“Pistols would have been a foolish choice, since Rathburn’s a helluva shot. Swords would be a better option, giving me the advantage.”
“I beg to differ,” Rathburn said, his tone edged in amusement. “There have been a number of occasions where I could refute your claim.”
“I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t let you win some of the times.”
“
Let
me w—”
“Then you are still friends?” Emma interrupted before they ended up behaving like children again.
Her brother stopped and stared down at her. “Were you hoping I’d run him through?”
“No!”
All the blood drained from her head, and the air left her lungs on an unsteady breath. “Of course not. That was exactly the reason I sent you the letter, to explain matters so you wouldn’t get the wrong idea. And also to prepare you in case Rathburn would need you to act as best man.”
“Just in case this entire farce played out.” He nodded thoughtfully, making her wonder if he was going to decide he didn’t like the idea of her being involved in the scheme after all. However, when he tossed a cheeky grin over his shoulder to Rathburn, she could have killed him for scaring her. “Should I
act
the part of the best man?”
“Only if you can
act
civilized,” Rathburn growled as they neared the patio. “I’d hate to think what the effort would do your demon half.”
“Catch fire, no doubt.”
The moment they stepped foot onto the patio, the worry and nervousness of the past few minutes was swept aside. Upon seeing Rafe, her mother jumped out of her seat and embraced him. Her father rose and ruffled his unruly curls as if he was still a lad.
Surprisingly, even the dowager graced them with a smile. “I’m merely glad I wasn’t forced to send a search party for the two of you.”
A rush of heat swept to Emma’s cheeks. Somehow, she’d become distracted from her true purpose of speaking with Rathburn alone.
Perhaps Rathburn was right. They couldn’t be trusted alone. Not together, at any rate.
Yet, because of her own impulses, she’d missed the perfect opportunity to tell him about her secret. To tell him why she never should have made the bargain with him in the first place.
However, now, with Rafe’s sudden appearance, another option presented itself. She could tell the dowager of their altercation and make a clean break. Surely, a matter such as this was beyond Rathburn’s control and shouldn’t jeopardize his inheritance.
It was almost too easy.
So then, why was her heart breaking at the thought?
T
he following day, Rathburn had sent her flowers and a message, promising to be her escort to the Binghams’ dinner. In her reply, Emma professed to having a cold. She’d sent her regrets to the Binghams, as well.
Rathburn’s response had returned within the hour.
A cold, my darling, Emma?
I suppose it is fortunate that I did not kiss you in the library
or else we’d both be in bed with a cold.
On second thought . . .
Yours
She’d read the note four times and was still unable to determine whether she should laugh or blush. In the end, she did both.
Now, days later, she was still avoiding him. Even when she realized she’d left the painting behind, she couldn’t contact him.
She’d completely lost the nerve to tell him about her secret. And she most certainly wasn’t prepared for the conversation he’d promised—which could only have been about their future annulment. In the current fragile state of her emotions, she feared what she might reveal. If she confessed the truth of her regard for him, she ran the risk of seeing him look on her with pity as he reminded her of his true purpose for this bargain. It was not for a wife, after all.
Then, eventually—after her confession—she could lose him as a friend as well. The thought was too much to bear.
Unfortunately, when she received a summons from the dowager for a final fitting of her gown, she couldn’t refuse. After all, the wedding was only a week away.
E
nough was enough
, Rathburn thought as he raised his hand to the doorknocker on the Danverses’ townhouse. He wouldn’t let Emma avoid him any longer.
He hadn’t believed her
sudden cold
excuse from the beginning. However, when Parker had told him she was
indisposed
the following day, when he’d come to take her for a drive through the park, he began to worry. The day after that, he’d sent her flowers again and received a very courteous—
very Emma
—reply that revealed nothing. Then, the day after that, when Weatherstone had admitted to seeing her in fine health, he realized his first suspicion was correct all along. Emma was avoiding him.
But why?
Parker answered the door with a bow. “I’m sorry, my lord, but Miss Danvers—”
“Is
not
indisposed, I’m sure,” he interrupted, gritting his teeth.
“—received a summons from the dowager,” he finished.
The dowager
. His blood went cold.
Without another word, he left and headed immediately to the townhouse. He couldn’t let Emma speak with his grandmother before he had the chance to tell her the truth. About everything. Tethering her to him under the guise of gaining an inheritance he already possessed was too selfish, even for him.
Though it pained him to admit it, he couldn’t let this farce continue a moment longer. Emma deserved a choice in the matter—not the guilt that would inevitably assail her if she spoke the words to end their betrothal.
At Grosvenor Square, he strode through the door with the sole purpose of confessing all of it. Even at the risk of losing everything he wanted.
B
y early afternoon, Emma stood in front of the mirror, staring at a stranger. Of course, her hair was still styled the same way it had been when she’d left her own chamber. But surely the dreamy-eyed young woman standing in the center of the blue room at Rathburn’s townhouse was not the same one who’d left Number 9 Danbury Lane.
The white undergown fit her like a second skin from her shoulders to her hips. The seamstress forbade her from wearing stays because the buckram and laces would ruin the line. Therefore, she’d created a silk chemise with invisible gathers below her breasts to offer support. From her hips, the satin gown flared subtly, draping down to the floor. Over this, she wore a robe of the palest rose, trimmed in Belgian lace and needlework with flaxen thread along the lapels and sleeves. Instead of thousands of pearls, as her mother had accused, there were no more than a dozen, stitched into the centers of the embroidered swirls.
If she were ever to paint a self-portrait, she would wear this . . .
Tears stung the backs of her eyes when she thought of never having the chance to wear this gown again. But even more so when she thought of what that meant—she would never marry Oliver.
How foolish she’d been to think this bargain would ever be simple, or to imagine she hadn’t always been in love with him. After all, wasn’t that the true reason she had agreed to his scheme?
She sighed. Because she loved him, it was up to her to end this and plead his case with the dowager for his inheritance.
The modiste clucked her tongue and thrust a handkerchief to her face. “Not on the satin,” she said in her thick French accent.
Drying her eyes, Emma stared at the stranger in the glass and felt sorry for her.
She
was going to be dealing with a broken heart very soon. As if to punctuate that certainty, a maid entered the room with a request from the dowager to join her in the drawing room as soon as she was finished.
With her mother in Lady Rathburn’s private chambers for tea, there was no one to shield her or allow her to postpone the inevitable. In the end, she changed and left the blue room, regretting that she may never return.
“You seem to have recovered from your cold, Miss Danvers,” the dowager said when she entered the drawing room. “Unless your red eyes are a sign I should keep to my side of the room.”
“I am quite recovered,” she said without even a sniff leftover from her sudden bout of tears. “The Danvers clan is very sound in both mind and body.” The instant the words were out, she knew that only half of it was true. Stating that her parents were of sound mind was a small stretch.
The dowager huffed in response as she took her seat. The parlor maid bustled over and poured her tea before she disappeared into the corner. Emma glanced to the dish of sugar, but knew from her previous times at tea with Her Grace that the porcelain bowl was simply a sweet trap. One was not permitted to add sugar to one’s tea in her presence without risk of severe reproach of one’s character.
“The last time you were to tea, you mentioned how you weren’t certain your brother would approve the match,” the dowager said, getting right to the point. “The other day’s kerfuffle gives me reason to worry.”
Emma’s throat closed. Her sip of tea was doomed to end up dribbling out of her mouth if she couldn’t figure out a way to force it down. To give herself a moment to collect herself, she raised her eyebrows in question.
“Surely, you don’t think my grandson’s wrinkled attire escaped my notice? I’ve seen enough tussles between the groomsmen to know what the activity will do to a lapel.”
This was it—her perfect opportunity to end the betrothal. It was happening just as she and Rathburn had discussed in the beginning. After all, a gentleman did not break an engagement. If Rathburn did, he would lose all honor.
It had to be her. It had to be now.
She set down her cup and clasped her hands. “I do not know if my brother and your grandson can overcome their differences.”
“I see.” The dowager lowered her cup as well and pursed her lips.
“I’m glad.” Emma took a breath. Honestly she didn’t know how she was going to make it through this without crying again, but she knew she had to. “It makes it easier to tell you—”
“Of course,” the dowager interrupted. “It goes without saying that having two gentlemen so dear to you would set you between them, putting a strain on your relationship with your brother, as well as your fledgling marriage. After the events of the other day, one can only presume your marriage would be fragile from the outset.”
A fragile marriage? No. She and Rathburn were friends first, and in being so would make a very good partnership in marriage—
if
they were to marry under different circumstances.
She’d thought about it a great deal. After all, they got along rather well. She enjoyed his wicked way of teasing her, though she would never let on. She even liked the way he looked at her, especially of late, and the way he made her think of rainy mornings alone with him, with two steaming cups of chocolate on a nearby table.
Yes, she thought with a sigh. She’d imagined marriage to Rathburn a great deal. Had even wondered what it might be like to hold an infant with ash blond hair and mossy green eyes. And right now she resented the dowager for trying to steal away those dreams.
She thought she was prepared for this. She’d resolved herself to the idea of losing him forever.
Hadn’t she? After all, the sensible, practical Emma would never let romantic notions cloud her judgment. And yet . . .
Perhaps she wasn’t as sensible as she thought.
Emma stood and stepped away from the low table. “Our marriage would be a strong one. After all, we are friends first. Besides, my brother would soon realize that by separating me from Rathburn, he’d be severing ties with me as well.”
The dowager eyed her shrewdly. “Then you would choose my grandson over your own family?”
“I love my family, Your Grace. I love them enough to know they would never stand in the way of my happiness.” Realizing her fingers were knitted together, she pulled them apart and lowered her arms to her side. “Besides, you underestimate your grandson. Rathburn would never ask me to choose, and that is exactly the reason I accepted his proposal in the first place.”
A prize above all others
, was something Rathburn understood to the very core of his being.
“You seem very sure of him.”
She nodded. “We know each other. We share more than an understanding of each other’s characters, we share”—she stopped to catch her breath. Turning away, she faced the partially opened door that led to the gallery and lowered her voice to a whisper. “A heart.”
Her heart, to be exact. He was firmly planted within the fragile, trembling walls of her heart, sharing the snug space, even if he didn’t know it and perhaps never would. If she were even more honest with herself than she’d ever been before, she could admit to surrendering all of her heart to Oliver Goswick.
“He should take lessons from you, because his poetry is sorely lacking,” the dowager said, letting Emma know that neither the age of the listener nor the room’s acoustics had kept her admission secret.
Trying not to blush, Emma turned in time to witness a look of horror cross the dowager’s face.
“Good heavens,” she gasped. “You’re
not
a poet are you?”
After all the tension from the past hour, she couldn’t believe she managed to keep from laughing. Oh, she was much, much worse than a poet.
“Not today, Your Grace,” she said smoothly and resumed her seat beside the low table.
Yet, if she didn’t know any better, she’d swear that the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat hid a smile behind her teacup.
I
n the gallery, Rathburn pressed back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to ease the burning sensation from his lungs. He’d held his breath for too long, not wanting to alert either his grandmother or Emma to his presence. Everything had been fine until his grandmother gave her the perfect opportunity to break the engagement.
He saw it in Emma’s eyes for a moment—her readiness to end it. That was when he’d started holding his breath. Yet, as the words flowed from her lips, something had changed. She stood, looked down at her hands, and let them fall to her sides. Lifting her head, her expression had filled with a vulnerability he’d never seen before.