Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Rose lifted her chin. She followed the crowd into the ballroom and smiled with sudden relief.
Maeve, Lady Harlowe, her benefactress of this important night lifted her fingers in a small wave.
Her tall form was as willowy as ever, even after at least two children.
Her ginger-colored hair was smoothed back into a sophisticated chignon, and her nose was dotted with those unfashionable freckles that were so… her.
The chandeliers cast golden light throughout the former scandalous home of Rowena Hollerfield, scattering brilliance over gilt mirrors and satin gowns.
“How lovely everything looks, Maeve. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“And you, my dear, positively glow in that shade! That divine color is not one I could carry off. Not with this unsightly hair of mine. I’ve never seen such a color. Wherever did you find it?”
She could hardly tell her friend the true origin. Even as heat flamed her face, she settled for “Mr. Whitmore of Whitmore’s Wholesale Warehouse donated bolts of material to Hope House…”
Maeve’s eyes moved to the man at Rose’s side, and she smiled.
A tingle shot up Rose’s spine, and the left backside of her body heated. “May I present Mr. Whitmore, Maeve? Mr. Whitmore, I’m pleased to introduce you to our hostess, Lady Harlowe.”
Emerson took Lady Harlowe’s gloved hand and bowed, quite stately, over it. “The pleasure is all mine, Lady Harlowe. I hear your home has an interesting history,” he dared to say.
Rose nearly collapsed into a puddle on the floor. But to her surprise, Maeve graced him with a cheeky grin and winked. “Indeed, sir. One of the most famous courtesans that London had seen in decades was the previous resident. ’Tis my stepson’s inheritance.”
He grinned back, and the sight robbed Rose’s ability to draw a breath. “How fortunate for your stepson, my lady.”
“How is Master Nate?” Rose asked her in a somewhat breathless tone.
Again, Maeve’s cheeky grin split across her face.
“He keeps his nursemaid on her toes.” The deep resonance of Lord Harlowe stepped into view, entering the conversation.
Viscount Harlowe bowed over Rose’s hand, then straightened with a contemplative glance at Emerson.
“Whitmore, isn’t it? I believe we’ve heard your name tossed about the docks.
A most…enterprising warehouse operation. ”
Again, Rose’s breath caught. She quickly withdrew her fingers and tightened them on her reticule.
Emerson’s response was another smooth, precise bow. “One must do what one can to keep trade afloat, my lord.” His tone carried nothing but courtesy, yet tension vibrated in the air between them.
Rose’s heart drummed faster. If the Harlowes knew of Emerson’s warehouse…how many others whispered the same?
“How gallant of you to accompany Lady Stanford to our humble soiree,” Harlowe told Emerson. A statement that set Rose’s teeth on edge.
Maeve tapped her husband’s arm with her closed fan. “’Tis a charity subscription, Harlowe. Please, try to remember our purpose.”
“Of course,” he said with a contriteness that bordered sarcasm.
Rose was not amused. “Lord Harlowe, I’ll have you know—”
Emerson cut her off. “I do my utmost to keep the lady from mischief, my lord,” he said in all seriousness that had Rose leveling a glare at him.
She accepted the reprieve and dropped her head, groaning. “Please, Harlowe, you must not encourage him. The man is much too arrogant as it stands.”
“I fear such traits are imbedded deep within the male psyche, my dear,” Maeve said with a pointed look at Harlowe.
A saucy smile trickled through her. “I take your point,” Rose returned.
“Rose Stanford!”
Rose flinched as Gabriella’s shriek pierced her ears while she seized her hands and spun her about.
“Do you mean to outshine every lady here? That gown—good heavens. It’s nothing short of perfection. Where on earth did—” She stopped, her gaze flicking to Emerson and back, red coloring Gabriella’s cheeks. Certainly, the slash of red matched Rose’s own.
Rebecca clasped her other arm, tugging Rose in her direction—truly, between the two of them, she was nothing short of a rag doll—with a smile that touched on envy.
Inside, Rose softened, as Rebecca was not one known for her sense of fashion.
And, well, the dress was spectacular. “This is the most stunning color I’ve ever seen.
Why, even Huntley could not take his eyes off you when you entered. And—”
“Do not say Ryleigh, Your Grace, I beg of you. The man is my brother!”
“Er, no. I was not about to intimate Sebastian.” Rebecca’s eyes also flicked to Emerson and back. To her credit, she only smiled.
It was enough for Rose’s breath to catch, the heat rising to her ears. Emerson?
Gabriella leaned in, her whisper teasing. “He looked as though he’d been struck by the hand of the Almighty himself. Honestly, Rose, I thought he might swoon dead away in the foyer.”
“W-w-what?” she stammered out in a horrified croak, her cheeks flaming.
She stopped, attempting to stifle further embarrassment.
“You are both absurd.” Rose pulled on every ounce of her father’s haughtiness she’d learned at his knee and addressed her host. “Maeve, do forgive my sister and the duchess. They’ve clearly forgotten their manners. ”
Lady Harlowe waved out a hand, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Think nothing of it, Lady Stanford. I’m so happy you thought of me to assist you in your philanthropic efforts.”
“We truly appreciate it, dear,” Gabriella said.
“Ah, I see the Kimptons and the Brockways have arrived. I shall talk to you soon. Let us raise thousands of pounds whilst enjoying ourselves. The dancing is soon to commence.”
Indeed, just then the quartet struck up a soft waltz. Rose’s gaze went to Emerson, and she nearly fainted at the intensity in his eyes. The doubts assailed her, however, in the rigid line of his jaw and compressed lips.
“Lady Stanford.” Emerson’s deep voice spun up her spine with a ripple of electrified warmth. “Would you do me the honor of taking a turn about the dance floor?”
“Of course, sir.” Her face still burned with mortification, but he was preferable than facing the knowing humor she was certain to find in her sister’s and the duchess’s eyes. Rose set her hand atop his forearm and accepted his escort to the parquet floor.
She drew a steadying breath, which leached the oxygen from her lungs without replenishment as the bergamot and male scent of him inundated her.
The farther she moved away from her family, the quicker the mortification shifted to…to a feeling of pride, stunning her to a stumble.
Emerson quickly righted her, his strength emitting an aura of power that enveloped her within a shielded confine. Next to him, she faced no danger. Her spine straightened, and she held herself tall because here, next to him, she was safe.
He turned her to face him and bowed. She was too surprised to curtsy as he swung her into the fray of other couples. She forgot her shock within his sure guidance on the dance floor that left her breathless and unsettled. She had eyes for no other. His movements were skilled, effortless.
The world tilted. The room murmured with words she had no desire to make out.
“Mr. Whitmore?”
“Take a moment to enjoy the music,” he said, his voice low and dangerous against her ear. “This dance belongs to me.”
“Us!” She gasped as he led her into the next turn, his hold firm, his body a wall of controlled strength. He moved with precision, each step flawless.
After a minute’s pause, the tension coiled beneath his composure released. “Us,” he agreed softly, his breath feathering her brow.
Inside Rose’s chest, her heart thundered, traitorous and wild. She had never felt so utterly…claimed, yet respected.
Rose attempted to slow her breath, but his nearness unraveled her thoughts. His hand warm at her waist, steady, his presence all-consuming.
But reality eventually seeped in. It wasn’t her he was here for, despite his words to Lord Harlowe in keeping her out of trouble, not entirely. He was there to find a blackmailer. It would behoove her to remember his use for her, and him!
“I shall create a diversion,” Rose murmured, her pulse leaping, her mind spinning faster than her feet.
~~~
“Beg pardon?” Emerson found his thoughts distracted by a woman named Rose who smelled of orange blossoms and danced with a grace that would haunt his dreams for years to come. If this attraction were but a pretense, he wished his body had been informed—
“So you’ve time to locate the library. That is why you accompanied me after all. Or had you forgotten?”
He dropped his eyes to hers, startled. Blast it. He had forgotten.
“I could spill ratafia on Lady Martindale’s gown perhaps, and while the company fusses, you could vanish—”
“Lady Stanford,” he hissed. “Enough.” But, of course, she was not done. When had she ever listened to a word he said?
“Or, better still, perhaps we take an opportunity to lure Lord Harlowe into conversation about his lake at Spixworth. He’ll drone on an hour on how he’s taught his children to swim. No one will notice your absence. Or—or—”
“Rose.” His voice cut through her excitement, dark as thunder.
She blinked up at him, startled.
Good. “Every scheme you just laid out will have me clapped in irons before the last chord of this waltz.” His hand tightened fractionally at her waist. “Do not meddle, darling. I shall find the study without your theatrics.”
Her irritation flared, sharp as the music’s beat. But was it his edict or his endearment that set her stubborn jaw rigid? Whatever it was, the realization was immediate—he’d said the wrong thing. “You underestimate me,” she bit out, no longer soft and compliant in his hold.
He leaned in. “Perhaps,” he said softly, his mouth so close to her ear she shivered, “you enjoy tempting fate more than is wise.”
Her retort never reached him. He felt the catch in her breath as clearly as the pressure of her fingers in his. He turned her neatly through the figures, his grip firm and steady and refusing to yield an inch. He was no fool.
He cared not if the company thought them flawless, a picture of grace. Or saw what he felt—that every step was a contest, every glance a clash of wills. And God help him, he relished the battle.
The quartet swelled, drawing them into another sweeping turn.
Her bronze skirts brushed his legs, but it was her defiance that burned hotter than any bronze silken contact.
He held her fast at the waist, unwilling to give her a single inch of victory.
For the span of the music, she was his. His eyes never left hers, not for the whispering matrons, nor for the fluttering fans he knew were already raised against them.
She tilted her chin, pride stiffening her spine. “One day, Mr. Whitmore, you may thank me for meddling. Someone must keep that arrogance of yours in check.”
A dark satisfaction filled him, a challenge that promised fire if she dared fan it further. “I’m telling you, darling…you interfere tonight, you’ll undo us both. I needed your assistance to get through the door, and”—he softened his tone—“I thank you for that.”
The musicians struck the final chord. Applause rippled, polite, oblivious.
Emerson slowed them with precise control, reining in both the music and the chaos swirling within him, ensuring her skirts scarcely whispered against his boots.
He bowed with practiced courtesy, though he let his gaze burn, unguarded, into hers.
She curtsied, proud as any queen, though he saw the faint tremor she skillfully hid from the world. Around them, whispers pricked at the edges of his patience.
He straightened and glanced about the room to find ladies staring openly, fans snapping shut with scandalous delight. They were of no concern. Not to him. He offered his arm.
After a slight hesitation, defiance flickering in her eyes as though she would leave him to stand like a fool—the thought had him biting back a smile—at last she set her hand on his sleeve, lifting her chin with that maddening air of triumph that always left him wanting more.
He led her off the floor with the same calm precision he’d guided them through their waltz.
His pulse still roared with the rhythm of the music, even while depositing her with her sister and the duchess.
He bowed. “Ladies. Your Grace.” Emerson started to excuse himself, but halted just as Lady Huntley’s voice sounded in a hiss.
“Goodness, Rose. If you keep dancing like that, the whole of London will be in an uproar by morning.”
Emerson was hard-pressed not to break out in a gust of laughter. It was only because of the glare in Lady Stanford’s eyes that he managed to maintain his control. He bent his head to Rose, voice low enough for her alone. “We shall speak later.”
A shiver crossed her into him, though she tore her hand free. “If you can manage it without clapping me in irons first, Mr. Whitmore,” she said a little too loudly.
Lady Huntley gasped, and the Duchess of Ryleigh’s eyes widened, though it sounded as if she stifled laughter.
Emerson smiled at the two of them and leaned in again, barely restraining himself from touching his lips to her ear.
He had the urge to drag her away that instant, to end this reckless charade before her stubbornness undid them both.
“Privately,” he whispered. “I must be off. I’ve a monetary pledge to make,” he announced.