Daring Miss Danvers (15 page)

“That’s because,” Miss Wakefield added, “Miss Danvers and Lord Rathburn were merrily conversing with us the entire time.”

Emma relaxed for an instant, but then went rigid again. “But what if someone spied the two of you where you professed not to be?”

The redhead shrugged. “Then they were mistaken.”

“And we are just about to return to our seats, speaking very loudly about our amusing conversation,” Miss Wakefield said, but arched a wickedly intimidating brow at him, no doubt chastising him for getting her friend into a sticky situation.

He took it on the chin like a man and inclined his head. “Don’t forget how you were both delighted to receive an invitation to a spring picnic at Hawthorne Manor.”

Both of her friends lit up at the invitation. Emma herself lifted her gaze, awarding him with a smile so true it nearly stole his breath. He felt redeemed.

“Pray, forgive me, Lord Rathburn,” Miss McFarland said with a wink to Emma. “But I seem to have forgotten the date already.”

“A week from today,” he offered, hoping he could achieve a great deal in the next few days.

“Splendid!” Miss Wakefield added before they said their goodbyes to Emma and returned to their seats.

A servant came up to them, carrying a tray of punch-filled cups. Rathburn asked that they be taken up to the Duke of Heathcoat’s box, then made sure to follow closely so that he wouldn’t put Emma in the path of scandal again.

She blew out a breath. “That was a close call.”

“Yes. Apparently, Miss Mallory is no friend of yours.”

Emma shook her head. “And all because of a simple conversation.”

He frowned and slowed his steps, as they were nearing the top. “Was it merely a
simple
conversation?”

“How can it be otherwise? Everything that was said, every promise made, was surrounded by a very large
if
.”

“
If
we marry in twenty days, you mean,” he said, though he was having difficulty believing what he was hearing. Surely, she couldn’t still . . . “You still believe nothing has changed.”

How could that be, when everything was patently different for him? What would it take for her to see things as they truly were? How he’d changed? How he was serious?

He was tempted to march straight up to the box and confess the entire mock betrothal to his grandmother, solely so he could propose to Emma earnestly. However, her next words stopped him from doing just that and made him realize he might have to resort to other tactics.

“That was our bargain, after all,” she said solemnly, slipping her hand free to stand apart from him, and leaving him cold in more ways than one. “This pretense was the first of our promises to each other. If we cannot keep that, then there is no reason to believe in the others we’ve made.”

T
he following morning, the
Post
made no mention of an encounter between
Miss D
— and
Lord R
— scandalous or otherwise.

Rathburn searched the copy again and again to be sure. He even asked Stewart if he was certain this was the entire paper. When the head butler looked at him peculiarly, he realized that he sounded like a crazed buffoon.

He probably was. In fact, he’d lain awake all night, practicing the speeches he’d prepared for his grandmother and the Archbishop of Canterbury, listing the reasons why he required a special license. Why he
must
marry Emma Danvers.

Yet, in the morning, when it was clear he didn’t need to deliver any speech at all, a rise of unspent energy churned inside him.

While he kept himself busier than usual of late—primarily to abstain from compiling a list of ways he could get Emma Danvers alone in order to prove to her that his intentions were serious—he gave himself another occupation.

Restless, he left the townhouse and drove to Hawthorne Manor. It wasn’t uncommon for him to remove his morning coat and roll up his shirtsleeves to assist the laborers. So, when he came prepared to expend more than his share of energy, the workmen kindly let him apply himself to constructing the massive four-poster bed in the viscountess’s bedchamber.

The servants now referred to it as Miss Danvers’s room, and he’d never bothered to correct them. Referring to it as
Emma’s chamber
in his own mind was probably the reason why he’d had the plaster workers add sprays of jasmine to the corner molding in the room and over the doors. The finest silk wallpaper decorated the space in a beautiful pearlescent cream color, with ribbons of pink adorning thin stripes of chocolate brown. The colors worked perfectly together, creating a space that was simple and yet elegant, just like the woman who’d inspired his choice.

This is all for her,
a voice whispered inside him. Not just this chamber, the sitting room, or even the bathing chamber, but the whole house and the view from each window. Each day, he found himself wondering about her opinion on everything from the colors of the draperies to the buds sprouting from the earth outside.
“They’re just beginning to bloom,”
she’d said to him that day he’d given her a tour.
“It would be a shame not to give them a chance.”

A profound realization coursed through him as sudden and as exhilarating as a summer storm.
They
were the blooms, fragile, fresh and new, waiting to blossom. Waiting for a reason to end the pretense in favor of a true betrothal.

Rathburn could no longer deny it. He wasn’t pretending any longer, or acting according to his grandmother’s expectations. In fact, he doubted he ever was.

He
wanted
to marry Emma Danvers.

She’d told him how only a fool would lose her heart to him. Yet, that’s exactly what he wanted from her. He wanted her to lose her heart, or more to the point, to give it to him of her own free will.

Now, the only problem was convincing her that he would take proper care of it once she did. He needed to convince her that he was a suitable—

A gasp at the door broke his concentration and he dropped the corner post on top of his foot. However, seeing that it was his grandmother doing the gasping, he bit back the curse on the tip of his tongue. Gingerly, he eased his boot out from under the bruising weight.

“When the servants said I’d find you working in the viscountess’s bedchamber, I didn’t actually imagine I’d find you . . .
laboring
.” The last word held the same censure as if she’d learned he had leprosy and didn’t want to catch it. “Surely, you should be overseeing the laborers, not doing their work for them.”

“Good morning, Grandmamma,” he said as pleasantly as he could with his foot throbbing. “Did you come all this way to ensure I wasn’t holed up in a den of debauchery?”

“It is the
afternoon
, and don’t be cheeky with me,” she scolded as she walked into the room. Once she finished leveling him with her glare, she surveyed the room, pursing her lips, occasionally nodding. She pointed the tip of her cane to the corner molding. “Inspired by Miss Danvers, I presume?”

He half shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”

That earned him another glare as she lowered her cane and tapped it against the freshly varnished floors, the sound echoing around them. Yet, for some reason, he had the suspicion her crossness was merely a façade. Was that a trace of a smile he spied? Surely not.

“There is a rumor flitting about of a picnic to be held here in a week’s time,” she began, but turned away to examine the view from the windows, effectively telling him that she didn’t want or expect his response. “A week is hardly enough time to make the garden acceptable. Unless, of course, you remove the old boxwood and put in a temporary screen of sorts. That way, the guests can still dine on the patio and their view won’t be an unpleasant reminder of this home’s tragic past.”

Her words hit him harder than they should, the wound still too tender for him to respond. Yet, it was her use of
home
that gave him a sense that she wasn’t as unfeeling as she’d usually appeared.

She continued her perusal of the room, her steps and the tip of her cane marking her slow journey. She usually walked with purpose, so her change in pace left him to wonder about the reason.

“I don’t regret much in my life,” she remarked after a short while. “However, I do regret never telling your father how much I admired him for making my only daughter happy. And for bringing up a fine grandson for me.” At that, she offered a crinkly smile before she quickly cleared her throat and resumed her usual severe expression. “It is because of that, I’ve come here with this letter.”

She withdrew a thick packet of papers from her reticule and held it out. Curious, he moved forward to take it, but found her grip stayed firm.

“Before you read it,” she said with a slight shrug, the uncharacteristic action making her look softer and approachable. Heaven forbid if he told her such a thing. “I’ll simply tell you that I’ve released your inheritance to you, without condition. You’ve done a remarkable amount of work here and all on your own. I thought it high time—before time gets away from me—to tell you, I find that an admirable quality.”

Rathburn stood there, speechless. It took him a moment to recover and realize that she’d released the letter. The bulky packet felt heavy in his hand, as if weighted by the responsibility that went with it. “Without condition?”

“While you may have believed that I wanted you to prove yourself worthy, the actual reason I withheld your inheritance was for you to come to terms with the demons of your past. After your father died, you closed yourself off from the world for a time. Your behavior worried me and I feared you would end up traveling the same path as so many of your predecessors. As long as I limited your funds and kept you thinking about your true goals, instead of getting lost, I felt you had a chance.” She flipped her hand in a gesture as if to say that was over now. “You needn’t marry, if you aren’t so inclined—though I say that with reservations, because it would be nice to enjoy the sight of a great-grandchild before I’m bedridden and half blind.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

A sigh escaped her pursed lips as if she were perturbed, yet there was a gleam of amusement in her gaze. “Under these circumstances, it’s appropriate to kiss your grandmother on the cheek and thank her, I’m sure.”

He did just that, and then hugged her for good measure, startling a laugh out of her as she swatted him away. “You are coming to the picnic, aren’t you?”

“Is that my invitation?”

He bowed. “Grandmamma, I would be honored if you would attend a picnic here at Hawthorne Manor in six days’ time.”

She turned away and walked at a fine clip to the door. “I’ll check my schedule.”

N
ormally Emma dragged Maudette with her on her weekly errand to the shop in St. Giles, but today she was in too much of a hurry. After paying the hack, she walked across the sidewalk, ignoring the filth beneath her feet, and stepped through the door with a basket in one hand and a bundle of clothes in the other.

A cheerful bell chimed as the door closed and a fresh-faced young woman in a ruffled cap came out of the back room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Miss Danvers!” she greeted with a broad and genuine smile, rushing forward to help with the burden. “Why, today isn’t your day, at all. You usually come here on Thursdays.”

Emma gratefully handed over the clothes so she could use both hands to hold on to the heavy basket. “You’re right, Penny, but this Thursday I have another engagement. So, I thought I’d come early.”

Penny and Archie Smith, owners of the shop, had once worked at Hawthorne Manor. Married less than a month before the night of the fire, Penny had been a parlor maid and Archie a footman. However, that night, everything changed. Neither Penny nor Archie managed to escape the fire unscathed, Archie worst of all.

“Gracious,” Penny said as she set the bundle down on the long chest of drawers near the back of the room. “What if his lordship decides to come early today?”

“Then you’ll have to stuff me in the wardrobe,” Emma said with a grin as she lifted the basket.

She’d been coming to High Street once a week for the past three years. Initially, she’d asked Penny to keep her visits a secret, though over the years, she’d become less concerned about it. Even so, neither she nor Rathburn brought it up in conversation. However, today, because she was here without a chaperone, she would hate for him to discover her, especially after she was always making a big fuss about propriety. If he caught her, and if—
heaven forbid
—his grandmother were with him, she would never hear the end of it. Not only that, but the consequences could be disastrous for Rathburn gaining his inheritance.

Penny untied the string around the bundle, fumbling a bit with the knot due to the gloves she always wore. While her natural beauty had been saved due to the wet blanket over her head as she’d rushed from the house, the hands clutching the blanket hadn’t been as lucky. Terribly burned, scarred flesh covered her hands and her lower arms.

Archie wouldn’t have suffered such an awful fate if he hadn’t been the one who rushed back into the burning house with Oliver to search for the late Lord Rathburn. When Oliver emerged from the fire, carrying Archie over his shoulders, he’d told the story of how the brave footman had pushed him out of the way of a falling beam.

Archie had saved his life. A miracle that Emma was grateful for every single day. A world without Rathburn would seem far too empty and lackluster—or at least her world, her life would be. A fact that had occurred to her the night of the play, when she’d found herself wishing his bold declaration could be true.

For an instant, she’d forgotten their engagement was only a pretense, and she found herself wishing she could have him in her life forever.

That wish had made her speak from her heart and very nearly kiss him without thought of consequence. And then she’d heard voices in corridor and remembered where she was. Her insecurities had resurfaced as she thought of the beautiful, ethereal Lily Lovetree, and how Rathburn might still have her as his mistress if not for his need to prove himself to his grandmother. And the realization that he would never have considered Emma for his bride out of his own desire.