Ren stood impatiently while Michael put the finishing touches to his cravat. Arthur Gridley’s dinner party was tonight and Ren felt as if he were donning armour instead of evening dress.
The metaphor of battle was not amiss. The peaceful hiatus of the last two weeks while planters focused on their own crops had been a detente of sorts between Gridley and Sugarland. In the quiet of the interim, Ren had not forgotten Gridley and his self-serving intentions lurking just beyond the harvest. The dinner party marked the end of any reprieve. Gridley would be waiting to see how Ren would align himself—with the parish or with Emma.
‘Be patient, Mr Ren. Mr Merrimore was a stickler for perfection and you should be, too.’ Michael stepped back with the reminder that he was as capable as any London valet. ‘I dressed Mr Merrimore for many of Sir Arthur’s dinner parties. He liked to wear his stick pin just so. Perhaps I should adjust yours?’
Ren lifted his chin and tolerated the effort, a thought coming to him. ‘Were Merrimore and Gridley good friends?’ Who would know better than Merrimore’s footman-cum-valet? Currently, he only had Gridley’s word on the subject. Frankly, Gridley would be biased on that account.
Michael’s brow knitted as he reset the stick pin. ‘They were always friendly, but it wasn’t until the last year that they were what you’d call close. Sir Arthur was here every day, playing backgammon or chess. When Mr Merrimore wasn’t well enough to do that, Sir Arthur read to him. Sir Arthur would have me carry Mr Merrimore downstairs and they’d sit and read for hours. He was here when Mr Merrimore passed away and he was here every day after until Miss Emma couldn’t stand it any more.’ Michael stood back. ‘That looks much better.’
Ren gathered up his watch and chain from the dresser. ‘She kicked him out, did she?’ He was starting to piece together where Emma’s loathing for Gridley came from. He’d rather have had Emma tell him herself, but since she’d been reticent on the subject of Gridley except to say she would not consider his suit, Ren had to look elsewhere for information.
‘She was grieving, Mr Ren, and Sir Arthur wanted decisions made. It was just too much for her,’ Michael offered. ‘They fought one day. We could hear them yelling at each other all the way down in the kitchen. We couldn’t hear what they said exactly, just the rise and fall of voices. Then we heard something shatter. Later we found pieces of a vase when we were cleaning up. Miss Emma must have thrown it at him.’
Ren stifled a laugh. He could imagine Emma doing just that. She was a woman of passions and that included her temper. These weeks had seen progress on that front, too. The forfeit he’d claimed had accomplished its purpose. She was starting to reshape how she viewed him. That was exactly what he wanted. He wanted her to stop seeing him as an enemy and begin to see him as a man with potential, someone who could help Sugarland, help her if she’d let him. If that potential started with a kiss, so be it. If she would not welcome him as a business partner, perhaps she’d welcome him as a friend or something more. He’d left that invitation open. She was an exciting woman, a woman aware of her own desires and she was not immune to him.
‘Thank you, Michael. I can handle things from here.’ Ren dismissed the eager footman-cum-valet with a smile and strict orders not to wait up. He could get himself to bed and he knew Michael would have an early day of it no matter when he got in. He’d learned that during the harvest everyone had early mornings. Regardless of one’s usual status the rest of the year, everyone was in the fields these crucial weeks, including himself and Emma.
He’d been astonished by the amount of people needed to run the place. In part due to inherent labour shortage and in part due to the lingering effects of the obeah charm, Emma had ended up with only about two-thirds of the hands she needed. Everyone had been pulled to the fields. Jobs in other areas of the plantation went undone. The two of them had even joined in, stripping stalks of cane and tossing them on the wagons. It was back-breaking work. His friends at home would have laughed to see him sweating in the fields.
Thankfully, Sugarland was nearly done, but other plantations might continue to harvest or even start their harvests at staggered intervals for the rest of the month depending on the readiness of their fields.
Ren stretched to relieve the soreness of his muscles, a testament to the long hours and hard work. He didn’t mind. It felt good to be actively doing something on his family’s behalf, to feel that he was making progress in achieving financial security for them. Soon the harvest would be in and there would be money to send home, a good chunk of it, too.
He was already imagining the relief on Sarah’s face when the notice came, already hearing Annaliese’s happy laughter as she danced through the hall dreaming of all the ribbons she could buy in the village. Sarah would buy those ribbons and licorice drops for Teddy but she would know what it really meant. They were saved. She could go back to London and carry on as if nothing had happened. She could have her pick of husbands and in a few years Annaliese could too.
This would be the first of many infusions. He would not be there to celebrate with them, of course. His efforts would be required here, but his absence was a small sacrifice for their security. He’d known quite well when he’d left England there would be no going back. Maybe for a short visit in a few years, but never to live. This new life would require all of him. And in truth, he didn’t mind that either. London had paled for him long ago. If it hadn’t been for his sense of duty, he might have left with Kitt. But he’d been the heir and Kitt a mere second son. Kitt’s choices couldn’t be his.
Ren took a final look in the mirror. The image made him smile. It had been five weeks since he’d left England and already he was changing. His hair was a little lighter—more the colour of paler winter wheat, less the colour of deep wild honey. His face was tan, his arms would be too beneath the sleeves of his shirt. Even his chest was tan after weeks of working shirtless in the equatorial sun. He doubted Arthur Gridley would sport such evidence of hard work tonight. Emma had said Gridley did not take an active hand in his harvest.
Satisfied with his appearance, Ren picked up his evening cape from the bed. It seemed silly to take the garment with the weather being warm, but Michael had assured him Sir Arthur’s parties were formal affairs and one did not go to war without the proper weapons, after all.
Emma was waiting for him in the drawing room. She turned from the window and his breath hitched. She was stunning, exotic. Gone was any trace of the trouser-clad, boot-wearing woman who’d sweated and laboured beside him, although that woman had been appealing, too. In her place was a lady London would find no fault with.
Emma’s dark hair was piled high on her head and threaded with pearls. The coiffure was both demure and seductive, showing off the elegant length of her neck. At the base lay a thin gold necklace, simple but expensive. No jewel could have looked finer. The gold was the perfect foil for the deep coral of her gown. In London, the colour would have been scandalous, too bold among the whites and pinks of debutantes, but here among the lush colours of the island with its rich green grasses and deep azure skies, the vibrant red-orange seemed entirely appropriate.
It certainly suited her colouring: dark hair, dark eyes and skin tinged a healthy shade of light toast from days in the sun. It suited her figure, too. The cut of the gown made the most of her natural assets; a bare neckline exposed slender shoulders, a tight bodice lifted her breasts high, the fullness of her skirt fell sensuously over the curve of her hips, accentuating the provocative sway of her hips.
‘I thought the man was supposed to wait for the woman.’ She gave a throaty laugh and crossed the room, her eyes running over the length of him in silent approval.
Ren picked up her cloak from the chair and held it out for her, letting his hands skim bare skin as he settled it about her shoulders. ‘I assure you, I’m worth waiting for.’ He felt her telltale pulse leap beneath his fingers where they lingered.
‘You’re certainly the most arrogant man I’ve ever had to wait for.’ She slanted him a coy look.
‘I don’t think you mind.’ Ren smiled, enjoying the flirty sparring and gave her his arm. Perhaps tonight would be a chance to launch an offensive on this particular front. Goodness knew his body had been on edge since the night of their kiss, the proximity and long hours together since then working all sorts of magic in honing his physical desire to sharpness. Five weeks of enforced celibacy didn’t help.
The carriage, an open-air landau, was already outside. He handed her in and took the rear-facing seat, determined to be the gentleman. Women responded to manners and, oh, how he wanted her to respond. Give over, Emma, he thought. You know you want to, stop torturing us both.
She wasn’t the only one affected, not by a long shot. He was attracted to her, had been from the moment he’d stepped off the wagon and seen her standing on the porch. In all fairness, the kiss had not been all strategy. There was a certain thrill to seducing her, to feeling the infinitesimal tensing of her body as he’d come up behind her on the bluff, to seeing her pulse beat in anticipation at the base of her neck when he came near, to see those eyes darken in response to his innuendos.
The kiss had tested all sorts of waters and now he was waiting, rather impatiently, to see what she would do. The intervening weeks had been her test as well as his. He’d provoked her and, in turn, she was teasing him with a toss of her hair over breakfast, a lingering glance at dinner, flirtation and witty banter over backgammon, even a light brush of her fingers on his sleeve when she said goodnight.
All of which had conspired to leave him in a perpetual state of slow burn. He was starting to wonder who was playing whom. It was time, Ren decided, for her to take the invitation. Perhaps he could help that decision along tonight.
* * *
The drive to Gridley’s took half an hour and Emma had filled it with talk about who he would meet. It was a briefing more than a conversation. Ren’s head was swimming with names and details by the time the carriage pulled up to the impressive front of Gridley’s neo-classical home with its pillars and fountain.
‘The house makes quite a statement.’ Ren helped Emma down from the carriage, letting his hand linger at her back in silent persuasion.
‘It’s a pretentious monstrosity if you ask me.’ Emma shook out her skirts. ‘No other great house on the island is built this way.’
Ren offered her his arm. ‘Then that’s probably why he did it.’ He was starting to understand this neighbour a little better. Arthur Gridley was a man who coveted the best and the rarest of things. No wonder he had proposed to Emma. She was a rare beauty. Gridley would have coveted her even without the plantation.
The others were already assembled in the drawing room, drinks in hand. Gridley noticed their arrival immediately and strode forward. ‘Everyone, our guest of honour is here!’ The announcement was met with a small round of applause. Gridley shook his hand. ‘It is good to see you, Dryden. You’re looking well. Emma hasn’t worked you to death yet.’ He turned to Emma and bent over her hand, bestowing a kiss on her knuckles. Ren could feel Emma freeze beside him, unable to avoid the physical contact. ‘You look lovely. I’m so glad you didn’t wear black. Albert wouldn’t have wanted you to mourn.’
‘I’m very clear on what Merry wanted for me,’ Emma answered sharply, pulling back her hand. ‘Shall I introduce Mr Dryden around?’ It was a ploy to escape Gridley.
‘Let me do the work, Emma. You relax and enjoy yourself. The ladies will want a good coze with you. I know it’s been ages since you’ve seen them.’ He gave Ren a knowing, manly look. ‘The ladies have little suitable company on the island, one of the drawbacks of living in the colonies.’
Gridley spirited him away to meet the gentlemen, leaving Emma to join the women gathered on one side of the drawing room. He met the neighbouring planters, shook their hands, listened to them discuss their harvests which were just getting under way while Sugarland’s was nearly done. But Emma remained relegated to the other side of the room, a bright, brilliant burst of colour against muted blues and grays. It occurred to Ren that Gridley might be attempting to divide and conquer.
* * *
Dinner was much the same. Ren sat at Gridley’s right hand with Gloria Devore on his other side, her hand resting occasionally on his thigh in blatant invitation. Alexandra Cunningham was across from him affecting the same sort of invitation with her eyes. Emma was at the other end of the table, holding court with Elias Blakely and Miles Calvert. By the time cheese and fruit were served, Ren did not doubt the meal, the whole event even, had been orchestrated and not solely for his benefit, but for Arthur Gridley’s.
Gridley had trotted out the best china and crystal, he’d shouldered the expense of preparing excellent food and opening the finest imported wines in the hopes of getting something in return. From him. He was the guest of honour for a reason. Ren finished the last of the wine in his glass and shot a quick glance at Gridley. The man was watching Emma again. Ren had caught Gridley watching her all night. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so egotistical and think it was only himself Gridley wanted something from. This was a display for Emma, too, a reminder of all he could provide for her, the lifestyle she’d have if she said yes.
Something possessive flared to life in Ren’s core at the thought of Emma in Arthur’s arms, of Emma kissing another the way she’d kissed him. Emma had made it clear she didn’t want Arthur Gridley, but he still didn’t know why.
Ren fingered the stem of his wine glass. Why did a woman turn down a man like Arthur Gridley? Gridley was wealthy, good-looking, well mannered, had a house that would impress a certain type of person, he even had a title. It wasn’t one that could be inherited, but he’d demonstrated his upstanding citizenry by providing a valuable service to the Crown. What wouldn’t appeal about that package? That it didn’t appeal was far stranger than if she’d accepted his proposal, especially when it was made at what Ren considered a very opportune time.
Devore’s wife rose from the table, her hand finally admitting defeat. ‘Ladies, let us adjourn to the drawing room. Conversation at this end is quickly turning to dull business.’ She flashed him a last look, invitation openly written in her hazel eyes as she led the ladies, Emma included, from the room. Gloria Devore was handsome, but Ren didn’t make a habit of dallying with married women. Unlike Kitt, who actively sought a new woman every night, married or not, Ren preferred the mixture of adventure and stability that came with long-term mistresses. Kitt was easy and he was hard, damn hard these days when it came to Emma.