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 couldn’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!”
“Well, that’s why I kissed you in the carriage.”
She leaned back slightly in order to see his face. He was grinning down at her, his eyes light with amusement. If they hadn’t been in the middle of the dance floor, she would have pummeled him. Well, perhaps not, but she liked to think that she would have, as she lowered her gaze to hide her smile.
“You know perfectly well that that’s not what I was asking,” she muttered.
The music faded and Francis turned toward her with a bow while she made a slight curtsey. She then placed her hand lightly on the arm he offered her. “Well?” she insisted as they walked away from the next set. He waved over a waiter with a tray filled with champagne flutes. They each took one, continuing toward the perimeter of the room where the heat was less stifling.
She watched him closely as he sipped his drink, a thoughtful expression lurking behind his dark eyes. “I told you already. It was meant as a distraction, to help take your mind off more upsetting matters. When you find yourself confronted by Adrian and his bride-to-be—as you shall, for there they are right now, coming our way—I want you to look unaffected and to carry yourself like a queen.”
Emily looked out over the crowd, spotting Adrian and Kate immediately, steering straight toward them, just as Francis had said. Her pulse quickened and she felt suddenly out of sorts.
“That’s all it was?” she asked Francis quickly, her eyes darting between him and the approaching couple, gauging the time it would take for the pair to reach them.
“It was a simple kiss, Emily, not the works of Shakespeare,” he told her coolly. “There’s no reason for you to analyze it to death.”
The bluntness of his words shocked her, but really, what had she expected him to say? This was after all, Francis, the man who hid away from everyone behind his harsh, glowering façade. Then why did she feel so thoroughly disappointed? She knew why. Of course she did. She thought she’d managed to penetrate his wall of steel, as if he’d given her a glimpse of who he’d once been and of who she hoped he would one day be again.
And then Kate and Adrian were upon them, banishing all other thoughts from her mind.
“Emily—it’s so good of you to have come,” Adrian told her smoothly as he came to a stop right next to her. He took her hand in his and gently brushed his lips against it. Biting down on her lower lip, Emily tried to focus on the pain, rather than on Adrian’s touch.
There was no denying it. She felt as though she was the center of a monstrous joke. After all, the man she’d always loved and her closest friend—to whom she had confided everything—had fallen for each other. As if that wasn’t enough to send her head spinning, she was now finding herself drawn irrefutably toward the last person in the world with whom she ever would have thought to get involved—the glum and brooding Lord Dunhurst. Forget Adrian. Her mind was now filled to the brim with Francis—his face, his words, his kiss. They might as well be standing in the middle of Bedlam instead of in the Carroway ballroom, as far as she was concerned.
And when she looked up and caught Francis rolling his eyes at Adrian’s greeting, Emily knew that she was in for another case of the giggles. She quickly snatched her hand away and covered her mouth with it to feign a cough, concealing all evidence of her impending laughter, or so she hoped. But her eyes had betrayed her, and having seen her in the same predicament once recently, Francis raised a knowing eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Francis,” Adrian continued with an acknowledging nod, unaware of anything unusual.
“Mr. Fairchild,” Francis replied, the formality of his greeting highlighting their now strained relationship. “Lady Kate.” He made no attempt to kiss her hand, his own clasped firmly behind his back.
“You look well,” Kate said, her comment directed at Emily. There was concern in her voice, but Emily ignored it. She had lost Adrian, but she would not give up her dignity. Everyone expected her to collapse in a puddle of tears. She was now more determined than ever not to let that happen.
In spite of what Francis had just said, she needed him now to help her through this. She clenched and unclenched her fingers, considering whether or not to grab hold of him somehow. But before she was able to decide, his hand found hers, squeezing it ever so gently in reassurance. Her eyes darted upward to be met by the most supportive of gazes. Giving her an almost imperceptible nod, he nudged her onward.
“As do you,” Emily replied, relief flooding her. There was something to be gained from confronting her fear—a sense of finality. “I trust that the wedding preparations are coming along well.”
“Emily, I . . .” A pained look tore at Kate’s beautiful features. She was without a shadow of a doubt filled with guilt.
Emily waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Everything is forgotten, and besides . . . this is your engagement party. I forbid you from not enjoying every moment of it.”
“That’s very kind of you, Emily,” Kate told her warily, as if she feared Emily’s calmness more than she would a nervous breakdown. She probably thinks I’m plotting my revenge as we speak. Emily stifled yet another laugh. Francis squeezed her hand and she wondered then if perhaps he was able to read her mind.
As it happened, he thought that she was handling it quite well thus far, in spite of her apparent urge to giggle at each and every word that was spoken. He watched her fondly as she addressed the friends that had so deeply wounded her.
Then, before his very eyes, she suddenly transformed. Her back straightened even further, she lifted her chin slightly, and then she looked both of them squarely in the eye without flinching. “I will say this, however. You were my closest and my dearest friends. I loved you more than you shall ever know. Quite foolish, really, since neither of you cared for me at all.”
Adrian opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with her hand. “You, Adrian, led me to believe that we had an agreement—perhaps I was too eager and hasty to draw that conclusion. But it is impossible that you never noticed how I felt about you when everyone else did. If you had cared, Adrian—if you had cared at all—you would have known that kissing me meant more than the world to me. It saddens me to think that it meant so little to you.
“And, Kate. I poured out my heart to you. It was a long time ago, I’ll grant you that, but for you to spring something like this on me without a single word of warning . . .
“You were my dearest friends, both of you, but you broke my heart, truly you did. The worst of it is that I know—I think even you know—that I would never have treated your hearts so carelessly.
“You are marrying for love, and for that I cannot be anything but happy—grateful even—for at least the loss of your friendship has not been for nothing.”
Kate looked at her in bewilderment. “Surely you don’t mean to tell us . . .”
“That is exactly what I mean to tell you,” her voice slicing through the air like steel. “I will remember our friendship fondly, but such a friendship is based on trust and respect. You have failed me in both. I’m afraid that it is over.”
Without another word, Emily turned her back on them forever and walked away, her dress swooshing about her ankles. Francis followed in her wake, his heart swelling with pride—she was most assuredly not the same Emily that he had known as a youth, the giddy little thing that always shied away from any conflict. Instead, she was a woman of unbelievable strength, courage, and resolve.
A woman that he now wanted entirely for himself.