How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back (10 page)

A few strands of her hair had come loose, dangling mindlessly against her cheek. Lifting his hand, he carefully brushed them away and tucked them behind her ear as she sucked in her breath.

He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his hands, flowing up his arms and outward, until it filled his entire body. His immediate instinct was to pull her closer, to kiss her deeply and passionately on that delightful mouth of hers.

But the timing was all wrong. If he kissed her now, he’d be rushing it, and for some peculiar reason (he couldn’t quite comprehend why), it seemed important that he take his time with Emily. Something deep within him warned him not to kiss her at that very moment, but to wait. So instead of pulling her toward him, he straightened his back, let go of her, and lowered his arms to his sides. “You
will
attend that ball, and you
shall
do it with your head held high. You won’t cower in a corner or on a bench at the side of the dance floor. You shall dance, Emily Rutherford, and you shall have a bloody good time doing it. Is that understood?”

Emily nodded numbly, both confused and slightly disturbed, though she wasn’t quite sure which sentiment dominated her current mood. Had he said those exact same words five minutes earlier, she would undoubtedly have snapped at him. However, she was incapable of an appropriate rejoinder at that very moment, for her mind had become cloudy and foggy. In fact, she couldn’t recall ever being so befuddled before in her life.

It had almost looked as if Francis had intended on kissing her, right there in the study, in the middle of the afternoon. Francis, whose somber attitude she had barely been able to tolerate only a few days ago. Yet somehow, the world as she knew it had managed to unhinge itself and topple sideways. All of a sudden, Adrian, with whom she had been in love for years, was engaged to someone else—that someone else being none other than her best friend Kate. Kate, who’d had to suffer all of Emily’s incessant chatter about Adrian to such a degree that her ears must have started to bleed. And now, to top it all off, she was beginning to think that Francis might actually like her in more than merely a friendly sort of way, that in spite of how badly she’d treated the poor man over the years, he might actually like to kiss her.

There was no other explanation than the most obvious one of all: she was completely delusional! No, she was mad . . . mad about Francis—no, no, no! She wasn’t—she just thought she might be. She was vulnerable and easily susceptible to any man’s charms. She had been spurned, and therefore (she rationalized), it was only natural that she might (subconsciously, of course) try to interpret a man’s way of speaking or looking at her as a sign that he might be interested in her.

And yet, her whole body had responded to the way he had looked at her. Her heart was fluttering, her stomach was in upheaval, and she felt as if she’d lost her knees somewhere between him grabbing hold of her and then brushing aside her hair. Surely such things didn’t occur from something she had just imagined . . . or did it?

Whatever had happened, she didn’t understand it, and she didn’t even try to, for it made no sense to her whatsoever. She knew only one thing, and that was that she deeply wished he would have kissed her.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

E
mily stared into the mirror in front of her as she carefully ran her hands over her pale green gown. Her long hair had been braided and coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck, the shorter strands at the front curled, ever so slightly, in order to frame her face.

She took a slow, deep breath. This was it—the evening that she had been dreading had finally arrived. She had already attended three other balls together with her sisters, including an evening at Almack’s, where they had each received Lady Hawthorne’s permission to waltz. Emily had taken to waltzing immediately, though Beatrice had on more than one occasion insisted that she not smile quite as much as she did—it would give people the impression that she enjoyed her partners’ closeness more than was deemed appropriate.

Emily did try to follow her older sister’s advice—not because she herself cared a farthing for what others might think, but rather to prevent Beatrice from keeling over from sheer embarrassment. It was, after all, Beatrice who had been responsible for their upbringing following their parents’ deaths. Any inappropriate behavior or lack of etiquette would be construed as nothing more than a testament to Beatrice’s failing attempts at educating her sisters properly.

Lady Giddington had accompanied them on each occasion as their chaperone. It was odd, really. Upon meeting her again (after that dreadfully embarrassing incident where she had behaved so rudely that she wondered why Beatrice hadn’t admonished her also), Emily had wondered what on earth had prompted her to laugh in the first place. Veronica had been most kind and helpful toward all of them. Not only that, but it seemed that she actually possessed an extraordinary sense of which dresses suited them best (in spite of the unfortunate blue one that she herself had worn when they had first met). And, she had looked nothing short of stunning in each of the gowns that she had worn since.

Emily looked analytically at her face as it stared back at her from the mirror. Adhering to fashion, she always stayed out of the sun, and therefore had the same pale complexion as everyone else she knew. Yet there was a line to be drawn between fashionably pale and looking sickly, and she rather fancied herself as appearing to be quite sickly looking indeed.

It must be nerves, she thought as she pinched her cheeks in hopes of adding some color. In fact, if she had to be altogether honest, her stomach was completely unsettled and her skin had begun to crawl with anxiety. She felt faint and reached out to her vanity in order to steady herself. This was a bad idea. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was quite possibly the worst idea in the world for her to attend this ball. She ought to stay at home, curled up in bed where she belonged. But . . . Francis wouldn’t allow it. He had said as much, and when she had had the chance to, she hadn’t argued the point. And so, here she was on the verge of collapse, ready to head on out to a ball she was sure to hate.

She sighed one last time, then straightened her back, and turned toward the door.

Gracefully resting her hand on the banister, Emily made her way down the stairs toward the murmur of voices coming from the parlor. Pausing for a moment with her hand on the door handle, she pushed the remaining nerves under a magnificent mask of composure. Then, turning the handle, she nudged the door open and entered.

Francis was in deep conversation with Jonathan, who was always invited to join them. They seemed to be discussing a few of Francis’s investments.

“Perhaps you ought to forget about your other ventures,” Jonathan was saying. “And increase your stock with the East India Company.”

“Perhaps,” Francis agreed with a thoughtful frown. Then, seeing the door open out of the corner of his eye, he turned his head and immediately caught his breath.

How could Adrian have been so stupid? That was the first thought that came to mind as he saw Emily standing there, framed in the doorway with the hallway light glowing behind her. She looked positively stunning.

He had tried to hold his growing feelings for her in check since their meeting in his study. That was almost two weeks ago now and he had managed the feat in spite of how difficult it had been for him.

He had wanted to get to the bottom of his own emotions—to find out if making his intentions known to her would be worth the risk. After all, in spite of their past disagreements, Emily was a sweet girl, so he didn’t want to play the rogue and tarnish her otherwise spotless reputation. If he were to kiss her, he would only do so if he was sure that he might be able to follow through with a proposal of marriage, and marriage was definitely not something to be taken lightly.

And then of course there was
her
opinion to consider. Would she even care to entertain the thought of kissing him, let alone marrying him? He was willing to bet his life that she wasn’t. Not yet anyway. Therefore, he had made up his mind. He had devised a carefully thought-out plan, its sole purpose being to eventually ensure Emily’s hand in marriage. And he would do it the old-fashioned way—through trickery.

If indeed she happened to be a woman like any other, he knew she must have been thinking of him since he had held her in the study, wondering why he hadn’t kissed her. He had caught her a number of times since then, thoughtfully regarding him as if trying to figure him out.

Even now as her gaze swept across the room, it seemed she made a deliberated effort not to look at him. But then of course curiosity got the better of her, and her eyes found him. The corner of his mouth drew upward in a crooked smile. Color flooded her face, she looked away, and just like that, he knew that she’d been thinking of him. The thrill of it (though it didn’t show) rippled through his veins. It was all the encouragement he needed in order to pursue her. With a satisfied inward smile, he turned back to Jonathan to finish his conversation.

Emily stood, stranded with her whirlwind of emotions. Had she imagined it yet again? She was sure that he had looked at her with desire in his eyes, and yet he had turned away with an otherwise unmoved expression. It left her feeling rather deflated.

All that nervous energy that she had built up was suddenly gone, and that was when she realized that it had all been for him. She hadn’t thought of Adrian when she had readied herself for the ball. She had thought of Francis, wondering—no, hoping—that he would approve of the way she looked. Yet he had barely given her any attention at all.

The disappointment frightened her. Why would she care about Francis’s opinion? Why did it matter what he thought of her? Once again the cloud of confusion that had become all too familiar over the past couple of weeks washed over her. She turned to Beatrice and Claire, seated on a bench by the window.

“You look particularly lovely this evening.” Trust Beatrice to say something like that. There was no doubt she meant it—Emily just wished that Francis would have said it instead. There she was, thinking of him again. She hated the fact that she thought of him at all. “Thank you,” she replied in the cheeriest voice she could manage. “So do the two of you. Your hair is beautifully styled, Claire, and Bea, your dress complements your complexion perfectly. Well done!”

The two women smiled, clearly pleased with the compliment.

“Did Francis tell you?” Claire asked as she almost bounced up and down on the bench with excitement.

“Tell me what?” Emily’s eyes moved from one sister to the other, trying to read the expressions on their faces.

“He plans to dance with all three of us this evening. Can you imagine? Francis dancing!” Claire’s eyes grew wide. “It must be centuries since anyone has seen him dance. I wonder if he even remembers how to.”

She whispered the last part as Beatrice quickly hushed her. “You mustn’t say such things,” she admonished. “Least of all in his own home—not to mention his presence. Have you no sense of decorum at all?” But the suppressed giggle was present in Beatrice’s eyes, even as she made the stoic attempt at sounding severe.

“Claire does have a point, Bea,” Emily cut in, to the immense satisfaction of Claire, who grinned at her sister’s unexpected show of support. “I certainly can’t remember Francis ever dancing at any of the events where we’ve seen him.”

Claire’s grin withered, and Beatrice suddenly looked stricken. Emily went on, determined to remember some of Francis’s faults, in the face of her recent and extremely confounding feelings toward him. “He always stands as far away from the dance floor as possible. That’s of course unless he’s in the game room playing cards, which, judging from my observations, I think is where he feels far more comfortable. One does tend to wonder, however, why a man with such strikingly good looks is never seen in the company of a lady. Then again, his glum demeanor is hardly to his advantage. If I’m not mistaken, I do believe the majority of young women fear him.”

“And here I was, thinking that it was just such a demeanor that most young women were drawn to—the troubled rogue that melts their hearts with a dark and brooding stare.”

She recognized the voice immediately, a slight shiver running down her spine, her body trembling as heat rushed into her face. She knew she needn’t worry about looking too pale anymore. No mirror was required to tell her that her face had turned scarlet.

Her eyes squeezed shut as she bit down on her lip—embarrassment seeping out of every pore. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him.

He was closer than she had expected—so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her face. She looked up into those dark and mysterious eyes of his. “I . . .” was all she managed before he cut her off.

“Are my looks really that striking?” he asked with a mischievous undertone.

“What? Er . . . well . . . you see . . . the thing is . . .” Emily stammered. Good God, he smelled good, standing there so close to her. She wanted nothing more than to drown in his aroma. Her head felt dizzy with it and it was clearly impairing her ability to string a coherent sentence together. “I’m sorry,” she finally managed to get out. “That was insensitive of me. I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness.”

“Well . . . that depends.” His voice was close to a whisper. She could have sworn that everyone else in the room had vanished in that instant—nobody else seemed to exist as long as he stood there staring into her eyes, the heat there warning her that this was more than a straightforward conversation. He was publicly flirting with her—she was now certain of it—and it excited her in a way that nothing else ever had.

Francis arched an eyebrow as he lowered his head toward her. “Would you do me the honor of letting me show you that I do indeed remember how to dance?”

Emily sucked in a breath and pretended to ponder the question with a great deal of thought before finally saying, “I would be delighted, Francis.”

He then offered her his arm. “Shall we? I believe our carriage awaits.”

“Well, if you are to escort Emily, then I shall have the pleasure of attending to her sisters,” Jonathan grinned as he offered one arm to Beatrice and the other to Claire. “Really, old friend! It seems that I have, yet again, made the better deal.”

“I hardly think so,” Emily heard Francis mutter, as he guided her out of the room. A warm feeling wafted through her—delight over his apparent pleasure at having her hand resting upon his arm. Perhaps it was finally time to realize that there was more to life than Adrian. And Francis may be just the man to show her what she’d been missing.