Francis’s heart clenched with pain for what she must be going through, yet he was so angry with her for what she’d done—for putting herself in such a precarious situation—that he couldn’t help himself from adding to her misery. “For Christ’s sake, make yourself decent,” he told her in a rigid tone. “You look like a bloody harlot who’s just had a tumble in the hay.”
Still, she stood there, incapable of doing as he asked, but what he’d said had reminded him of just what might have happened had he not arrived when he did. It made his blood boil in fury—the mere thought of that vile man pawing his sweet, innocent, and good-natured Emily was more than he could stomach. “Put on your damn dress, Emily, before I change my mind and leave you here.”
Like magic she snapped to attention, rushing to put herself back in a more orderly fashion. She picked up her shoes that had been haphazardly discarded in a corner at some point, putting them on as she hurried after Jonathan—Francis had already left the building. She spotted him again when she descended the front steps of Edward’s home. “Get in,” he ordered her harshly as he virtually shoved her inside the landau, so forcefully that she almost fell flat on her face. Regaining composure, and unwilling to aggravate him any further, she quickly sat down on one of the benches, as close to the window as she could get. Francis and Jonathan seated themselves opposite.
None of them spoke for what seemed like an eternity. Emily was sure that they must be back in London soon, yet neither Francis nor Jonathan showed any sign that this might be the case. “Where are we going?” Emily finally asked after three hours of silence. She didn’t receive a response; in fact, they completely ignored her. Perhaps she ought to try and apologize first, she thought. “I’m so sorry . . .”
“What the hell were you thinking, Emily?” Francis snapped as he spun his head toward her, cutting her off before she had a chance to say anything more. “Have you any idea of what would have happened to you, had Jonathan and I not arrived when we did?”
“I . . . I . . .” she stammered.
“You would have been raped, Emily—that’s what would have happened. And more than that, you would have had no choice but to marry the bloody bastard.”
“I went there because I meant to marry him, Francis,” she muttered.
“Don’t you dare say that or I’ll have you back there in a flash, if that’s what you truly desire.” He glared at her from behind his dark eyes, his jaw tight with anger.
She bowed her head to hide the fresh rush of tears that pressed against the back of her eyes. Never in her life had she felt more rejected. How could he be so cold and so cruel? “I was trying to save my sisters from a life of poverty. If I didn’t marry him, we would be left with nothing. In fact, I suppose that is what will happen—none of us can possibly hope to find a suitable husband in so little time, and once the time has passed and we’re left with nothing, nobody will want to have us.”
“What about me, Emily?” he asked, his voice softening marginally. “Do you not wish to marry me?” He gazed at her with the same eyes that she had grown so fond of. Gone was the menacing fury—instead she saw his pain, and it wounded her like a knife to the heart to realize that this had been the consequence of her actions.
“You have a mistress,” she heard herself say, shaking her head in bewilderment as if she was no longer able to believe such a thing herself. Certainly he wouldn’t look at her in such a way if what Kate had told her was true. But what reason would Kate have to lie to her? Emily just didn’t know what to think anymore.
Francis stiffened at her accusation. “Would you rather marry Edward then?” he asked.
“No, of course not!” she cried.
“Well, those are your choices, Emily.” His voice was once again fierce and menacing. “You can marry Edward, or you can marry me . . . or you can decide to live a life of poverty. The choice is yours.” He paused for emphasis. “So what will it be? Will you marry me?”
“There’s so much I don’t know about you, Francis . . . I told you I wouldn’t say yes until you told me what it was that caused you so much pain. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”
He watched her with a steady gaze, carefully concealing his true feelings from her. He loved her more than he thought it was possible to love, but her actions had still pained him. In truth, they had pained him because of how much he loved her. He was hurt by how easily she’d believed Kate’s word over his—hell, she hadn’t even asked him about Charlotte. And what if Charlotte had been his mistress? She’d still chosen a far worse fate for herself by going to Edward. He just couldn’t fathom what the devil had possessed her to do such a stupid thing, but it angered him so much that he couldn’t stop himself.
“Beggars must not be choosers, Emily,” he told her. “And if I were you, I’d hurry up and answer, for I will not ask you again.”
“So you’ve no intention of telling me until after we’re married?” she asked in genuine surprise.
“Who knows . . . I may not even tell you then,” he said with a grimace that told her just how unpleasant he found the whole situation. “You haven’t been very trusting of me, Emily, though maybe I haven’t given you enough reason to. Perhaps it’s past time we both started. I will tell you this: I will love none other than you.”
Her heart skipped a beat as she held his gaze, those dark eyes of his drawing her in. He hadn’t said it directly, but he’d implied it to the best of his abilities, and she’d be a fool to ignore what had been right in front of her for so long. It was suddenly as if her mind’s eye zeroed in on everything that Francis had said to her over the past few weeks—and everything that he had done. And then, in a heartbeat, as a warm heat spread to her extremities and her stomach flipped in that old familiar way, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved her. How it was possible that she hadn’t seen it sooner, she wondered.
She made a heartfelt decision. If he happened to have a mistress named Charlotte Browne, then so be it. Emily was, however, willing to bet her virtue that it wasn’t the case—no man could look as besotted as Francis did at that very moment, whilst having a mistress on the side. Taking a determined breath, Emily reached out to clasp his head between her hands, then drew him toward her until their lips met in a perfect kiss.
His surprise was evident in the stiffness of his shoulders, but he did not push her away. Instead, he brought his hands up behind her head to push her closer, parting his lips, and thrusting his tongue eagerly inside her mouth to tangle with hers. Passion overtook her with such force that she paid little heed to the bumping and swaying of the carriage. It wasn’t until she heard a loud cough, followed by a lighthearted “cut it out, you two,” that she was reminded of Jonathan’s presence.
Releasing her hold on Francis, she quietly settled back onto her bench and began straightening her dress. “I beg your pardon, Jonathan. I do believe that I got carried away a bit.”
Jonathan met her smile with laughing eyes. “If that’s what you’d like to call it,” he said. “However, I’m quite confident that Francis has a soft and comfortable bed that will be quite up to that sort of behavior later this evening.”
“Good God, Jon,” Francis blurted out. “Must you embarrass the poor woman? That’s hardly the sort of thing that one says to a lady.”
“Well, for some peculiar reason, I’m quite sure that Emily wasn’t offended by it in the least.”
“On the contrary, I now have something to look forward to,” she smirked.
“By deuces, she is a feisty one, if ever I did see one,” Jonathan hooted.
Francis, on the other hand, was doing his utmost to stop from ravishing her there and then. “There’s still the small matter of your answer, my dear,” he told her in the calmest tone that he could muster.
She reached for his hand, taking it gently in hers as she looked him straight in the eye. “Nothing in the world would give me greater pleasure than becoming your wife, Francis,” she told him with such sincerity that he thought his heart might burst with joy.
“And not a moment too soon,” Jonathan cheered, as the carriage drew up to a large mansion and the door was flung open by a footman.
“Where in the world are we?” Emily asked, her eyes scaling the walls of the imposing stone structure as she stepped down from the landau.
“Dunhurst Park,” Francis told her as he strode past her to greet a middle-aged woman who’d come to meet them. “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds,” he said.
“Good evening, sir,” The woman replied. “It’s good to have you back home again.”
“Thank you.” He pulled Emily forward to stand beside him. “I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Miss Rutherford. She will become Lady Dunhurst before sunrise tomorrow, so please ensure that everyone who needs to be informed is made aware of the matter, so that they address her in the appropriate fashion—we don’t want anyone to embarrass themselves, now, do we?” he added with a smirk. “That said, I do encourage you to be discreet. We wouldn’t want our friends and relatives to find out before we have the chance to tell them ourselves. Do you follow my drift?”
Mrs. Reynolds nodded assent, then made a quick curtsey without as much as batting an eyelid at the prospect of having a sudden mistress in the house. Emily couldn’t help but be impressed, for she was certain that the woman must be the housekeeper. In her experience, such women often considered a house to be theirs if the owner happened to be a bachelor, as was the case here.
But Emily’s mind had soon forgotten all about Mrs. Reynolds. In fact, it kept replaying before sunrise over and over and . . . yes . . . over again. In fact, Emily had been so surprised when Francis had said they’d be married before the sun rose the following morning that she couldn’t help but let her jaw drop wide open. Before sunrise. That was very, very soon indeed. But instead of being worried or feeling as if she might be rushing into something that she might later regret, she was suddenly beside herself with nervous excitement.
“And have Mr. Beacham sent for posthaste,” Francis added. “We’d rather not be delayed any further.”
“Very good, sir—I’ll see to it right away,” Mrs. Reynolds promised. “It’s a true honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Rutherford,” she added before bustling away to attend to her duties.
“She seems very likeable,” Emily said as they headed up the stone steps and entered the massive foyer.
“Couldn’t wish for a better housekeeper,” Francis admitted. “She gets the job done efficiently and with a cheerful disposition to boot. I couldn’t be happier with her, and I’m sure you’ll find her just as agreeable, my dear.”
Emily found herself smiling like a love-struck schoolgirl at the sound of his verbal affection. “I’m sure the two of us will get on famously,” Emily replied, already looking forward to sitting down with Mrs. Reynolds for a chat. “So who’s Mr. Beacham, by the way?”