Emma had never been guarded with him before. Or at least when she’d tried, he’d been able to see through it. Not knowing why she was now bothered him more than he wanted to let on.
Then in an instant, epiphany dawned. Most likely, she was cross with him over the partners he’d chosen for her. “Did you enjoy dancing this evening?”
“Not until the last, but I think you know that,” she said with a castigating look as she settled her skirts around her. “After all, you ensured my partners were the dullest in attendance. I imagine Lord Amberdeen would have been as well if not for his sudden absence.”
“Yes,” he growled low in his throat. That had been the plan, until Bane’s unexpected arrival. “Peculiar. Even more so considering Lord Amberdeen is a particular enemy of Lady Sterling’s. It wouldn’t surprise me if she made sure Amberdeen was indisposed simply to allow Bane to sweep in, forcing me to make a spectacle of myself.”
And he nearly had, right there in full view of his grandmother. The heated wave of jealously had been unexpected. For an instant, he’d pictured his fist connecting with Bane’s jaw with enough force to knock him to the ground. And then, his imagination had produced him standing over Bane’s prone body and boldly declaring that Emma was his. He’d never had such an urge before.
“Lady Eve and Knightswold are two bosom companions, after all,” he murmured absently, but soon felt a fresh wave of jealousy assail him. “Which reminds me,” he said with another growl, “I nearly murdered two men this evening for ogling yours.”
She blinked. “My . . . companions?”
“If that’s what you call them.” He lowered his gaze, letting it slide over the exposed swells of her flesh in a way to make it very clear to which he was referring.
She blushed and opened her mouth to speak—to change the subject, no doubt—but no sound came forth. Which left him with the perfect opportunity to admire her mouth. The memory of their kiss tormented him day and night. Here, on their partially secluded bench, he could easily imagine leaning in a fraction more, feeling her breath against his lips, teasing her flesh apart, tasting the flavor on her tongue—
Emma turned away, her shallow, rapid breaths betraying her thoughts.
He grinned, knowing that they were of like mind. “The only thing that saved them was your response.”
Returning her gaze to his, a worried frown puckered the flesh above her nose. “Did I appear cross with my partners?”
“Your expression, at least to everyone else, was perfectly pleasant and very pretty. You move gracefully, as well. No one could find fault in your dancing or demeanor.” He wished she wasn’t so concerned about what people thought of her. They were too alike in that regard, both fearing that a single scathing remark could ruin their futures. For now, they must keep up appearances.
“No one other than you.”
“It isn’t that I found fault, darling,” he chided softly. To him, she needed no improvement. “It’s merely that I know when you’re pretending to enjoy yourself for the sake of your partner. And I also know when you are truly content.”
She blew out a breath. “You’re teasing me again.”
“There’s a particular way you tilt your head when you’re deeply enthralled.” He lifted a finger to trace the edge of her jawline to reveal the subtle tilt of her head toward him. “And your cheeks flush to a becoming rosy hue.”
Emma reached up to swat him away, but he took hold of her hand instead and held it. She started, studying him closely as if trying to take his measure. “What are you about? That sounded suspiciously like a compliment. Yet, there is no one near enough to admire your pretense of flattery.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I always compliment you.” And he realized with sudden truth, that it wasn’t merely about flirting either. It was different with Emma. Perhaps it had been different from the very beginning. After all, he’d gone to her with his scheme, knowing that—if nothing else—she wouldn’t judge him for it. Judge him and find him wanting. No, not Emma.
“But you’ve always been teasing.”
How could she still believe that, especially now when he felt she must surely see the truth in his gaze? “Perhaps you merely wished me teasing so that you wouldn’t risk your heart,” he whispered, hoping to draw her out.
“Rathburn, I—”
“Oliver,” he said with a grin, pleased to see that she wasn’t as good at hiding from him as she thought. He wasn’t wrong, after all. The tenderness in her gaze told him everything he needed to know. He could see it plainly, as if it had been there all the while. “I told you, I only like it when
you
say my name. The sound of it from your lips is the only way I’ll ever get used to it.”
Her eyes widened in panic for a moment. “I . . . don’t think the night air agrees with me.”
“Coward,” he murmured, his amusement humming in his throat. “What of our waltz?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
The moment she opened her mouth and her gaze shied away from his, he knew she was going to attempt to veil her response.
Tucking his finger beneath her chin once more, he brought her focus back to him and arched a brow. “There is nothing you ever need hide from me, Emma. We’ve come too far for any more pretense.”
She held his gaze and then let out a breath, as if resigned. “It will sound silly, I’m sure.”
He waited, his attention fixed on her.
“It all started when Penelope said that dancing changes everything. From that moment on, I’ve been dreading the Dorset ball. I knew that you”—she pointed at him and glared without malice—“would request the waltz.”
“Which I did,” he said, tugging on her gloved finger and closing his hand around hers. A pleasant warmth enveloped him at the simple touch. The whispered
What if
. . . returned, stirring a fragile longing within him.
“Yes, and even before tonight, I’ve thought about it.”
“An obsessive preoccupation, to be sure.”
She nodded, but her attention was diverted to the lazy sweep of his thumb across the area between her thumb and forefinger. However, she shook her head and shifted slightly—though not enough to dislodge him—and refocused on his face. “I imagine, you can understand how much is at stake if we should waltz?”
“Completely.” He turned her hand, moving his attention to the center of her palm and noted, with pleasure, how her eyes darkened and her lips parted. “I’ve had a similar preoccupation of late. It keeps me awake at night. I’m a fairly useless creature during the day. I can’t even go more than five minutes without thinking about it.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, as if believing they were of like mind. “Then it was a good thing we avoided the waltz.”
“Oh, I wasn’t speaking of the waltz.”
“You weren’t?”
He leaned close to whisper. “No, Emma-
mine
. I was thinking about our kiss.”
“Which only happened to seal our bargain. Perhaps it would be better if we forgot . . .” Her words trailed off when he shook his head.
“Our
next
kiss,” he clarified with a slow, promising grin.
She glanced down to his mouth, her head tilting in such an inviting way. It took all of his control to keep what little distance remained between them. He wanted her. Ached for her. He could easily imagine slipping his hand beneath her skirts and touching her most tender flesh with the same unhurried strokes his thumb was now circling into the center of her palm.
She shifted slightly, pressing her knees together as if he’d spoken the desire aloud. The rake in him plotted an escape from scrutiny, calculated the number of dark alcoves, practiced excuses that would allow him to escort her home early—
“Oliver . . .”
His name slipped past her lips and he nearly convulsed at the breathless, throaty sound.
She wanted him, perhaps even as much as he wanted her. Yet, no matter how much he wanted to pleasure her and then take his own, he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t rob her of the right to choose her fate. He’d given his word that she would come away from this mock betrothal unscathed. Already, the kiss had pushed some boundaries. He couldn’t risk another, not until she knew the risks and realized she was making a permanent choice to be his.
After a moment, Emma shook her head, opened her eyes, and slowly pulled free of his grasp. “Rathburn, you could tempt a saint into ruin, I’m sure. Every breath you expel is a flirtation meant to entice and seduce. I have only recently discovered just how far from sainthood I am.”
His eyes widened at her confession and a breath holding the last shreds of his control staggered through him. “Emma . . .”
She held up her hand. “Please remember that part of our bargain was to keep my reputation intact, so that I may find a suitable husband when this has finished.”
He flinched, feeling as if she’d struck him with a block of ice. His ardor cooled in an instant.
A suitable husband
. Never before had an admonishment stung so much. From anyone else, it wouldn’t have. Any hope he’d had that she’d never judge him and find him wanting vanished like a pickpocket in St. Giles.
A suitable husband, indeed. If nothing else, she deserved one of those.
Before he gave himself away, he schooled his features. “Of course,” he said pleasantly as he stood and offered his hand to assist her. “We should return before anyone
else
gets the wrong impression of my intentions.”
T
wenty-one days
, Emma thought.
Twenty-one days of no mistakes. Twenty-one days for Rathburn to gain his inheritance. Twenty-one days to break the betrothal.
She stood on a pedestal in the blue room at Rathburn’s townhouse, staring at her guilt-ridden reflection. It was a shame the dowager was wasting all this money on a gown she would never have the chance to wear. It was such a lovely gown, too. Wearing it, she felt regal. Not at all like the twin to a potted tree.
Lady Valmont’s modiste fitted the under portion of her dress, pinning it beneath the gathers covering her breasts, and nipping it in at the curve of her waist. “This satin will embrace your form,” the woman said with a nod. Even through a mouthful of pins, her French accent was thick. “The outer robe will drape nicely from the line of your shoulders to the floor. Elegant, no?”
“Oui,”
she said, nodding, feeling conflicted.
Yet there were a few moments, when she’d been ordered to stand very still, that she’d let her mind drift off in a dream. She imagined Rathburn dressed in his finery, standing at the end of a long aisle, his eyes focused solely on her, his gaze filled with the blatant desire she’d witnessed at the Dorset ball. Or at least until she’d opened her mouth and those foolish words tumbled out. Oh, how she hated herself for saying them.
However, at the time, she’d felt a jolt of fear overtake her that let loose her insecurities. With the way he’d been looking at her and touching her, it had been so easy to forget for a moment that Rathburn could have chosen anyone to help with his deception. He may have only chosen her because some part of him acknowledged that she could never deny him. As he’d proven time and again, he was far too perceptive for her comfort.
She couldn’t risk being lured in by him again. Already, she’d grown far too fond of him. She even enjoyed his rakish flirting. Each time he spoke, he drew her closer to wanting more. More of this closeness. More of Rathburn.
However, that could never be. She needed a well-grounded husband, not one who made her forget herself. So much so that she feared her carefully crafted façade might slip. That everyone would learn her secret.
Though she tried hard to hide it, to fight it, she was too much her parents’ daughter to deny it any longer. At least to herself. She still wouldn’t risk telling a soul of the unfettered urges that came over her, ones that only a brush in her hand and a canvas before her could begin to soothe.
The shame of her weakness brought her back to reality and the impossibility of her fantasy. Not that it was a fantasy, because she would never be foolish enough to imagine that she and Rathburn could ever marry. Well . . .
nearly
never.
However, there was no way the dowager would approve of her and release Rathburn’s inheritance if she knew the truth about their mock betrothal.
“I do think the pearls are a bit tasteless,” her mother said, pulling Emma away from her conflicted thoughts. “I wish you’d consulted me. I am, after all, the mother of the bride.” She picked up the sketch of the wedding dress and turned it this way and that, her brow furrowed.
Lady Rathburn should have known better than to have left Emma’s mother
and
the dowager in the same room without a chaperone to keep them on their most genial behavior. There weren’t two more opposing women with stronger personalities in all of England, she was sure.
Emma only hoped that the dowager would still hand over Rathburn’s inheritance once she realized an alliance between their two families would never work. After all, their incompatibility wasn’t his fault.
“
Tasteless
is a rather ironic word coming from the woman wearing the turquoise beads with the apricot-colored gown, my dear,” the dowager said with a snort. “Perhaps you’d better leave the fashion decisions to me.”
Much to her credit, Celestine Danvers smiled. “I’d rather not see her look like a mourning dove on her wedding day, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Her gown is white with a robe of the palest pink.”
“And weighted with a thousand pearls or more.”
“No doubt, working with clay addles one’s perception over time. There are hardly more than a dozen. I do hope your daughter never suffers the ill effects from any peculiar artistic traits.”
Emma sucked in a panicked breath. “Mother—
oh
!” She winced when one of the pins pricked her flesh.
The modiste gave her a disapproving glance. “Hold still, if you please. We cannot have a lopsided bride.”
“It’s fine, dear. I’m sure Her Grace cannot fault you for having your own talent. You see, when Emma was younger, she had quite a hand for drawing and painting—”