“You forget. I remember you as a schoolboy, and that statement certainly does you no credit.”
True enough. “Nevertheless, I have done nearly everything she’s asked of me. Yet, when I approached her last month, it was still not enough.”
“Then bringing Miss Danvers into the mix was an act of sheer desperation?” She dabbed the napkin to the corner of her mouth in a look which stated quite clearly that he should know, by now, he couldn’t keep secrets from her.
“You’ve said nothing.”
She smoothed the napkin over her lap. “I thought the matter would sort itself out.”
In place of his appetite, the heat of injustice and determination roiled in his stomach. “You know very well that if I confess the lie to
your mother
and the reason for it, she may never hand over my inheritance. She’ll simply add it to the heaps of money your brother already possesses.”
This earned him a sigh of exasperation. “Your uncle is a duke and a powerful man. If he wanted to add the money my father left you to his own fortune, he would have done so by now.”
“Then what is she waiting for?”
“You already know the answer.”
Yes. He would have to marry someone of excellent character. Someone of whom his grandmother approved. The trouble was, he knew only one person who fit both requirements.
His appetite left him and he pushed his plate away. He desperately needed a distraction from his thoughts. There had to be another solution, surely. That thought had plagued him the past two nights. Yet, each morning he awoke with the same conclusion.
“Y
ou’re whistling again,” Emma said to her brother as he stepped out of his chamber and into the hall. “Which can only mean you’re going on a trip.”
With Rafe’s lips pursed, it drew her attention to the fashionably angled cut of his side whiskers. The style emphasized the definition of his cheekbones and jaw, two things their mother had commented on repeatedly while imploring him to model for her. His dark, wavy hair was artfully unkempt and a tad too long, but it seemed to suit his devil-may-care manner.
He winked at her and touched the tip of her nose as if she were still in leading strings. “You think you know me so well, do you?”
As confirmation, his valet stepped out from behind him. Under each arm, he carried a satchel and proceeded down the hall to the servants’ stairs after a hasty nod of acknowledgment.
Rafe lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “No more than a month, I’d say. Are you going to miss me?”
Of course she would, but she wasn’t about to feed his ego by telling him so. “You promised to be here for the beginning of the Season.”
He’d missed all last year while away in the north of England, supposedly seeking a country estate. What he hadn’t realized was that she was old enough to know why he was really leaving town, and it had more to do with the widow Richardson than finding a place to hang his hat.
“You know very well that the idea of attending balls and parties, enduring the company of simpering debutants and their oppressive mothers, is the last place I want to be,” he said as he cast a glance over his shoulder to his room. “Which is precisely why I’ve arranged for Rathburn to look after you. Although, I pity him—his title puts him at a
severe
disadvantage and forces him to attend these tedious events all for the sake of—
What?
Why are you glaring at me with such contempt?”
His expression only displayed concern for an instant before he grinned, proving he wasn’t bothered by it. “I didn’t say
you
were a simpering debutante. However, I could hardly remain solely in your company. I can only presume you’ll want to dance, which will leave me with the obligation of either finding my own partner or enduring a conversation with one of those oppressive mothers I mentioned.” He touched the tip of her nose again, unaware of how close he was to losing that finger. “Surely, you would not wish such a fate on a most beloved brother.”
Emma expelled a breath and tried to keep the trace of hurt from her voice. Not that he would notice. He was too busy preparing for his journey. “Is a brother who would abandon his sister to the care of a gentleman—whose surly attitude frightened away every possible dance partner last Season—beloved? I think not.”
Apparently, Rafe thought she was joking, because he laughed. Draping an arm around her shoulders, he began to stroll companionably down the hall toward the stairs. “I had Rathburn give his word that he wouldn’t allow you to waste your time on unworthy candidates. After all, I don’t want to be saddled with a simpleton for a brother-in-law.”
“Because of
him
there have been
no
candidates.”
Of course, it went without saying that her father’s reputation might have had something to with it, as well. At one time, her father had been a respected portrait artist among the
ton
. Being a member of the peerage, and with most of society more comfortable sitting for one of their own, he’d been in high demand. Then, one day, that had all changed.
Her father had done the unthinkable. He’d begun painting portraits of the servants. And not the polished servants in their stately livery either, but groomsmen covered in muck from the stalls, and elderly kitchen maids in dirty aprons, with flour caked into their wrinkled faces. His portraits had been far too real for the
ton
.
When Lady Philomena Fitzherbert had allowed him one more chance to prove his worth by commissioning him to paint a portrait of her spaniels, Cuthbert Danvers agreed. However, he wasn’t interested in gaining her approval or going back to the way things were. He wanted freedom to create his art. So, instead of gracing her with a divine portrait of her precious angels, what she’d received was a painting of the spaniels biting the hands of the maid who groomed them, along with a sizeable bill. After that, her father was given the
cut direct
.
Neither he nor Emma’s mother received invitations to societal events any longer—none other than from the close friends who’d stood by them.
In fact, if it hadn’t been for Lady Rathburn and her support, Emma never would have had a Season.
While she admired her father’s work, part of her wished he’d kept those paintings a secret until
after
she had been married. But perhaps she was the only one who fully understood the vital importance of keeping secrets.
“
No
candidates?” Rafe teased with an overly dramatic gasp, which apparently gave him no end of amusement. His robust laughter echoed off the walls. “Perhaps this year’s crop will be different.”
Hmph!
Or perhaps, this year, it was time to take matters into her own hands.
E
mma should have known that being summoned to her father’s study on a perfectly sunny afternoon would spell disaster. Normally, he used the third-floor studio to paint on days like this. And, of course, Mother had
the parlor
.
Therefore, when Parker opened the door, revealing her father
and
mother, in addition to Rathburn of all people, she should have taken a step back and dashed out of the townhouse. Or at the very least asked him to close the door so that she could begin a stream of counting in Latin to calm herself.
There was no reason Rathburn should be alone in a room with her parents, especially when her brother had left town this morning. She sincerely hoped this wasn’t about the missing paints and canvas she’d heard her father railing about this morning.
Her nerves climbed closer to the edge of an unknown precipice.
After a hasty glance down to make sure there wasn’t a single speck of paint on her hands, she stepped into the study. “Good afternoon,” she said, greeting everyone in turn and lingering close to the doorway, just in case she needed a quick escape.
Perched on the edge of the loveseat, as if ready to spring at any moment, her mother smiled broadly at her. The combination of brown, red, and silver in her hair looked even more shocking against the orange flowers of her yellow day gown. “There she is.”
Emma swallowed. “Yes. Here I am.”
“Playing in the shadows as usual,” her father said with a chuckle, an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. In addition to little flecks amid the waves of silver hair brushed back from his forehead, his large hands were spotted with paint. While his cerulean blue coat remained pristine—as he usually painted in his shirtsleeves and an apron—the bottoms of his trousers and tops of his shoes were splattered as well. Then, as if he were one of his outrageously bold portraits come to life, he wore his signature paisley silk cravat. “Come into the light, child.”
She preferred the shadows. The light made her feel lacking in the eyes of her flamboyant parents, especially with Rathburn here.
Even though he leaned casually against the edge of her father’s desk, his glossy Hessians crossed at the ankle, she sensed a distinct amount of tension from him, as well. Of course, on the outside, he appeared the perfect specimen—buckskin breeches that fit his muscled thighs like a second skin, a buttery-colored waistcoat with a pristine white shirt and cravat beneath a hunter green morning coat. Though his tailor must put padding into the shoulders, because she refused to believe he was
that
perfect.
However, his eyes gave him away. Faint purplish smudges told her that he hadn’t slept. Above the bridge of his nose, his flesh puckered, revealing strain. And the fact that he didn’t hold her gaze for any length of time spoke of uncertainty. Though what he could be uncertain about, she hadn’t a clue. And that made her even more nervous.
She moved slowly into the room, her hands clasped before her.
Her father nodded approvingly. “Emma, you always do the right thing. It’s a wonderful characteristic to be said about anyone. You are bright, charming, and a great asset to your unconventional parents.”
She always prided herself on her cool head, yet now she felt a swift bubble of panic climb up her throat. What could he mean? Her gaze darted from her father to her mother’s bright eyes, and then to Rathburn, who now studied the paperweight on the corner of the desk. “Thank you, Father,” she managed.
“Rathburn, here,” her father continued, using the tip of his pipe to point at Oliver as if she’d never laid eyes on him before and had been wondering all this time who the man standing in the room was, “is in a pinch. The boy’s like family, Emma. And you know how I feel about family.”
“A prize above all others,”
she quoted in whisper to herself, having heard him say those words her whole life.
While she was contemplating the proper way to excuse herself without causing anyone in the room, including herself, embarrassment, her father went on about Rathburn’s predicament. Since he was, as her father said, part of the family, she already knew of his withheld inheritance and the many stipulations the Dowager Duchess had set on his gaining the funds. He must earn her approval. No gambling. No drinking. No indiscrete affairs.
However, she truly had no idea why this had anything to do with her. If she thought about it for too long—the reason for him being here with her parents when Rafe was away, her father stating he was in a pinch, and that he was like family—her temples began to throb.
Nerves already frayed, she quickly decided there was no reason to stay.
“Yes, that’s very interesting, but you see . . .” Just as she was about to make an excuse of a previous engagement to walk in the park with Penelope Weatherstone, her father said something that struck a familiar chord. Too familiar.
“So far, you’re the only one who’s earned the dowager’s approval.”
Rathburn had said something just like that yesterday.
She’s also fond of you . . . She genuinely approves of you.
Emma suddenly had a terrible suspicion that Her Grace’s approval meant something more than an invitation to tea.
“For what purpose?” she heard herself asking and instantly wanted to take the words back. By asking the question, it was akin to agreeing to go along with this conversation, which she most certainly was not.
All the same, she felt like she’d stepped into a carriage that was headed to an unknown destination.
She looked to Rathburn, narrowing her eyes.
He tried to charm her with a smile. “In order to release my inheritance, she wants to ensure I have my feet on solid ground. That I’m dependable. That I’m . . . settled.”
The carriage jolted in to motion. “Settled.”
“With someone of whom she approves,” he added, lowering his chin in a way that forced her to focus on his gaze, making it impossible to ignore the beseeching look he gave her.
Please, Emma
, it said.
It’s just one small favor
.
Finally, she understood. Only, she wished she didn’t. Then again, he couldn’t be asking what she thought he was asking. “You’re not . . . proposing . . .
marriage
, are you?”
“Actually . . .” He drew in a breath and slowly nodded. “Yes. Mostly.”
And with those words, the driver of her proverbial carriage fled.
Emma braced herself. “Mostly?” Confused, panicked, she looked to her father.
His shrug didn’t help. He pointed his pipe at Rathburn as if he were the star attraction of the carnival that her carriage was speeding toward. Downhill. At an alarming rate. There was little hope for survival.
“A mock-courtship, if you will,” Rathburn said as if this made all the difference. “It would only be for the length of her stay.”
“Which will be . . .?” Again, she knew she shouldn’t ask.
“Two months.”
Two months!
“That’s nearly half of the Season.” Her third and final Season before she would be on the shelf.
Her mother suddenly leaped up from the sofa and wrapped her arms around her, apparently unable to rein in her excitement a moment longer. “Oh, Emma! I’m so proud of you!”
At last, those words. Not said in disappointment, but with that effervescent joy she’d craved.