How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back (15 page)

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

“W
here is she?” Francis’s voice was filled with rage as he flew up the steps of his home at Dunhurst Park. He had ridden without pause after receiving the urgent message, finally arriving three hours later.

“In the drawing room, sir,” the housekeeper told him in a fluster as she rushed to keep up with him. “She’s been shouting all manner of abuse at the servants. A number of them won’t have it any more—they’ve threatened to leave—and I . . . well, I’m inclined to follow their lead, though I do beg your pardon, sir.”

“For the love of God, Mrs. Reynolds, how long has she been here?”

“Since yesterday afternoon, sir—she slept in the library,” Mrs. Reynolds told him, looking thoroughly perplexed. “We tried sending her away, but she wouldn’t have it—insisted we contact you immediately, or else. I didn’t know what else to do, what with Parker being away and all.”

“One day and half of my staff is already threatening to resign? I never took her for anything less than a cankerous shrew, but . . .” His words trailed off. “She must have been trouble, indeed, if even you have become eager to leave.”

“I do apologize, sir. I surely hope it will not come to that.”

“As do I, Mrs. Reynolds, as do I,” Francis bit out as he strode down the hall and into the drawing room.

“What do you want?” Francis’s voice sliced through the air as he regarded the woman who sat so elegantly on the silk brocade chaise. Her auburn hair was knotted at the nape of her neck, while fashionable ringlets framed a face that was, indeed, quite pretty. She wore a white dress with wildflowers embroidered along the hem and a hat on her head, adorned with a green satin ribbon.

Francis’s eyes were cold as ice, his mouth drawn tight over gritting teeth. Oh, how he longed to be rid of her.

If she detected his wrath, she pretended not to notice as she smiled at him sweetly. “Ah, Francis—at last. I have so been looking forward to seeing you again. Please, won’t you come and join me?”

He walked toward her, the hatred fierce in his dark eyes. Yet she held his gaze, unflinching—that pleasant smile still pasted on her lips—such an image of kindness. But to him she represented anything but. In his eyes, she stood for everything that he had lost. This creature that sat before him was by no means a lady. On the contrary, she was a cold and calculating bitch, and he must not allow himself to be ensnared by her pretenses.

“How have you been, Francis?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“I don’t believe you came here to ask about my well-being, Charlotte,” Francis sneered. “In fact, I very much doubt that you give a damn.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed slightly at the comment. She puckered her lips, then rose to her feet in a stately fashion. “You’re quite right, my dear.” Her voice was silky soft as it drifted through the air. Francis flinched slightly at the endearment, his eyes darting instinctively across the room to where they settled on a painting on the wall. He loved that painting, and he looked at it now, imploring it to help him get through this horrid affair.

A beautiful woman stared down at him, her big round eyes filled with happiness. Her hair was dark blonde, falling in loose tresses about her heart-shaped face, and her eyes were the brightest blue. Elisabeth Riley—the beloved woman who had raised him—looked truly enchanting in her portrait.

He had never seen her cry—not once—though she certainly would have had ample reason to. But no, she had smiled and laughed and played with him throughout his childhood. She had raised him well, implementing in him a joy for all the little wonders of the world around him . . . the sound of leaves rustling in the treetops, the way a heartbeat could convey emotion. It tore at his heart and his soul to know how unhappy she must have been beneath that façade.

“She was so weak in character, you know.” Charlotte’s words slashed at his heart.

He whipped his head around in her direction. “Watch your mouth, Charlotte,” he warned.

“Or what?” she asked as she tilted her head. “Come, Francis. We both know you can’t touch me. I have the upper hand—remember?” Her voice was taunting to his ears as she leered at him from behind those fluttering lashes of hers. “I’ll never forget how she begged for her husband to come to her at night instead of to me . . . the look of despair in her eyes when she saw that I was far more tempting. Pathetic, really!”

“This is still my house, Charlotte, and as such, I will ask you as nicely as I can to refrain from mentioning my mother.” His voice was so sharp it would have felled an army, yet Charlotte remained seemingly unperturbed. Her words, however, had set his blood boiling. His hatred for her ran deep. In time he would find something . . . some way in which to make her pay.

She gave a small, bubbling laugh as she clasped her hands in front of her in rapt amusement. Then she shook her head. “Oh, Francis,” she mused. “Dear, dear Francis.” She paused for a moment as something within her shifted. He had seen it happen before and knew that her act had finally come to an end. Coldness descended upon her like frost on a winter’s morning. The warmth was gone from her eyes, replaced by an icy glare. “
I
am your mother. Don’t think for a minute that I intend to let you forget that.”

“You are mistaken, madam,” he told her coolly as he pointed toward the painting of Elisabeth Riley. “
She
was my mother—my true mother.
You
are nothing but a bit o’ muslin, a Cyprian, a demimondaine—I’ll let you pick the term you find most fitting, shall I?” His eyes mocked her relentlessly.

“And you, sir, are nothing but a by-blow,” she scoffed.

The words were like a slap across his face, though he did not show it.

How he longed to wring the vile woman’s neck, but by some miracle he managed to restrain himself. He would not see himself incarcerated on her account.

He would never understand how his father could have kept her as his mistress for all those years, but then again, she was a fabulous actress who had no doubt captivated him with a wonderful performance.

He strolled over to the window and looked out over the garden. The sunny day with cloudless skies was in stark contrast to his mood. Finding no solace in it, he turned away. “I would be much obliged if you would please get to the point,” he told her. “I assume you’ve come to get more money. Am I correct?”

Her countenance was once again as sweet as a five-year-old girl in pigtails. “Why, Francis, that’s just the thing. How clever of you to have figured it out,” she drawled.

“How much?”

“Oh . . . shall we say . . . five thousand pounds for now? I think that sounds fair.” She nodded affirmatively.

“Fair?” Francis’s voice reverberated through the room. His eyes were knit close together in apparent outrage. “It’s not fair by any means, Charlotte. It’s madness! Do you have any concept of money whatsoever, or did you just throw a random number out there in hopes that I wouldn’t question it?”

The insult struck her unawares. She took a sharp breath as heat rushed to her cheeks. Few things rattled her, but clearly his implication that she was intellectually handicapped was definitely one of them. Francis saw her push her uncertainty aside, determined instead to focus on his weakness.

“I believe you have forgotten the letter that I have in my possession, Francis,” she declared. All emotion had vanished from her face as her unfeeling eyes met his. “Five thousand pounds, Francis—that is the price that you must pay if you wish for that letter to remain a secret. If you don’t pay it,” she smirked, “then you shall be as ruined as I, for I will indeed publish it for the entire world to see. Don’t doubt for a minute that I won’t.”

He let out a ragged sigh as he bent his head in contemplation.

There must be a way out of this mess, he thought.

How can I get rid of her? I’ll be paying her off for years to come as long as she’s holding that damn letter over my head.

But for now, he would have to give her the money, he reckoned, and then he would sit down and try to think of a more permanent solution.

His face was grim as he looked back up at her. “Very well,” he nodded. “You may come and collect it tomorrow. Now get out of my house before I have you thrown out.”

“That’s better, my dear,” she purred as she strolled toward him. She clasped his chin in her hand, then, leaned toward his cheek for a farewell kiss.

He pushed her away so vehemently that she twirled about, stumbling over her own feet, yet she managed to retain her balance. “Why, Francis, darling,” she said as her hand rose to her cheek in a look of surprise that was fairly overdone, even for her. “Don’t tell me you do not love your own mother. I’m not sure if I could bear it.”

Her tone was so sarcastic that it gave Francis the urge to beat her over the head with a mallet. “Madam, if it were up to me, I would have you drawn and quartered. Now, I bid you good day.” Turning on his heel, fully intent on leaving her presence if she would not leave his, he headed for the door.

“Not to worry, my dear,” she called after him. “I will always love you, Francis—even if it is only for your money!”

A wild cackle spread through the air, following him like wildfire as he rushed to get away from her. Seeing her again after so long . . . speaking with her . . . the touch of her hand on his chin . . . Francis shuddered. He felt much the same as he would have, had he just been covered in fecal matter. He needed a bath, immediately, and then he would go for a ride to clear his head.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

F
rancis spent the next three days in his own company. He had been forced to meet with Charlotte again in order to hand over the five thousand pounds—something he had done with great reluctance. But he didn’t want his family name tarnished, either—least of all by a woman like her.

His mood was darker than it had been in a while. It had been just over two years since Charlotte’s last visit, and he had grown comfortable, ignoring the fact that she would inevitably call again once her funds ran out.

If only there were a way for him to get his hands on that blasted letter, he thought, as he marched across the moor, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. A gust of wind picked up, blowing the tails of his coat out behind him and catching hold of his hair.

So much anger and pent-up rage coursed through his body, tensing each and every muscle so tautly that he was sure his head would fly off from all the pressure. He needed an outlet, some means by which to release so many years of harbored pain. Looking around, he saw nobody. He had ridden out onto the moor, haphazardly flying across the billowing blanket of lilac heather, with no other thought than to get away from it all. Dunhurst Park would be at least five miles away.

Standing there now beneath billowing clouds, his horse tethered to a tree, he basked in the feeling of the wind, whipping against his face. Then, having filled his lungs to the limit, he expelled the air in a beastly roar that would have sent any lurching demons scampering back to hell.

Just then, the clouds broke above his head in a heavy downpour that had him soaked within a minute. Clasping his hands to his shoulders, he looked upward as the water washed over his face. He felt depleted, yet somehow better than he had in a long time. For the first time since his arrival, he finally felt as if he might be ready to return to London.

Until then, he had known that he would have been terrible company. He feared that he might take his anger out on Emily and her sisters. Indeed he knew that he would, for it had happened before, and it was not something that he wished to see happen again. He was a gentleman, after all, but it was more than that. He finally felt as if he was making progress in bettering Emily’s opinion of him. Emily . . . her face shone in his memory like a beacon of hope, and he realized then not only that he missed her, but how much he suddenly needed her.

All those years he had shied away from her, jealous of her happiness, her joy—hating her for it. He had sought refuge with his demons in a cold and lonely place, wallowing in self-pity and anguished contempt for the world that surrounded him.

Yet now it was as if he’d been given fresh sight. He had happened to see her at her worst—suffering and hurt, her heart broken in a thousand little pieces. But then, like a trampled flower, he had watched her regain her strength, rise up again, and fell her opponents with a few words of kindness and regret. He was in awe of her—if any such thing were possible—and indeed, he knew that it was from the way he now felt.

She had proved to be a better person than anyone he had ever known—more righteous, more honest, and braver. And then, after all the years where his constant anger had divided them, she had allowed him to re-enter her realm of happiness again. They had talked, and though he hadn’t quite laughed, he had come closer to freeing himself in her presence than he’d ever come before.

Just looking at her enchanted him. The way one could see the laughter in her eyes before it ever reached her lips. And then, when she finally did laugh, the uninhibited delight that she embodied was so infectious that none in her presence could help from laughing, either—regardless of whether or not they knew the original cause behind it.

More than that was his discovery of how insightful and well read she was. He was slightly ashamed at how surprised he had been to find that she had been capable of conversing on topics other than women’s fashion plates, or other such nonsense. As children, their focus had been more on play than on serious dialogue, and so it had never been an issue. But he was immeasurably pleased to find how knowledgeable and well educated she’d become. In short, he was exceedingly proud of her, but more than that, he admired her tremendously.

His thoughts went to the kiss they had shared. He shouldn’t have done it—he knew it had been wrong—but he couldn’t help himself. And then, it had felt so right, so perfect, and she had kissed him back. His heart soared at the thought of it. Emily Rutherford had not pushed him away by any means. She had clung to him, run her fingers through his hair, and shared in the passion of the moment as his equal. And when he’d grazed her breasts with his lips, she’d sighed and moaned—a sound so pleasing to his ears that his blood had caught on fire.

There was no turning his back on it. Whatever problems he had with Charlotte, nothing was going to snuff this light that had been rekindled in his soul. He wanted Emily and he would be damned if anyone was going to stand in his way.

It was late afternoon when he returned to Dunhurst Park, leaving puddles in his wake as he darted up the front steps. The rain had subsided, allowing for rays of sunshine to break through from between the clouds. An eager pair of robins emerged from their nest and took flight, darting across the sky.

In his room, Francis quickly removed his wet clothes, managing quite nicely without his valet, whom he had left behind in London. He then pulled on a fresh pair of beige leather breeches, a crisp white linen shirt—the neck of which he wrapped in a cravat—and a pair of light brown hessian boots. Donning a white waistcoat, he threw on his black coat, picked up his kidskin gloves, and headed out the door.