He was only trying to shock her, she knew. However, this time he’d succeeded.
She tugged her hand free as she heard the unmistakable shuffle of Maudette on the stairs. Thankful for the interruption, she took a step back from Rathburn and waited for her maid.
The woman in question paused on the third stair to press a hand to the pile of gray hair atop her head. Possessing the most eccentricities of all the servants, she fashioned it into a large bun, crested with a smaller bun, and topped off with a tiny white kerchief, which Emma had always suspected had come from a doll in the attic.
Maudette’s paper white cheeks lifted in a smile of small, worn teeth. “Good morning, dear. I see you’re up and ready. In a hurry, as usual,” she scolded with the familiarity of a grandmother rather than a servant. Her parents weren’t the only unconventional people beneath this roof. It was as if the nonconforming manner of her parents had spread like a plague to everyone . . . Everyone, except for her.
The thought unsettled her, making her feel like an outcast, like she didn’t fit in any longer. That could be the reason she felt so edgy lately, uncomfortable in her own skin. It was as if there was something inside the darkest recesses of her being churning with impatience to be set free. If she weren’t careful, soon she wouldn’t know who she was anymore.
She shook away the disturbing musings and smiled fondly at Maudette without responding. Her maid could hear only from close distances and even then only when it suited her.
For the most part, Emma was her own lady’s maid. She didn’t mind it. In fact, she preferred styling her own hair and choosing her own clothes. If she needed something pressed, it was easy enough to ask her mother’s maid. Besides, while she was immensely fond of Maudette, the woman was a terrible chaperone.
As if to prove it, Rathburn stepped forward and took her hand again, this time tucking it neatly beneath his arm before he proceeded to walk toward the door. “It’s like I have you to myself all the same.”
She tugged to retrieve her hand, but he refused to let her go. Parker had not returned to his door-guarding duty, which kept her from the luxury of reminding Rathburn about propriety in front of an audience. “I’ll not leave without her, or walk too far ahead of her. So, don’t get any ideas.”
“Ideas, my dear Emmaline, are what separate man from beast.” He shifted his hold of her captive hand to open the door.
“Not in your case,” she said, and then added with an all-too-sweet smile, “my dear Oliver.”
He chuckled in his way and led her down the stairs to the sidewalk.
The early spring sky was less gray than usual. She’d even go so far as to say it was a grayish shade of blue. A grand day, indeed. The clouds overhead were thin and wispy, like a veil that had been caught on the breeze. To top it all off, it hadn’t rained today . . . yet.
She glanced over her shoulder to see if Maudette was on her way. Sure enough, she shuffled along a mere six steps behind them. Rathburn kept them at a slow, meandering stroll, which gave her far too much time to think about her hand on his sleeve and the way the muscles of his forearm bunched and flexed beneath her palm.
“Speaking of propriety,” he said, out of the blue. “We were, weren’t we?” Which, apparently, was a rhetorical question, because he continued immediately. “My grandmother will arrive the day after tomorrow. She’ll remain at the townhouse for the next two months.”
Emma fought the urge to cringe. Never was there a more severe woman in matters of propriety. While Emma prided herself on her decorum, the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat had made her feel like an ill-mannered street urchin the last time she’d had the
fortune
of being invited to tea. “How nice for your mother to spend time with her for a lengthy stay.”
“Yes. Of course, my mother is one of the only people my grandmother is truly fond of. That being said, I suppose a woman ought to be fond of her own offspring.” He cleared his throat, an uncommon enough occurrence to gain her attention. “She’s also fond of you.”
“Of me?” Taken aback, she blinked owlishly at him and then suddenly reasoned that he was pulling another one of his jokes to make her feel gullible and foolish afterward. “You’re teasing me again. Clever. You managed to catch me off my guard this time.”
He drew in a breath, severe as an undertaker. “Not this time, I fear. She genuinely approves of you.”
“Approves of me?” She felt a sudden rise of anxiety at the prospect. Her temples started to throb. No good could come of the dowager’s approval, she was sure, and she quickly sent up a prayer
not
to be invited to tea.
Rathburn made no effort to elaborate or put her at ease. Instead, he stared ahead as if the lamppost had stolen his undivided attention. “Ah, look. Here we are. Number 3. Please do give my regards to the new Mrs. Weatherstone, as I’m certain I’ll be gone before your needlework circle is finished. You’ll have to rely on Maudette to see you home safely.”
She glanced at his profile as they ascended the stairs to the door. The hard angles of his countenance gave nothing away. “Somehow, I shall manage.”
“Yes,” he offered, observing her, his gaze serious enough to make her wish he’d say something rakish and outrageous so she could shake the uneasiness that had settled over her. “You are adept at managing seemingly difficult situations with aplomb, wouldn’t you agree?”
The edge of mystery in his voice made her uncertain whether to agree or not. Yet, she found herself nodding all the same.
“Good, I’m glad to know it,” he said with a peculiar expression of relief. On the tail end of his compliment from his grandmother, Emma had the disturbing suspicion that she didn’t want to fully understand it.
Could there be something worse than an invitation to tea with the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat?
No. Certainly not.
“
Why
. . . are you glad to know it?”
Rathburn frowned, his brow furrowing as if he were about to reveal some horrible calamity. In all honesty, his serious expression was starting to alarm her.
Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the door to Number 3 opened.
Rathburn appeared far too relieved for her liking. “Hinkley, how good of you to come to Miss Danvers’s rescue,” he said with a quick wink and squeeze of her fingers as he escorted her over the threshold. “And just in time, too.”
M
erribeth Wakefield stepped into the Weatherstones’ cheery yellow parlor shortly after Emma. She untied the periwinkle ribbon of her bonnet and removed it from her raven tresses. “What a gorgeous day! I’m tempted to suggest we hold our first official needlework circle of the Season in your lovely garden, Penelope,” she said with a smile brightening her cerulean eyes. “But I would hate to freckle before the wedding.”
Penelope gasped in delight and stepped forward to embrace Merribeth. “Mr. Clairmore proposed! Oh, that is wonderful news.”
Emma embraced Merribeth, too. “I’m thrilled for you.”
Her friend had spent the entire Season last year embroidering her wedding dress with the certainty that her childhood sweetheart, William Clairmore, would finally ask her to marry him. It was a common understanding that they’d been unofficially engaged for the past five years. However, Mr. Clairmore’s studies had put their
official
engagement on hold.
“I wouldn’t say he actually proposed,” Merribeth said as she glanced away. “It’s more like he proposed that he would be proposing very soon. It will happen any day now, I’m sure. Perhaps even after the Sumpters’ musicale later this week.” She retrieved the large satchel she carried with her, which Emma knew was filled with the wedding gown.
Emma and Penelope exchanged a look. “I’m sure he will.”
“Any day now.”
Merribeth turned to face them and drew in a deep breath. “He’s probably only waited this long to make an entire scene of it. A grand romantic gesture.” For the first time, the ever-present dreamy gleam in her eyes dimmed. “Those take a great deal of planning, after all.”
Emma took Merribeth’s hands and led her to the settee. “That is exactly what he’s doing. Never fear.”
“After all, look how long it took Mr. Weatherstone to finally realize he couldn’t live without me.” Penelope smiled, brightening the mood with her usual grace and good nature. While her long-standing affection for Ethan Weatherstone had been no secret to the members of the needlework circle, their sudden wedding over the Christmas holiday had been quite the surprise. But a pleasant one.
Emma was delighted to see her friend settled, as well as truly and completely in love. In fact, Penelope fairly glowed with happiness. Marriage certainly agreed with her.
One day, she hoped to find the type of affection and respect the Weatherstones shared. Of course, her own parents had a deep love for each other, even if it had addled their brains over time. Her marriage, she knew, would never cause her to go mad. For, if she were to go off to bedlam, her husband would be the kind of man to bring her back to sanity.
If only.
The sound of a commotion in the hall drew their eyes to the parlor doors. Then, with a glance at one another, they all said in unison, “Delaney.”
They were right, of course. In the next moment, Delaney McFarland swept in, closed the door and leaned against it. Her lids closed over violet eyes. Curling wisps of her sunburst red hair snaked out from beneath her bonnet. “Younger sisters should be raised by grandparents to avoid the risk of being murdered by their older and much wiser siblings.”
“What has Bree done this time?” Penelope asked. Even though she was the only other one to have a younger sister, they all giggled.
Her eyes flew open. “It isn’t her—well, not entirely. I mean, it’s
always
her. But this time, it’s Father as well.” Since she hadn’t bothered to tie her lavender bonnet ribbons, she simply pulled her hat off and let it dangle from her hand, freeing a tumble of wild, corkscrew curls. “He let her come out. Out! She’s only seventeen. I had to wait until I was twenty—practically on the shelf, thanks to that retched
decorum instructor
, Miss Pursglove.”
Emma and Merribeth had delayed their debuts, as well, making the three of them the same age, with Penelope only two years older. While Delaney blamed Miss Pursglove and Merribeth had been busy waiting for Mr. Clairmore, Emma had delayed hers by a year out of respect for the death of Rathburn’s father.
“This will be my second Season,” Delaney lamented. “With Bree out, you know what this means. I’ll never marry.”
They gathered around her in a supportive circle and guided her toward an upholstered chair amid a constant flow of
“never fears”
and
“I’m certains.”
“You don’t understand. She’s perfect in every way that matters. At least on the outside,” Delaney added with a grumble. “They’ll take one look at her perfect complexion and perfect golden hair that curls in an
acceptable
manner and wonder why I even bothered to show up this Season. Especially, after last year.” She lowered her face into her hands. “I’m a virtual pariah.”
The group exchanged a look and shook their heads. They’d each vowed never to speak of
the incident
.
In the chair beside her, Penelope reached out and patted her shoulder. “There, there. If you’re lucky, Bree will find a husband at her first ball as Eugenia did.”
“If I’m lucky, the Duke of Fiddler’s Green will sweep her off her feet and take her to his far-off land before she sets foot in the Dorset ballroom next week.” She sank even farther forward, which one could only do if one weren’t wearing her stays. Then again, Delaney was not fond of propriety, and no wonder, with Miss Pursglove breathing down her neck every moment. The decorum instructor was even more severe than Rathburn’s grandmother, though she held less clout in society.
Imagine having to deal with such a woman on a daily basis. Emma suppressed a shudder.
“I’m certain any gentleman would prefer you over your sister,” she said, wanting to cheer her friend.
Another round of
“never fears”
followed.
Delaney grunted and sat up. “They didn’t prefer me last year. With Bree around this year, she’ll be the toast, while I’ll be . . . the crust.” She made a face. “Burnt crust at that. I’ll be lucky to have two dances this entire Season, and those will be with my cousins.”
“Then we’ll have to trade for every other set,” Emma decided, not quite certain she could manage it, especially considering she hadn’t danced at all last Season. She still hadn’t forgiven Rafe for his part in her lack of partners. “Your cousins will take a turn with Merribeth and me, while my brother takes a turn with you, and Rathburn . . .” she added hesitantly not sure why the mention of his name made her feel those fireflies again, “will take a turn with Penelope, if her husband will allow it.”
Penelope smiled again, a peculiar light in her eyes. She reached into the basket beside her chair and retrieved a bundle of white satin attached to her embroidery hoop. The others followed suit, settling their needlework on their laps, as she spoke. “While we’ll be attending the musical, I’m not certain we’ll attend the ball.”
“You’d miss your first ball as a married couple? But I so want to see you dance with Mr. Weatherstone,” Merribeth added with a rather romantic sigh.
“I want to see his face while you’re dancing with the ever-dashing Lord Rathburn,” Delaney said with a broad grin that Emma tried to ignore, though why it should bother her that her friends found Rathburn handsome, she didn’t know. After all, half the
ton
thought so as well. “Is he a jealous husband?”
“Jealous?” Penelope said, glancing at the door as if she could see through it to the study across the hall. “I’m not certain. However, I do know he is quite overprotective. Especially now.”
Concerned, Emma looked over at her friend. “Why now?”
Penelope smiled, as if secretly, and then unfolded the scrap of white satin in her lap. It was in the shape of a gown. A very small one.