Chapter 8
Eight
Thursday Evening
The Martindale musicale was a crush. Rose’s stomach coiled in a nest of mangled branches.
With thorns. That blasted Mr. Whitmore had been silent as a grave since he’d pranced her within feet of Sebastian at the masked ball.
She hated not knowing something. It brought back horrendous memories of never knowing where her husband was.
Or whom he was with. Or how many children he’d sired—
“Is everything all right, Rose?”
She started, shocked by her lack of focus.
“Oh, hello, Claire.” This was her sister closest in age.
Claire had the signature dark hair of the Ryleigh clan.
The green eyes and the sharp tongue. Goodness, they sounded like creatures bound for a burning stake.
“I’m fine. I didn’t expect to see you tonight. ”
“One can only stay confined for so long.”
Claire was on the way to her second child, due a month or so after Christmastide. She wasn’t unseemly large yet, at the least, she was hiding it well. “You look good,” Rose told her.
“You as well. I’m surprised to see you in such a festive color, considering your husband hasn’t been gone yet half a year.”
Rose glanced down at the soft red silk. It was deliciously scandalous. The last time she’d seen Mr. Whitmore, she’d been wearing a maid’s costume! “I refuse honor a man who treated me with such disgrace” was all she said of her late husband, turning her gaze over the throng.
Claire’s silence drew her attention. A small smile curved her sister’s lips. “Good for you, Rose. He was most unworthy of your hand.”
Tears pricked her. “Thank you,” she whispered. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll visit the retiring room before the music starts.”
Claire took her hand and squeezed it. “Of course, dear. I’ll hold a chair for you.”
Rose made her escape. A lone tear fell, and she quickly brushed it away as she hurried up stairs devoid of guests, but instead of turning left for the retiring room, she was able to peer into a row of doors before she located Martindale’s library.
She entered and shut the door softly behind her then dashed for the windows.
“You’re late,” Mr. Whitmore said.
She gasped, her gaze darting in the direction of his voice. A dark corner.
He stepped forward, dressed entirely in black, explaining how she’d missed him.
“How did you get in?” she demanded.
“The windows were unlatched. The trellis was sturdy enough to hold my weight, but that might not always be the case. There’s nothing here. I’ve already searched.”
“We need a more effective system of communication,” she snapped like the most veritable shrew. “How am I supposed to reach you in the event of an emergency?”
“Ah. A very good question,” he said dryly. “You may send a note to me at Number Ten, Manchester Square.”
“Fine—” She stopped, surprise rioting through her. “Manchester Square? Number Ten? Why, that’s just across from Hertford House. Quite exclusive.”
“Your point?” Irritation colored his tone.
“Oh, um, nothing. I’ll indeed send a note if there is an issue.” She backed to the door, but he matched her step for step except his were longer. “I must return to the ballroom. My sister is, um, holding a chair for me and is likely to come looking if I’m away too long.”
“Will she now?”
“Y-yes.” Her voice shook, and it infuriated her.
Why the devil was she acting like such a ninny?
She was the better in this scenario. She pulled up, catching him by surprise, and he bumped into her, nearly knocking her to the floor but for his quick reflexes.
Strong fingers gripped her upper arms, saving her from an embarrassing spill.
“And”—she poked him in the chest—“I need fabric. Right away.”
He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What?”
“You promised me a reduced amount on fine material. And I-I need it. Right away.”
His lips tipped in a slow, devastating curve, amusement filling his voice. “Tonight?” he said softly, enticingly.
She hated how that smile and the husky resonance shifted the axis of her…her life. She brought her hands up and flattened them against the rough wool of his frockcoat and pushed—to no avail. “Stop being obtuse. Tomorrow should suffice,” she huffed out in grandiose disdain.
“Tomorrow is out of the question. Tuesday next, however, will work.” He was staring at her mouth.
Her stomach lurched with riotous confusion before his words sunk in. “But it has to be tomorrow. Next week is too late.”
He blinked, and his eyes cleared and focused. On hers. “Very well,” he said with a snap of impatience. “I’ll pick you up at Stanford House.”
“No.” She spoke quickly. “That won’t do at all.” Goodness, if anyone saw the two of them together… “I shall come to your place of business.”
His hands dropped from her as if her skin singed his fingers. A hard glint that frightened her a little glittered in his eyes. “Impossible. The warehouse is near the docks. It is quite unsafe for a female.”
Rose frowned. “I’ll take a hackney.”
“Absolutely not.” He stepped back, his face an implacable mask. “If I cannot escort you, you will not come at all. That is my final word on the matter.”
“I-I suppose I could come to Manchester Square,” she hedged. But she’d told the girls just a few days ago that young women never went to a gentleman’s home. Of course, Rose was no longer young. At thirty with no children, it literally placed her in her dotage.
“If you will not allow me to pick you up from your home, or you cannot think of another place in which to meet, then I daresay this conversation is over.” He leaned in—so close his heated breath touched her cheek—and reached around her, grabbing the door latch.
Her body quivered, and she felt a sudden need to turn her head to brush her lips across his skin.
The unbidden thought stunned her. Him as well, as this was the first time she’d seen his face unhindered.
She clenched her fists at her sides, steeling her resolve.
She was not here to trade kisses with a scoundrel who was there to root out a blackmailer.
It would behoove her to remember her own goal: obtaining bolts of material for dresses for the Unfortunates, as she was coming to think of them.
Especially after Monday’s etiquette lesson disaster.
“The Lending Library, Hookham’s, then. Will that suffice?
” The huskiness of her tone irritated her, but she waited, breath held, for his answer.
“Are you mad?” he bit out. “The boxing salon is virtually next door. You’ll be seen.”
Fury took hold. “What of it? I am a widow. Who is there to care?”
“Your brother perhaps? Lady Huntley? Lady Beaumont? Their husbands?”
And therein lay her curse. All the titles her family held but her! She jerked straight before her body could fold in on itself.
His demeanor softened, the breath once more against her cheek resembling a caress.
“I shall arrive at your residence at ten tomorrow morning. If you do not appear by ten oh one, I shall conclude you have chosen not to accompany me and I therefore shall depart. No questions asked. Perhaps it will reassure you to know that my coach’s exterior looks more like a public conveyance. I do share your safety concerns.”
Again, the axis of her world tilted. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” she whispered.
His head turned, his eyes catching and holding hers. “I…was distracted.”
By her. The words hung between them unspoken.
Her fingers tingled and crept up of their own volition. The knots in her stomach coiled tighter, and tighter still as his roughened jaw scraped her palm. Her eyes closed, she leaned forward and met…air. Her eyes flew open.
He met her gaze while opening the door then gently pushed her over the threshold. “Don’t forget your sister’s concern, my lady.”
The latch barely sounded as it connected behind her, but sound it did.
Deafening her in the corridor with its finality. He hated her.
~~~
Emerson touched his forehead against the door and waited out his thrumming blood.
Lady Stanford would be the death of him if this crazy scheme of his didn’t get him hanged or transported first. It had taken every ounce of control he possessed not to take her against Martindale’s library door.
She put up a hardened front that equaled Haber, his warehouse foreman.
Faulk’s rough existence had survived losing both sides of his family as an infant in the Seven Years’ War. Since then, the man had survived only by his wits. But Emerson had seen the drive behind his eyes, and he was a big part of Whitmore’s Wholesale success.
Emerson recognized that same drive in Lady Stanford, but hers was tempered by…
vulnerability? Inside, the woman was built of spun sugar or some other fragile substance that dissipated when doused with no more than warm water.
Bringing up that observation would likely solicit a kick in his private parts.
It was also important to remember the primary reason for his association with the pretentious Lady Stanford.
His search, not her body. Which had yielded nothing but a note from Martindale’s heir.
Some nonsense on letting his father know he was fine, not to worry, and that he would be home as time permitted. Cryptic but not suspicious.
Voices filtered through the door, jerking him to his precarious position.
“Oh, er, Lord Martindale, it appears I’ve twisted my ankle…” Lady Stanford’s normally soft resonance penetrated the door.
Christ. Emerson scanned the chamber for an appropriate hiding place, and he dove behind the only possible place—a settee set away from the wall near the windows—right as the door swung back.
“Um, no, my lord. I just thought to have your assistance back downstairs.” Lady Stanford’s squeal was almost breathless. Emerson prayed she didn’t collapse.
“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear. Almost all your siblings and their husbands are in the ballroom at this very moment. Whom shall I summon for you?”