How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back (6 page)

He wasn’t sure how or why, but somehow, he suddenly felt as though he knew Emily Rutherford inside out. It no longer seemed to matter that they hadn’t been on good terms for years. For some unspeakable reason, Francis just couldn’t bear the thought that she’d been hurt. “It was badly done . . . badly done, indeed. I only hope that your actions haven’t torn her completely to pieces.” Then, in a more quiet tone, as if he was talking to himself, he continued. “She’s not like the rest of us. I fear you may have broken her.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

E
mily sighed deeply as she opened her eyes. How many times had she opened and closed them now, drifting in and out of sleep, she wondered. Each time she woke, she cursed the fact that her body was stronger than she had thought it might be. Why did she keep on waking up?

A quiet knock sounded before a maid entered. She walked briskly across the room to the window and with rapid tugs, opened the burgundy drapes, allowing bright light to flood across the floor. Emily groaned, rolled over, and hid her head beneath the sheets. When she heard the door close, she let out a sigh. Thankfully the maid had decided to leave her alone again, even if she had disturbed her in a most irritating way. Closing her eyes once more, Emily attempted to clear her mind in the hope of returning to a happy sleep, when from out of nowhere, a male voice spoke to her.

The tone was firm and direct, one that commanded authority and expected to be obeyed. “Enough is enough, Emily,” he told her severely. “You’ve been cooped up in here for four days now. It’s time you got out of bed and joined the world of the living.”

Her eyes sharpened as she threw back the covers to glare across the room at Francis, her nostrils flaring with sudden anger. “How dare you belittle my pain?” She yelled as she hurled a pillow at him.

Francis stepped easily out of the way as the missile sailed past him. Clearly, the fact that he had entered her bedroom uninvited was not the main cause for her concern. A wistful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Sitting there with her hair a mess, her eyes shooting daggers at him, she really was a sight to behold. “It’s up to you, Emily. You can come willingly, or I can come over there and personally drag you out of bed.”

A look of horror swept over her face. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said, her voice faltering.

“Oh, but I would,” he assured her as he took a step toward her. “You must remember that you’re a guest here, and though my aunt has ensured me that you may stay for as long as you wish, I think it would be quite fitting if—seeing as you are capable of getting out of bed—you would return to your own home.”

“You’re kicking me out?” Her voice was a sad little whisper that couldn’t help but tear at his heart.

“Emily, manners, etiquette, and adhering to what is and isn’t done has always been your forte,” he told her kindly. “Just because you yourself have been wronged does not mean that you now have the right to take advantage of other people’s kindness. So please, hop on out of bed, get dressed, and meet me downstairs in say . . . half an hour? We’ll have some breakfast before we go.”

Without giving her the chance to say anything else, Francis quickly escaped back out into the hallway, shutting the door firmly behind him. He stood there for a moment, wondering if he was about to make a monumental mistake. There was still time to change his mind. With a heavy sigh, he left the bedroom door behind him and wandered downstairs to wait for her.

W
hen she appeared in the dining room doorway, she was wearing a light pink summer dress cut fashionably low to show off the swell of her breasts. Stopping for a moment, she glanced about with an uneasy gaze, wringing her hands together in front of her. Then, drawing a nervous breath, she walked toward Francis, pulled out a chair, and took a seat at the end of the table, right next to him.

“Tea?” he asked as he reached for the pot. She nodded her head slightly as she followed the movement of his hand with her eyes. She looked pale, he noticed, but her eyes were no longer puffy as they had been four days ago. He almost wished that they were, for the emptiness within them wrenched at his heart. And yet, she’d never looked lovelier to him. What a damn shame, he thought, as he poured the steaming tea into a fragile cup.

“Eat something,” he told her. When she failed to respond, he picked up a basket with warm buns and held it toward her.

“Thank you,” she said.

When she didn’t acknowledge the food, he slowly set the basket back down, understanding that she was thanking him for something else entirely. “Don’t mention it,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry about earlier . . . I . . .”

Instinctively he reached out and placed his hand on hers, squeezing it gently. It was meant as a form of reassurance, a way of letting her know that she wasn’t alone, that she had friends around her, willing to cheer her up and help her through this.

She snatched it away immediately, her eyes rounding on him with sudden anger. “What are you doing, Francis?” Her voice was harsh.

For a moment she had him thrown, but he quickly recovered, his eyebrows knitting together in that all-too-familiar frown of his. “What do you mean?” he asked, his hand still resting on the table next to her plate.

“You and I aren’t friends. We haven’t been for years, so there’s no need for you to pretend.” She fixed him with a level gaze as she calmed her voice. “I’m deeply indebted to you for what you did the other night, though I wish you would have left me to die.”

“How can you say such a thing?” he asked, his voice rising in anger. “How can you be so damn selfish, Emily, to even think such a thing? I realize that it must be your emotions talking, but still, think of how much pain your death would cause . . . of how many people would be affected.”

“Ha!” she laughed in a mocking voice as she tilted her head back to gaze up at the ceiling.

If there had been any tears left in her, she would have cried them then and there. But her tears had run dry, so she just squinted instead, sensing the familiar pain rising in her throat. “I’ve just discovered that the two people whom I used to think of as my closest friends weren’t my friends at all. I was happy, Francis. I’ve always found a way in which to be happy. Even after my parents died, I found happiness and comfort in knowing that Adrian loved me—in knowing that whatever troubles I might come across, Kate would be there to help me through them.

“She and I used to be closer than I’ve ever been with Claire or Beatrice. But guess what . . . ? It wasn’t real.” She continued, her voice cracking. “Why wasn’t I good enough? Why did he pick Kate over me? He must have known how I felt. . . . Kate certainly did, though it’s been a while since we’ve discussed it. But to tell me like that . . . do you not think it was cruel? Or did I truly deserve it? Because honestly, the way I’ve felt for the last few days . . . I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

They tore out my heart together, and then they crushed it, without even thinking twice about it.”

Emily’s eyes met Francis’s. She couldn’t read any sign of emotion in them—just the same, familiar grey coldness. “For whatever reason, I know you don’t particularly like me, and to be fair, I’m not too fond of you either. We’ve had our differences, though I’m not even sure why anymore.

“We used to be friends,” she whispered, her voice full of regret. He knew she wasn’t just talking about the two of them, that her thoughts included Adrian and Kate. Her smile was gone, and with it, her love for life. Somehow, without fully understanding why, he planned to change that, though he hadn’t a clue how to even begin.

“I don’t want your pity.” Her voice was suddenly strong and determined. “I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

“Fair enough,” he told her seriously. “Then you shan’t have it. However, I would recommend that you eat something before we set out. It will be a while before you eat again.”

Unsure of whether or not this was the right thing to do, the decision had now been made. There was no turning back. She always managed to annoy the hell out of him, though he didn’t understand why. He was even more unsure as to why he wanted to have anything to do with her right now. She was clearly emotionally unstable and would probably be better served if she didn’t have to put up with his constant presence. Hell,
he
would probably be better served if he stayed clear of
her
. He always managed to spark her temper, particularly now, after everything that had happened. But perhaps his urge to help her could be attributed to the fact that he had always been the only person in existence who managed to bring a scowl to her otherwise happy face. And now that someone else had been the cause of her unhappiness, he wanted to wring their necks, both of them, for causing her so much grief.

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m taking you and your sisters to London for a while. A change of scenery will do you a world of good.”

She gaped at him in astonishment.

“You need to . . .”

“You have no idea about what I need, Francis,” she blurted out, except that he did. Getting away from this place was exactly what she needed.

She needed a chance to forget everything that Hardington reminded her of. But to go on a trip to London with Francis . . . it hardly appealed to her at all. He was constant doom and gloom, nothing but frowns—the most unlikely person in the world to turn her mood around.

“You mentioned that Beatrice and Claire will be coming along also?” she asked.

He nodded slowly.

“And where exactly do you propose that we all stay during our visit? We cannot live with you . . . three single women living with a bachelor . . . we’ be ruined before we made it through the front door.”

“I realize that, Emily.” His eyes held hers as he leaned back in his chair. “Which is why you and your sisters shan’t be staying at number seven, where I live, but at number five instead.” As if to clarify, he added, “Both properties belong to me.”

“I see.” Emily stared back at him with a large degree of skepticism. “And it is completely vacant?”

Francis nodded his head. “Nobody has lived there since my father died, though I have invited my great-aunt Genevieve to join us.” His mood seemed to brighten a little at the thought of the old lady. “She’s really quite lovely—my grandmother’s younger sister, to be precise. I’m certain you’ll enjoy her company.” He reached for his teacup. “So as far as propriety goes . . . I daresay that nobody will bat an eyelid.”

Emily regarded Francis with a great deal of thoughtfulness before giving him the briefest of nods. “Thank you for the invitation,” she finally said. “I accept.”

It was impossible to read his emotions as her eyes met his for a brief, uncomfortable moment. What a shame that he’d forgotten how to smile. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to have caused such a change in him.

Thinking of herself for a moment, she couldn’t resist the slightest of smiles. He looked at her quizzically as it faded once more, leaving nothing but sadness upon her face. “I was just thinking that we’ll make a perfect pair among the
ton
,” she said.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“I believe we shall be known as Mr. and Mrs. Miserable in no time at all.”

His eyes twinkled helplessly with momentary amusement, though his lips remained tightly drawn. What surprised him was that he rather liked that she had referred to them as a pair. He’d no idea why such a thing pleased him, when only days ago, the mere suggestion would undoubtedly have horrified him. The thought of exploring such a possibility was suddenly very intriguing. “Then we had best not disappoint,” he told her as he stood, held out his hand, and helped her to her feet.

“I
was worried that I would have to face Adrian this morning,” Emily admitted as she sat across from Francis in the carriage. They were on their way to pick up her sisters, who, she was certain, would be eagerly awaiting her. “Thank you for ensuring that I didn’t have to.”

He didn’t respond, merely gave her his trademark nod, telling her that he acknowledged what she had said. He was content with not talking. The less people said, the less likely they were to complicate things.

He’d long since gotten used to keeping his own emotions bottled up and therefore had no particular desire to know what other people felt. The truth was that he wasn’t even sure of what
he
felt anymore. He’d become so used to the wall he’d built up around himself—constructed from so much anger, pain, and frustration that it would be impossible for anyone to scale. And yet . . . he steeled himself for a moment . . . there had been the beginnings of hope today.

It didn’t take spectacles to see that Emily could barely abide him, and yet for some peculiar reason, amidst her pain, she had managed to inch
him
a little bit closer to happiness.

Looking at her now as she gazed out of the window, her eyes blind to the scenery around her, he could almost hear her inner voice screaming. Stray wisps of her dark hair flowed in the breeze, framing her pale skin. It would be good to get some color back in those cheeks, he thought. Even her mouth seemed to have lost its hue. He had always admired how pink her lips could be without the application of makeup, yet now as he looked at them, they appeared faded.

He knew that their falling out had been entirely his fault. He had changed and it hadn’t been gradual. Something had hardened him, made him bitter and constantly angry. He had taken it out on his friends on numerous occasions, sparking arguments for no other reason than to satisfy his own rage. It was no wonder that Emily hated him.

The feeling had always been mutual, however. She had been his antagonist—the chirpy, constantly happy, nothing-could-shake-her-love-for-life girl that enforced his bitterness. He had grown allergic to her bubbling laughter that did nothing but remind him that there was nothing to laugh about.