Daring Miss Danvers (17 page)

Emma didn’t need to hear the sound of the gravel crunching beneath his boots to know that Rathburn stood behind her. She could feel it through every pore on her body.

“My lady has arrived,” Rathburn said, settling his hand into the small of her back as if the gesture were familiar to them both. It wasn’t, and yet it felt . . . right. “And Weatherstone in tow with his beautiful entourage.”

Penelope and Delaney both beamed, their gazes missing nothing. Merribeth would have, too, but her attention was still diverted to the towering brick and windowed façade.

Charming as ever, Rathburn greeted them each in turn and finally gained Merribeth’s attention. “Where is Mr. Clairmore? I thought surely he would be in town by now.”

“It was so kind of you to extend the invitation to him,” she answered, her eyes brightening at the mention of her nearly betrothed. “I wrote to Mr. Clairmore about the picnic and suggested that he might want to travel up from Fernbough to get to know the wedding party before the happy day. Unfortunately, pressing matters keep him away. However, the wording in his letter leads me to believe I should expect a visit from him soon. I’m anticipating a grand romantic gesture any day.”

Emma had always admired Merribeth’s unshakable faith in Mr. Clairmore’s affection. She felt a pang of envy, wishing she could have the same certainty.

“When he is next in town, I shall arrange a dinner for us all,” Rathburn said, and then turned to address the group at large while keeping Emma at his side. Each time his fingers moved slightly, it sent a riot of tingles beneath her skin, which made it all the more difficult to remind herself that they were only playing a part. “I thought a tour of the main level would enhance our appetites.”

The small party agreed. However, when he proceeded to walk toward the wide entrance of the manor, she hesitated and turned her head to whisper. “Perhaps it would be best if you were to escort your mother. This must be difficult for her.”

Rathburn smiled down at her. “Your concern does you credit, and reminds me that we have much to talk about. Later,” he promised. “As for my mother, we spent yesterday together, here. As you might expect, there was some sadness, but overall she is happy that Hawthorne Manor will be a home once again.”

Confused, she frowned. Surely, he wouldn’t allow his mother to believe their pretense and had explained everything to her. “But—”

“
After
the picnic,” he said, his gaze locking with hers as if to speak through thought alone. However, it was a language she’d yet to learn. He must have noted her frustration, because he dropped his arm from her and drew in a breath. “Patience, Emma-
mine
. Until then, I must remember to keep my distance, for the sake of propriety.”

Emma stared after him as he walked to the door.

The tour was much the same as it had been before. Yet this time, Rathburn didn’t want anyone to go upstairs. Instead, he guided them through the main floor and kitchen.

He also made a point of not looking at her again for a while, which left her oddly bereft. Not only that, but since she’d overheard his conversation with the Smiths, she felt unworthy of him. How could she ever have thought he was an irredeemable rake? How could she have been blind to the truth all this time?

Her musings left her unable to enjoy the banquet of fruits, cheeses, and breads. Instead, she stared out at the garden. The old hedgerow had been removed. In its place were polished, dark wood poles draped in white canvas and silk, looking very much like corsair pirate sails as they caught the breeze and undulated with it. The canvas and silk sails were used on every other space, showing a glimpse of the garden through one, just enough for a hint of what lay beyond.

“What do you think, Miss Danvers?” Rathburn asked, coming near to her for the first time in what seemed like hours. “Of course, it isn’t permanent, but for an afternoon picnic, I thought it was enough to see the blooming flowers beyond. After all, they are timid little blossoms,” he added with a grin that he mostly kept to himself.

She tamped down a sudden rush of longing when she lifted her gaze to his. How much longer would she be able to look at him like this before their mock betrothal ended? “I feel like I’m staring out at an exotic land, with the hint of color waiting to be explored.”

“Perhaps you’d like to join me for a walk?”

Her parents overheard the request and gave their consent. There was no harm in walking in full view—or nearly—during a picnic. However, she didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing what she had to tell him. Besides that, she’d brought something with her that would finally reveal her secret.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I wonder if you might have a book on . . .” —she hesitated— “flowering perennials I could borrow?”

He frowned in confusion. However, curiosity lifted his brows and he offered a slight nod. “I have several. Would it be acceptable for me to escort your daughter to the library?” Apparently, he was far more adept at understanding the language of her unspoken thoughts.

Her mother hid a sly grin behind her napkin, obviously having the wrong idea. If Emma hadn’t been so nervous, she would have said outright that Rathburn didn’t see her in that manner. Then again, she hardly ever said what was on her mind. Instead, she held it inside until it rushed out in the only way she knew how to truly express herself.

Her fingers twitched. She looked from one parent to the other and then to the faces of those gathered, her nerves raw and frayed. She suddenly realized she couldn’t do this any longer. She couldn’t pretend to be practical, sensible Emma. She couldn’t keep lying to them about—

“Certainly,” her father said. “She’s spent a great deal of time studying horticulture recently. I would never deter my daughter from her pursuit of knowledge.”

Once Rathburn led her away through the ballroom doors, he arched an enquiring brow at her. “Horticulture?”

“Merely expanding my Latin vocabulary,” she lied. Her determination to tell Rathburn her secret wavered, vacillating between two schools of thought. The first school being the
It’s Too Late
, whereas the second one was the
It’s Now or Never
.

“You have been very busy with the manor of late,” she said, in an effort to ease her way into their inevitable conversation.

“Have you missed me?” he teased, but looked pleased by the notion.

She had, only she wouldn’t admit it. “I know you have obligations to oversee the labor.”

“Perhaps I’ve been waiting for you to flatter me with demands for my time.”

He was the last person who required more flattery, as her adoring gaze must surely be showing him. “I’m not the demanding sort.”

“No, you’re not, though I wouldn’t mind if you were.”

Her heart issued a tremulous flutter at the way his words drifted off to a whisper. Almost as if he hadn’t planned to tell her, which made her want to believe it all the more. “Demand that you attend the Binghams’ dinner tomorrow evening? A tour of the art exhibit in the afternoon. A carriage ride through the park each morning. Lord and Lady Finch’s ball next week . . .” She let her schedule drift off into oblivion.

“I will concede to each one, except for the tour of the exhibit.”

Of course. The only one she’d been looking forward too. “Why ever not?”

“Because the instant you mentioned it, I could only think of all the different dark corners and hidden alcoves I could lure you into,” he said, his gaze holding her captive. “Alone with you, I cannot be trusted.”

Her heart gave a sudden jolt. She tried to ignore it and tore her gaze from his. That’s when she realized they were already standing in the library. On the opposite wall, a tower of books stood from floor to ceiling, with a steep wooden ladder attached to a brass rail near the top. Twin sets of hunter green brocade curtains were pulled back to bathe the room in sunlight, allowing her to see the corner desk clearly. Earlier, she’d secretly asked Tom, her parents’ driver, to leave the leather case in the library when all the guests were on the patio. And now, here it sat, waiting for her courage to make an appearance.

“We are alone now,” she said without thinking.

Rathburn went stock-still and captured her gaze again. That hard, possessive look flashed in his dark pupils, and suddenly the air between them became thick and heavy. She went still, too, not realizing how swiftly the mood could change from companionable conversation to something more palpable.

For a solitary moment, she forgot why they were there. Unlike earlier, the room was now warm and humid, which seemed unlikely on such a fine spring day. Beneath her gloves, her palms grew damp, and she pressed them together to ease her discomfort. At her wrists, her pulse beat rapidly.

“You wanted a book on flowering perennials,” he said, though his words were more like a question.

No. She wanted to close the distance between them. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck. She wanted to kiss him. A book was the farthest thing from her mind—

The shock of her bold thoughts abruptly drew her back to her purpose. She remembered why it was necessary to have him alone in the library, even though this more recent option kept her titillated. “Actually, I wanted to have a moment with you. In private. I wanted you to know . . .” Her voice suddenly gave out, forcing her to clear her throat to reclaim it.

He studied her closely and shifted his stance as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether to stay still or move toward her. Beneath the hard line of his jaw and above his cravat, his pulse matched hers. He swallowed and tore his gaze away before he shook his head as if convincing himself he was wrong about whatever he was thinking.

“If this is about our discussion, I’d rather wait until we have a bit more time,” he said, moving past her and walking toward the desk.

She took a deep breath. “It isn’t. Actually, it has to do with the case on your desk and what’s inside.”

He looked down, confusion furrowing his brow as he lifted the case. “You wished me to see this?”

“What’s inside . . . yes,” she answered. Overcome by uncertainty, she stepped forward, too.

Since ignoring her tumultuous feelings regarding Rathburn had been a Sisyphean task, she’d found another occupation—or rather another occupation had found her once more. Unable to contain the emotions roiling within her, she’d begun to paint again.

Oh, she knew how such an act would be perceived by the
ton
. If anyone discovered her secret, she’d become the pariah her parents were. She knew the risk.

So, when her father had approached her, years ago, with the idea of applying to the Royale Academy, she’d had to make a very difficult decision. She knew that if she ever wanted to marry and have a family of her own, she had to cease her own pursuits.

Of course, sketching and painting with watercolors were acceptable—even expected—hobbies for the well-rounded debutante. However, for an unmarried young woman, painting with oil was seen as wanton and ill bred, beyond the pale even more than gaming or reading romances. A
lady
simply did not paint with oils. Add her parents’ reputations to her own tendency to allow her emotions to run through each stroke of the brush, and she knew she couldn’t display an inkling of artistic tendencies without drawing unwanted attention. Therefore, she’d told her parents that she’d lost interest in painting.

However, lately, the part of her nature she’d kept buried for years in order to fit in refused to stay hidden. There were moments when no amount of needlework would occupy her hands. But she’d needed to express herself, to say everything she kept bottled inside her without risking too much of herself.

Yet, pages of charcoal sketches didn’t help. Nor did another foray with watercolors capture the torturous depths of these feelings. Only oil could do that for her. And she kept her shameful secret hidden beneath a false bottom of her wardrobe.

Earlier today, she’d slipped the canvas inside one of the carrying cases her father used and asked the driver to conceal it for her. After all, she couldn’t risk being seen with it. She didn’t want to explain to her parents what was inside.

And now, Rathburn turned the clasp.

The case fell open over his desk. The painting lay there for all the world to see . . . or at least for Rathburn to see.

She found herself struggling between wanting to hurl her body over the painting to conceal it, and wanting to hear his opinion.

“You brought me a painting of a garden. It’s quite lovely, though I cannot imagine—
Oh
. This is a painting of the garden here, or at least what it could be.” He glanced up at her, a true smile on his face. Nothing hidden this time. Nothing he kept for himself. Instead, he gave her all of it.

She steeled herself for what she must say.

Beside her, Rathburn lowered his gaze to the oil landscape. “Wherever did you find it? The artist’s talent is remarkable. And the garden is laid out in a way that mimics the one here.”

“I—” She broke off abruptly as his words seeped in. A newfound pleasure washed over her at hearing his praise. Knowing that he mistakenly thought he was paying compliments to an anonymous artist didn’t stop a light airy sensation from filling her. “You think it’s remarkable?”

“There is a depth to every stroke that makes me see the garden in an entirely different light. The flowers are alive. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe their fragrance filled the room.”

Though he may not know it, he was seeing part of her, a part she kept hidden from the rest of the world, even from herself. In his expression and comments, she found a kind of acceptance.

“Do you like how the walkway is lined with a combination of pruned topiaries and hydrangeas instead of boxwood?”

“I do. They remind me of . . .” His gaze held hers as if he could see the inner workings of her mind, or even see the vapor that comprised her soul. “They remind me of the ones on the Dorsets’ patio.”

Suddenly, she felt nervous, exposed. Almost as if he’d guessed the truth. The confession was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t force herself to tell him. She wanted to hold on to the freedom of him not knowing for another moment or so.