How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Page 23

  Emily was out of her chair quicker than a hound chasing a rabbit. She threw her arms about Claire in a tight hug. “That’s wonderful news, indeed,” she said. She pulled away slightly so as to see her sister’s face. “This is what you want, I take it?”

  “What gave me away?” Claire asked in a teasing voice.

  Emily just laughed, embracing her sister yet again. “I’m very happy for you. I remember you dancing with him at Kate and Adrian’s engagement party—you must have made quite an impression.”

  “It appears that he is quite besotted with our Claire.” Beatrice picked up a strawberry tart and took a small bite from it. “He has agreed to marry her posthaste—on her birthday, nonetheless.”

  “But that’s only three weeks away,” Emily gasped. “We can’t possibly arrange for a decent wedding in so little time.”

  “Don’t you see that we must?” Claire said as she reached for Emily’s hand. “If we don’t, then all we have, little as it may be, reverts back to Edward. We mustn’t let that happen.”

  Realization suddenly dawned on Emily. An offer had been made—a very good offer, it seemed—yet she couldn’t allow her sister to sacrifice her life as she had intended to do—especially when it was completely unnecessary. “Do you love him, Claire?” she finally asked.

  “I . . .” a look of uncertainty flickered behind Claire’s eyes. “I like him a lot,” she finally said. “And I’m confident that I shall grow to love him.”

  Emily winced. This was not what she wished for her youngest sister. She wanted her to love the man she planned to marry just as much as she loved Francis. “I think perhaps you’re rushing into this because of circumstance, Claire.”

  It was a statement that was brutally honest and had Claire’s eyes flaring in an instant. She rounded on her sister with a mean look in her eyes. “Do I not look happy to you, Emily?” she asked from between clenched teeth. “I am overjoyed—to be fortunate enough that a gentleman such as Lord Camden—a viscount, no less—is willing to marry me in spite of how little I shall be bringing into such a marriage—it is fortuitous, indeed. I have nothing but my parents’ name, my looks, and my virtue to commend me. There is no dowry, and yet he is willing to have me anyway.”

  Emily’s eyes stung at her sister’s statement. The truth in it only made it so much more difficult to accept. “But you . . .”

  “Just because you lost the chance to marry Adrian doesn’t give you the right to thwart my hopes of happiness.”

  Emily sank her head, her eyes trying to focus on the intricate design of the carpet. How she longed to tell her sisters that she herself was happily married, that Claire needn’t marry out of obligation. She longed to throw Claire’s words back in her face, declaring her everlasting love for Francis, but how could she? Not without jeopardizing Francis’s hope for a happy future. There was too much at stake. Besides, three weeks might be enough time for them to hatch their plan against Charlotte. Or perhaps Claire might come to love Lord Camden just a little by then.

  “That was unjust.” She heard Beatrice’s voice chastising Claire’s last remark, and she needn’t look up to know that Francis would be frowning. “Please apologize to your sister.”

  “There’s really no need,” Emily said, raising her eyes to meet Claire’s. “You are a grown woman, and the decision about whom you marry is up to you. But if I may give you a small piece of advice, try to spend as much time with your fiancé as you can over the next three weeks. Get to know him well. I shall support your decision, whatever it may be.”

  The look on Claire’s face was greatly apologetic. She looked as though she’d like nothing better than to retreat to the farthest corner of the universe. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it and it was badly done of me to say such a thing.”

  “On a more positive note,” Beatrice chimed in. “You must no longer feel obliged to make any unnecessary sacrifices on our account, Emily.”

  She was referring to Emily’s far too hasty decision to marry Edward, but the comment struck a chord nonetheless. Emily’s eyes darted across the room to where Francis sat, completely immobile, his gaze riveted upon her in expectation. As far as Beatrice was concerned, he was still courting her. How her sister had managed to say something so cruel and insensitive was beyond comprehension. Anger flashed like shards of glass behind her eyes as she straightened herself, fully intent on reassuring the man who had captured her heart that marrying him had by no means been a sacrifice.

  Taking on a regal stance that seemed to dwarf the rest of those present, she said, “Make no mistake, dear sister, that when I marry, it shall be for love. I shall respect my husband beyond all others, and I shall be happier than I had ever hoped to be.”

  The only one who showed a hint of a smile was Francis, and even then it was from behind his teacup. Beatrice looked positively stunned by Emily’s verbal attack. “Did I offend you in some way?” she asked.

  “You cannot know how much,” Emily replied in a pained voice.

  “Then I must apologize, for I had no idea.”

  “When shall we have the pleasure of meeting this Camden fellow, Claire?” Jonathan spoke up, easing the tension.

  “Tomorrow evening at the Marquess of Ailesbury’s ball,” Claire said, turning to Beatrice, who seemed preoccupied. “Is that not so? Bea?”

  “Yes, of course.” Beatrice quickly composed herself, whatever had distracted her seemingly forgotten. “It’s the last ball of the season, it being the twelfth of August tomorrow.”

  “Ah, the Glorious Twelfth,” Jonathan murmured. “The hunting season begins. I almost wish we could warn the red grouse against the wrath of Lord Barkley—you know he always throws away half of what he shoots.”

  “We shall be sure to be on our best behavior,” Francis promised, honoring Claire with a playful smile.

  “Even your aunt has promised to attend,” Beatrice added.

  “Is that so?” Francis couldn’t help but smile at the idea. “How is she, by the way?”

  “Very well, though she still insists on taking her meals upstairs.”

  Francis nodded before heading toward the door. “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, there are a few letters that have arrived in my absence—I’d like to go over them right away.” He turned to Emily with a blank expression. “Would you please join me in the study? I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Emily nodded. It was impossible for her to determine what was on his mind. Would he chastise her for her outburst?

  From the corner of her eye, Emily saw Beatrice regard the two of them with increasing interest, surely wondering what Francis could possibly have to say to Emily that he couldn’t just as well say in front of everyone else. They would have to be careful or Beatrice was sure to discover something was afoot.

  The door closed behind them and Francis immediately pulled Emily against him, smothering her mouth with his in a desperate kiss. Lips parted and waves of desire poured over them as their tongues mingled—hot, moist, and sensual. Gently easing her away from him, Francis took a step back, his breath heavy upon his lips. “If we don’t stop now, we’ll soon be sprawled out upon the floor,” he said as fire burned in his dark eyes.

  Emily stared back at him. She knew that he was right. What shocked her was that she didn’t really care. Her need for him—to have him inside her and to revel in all the pleasure that he offered—was so great at that very moment that nothing else mattered.

  He seemed to read her mind. “You know that we can’t,” he told her, attempting to feign a voice of reason that he did not feel. “We’re not even supposed to be married. But even if we were, I do believe your sisters would have a case of the vapors if they were to happen upon us in a tangled mess of partial undress.”

  Emily burst out laughing, light dancing in her eyes as she clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound. The image that he’d brought to life was too hilarious to be taken seriously. He must have agreed, for he soon joined her with a heartfel
t grin. “We would in all likelihood be forced to send for the doctor to tend to them,” he continued, in a hope to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation, but it had quite the opposite effect—Emily only laughed harder.

  “What a spectacle it would be,” she gasped between giggles. “Me with my skirts up about my waist, you with your trousers down around your ankles, and Beatrice and Claire in a dead faint upon the floor.” She bit her lip to stifle herself. “You’re right—it would probably be more than my poor sisters could handle.”

  He nodded convincingly—more for his own sake than for hers. “On a different note, I actually did have something that I wished to tell you.”

  She smoothed her dress, then perched herself on the edge of the chair closest to her.

  “I’m glad that you said what you did in there. I was worried for a moment that you might regret marrying me once you discovered that it had not been necessary in terms of securing your sisters’ future, now that Claire is to wed Lord Camden.”

  “Beatrice won’t understand my outburst.” It was said with a hint of regret at the way in which she had treated her older sister. “But I said it for your benefit more than anyone else’s. I would rather hang myself than to have you believe that I regret becoming your wife.”

  Reaching out, he gently brushed his hand against her cheek. “I should have told you what happened a long time ago,” he whispered. “To think of all the years we’ve wasted . . . but instead I pushed you away. I was jealous, I suppose.”

  “Jealous?” She looked at him quizzically. “Of what?”

  He gave her a sad smile. “It all seems so silly now . . . pitiful, really. To begin with . . .” He paused, eyeing her carefully. “I couldn’t bear to see you fawn over Adrian the way you did when I . . . it’s taken me years to acknowledge this, Emily, but the truth is that I’ve always loved you. And then . . . when Elisabeth died . . . I felt as though my world had gone to pieces. I envied you for being so happy. I despised Adrian for having captured your affection. . . . I hated the world for being so bloody unjust.” His words faded and his hand fell away.

  She leaned forward to kiss him gently on his forehead. “I love you, too, Francis. I believe I’ve always loved you, but I was so blinded by Adrian’s charm and attention toward me that I turned my back on the one person who truly mattered to me. As it turned out, Adrian was a poor substitute, but one that I desperately needed. I felt abandoned when you shut me out, and I lost hope. I’m so sorry.”

  Her revelation shocked both of them into momentary silence. Color rose to Emily’s cheeks. She hadn’t even realized how long she’d felt that way until just now when she’d actually said it out loud. A sense of longing flooded through her. How many years she’d wasted, pining over the wrong man and criticizing the right one. “I’m so sorry for the way in which I treated you—it was terribly wrong of me, and now that I know why you acted the way you did . . . I feel awful!”

  “And so you should,” he teased her with a smile, but rather than laugh as he had hoped, her eyes glistened with the promise of tears.

  “Dear, sweet Emily,” he told her as he crouched before her and pulled her head against his shoulder in a warm embrace. “Why do you torture yourself so? We were both at fault back then, but there’s no use in fretting about lost time now. Let’s just be grateful that we are finally together, in spite of everything.” He pulled back to look at her. His heart clenched at the sight of a wet patch staining her cheek. “I love you, sweetheart. Never in my life have I loved anybody more.”

  And then she did give him that dazzling smile of hers that made his heart leap. He kissed the top of her head affectionately as he rose to his feet.

  “I’m worried about Claire,” she said suddenly. “She’s rushing into a marriage that she needn’t rush into—you and I are already married, but I cannot tell her that. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m afraid that I must agree with your sisters on this matter,” Francis said, to Emily’s surprise. She had hoped that he would side with her . . . no, she had expected it, but she was glad of his honesty nonetheless. “The truth is that Claire will never find as good a match as Lord Camden. I never doubted that she and your sister would have suitors, but I expected them to be men without a title who had to work for a living. In spite of her name, Claire has no wealth to match that of an aristocrat. The fact that a man such as Lord Camden is more than willing to marry her truly is a blessing.”

  “But if she does not love him?” Emily looked thoroughly perplexed, yet Francis thought the concern for her sister’s welfare made her even more stunning.

  “You’re a romantic, Emily, and I commend you for it, but every now and again, it’s necessary to be a realist. Claire doesn’t seem to dislike her young lord or the prospect of marrying him. Have you seen the man, by the way? He’s strikingly handsome.”

  It was true that Emily had not yet met the man her sister intended to marry. In fact, the only times she’d even heard the mention of his name had been at the Carroway ball and at Cunningham House—she still had to see him in person.

  “You have to understand that what you and I have is rather unique,” Francis was saying. “In fact, it’s extremely rare. We’ve known each other since childhood. There’s a link between us that takes years for most newlywed couples to develop. Don’t discredit your sister’s union because you want her to have what you have—it’s unlikely that she will. But that doesn’t mean that they won’t love each other in the end.

  “Lord Camden is a man of means. He will provide very well for her, showering her in everything that her heart desires, and from what Beatrice says, he’s already smitten with Claire. It is a start—I daresay a better one than many are given.” He paused for a moment before taking Emily’s hand in his. “If I may give you a piece of advice, don’t do anything to ruin Claire’s chances or to change her mind. You would be doing her a great disservice, and I doubt that she would thank you for it.”

  He was right, of course, though Emily was reluctant to admit it. She would do as he suggested, however—step back and allow her sister the space she needed, to make the most important decision of her life on her own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Francis had assured Emily that once Charlotte discovered that he and Emily had formed an attachment, she would undoubtedly approach them all by herself. At least, that was what he hoped, for it was less likely to raise Charlotte’s suspicions than if Emily tried to befriend her on her own. With this in mind, it was with some degree of trepidation that they set out for the Marquess of Ailesbury’s mansion on Wigmore Street the following evening.

  Even though the general outline of their plan was Emily’s, she had become increasingly worried that a woman such as Charlotte would be able to see right through her. She was not accustomed to lying, so befriending someone whose life centered on duping those that she wished to benefit from was suddenly the most terrifying thing that Emily could possibly imagine.

  A dizzying shimmer of light, bouncing off of jewel-bedecked women and crystal chandeliers, twinkled like fairy dust when they made their appearance at precisely nine o’clock. It was a sight upon which Emily’s eyes luxuriated as they sucked in the opulence of Lord and Lady Ailesbury’s ballroom and of their guests. Music rose to the sound of Haydn’s Surprise, softly filling the air from the far side of the room, only slightly muted by the hum of voices wrapped in conversation.

  The floor was polished marble—cream outlined by three borders in black, beige, and brown. The walls and ceiling were ivory white, richly embellished with moldings whose varying patterns had been highlighted in gold. A set of twelve doors led to other rooms, as well as to a terrace overlooking the garden, and above these doors was a balcony that framed the entire ballroom. Up there, sofas and chairs had been set alongside small tables, so that those who’d grown tired of dancing—or simply wished to sit down and rest their legs—could do so without secluding themselves from the rest of the party.

  Emily was g
lad she’d opted for her white dress with embroidered rosebuds lining the neckline and hem in splashes of scarlet. A matching ribbon ran beneath her bosom, tying in a neat bow at the back, the ends of it trailing elegantly behind her as she walked.

  Francis thought she looked particularly stunning that evening, and he longed for nothing more than to take her home again so he could have her for himself. Shaking the urge, he tried instead to focus on the task that lay ahead.

  They didn’t know for certain that Charlotte would be present that evening, but he hoped that she would. Following Lady Riley’s death, Charlotte had accompanied his father to all such events, taking on the role of his wife rather than that of his mistress. Time had caused many people to forget that she didn’t really belong. Or perhaps they hadn’t forgotten, he reflected, but were either too polite or too affected by habit to do anything about it. It was probably the latter, he decided. The ton generally didn’t mind shunning somebody that they didn’t feel belonged in their circle.

  Then again, he was in all likelihood the only person amongst them who’d ever seen Charlotte’s true character. Whenever she went out in public, she immediately donned the appearance of endless kindness and concern for those around her. Never in a million years would anyone have cause to believe that this wasn’t her true nature. Her smile appeared as genuine as that of an angel sent from heaven, and her words so sincere that Francis had always thought she’d make a formidable opponent at cards—nobody would ever call her bluff.

  His eyes now scanned the room for her unwillingly.

  “I’m glad you were able to come, Dunhurst,” a bold voice spoke, drawing Francis’s attention away from the crowd. It belonged to his host, Lord Ailesbury, who was strategically positioned just inside the main entrance to the ballroom. He stood with his wife upon his arm, greeting guests as they swept past.

  Both were in their mid-forties. The marquess was a tall, slim man with reddish hair. His face was softly rounded like that of a young boy, but the creases in his forehead betrayed his age. His wife was a voluptuous lady with heavy breasts and wide hips—a stark contrast to her husband. Her eyes and smile were warm and inviting, making her the sort of person that people gravitated toward.