How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Read online

  The two women smiled, clearly pleased with the compliment.

  “Did Francis tell you?” Claire asked as she almost bounced up and down on the bench with excitement.

  “Tell me what?” Emily’s eyes moved from one sister to the other, trying to read the expressions on their faces.

  “He plans to dance with all three of us this evening. Can you imagine? Francis dancing!” Claire’s eyes grew wide. “It must be centuries since anyone has seen him dance. I wonder if he even remembers how to.”

  She whispered the last part as Beatrice quickly hushed her. “You mustn’t say such things,” she admonished. “Least of all in his own home—not to mention his presence. Have you no sense of decorum at all?” But the suppressed giggle was present in Beatrice’s eyes, even as she made the stoic attempt at sounding severe.

  “Claire does have a point, Bea,” Emily cut in, to the immense satisfaction of Claire, who grinned at her sister’s unexpected show of support. “I certainly can’t remember Francis ever dancing at any of the events where we’ve seen him.”

  Claire’s grin withered, and Beatrice suddenly looked stricken. Emily went on, determined to remember some of Francis’s faults, in the face of her recent and extremely confounding feelings toward him. “He always stands as far away from the dance floor as possible. That’s of course unless he’s in the game room playing cards, which, judging from my observations, I think is where he feels far more comfortable. One does tend to wonder, however, why a man with such strikingly good looks is never seen in the company of a lady. Then again, his glum demeanor is hardly to his advantage. If I’m not mistaken, I do believe the majority of young women fear him.”

  “And here I was, thinking that it was just such a demeanor that most young women were drawn to—the troubled rogue that melts their hearts with a dark and brooding stare.”

  She recognized the voice immediately, a slight shiver running down her spine, her body trembling as heat rushed into her face. She knew she needn’t worry about looking too pale anymore. No mirror was required to tell her that her face had turned scarlet.

  Her eyes squeezed shut as she bit down on her lip—embarrassment seeping out of every pore. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him.

  He was closer than she had expected—so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her face. She looked up into those dark and mysterious eyes of his. “I . . .” was all she managed before he cut her off.

  “Are my looks really that striking?” he asked with a mischievous undertone.

  “What? Er . . . well . . . you see . . . the thing is . . .” Emily stammered. Good God, he smelled good, standing there so close to her. She wanted nothing more than to drown in his aroma. Her head felt dizzy with it and it was clearly impairing her ability to string a coherent sentence together. “I’m sorry,” she finally managed to get out. “That was insensitive of me. I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness.”

  “Well . . . that depends.” His voice was close to a whisper. She could have sworn that everyone else in the room had vanished in that instant—nobody else seemed to exist as long as he stood there staring into her eyes, the heat there warning her that this was more than a straightforward conversation. He was publicly flirting with her—she was now certain of it—and it excited her in a way that nothing else ever had.

  Francis arched an eyebrow as he lowered his head toward her. “Would you do me the honor of letting me show you that I do indeed remember how to dance?”

  Emily sucked in a breath and pretended to ponder the question with a great deal of thought before finally saying, “I would be delighted, Francis.”

  He then offered her his arm. “Shall we? I believe our carriage awaits.”

  “Well, if you are to escort Emily, then I shall have the pleasure of attending to her sisters,” Jonathan grinned as he offered one arm to Beatrice and the other to Claire. “Really, old friend! It seems that I have, yet again, made the better deal.”

  “I hardly think so,” Emily heard Francis mutter, as he guided her out of the room. A warm feeling wafted through her—delight over his apparent pleasure at having her hand resting upon his arm. Perhaps it was finally time to realize that there was more to life than Adrian. And Francis may be just the man to show her what she’d been missing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  He tried desperately not to look at her as they sat across from one another on their way to the Carroway mansion on Grosvenor Square. Yet every now and again, his gaze found her, his eyes drawn helplessly toward the luscious rise of her breasts as they swayed slightly with each and every jolt that the landau made.

  It was ridiculous, really, to take a carriage such a short distance. His house was no more than a five-minute walk along Mount Street and then up Charles Street. However, one could never be sure if it might rain, and besides, it was night. Even if they were in Mayfair, as opposed to in the center of town, it would be highly unseemly for young ladies to have to walk more than ten feet in their evening attire.

  Francis’s thoughts turned once again to Emily, his feelings for her churning inside him like a raging sea in a storm.

  How did this happen?

  God help him, Emily Rutherford was the last person on earth he would ever have thought would awaken such desire in him. For years now the feelings he’d once had for her had been carefully removed to a distant corner of his mind and forgotten, but seeing her every day for the past two weeks had tormented him, her honesty drawing him in like a fish hooked on a line.

  With each day that passed, he wanted her more. She remained constantly in his thoughts . . . thoughts that were becoming less and less pure. For pity’s sake, he wished she would have brought a shawl to cover those beckoning breasts so that he might hope to think of something else. He cursed beneath his breath as he turned to look out of the window.

  “Don’t worry,” Beatrice said, addressing Emily. “We’ll be right by your side.”

  “Do I look worried?” Since climbing into the carriage, Emily’s mind had returned to Adrian and Kate. The last couple of weeks had been impossibly difficult, and yet, Francis and her sisters had miraculously managed to turn her mind to other things—particularly Francis.

  Nevertheless, knowing that she was now approaching the Carroway ball made everything come crashing back down on her. Her newfound confidence began to shrivel. She would have to face the two people who had completely betrayed her trust. They had gone ahead and made their future plans without the slightest word of warning.

  It was more than that, though. She had loved him—had being the operative word. And yet, she could not bring herself to hate either one of them. Perhaps that was the worst part of all. If she could only hate them for what they had done, she might be able to find some release by lashing out at them.

  However, it was impossible for her to hate anyone, least of all someone she had been such close friends with, regardless of what they might have done. No, Emily Rutherford didn’t hate Adrian or Kate. What she felt was far worse. She felt pain and overwhelming loss. Closing her eyes against the tears, she lowered her head to look at her hands.

  “You look as if you’re about to cry,” Claire told her.

  “Claire!” Beatrice muttered. “You mustn’t draw attention to that sort of thing. Emily is in a fragile enough state as it is without you highlighting the point.”

  “Sorry.” The apology was low and almost went unheard, but it was sincere.

  “Claire’s right, though,” Emily said as she put on a brave smile and looked up, her eyes glittering. “I feel miserable. I fear that this was really a very bad idea indeed.” She allowed herself to glance over at Francis, but he appeared to be caught up in his own thoughts. Besides, what would he say? Knowing him, he would probably just make her feel worse for not having the ability to spurn her friends for hurting her.

  She let out a wretched sigh as the carriage jerked to a halt.

  Jonathan jumped to the ground, straightened himself, and then extended his
hand in order to assist Claire. Moving to follow her sister, Beatrice rose from the bench, only to find herself deterred by Francis, his hand holding on to her wrist. “Beatrice, would you allow me to have a moment alone with your sister?” he asked her, a grave look upon his face.

  “I’m not entirely sure that it would be proper, Francis,” she replied in earnest, though with the slightest hint of regret.

  “Perhaps if you were to wait just outside the carriage?” he urged. “We shall leave the door ajar,” he added. Beatrice paused a moment, seemingly contemplating the issue. “It will take but the fraction of a heartbeat,” he promised her, his eyes meeting hers dead-on.

  “Very well then,” she agreed. “I shall wait outside. Do be quick about it, though—we wouldn’t like to cause a stir—particularly since other carriages are arriving as we speak.” Her white satin dress rustled about her as she reached out to take Jonathan’s hand, leaving Francis and Emily alone to face one another.

  Having no desire to waste the precious time that Beatrice had allowed him, Francis hurried across to seat himself beside Emily. She gasped as her eyes widened, bewilderment etched deeply in her delicate features.

  “I know that you are troubled by having to come here this evening,” he told her seriously in a rush of words. “Don’t worry, though. You shall not be left alone with either one of them for a second, I assure you. However, should you decide that it is too difficult for you to stay, then I doubt if anyone would blame you for having a sudden headache.”

  “Thank you, Francis,” she told him with the faintest of smiles. “You are most considerate.”

  Without waiting a moment longer, he put his arm around her waist, pulled her toward him, and lowered his head, his lips gently grazing hers in the sweetest of kisses that Emily could ever have imagined.

  Nothing she had ever experienced came close to this. Even Adrian’s kiss fell short by comparison.

  This was sensual. It had a softness to it, with a yearning behind it that sent shivers of excitement down her spine. Heat flooded her, from her head to her toes, as she savored the feeling of his lips against hers.

  Forgetting herself, she raised her hand to grab on to him, to draw him nearer, yet before she could manage to do so, he had pulled away.

  “Hopefully, that will give you something else to think about,” he told her with a sly shadow of a smile.

  Though he acted unperturbed, she couldn’t ignore the heated gaze with which he now looked at her. She clasped her hands to stop them from trembling. Her heart was still racing, her skin prickling. She almost wanted to ask him to kiss her again, but before she could muster up the courage, he had left the carriage and was now standing on the ground below, waiting to assist her.

  With a dreamy look upon her face and a lightheaded sensation of walking on clouds, she stumbled down the steps to take his arm and enter the manor.

  A hush fell across the ballroom as their names were announced. Everyone knew about the Rutherford sisters and the untimely deaths of their parents. Since this was the first that the ton had seen of them in six years, necks now craned and heads twisted in attempts at catching a look at them.

  Emily gripped Francis’s arm tightly, the sudden attention unnerving her. He couldn’t help but smile to himself—it was immensely satisfying to know that she had turned to him to help her through it. Placing his right hand upon hers, he gave it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

  Then, as if by magic, it seemed as if she strengthened her resolve. Her back straightened, her chin rose and she took on an admirably regal look. She felt safe with him, and the discovery of it squeezed his heart and filled him with such warmth. How rewarding it was to know this. He wondered if she knew it herself.

  As they descended the stairs, they were met by both Veronica and their hostess, Adrian’s mother.

  “Lady Carroway, Lady Giddington,” Francis and Jonathan said in turn as they greeted the two women with a slight bow.

  “Lord Dunhurst and Mr. Jonathan,” the two women chirped in reply.

  “How good of you to come,” Lady Carroway said to them with a smile. Then, turning toward the three sisters, her smile broadened. “Beatrice, Emily, and Claire—I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you.”

  “You are most kind,” Beatrice told her. “It was really very good of you to invite us.”

  “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

  “Pray tell us, how is the happy couple doing?” Emily found herself asking, much to her own surprise.

  Everyone else looked equally shocked, which naturally brought a smile to Emily’s lips. She somehow enjoyed the effect she’d had on them. Only Francis knew that she was not nearly as composed as she would have them all believe. The knuckles of the hand that gripped his arm had turned white.

  “Emily, it’s very kind of you to ask, but really, we needn’t talk about them if you’d rather not,” Lady Carroway told her gently.

  Emily steadied herself, then thought of the one thing that would help her get through the evening. Blood rushed to her head as she thought of Francis kissing her in the carriage.

  “I’m sorry,” Lady Carroway said as she saw how red Emily turned. “I’ve embarrassed you.”

  Francis turned his eyes on Emily. He knew immediately that her blush had nothing to do with what Lady Carroway had said. This will give you something else to think about, he had told her. He smirked, trying to bite back a grin. How satisfying it was to see the effect he’d had on her, and in full view of the entire ton. It took tremendous restraint to stop him from laughing out loud.

  “Not at all,” Emily told Lady Carroway. “I’m quite all right, really. If I hadn’t wished to be confronted with the issue, I could have pleaded a headache and stayed away. However, I am here to offer my congratulations to both of them. That is why I inquired as to how they are doing.”

  Beatrice’s heart swelled with pride at her sister’s words. Taking her free hand in hers, she leaned toward her. “Well done, Emily,” she whispered in her ear. “Well done indeed.”

  “Would you care to dance?” Emily suddenly heard Francis asking her. He had no intention of waiting for his aunt to tell them about Kate and Adrian’s welfare. His arm had become thoroughly sore, but aside from that, he had a compelling need to have Emily to himself for a while.

  “I . . .” She hesitated as an array of different thoughts filled her mind . . . some of them (in fact, an alarming majority) were not at all proper for a young unmarried woman to be thinking. If she accepted, would she be accepting more than just a dance? Her heart was still in tatters. Her better judgment was telling her to turn and run. But the tiniest of voices in her head was urging her to accept. Troubled by indecision, she remained quite still.

  “Emily?” she heard his voice like a far-off call.

  Then Beatrice nudged her. “Lord Dunhurst is awaiting your reply,” she murmured. She then added in a low whisper that only Emily could hear, “You mustn’t refuse him, Emily—not publicly, no matter what your feelings are. Now pull yourself together.”

  With a little shove, Emily found herself being pushed toward Francis, her feet almost landing on top of his as she stumbled. He caught her gracefully, holding her steady with practiced ease and without batting an eyelid.

  His face was most serious as he regarded her, those dark eyes of his drawing her toward him. Oh, she could easily forget everything else around her when she looked into those eyes. And his strong jaw line, his sensual lips that were now drawn tight in expectation. She now knew what it was to have those lips pressed against hers as she gazed upon them reverently, unable to look at anything else as a sudden wave of heat washed over her. Pull yourself together. Beatrice’s voice echoed in her head, returning her to the present with the same effect that a bucket of ice water might have. “As I told you earlier this evening, I would be delighted,” she managed to get out, surprised by the smoothness of her own voice.

  All seriousness vanished from his features at her acceptance. Emily co
uldn’t quite believe the effect that she had apparently had on him. He looked positively happy for the first time in years.

  By the time they had made their way to the dance floor, the first notes of the waltz were already sifting through the air. Francis pulled Emily close up against him, placing one hand firmly behind her back as he held her hand with the other. Then, with unparalleled poise, he led her about at an even pace.

  Startling new sensations overwhelmed her. She couldn’t help but notice the firmness of his chest, the strength of his arms that held her with such care. The scent of him . . . dear God, it was heavenly—a musky aroma that blended delightfully well with his cologne. She was giddy with intoxication. How could it be that she’d never noticed before? Francis was the very definition of masculine vitality. He should have had endless lines of mothers hammering at his door, eager to see their daughters wed him.

  They must have found fault with his demeanor just as much as she had. Would she have allowed her daughter to marry a man who never once smiled? Who always seemed cold and callous? Probably not. But something in the last couple of weeks had brought on a gradual change in him. He looked different, as if a burden had been lifted, and to her astonishment, she found that he was handsomer than ever before, though she couldn’t imagine how that was possible.

  And then there was the kiss. What in the name of all that was holy had prompted him to do that? He had completely shaken her universe to such an extent that the world as she knew it had dropped off its axis and was now bouncing around in complete mayhem. She decided that she might as well stop speculating and simply ask.

  As they came about a third time, the skirt of her gown whooshing against her legs, she leaned her head closer to him. “Why did you kiss me when we were alone in the carriage?” she asked in a whisper.

  She felt a slight shift in his shoulders at the question. “Would you rather that I had kissed you publicly?”

  “What?” She was aghast. “Of course not!”