Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Emerson’s escape felt…narrow. And there was a burning sensation between his shoulders. It was sharp and searing. But he dared not look back. First, he had no yearning to see her disgust—then again, if it was fury… He glanced over his shoulder to see sparks shooting daggers at him.
“Emerson.” Ben’s quiet call jarred him from blatant stupidity.
The fact that Ben hadn’t ribbed him over the sensation Emerson and Rose had created on the dance floor—if Lady Huntley’s reaction was anything to worry over—had the hair rising on the back of his neck.
“What is it?” he asked, lowering his own voice.
“Collier and Gorman just arrived with Lampert. I’ve been watching them. They’ve yet to see me.”
Emerson’s gaze followed Ben’s, and he spotted the three upstarts across the ballroom. The mirrors were extremely helpful. What he saw did not please him.
Rose was slipping from the ballroom, away from her family, and making her way to the doors and out.
“Damn,” he said under his breath. “Where the devil does she think she’s going?”
“Er, the retiring room? Truly, Emerson. Get a hold of yourself. It’s downstairs, you dolt.”
“Oh.” Right. Still, he didn’t quite trust her. Worse, Collier closely followed. “Where’s the card room?”
“Down the hall,” Ben said.
“I’ll return soon. Keep an eye on Gorman,” Emerson said.
He followed the tilt of her head, the purposeful sway of her skirts into the foyer—the bronze a shining beacon.
Yes, down the staircase, toward the retiring room, just as Ben had said.
But he didn’t like it. Not one whit. The thorny Rose he knew never vanished without mischief at her heels, and with Collier prowling nearby, he trusted her destination about as much as he trusted Collier’s smile.
Emerson’s gaze flicked between the stairs where Rose had disappeared and the shadowed passage where Collier lingered.
Both paths reeked of trouble. For a moment, his muscles tightened with indecision.
Follow Rose and risk losing sight of Collier, or track Collier and pray she was where Ben predicted?
With a soft curse under his breath, he angled toward the passage after the young baron.
The air cooled as he left the press of dancers and laughter. Carpets muted his boots. He kept far enough back to avoid notice, watching Collier’s easy saunter down the corridor. Emerson’s blood ran hot, waiting for some sign—some flicker—that the man meant harm.
But at the end of the hall, Collier merely veered through the arch into the card room. The low murmur of wagers rose, mingling with the shuffle of cards and the clink of coin. Nothing more.
Emerson stopped. He’d left Rose unwatched for a damned hand of faro.
Disappointment burned as sharply as the prickle still needling him between the shoulders. He turned back toward the staircase, grimly aware he’d chosen the wrong quarry.
He’d barely set his boot upon the first step when a sweep of silk ascended toward him—two figures arm in arm, their laughter soft and knowing.
“Mr. Whitmore, isn’t it?” the flaxen-haired one said. “I’m Lady Kimpton.”
She was resplendent in cerulean satin that had likely come from his own warehouse since he supplied a good portion of London’s modistes. Her steps paused with the serene authority of a general on the field. At her side was the unusual and quite interesting Lady Brockway.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Lady Brockway said, inclining her head. “How lovely to see you, again. I hope your foot is quite recovered from my younger daughter’s abuse.”
A chuckle rippled through him. “Indeed, Lady Brockway. But it was a near thing. You will let her know?”
She laughed, a shockingly braying sound. “She will be more than pleased—of the ‘near thing,’ I regret to say.”
Lady Kimpton eyed him as though he were a wayward schoolboy loitering where he had no business. Which, of course, was true.
“Do you require the ladies’ retreat, sir?” Lady Kimpton inquired, her tone sweet as treacle and just as cloying. “Surely you are not in want of powder or pins.”
“Er.” Heat surged up the back of his neck. He bowed with forced ease, though his ears burned. “I was—”
“Lost?” Lady Brockway supplied, her brandy-colored eyes glinting with amusement.
“Merely in need of a breath of cooler air,” he managed smoothly. “The lower floor was calling me.”
Lady Kimpton’s smile sharpened. “Yes, I imagine it might—after such a…waltz. Why, I daresay the very walls blushed on your behalf.”
“You caught me out, my lady. I’m in search of my elusive dance partner. My…betrothed,” he heard himself adding, astonished that lightning didn’t blaze through the ceiling and strike him where he stood.
“Your betrothed?” The words burst from Lady Brockway. “Neither of you mentioned a thing the other day.”
“She only just accepted my suit…last night…”
An awkward silence cut between them before Lady Kimpton inhaled deeply then let it out. “Well, I suppose that explains why half the room could scarcely draw a breath for watching you and Lady Stanford.”
Rose would kill him.
The sound of bronze skirts—yes! He could hear the bronze, rustling just behind—
Ladies Kimpton and Brockway leaned to the side in unison where Rose’s steps slowed. Emerson slowly lifted his eyes, facing Rose.
“Ah, Lady Stanford. We hear felicitations are in order,” Lady Brockway said.
The words landed like a gauntlet. Rose lifted her brows. He barely contained a flinch, and to cover, lifted his eyes to the ceiling. No reprieve there.
“Indeed.”
Too late now for half measures. “I just imparted the news of our recent engagement, darling.”
The only physical reaction he discerned was the tightening of the satin stretching across her knuckles with her grip on the banister. “I thought we’d agreed to keep the news to ourselves, darling.”
His right hand landed on his chest. “Alas, we did, my dear,” he said, warming to the subject, shocked he didn’t run screaming from Cavendish Square all the way to Soho.
Rose smiled at the ladies. “You must wonder at my reluctance at such an announcement,” she said. “But you know what a stickler Ryleigh is for propriety since I’ve yet to pass the year mark of Stanford’s death. And Gabriella cannot keep a secret to save her life.”
“We shan’t say a word, Rose. Right, Ginny?” Lady Kimpton said.
“Of course not,” the taller brunette agreed. “You may count on our discretion, dear.”
His future wife inclined her head and moved up the stairs, touching her cheek against Lady Kimpton’s then Lady Brockway’s with all the grace of a queen accepting her fealty.
Another slightly less braying laugh escaped Lady Brockway, and the ladies moved past him, heading up into the ballroom.
Emerson grabbed Rose’s hand and tugged her down the rest of the stairs to a closed door and slipped inside.
Her eyes flashed. “So…we’re engaged—” Her lips parted to issue a blistering retort that was sure to flay him alive. But for once, he had no interest in the battle. Not with her pulse beating visibly at the hollow of her throat.
He yanked her close, before she could lose a single word, claiming her mouth with his.
Heat roared through his veins, hotter than the fire of her fury, fiercer than the risk of discovery.
She stiffened, resisting—but only for a heartbeat.
Then her hands crept behind his neck and her fingers curled into his hair.
This kiss was no polite pledge, no courtly proof of “affianced.” It was possession, apology, and reckless promise in one tangled mess.
He deepened the kiss, dark and consuming, stroking her tongue with his until breathing itself became an afterthought.
Her tongue dueled with his, and the staff in his trousers stiffened to good English oak.
Finally, he wrenched his mouth from hers.
Breath, rapid and ragged, he pressed his forehead to hers, his heart thundering against hers.
“God help me, Rose,” he whispered, his voice raw and hardly recognizable to his own ears. “I’d rather have this war with you than peace with anyone else.”
~~~
Slowly, Rose released his hair, bringing them from behind his head down to his chest, resisting an urge to clasp his lapels and throw herself at him for more.
More benumbing, sense-stealing kisses. Her lips tingled, her pulse raged, and worse, she couldn’t claim she didn’t belong there, in his arms.
“We seem to habitually find the most striking places for you to kiss me,” she whispered.
“It’s quite unintentional,” he whispered back.
“And now we are betrothed? Perhaps you think you can simply claim me because you’ve need of a shield.
” Her words, intended as scathing, emerged soft, the old insecurities obliterating Adventurous Rose into white powder landing at their feet.
In the heat of the moment, she’d forgotten the lecture she’d heaped on herself.
That she was nothing more than a pawn to Mr. Whitmore.
She couldn’t keep her voice from cracking and strangled with tears.
“It-it may suit your purposes to pretend we are engaged, sir, but not mine,” she bit out, completely forgetting the entire farce was her own idea.
“Damn you, Rose Stanford!” He took her by the upper arms and shook her.
Not hard. But enough that the motion jumbled her initial response, her thoughts blindly pressing her point forward.
“You couldn’t be more wrong.” His hands fell away, and he turned his back to her as if he were…
were disgusted with her. But his words failed in matching his action.
“I spoke out of turn,” he said softly. “To save my own embarrassment. It was beastly of me, and I-I apologize. I shall inform Ladies Kimpton and Brockway right away. Not tonight, but tomorrow. So as not to draw undue attention to them. To you.”
Rose was momentarily speechless. “So, you don’t wish to marry me.”
In a heartbeat, Emerson spun about, his eyes narrowed on her, his expression shifting from shock to something darker—fury. His jaw clenched, and in the silence of the room, his breath came out harsh, as though he fought to master himself.
“Is that what you believe?” His voice was low, dangerous.
“That I think you some tool to be wielded, some empty ornament for my convenience?” He took a step toward her, and the air crackled.
“By God, Rose, if you cannot see your own worth, then you insult us both. I’ve never wanted to marry anyone more.
” A laugh tinged with bitterness escaped him.
“The reason I must find the source of these blackmail notes are because the threats against you have escalated. And that I cannot abide.”
Nothing coherent seemed to coagulate in her head. “I-I don’t understand.”
He took another step toward her and clasped her hands within his, bringing them to his lips. “Never underestimate your worth to me again. Ever.”
Her composure faltered, and she let out her own bitter laugh. “Worth? A widow who meddles in matters better left alone, one who cannot even keep her family from laughing at her back?”
“No one would dare slight you in my presence. The question I have for you: Is marrying me out of the question? I am no titled gentleman.”
Was marrying him out of the question? She’d spent her entire marriage wishing for a title worthy of her upbringing, but this man—his values, his very staunches—emboldened her. Emerson was not Stanton. Emerson deserved her…honesty. “I-I don’t know.”
His hands released hers and flexed at his side, as if restraining the urge to seize her again. His eyes burned into hers.
She’d hurt him, and in hurting him, she hurt herself. But how could she answer such a question?
“Rose,” he said, his voice roughened with conviction, “you are not convenient. You are impossible. Maddening. Irreplaceable. If I used you, it was for salvation, not cover.”
Rose’s chest rose and fell. There was fury in his eyes. Not fury at her. Fury for her. In that moment, she felt the steel of his conviction, the weight of his belief where hers faltered and stole the strength from her.
“You’re certainly right about the ‘impossible’ part,” she muttered, the fight draining from her, leaving only her pounding heart and the awareness of how near they stood, how utterly alone. She tore her gaze from his, searching for escape, only to take in their surroundings.
Bookshelves lined paneled walls. A great mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface clear of clutter. The scent of ink and leather hung thick in the air. She blinked.
“This…this is Harlowe’s office.”
There was a short pause as he appeared to take in her words. “So it is.” He glanced at her, a quirk on his lips that stuttered her pulse. “Secure the door. Quickly. We may as well make use of the opportunity.”
“Yes. Of course,” she whispered, hurrying to do as he bid. The realization that she didn’t even hesitate chilled her skin.
It took him but a minute to find the safe and have it open. Just as quickly, he shut it. “Nothing,” he told her. “Come. We’ve been alone much too long, if you are to jilt me without ruining yourself.”
Rose winced, wishing the solution would present itself by conjuring. But no genie lurked about to grant such wishes.