiently. “Or shall we go and mingle with the rest of the guests?”

“I must admit I’d give my left slipper for a glass of lemonade,” Claire said, looking about for any sign of a refreshment table. “The heat is absolutely stifling.”

“If I may make a suggestion,” Jonathan put in, “let us wander down toward the pond over there. The shade from the willow trees will surely offer some measure of relief.”

The plan was quickly agreed upon, and when Francis and Jonathan offered to fetch drinks for everyone, none of the ladies protested.

“Well?” Veronica suddenly asked Beatrice as soon as the men were out of earshot.

“Well what?” came Beatrice’s guarded reply.

“Oh, come now, Beatrice, the whole world can see you’ve been struck by Cupid’s arrow . . . and if I’m not mistaken, then . . .”

“I cannot imagine what you might be referring to,” Beatrice said, looking away in the hopes that Veronica might disappear into thin air.

“I think
I
can,” Emily said with a wide smile directed at her sister. “We’ve all seen the way you look at Mr. Rosedale.”

“You’re one to talk,” Beatrice countered. “For someone who’s recently had her heart broken, you certainly seem rather chirpy of late—one cannot help but wonder if it isn’t because of Francis.”

“Why ever would you say that?” Emily squeaked.

“I can’t say . . .” Beatrice said, her resolve withering.

“If I may,” they heard Veronica say. “I believe it’s because you look at him as though you’d like to devour him—clothes and all.”

“I do not!” Emily gasped, appalled by the fact that her thoughts had been written so plainly upon her face.

“Hush, ladies,” Genevieve admonished. “We will not discuss such matters in public—especially not when the gentlemen in question are presently coming our way.”

But as Emily turned her attention toward Francis and Jonathan, who were doing their best not to spill the tall glasses of lemonade they were carrying, she couldn’t help but feel Lady Genevieve’s sharp eyes boring into her.

“It may interest you to know,” Francis said upon his arrival, his eyes turning to Claire, “that we just ran into Lord Camden. He inquired about you . . . seemed quite eager to discover which flowers are your favorites. I told him I hadn’t the foggiest idea. Perhaps you ought to go and tell him yourself.”

It was Claire’s turn to look as though two giant hearts had just been slapped over her eyes. “Oh, please, can I, Bea? If you come with me it should be all right, don’t you think? Oh, please say yes.” By the time she finished talking she was bouncing up and down like a spring.

“I think it sounds like the perfect opportunity for us to better our acquaintance with his lordship,” Beatrice announced. “I shall be happy to accompany you, Claire.” The words were barely out before Beatrice was being dragged away by her sister.

“And I’ll be right behind you,” Jonathan called out as he marched after them, sending a lopsided grin and wink toward Francis as he left.

“Oh look,” Genevieve suddenly said, craning her neck. “There’s Lady Barkley—haven’t seen her in ages . . . but who on earth is that exquisite creature she’s with?”

“Oh . . .” Veronica remarked, noticing the couple that were just now crossing the lawn with one another. “That, my lady, is Mr. Fairchild’s bride-to-be: Lady Kate.”

Genevieve appeared to study her more closely. “Hmmm . . . upon further inspection I can only say that she’s not as pleasing to the eye as I initially thought.” Then, appearing to have completely forgotten about Kate, she turned her gaze on Emily. “You, my dear, are far prettier.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Francis muttered.

Emily wanted nothing more than to fling herself into their arms in appreciation of their loyalty, but the smile upon her lips and the blush in her cheeks was enough to convey her gratitude.

“Do you know—it looks as though they’ve spotted us. I do believe they’re heading this way,” Veronica suddenly said.

Francis’s eyes grew instantly dark, his lips set in a tight line. He reached out and took Emily by the arm, drawing her closer as if to protect her. As for Emily, the smile she’d just given Genevieve and Francis still graced her lips, allowing her to look absolutely thrilled at the sight of Kate coming toward her. But on the inside, her stomach had begun contorting itself into all sorts of unimaginable shapes. After all, the last time she’d spoken to Kate, she’d said her piece and walked off with her head held high after slamming the proverbial door in her face. Whatever was she to say to her now?

Before she could gather her thoughts, the two women were upon them.

“Good afternoon, Lady Barkley,” Francis greeted the baroness, planting a kiss on her outstretched hand. “You’re looking as young and lovely as always.” He flashed her his most dazzling smile.

“Oh, Lord Dunhurst, really . . .” she snickered in such a girlish fashion that she did indeed appear many years younger.

“Lady Kate.” Francis greeted Kate with a formal nod, his smile fading. “I don’t believe you’ve ever met my aunt, Lady Genevieve.”

Kate made a polite curtsey.

“Though I do believe you’re familiar with Lady Giddington,” he added.

“It is indeed a pleasure to see you again, my lady,” Kate declared.

“Tell me,” Veronica said once they’d all greeted Lady Barkley as well. “How are your wedding preparations coming along? Have you decided on a gown yet?”

Kate cast a nervous look in Emily’s direction. “As a matter of fact, I have,” she admitted with a great degree of reluctance. “Aunt Harriet found a wonderful dressmaker for me. In fact, she’s been incredibly helpful in all aspects of the preparations, though I do consider the gown to be her crowning achievement.”

“Well done,” Veronica cheered. “I’ve always subscribed to the notion that a woman should begin preparing for her wedding by picking the right gown. Once that is done, everything else falls naturally into place.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Lady Barkley said with a nod of approval.

“Yes,” Kate added, her voice dropping to a mousy whisper. “It has served as great inspiration for all the wedding invitations, as well as for the cake.”

“Cake, you say?” A spark of interest appeared in Genevieve’s eyes. “And what sort of cake will that be, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all—as long as you promise not to tell anyone—I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” Kate replied.

The older woman’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “You can count on us,” Genevieve assured her. “Isn’t that right?”

Everyone nodded, including Emily and Francis, their curiosity getting the better of them.

Pausing for emphasis, Kate finally told them. “It will be a rich chocolate and cream layer cake with a slight hint of brandy, covered in butter cream frosting and chocolate shavings.”

“That sounds utterly delicious—I believe I shall begin saving my appetite already,” Lady Barkley told her. She then turned an inquisitive eye on Francis. “And what about you, Lord Dunhurst?” she asked. “When do you think your wedding will be taking place?”

All eyes turned to Francis, who looked as if he’d just seen a pig fly. “My what?” he exclaimed, not even attempting to hide the shock in his voice.

“Your wedding—to Miss Emily, of course,” the baroness insisted as she cast a sidelong glance in Emily’s direction, as if Francis needed reminding.

There was a thunderous silence while everyone tried their best to come to terms with what the baroness had just said. None of them could quite figure out what to say, never mind find an appropriate expression to match the situation at hand.

It was Emily who, having stilled her fluttering heart, finally spoke up. “Pray tell us, my lady, what has given you the impression that I am betrothed to Lord Dunhurst?”

“Oh, I never said that you were betrothed. However, it has been the talk of the town that Lord Dunhurst is courting you. One naturally assumes that it is with the intention to marry, and I therefore deduced that the two of you must have discussed a date.”

“Perhaps they are not yet ready to share the news,” Kate said. She sent an apologetic look toward Emily. “Lady Barkley, it does appear as though we’ve caught them quite by surprise.”

“Dear me,” the baroness gasped. “I do apologize if I have ruined it for you. I merely thought . . . why, it’s clear as day the way in which you look at one another . . . I’m so sorry.” She unfolded a fan and began fanning herself profusely.

Emily wondered what on earth was going on. She turned to Francis, hoping that he might give her an answer, but his face had taken on a rather bland expression. Veronica and Genevieve, on the other hand, seemed to think that Emily would be the one to offer them an explanation, for they had both turned toward her, their eyes filled with curiosity.

“I’m terribly sorry, my lady,” Emily began with an awkward chuckle that sounded more embarrassed than she’d hoped. “But Lord Dunhurst and I are merely friends . . .” Her words faded the instant she looked at Francis. Noticing the flicker of disappointment in his eyes, she immediately wished she could take them back.

“Well,” Lady Barkley was now saying, “you’ve certainly had us all fooled then. Do you have any idea how much gossip you’ve managed to stir up?”

“I don’t believe we do,” Francis replied in a clipped tone. “Though I’m fairly sure that you’re about to enlighten us.”

“Well . . . as it happens, Lady Kate and I were just discussing this very topic when we happened upon you.”

“Is that so?” Emily remarked.

“Well . . . er . . . the thing is . . .” Kate stammered.

“Hush, my dear,” Genevieve told her. “I for one would very much like to hear what her ladyship has to say on the matter, and your sputtering is holding her up.”

Everyone turned expectantly toward Lady Barkley and waited for her to proceed.

“You see, the
ton
is divided as far as Lady Kate and Mr. Fairchild are concerned,” she said, cutting straight to the chase. “There are those who believe they’ve been secretly engaged since childhood, and that Miss Emily merely acted as a decoy. And then there are those who are of the opinion that Lady Kate stole Mr. Fairchild away from Miss Emily—that she and Mr. Fairchild had a prior attachment to one another which Lady Kate somehow managed to dissolve.”

Emily felt as though she might faint. Had her relationship with Kate and Adrian really been dissected and examined by the entire
ton
? It was horrifying.