He’d long since gotten used to keeping his own emotions bottled up and therefore had no particular desire to know what other people felt. The truth was that he wasn’t even sure of what he felt anymore. He’d become so used to the wall he’d built up around himself—constructed from so much anger, pain, and frustration that it would be impossible for anyone to scale. And yet . . . he steeled himself for a moment . . . there had been the beginnings of hope today.
It didn’t take spectacles to see that Emily could barely abide him, and yet for some peculiar reason, amidst her pain, she had managed to inch him a little bit closer to happiness.
Looking at her now as she gazed out of the window, her eyes blind to the scenery around her, he could almost hear her inner voice screaming. Stray wisps of her dark hair flowed in the breeze, framing her pale skin. It would be good to get some color back in those cheeks, he thought. Even her mouth seemed to have lost its hue. He had always admired how pink her lips could be without the application of makeup, yet now as he looked at them, they appeared faded.
He knew that their falling out had been entirely his fault. He had changed and it hadn’t been gradual. Something had hardened him, made him bitter and constantly angry. He had taken it out on his friends on numerous occasions, sparking arguments for no other reason than to satisfy his own rage. It was no wonder that Emily hated him.
The feeling had always been mutual, however. She had been his antagonist—the chirpy, constantly happy, nothing-could-shake-her-love-for-life girl that enforced his bitterness. He had grown allergic to her bubbling laughter that did nothing but remind him that there was nothing to laugh about.
He had always expected to be gratified to see her lose that spark. The sweet revenge of years’ worth of torment. Yet here he was, angry—not at her, but at those who had so thoughtlessly wronged her.
If Adrian and Kate were right for each other, wanted each other, then that was one thing. What he couldn’t accept was the way they had both handled it, as if Emily’s feelings meant nothing to them.
Pulling up to the cottage where Beatrice and Claire awaited them, his mind returned to the present. As Emily turned toward him, her eyes locking onto his, he caught his breath.
He wanted to make her happy again. He knew that this had been his reason for inviting her to London in the first place. But it was more than that. He wanted to keep her close. For some inexplicable, illogical reason, he wanted Emily Rutherford more than he had ever wanted anything else in his life.
Perhaps it was rooted in the friendship they’d once shared. Kate could keep her dazzling looks, for all he cared—it was Emily who had always been his favorite. They’d been able to talk about anything back then. They’d shared a freedom with one another . . . the knowledge that they could just be themselves. And of course, the comfort of always having each other to turn to for help and support.
But when it came to that first love, it was Adrian who’d captured her attention instead of him. He couldn’t blame her, of course—after all, it was difficult to hold a candle to Adrian’s charm. Still, the way she’d stared after Adrian and hung on his every word had irritated him to no end. And then, when the accident had happened, he’d found it impossible to share it with anyone—not even Emily. Instead, he’d pushed her away. To this day she didn’t know the truth about what had happened. He’d wanted it that way. He’d needed to get away from it all, and by the time he returned, he’d completely given up the fight for Emily’s heart.
But perhaps he could try again now. Thank God Adrian had turned out to be a complete and utter idiot. Now all he had to do was make Emily like him again—not an easy task by any means he acknowledged, but then again, he did enjoy a challenge.
CHAPTER SEVEN
London
The carriage drew up to Francis’s Mayfair home on Berkeley Square at some point in the early afternoon. A balding, older gentleman whom Francis introduced as Parker opened the door for them at number five. “Parker is my butler, both here and at Dunhurst Park,” Francis explained. “He will see to it that you are all well settled.”
“How many are there?” Claire asked in wonderment as she looked about with big round eyes. Being only eighteen years of age she was more easily taken by all the extravagance of the upper class home.
“There are two maids, a cook, and a scullery maid who are here at all times. Parker, Jonathan Rosedale—my secretary—and Thomas—my valet—travel with me back and forth. Jonathan had an errand to attend to, but will be joining us later this evening.” Francis paused for a moment as if hesitating about whether or not to elaborate. “In truth, Jonathan is more than just an employee; he has been a close friend of mine for many years, even before I hired him—we went to Oxford together. I’m fortunate to have him around.”
“Will it not be terribly difficult for them all to run back and forth between the two houses?” Emily asked with marked concern.
“Erm . . . not really,” Francis muttered, suddenly looking nervous. He quickly composed himself before offering the three sisters a brief bow. “It would not be seemly for me to accompany you inside. Parker is very capable—I shall leave you in his care. Good day.”
Emily stared after him as he headed up the steps toward number seven, opened the door, and disappeared inside. “Is it just me, or did his behavior just now seem rather curious?”
Beatrice shrugged. “I thought he was quite polite, actually. Shall we go inside?”
As soon as the front door closed behind them, they spotted Francis entering the hall from another direction.
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you would be staying next door.”
“And so I shall. However, I did think it time to mention that there is a door that connects the two houses—it’s in the library.”
Beatrice and Emily both gasped while Claire just started giggling. Emily stopped her with a quick nudge to her side. “You deceived me,” Emily said. “You deceived us all.”
“I have to say,” Beatrice added. “This is highly irregular.”
“There’s nothing for it,” Emily said, her voice filled with disappointment. “We have to leave.”
Francis stepped forward. “Look—I realize that this is by no means ideal, but I didn’t think you would have come, had you known.”
“You would have been correct,” Emily snapped.
“However,” he continued, seemingly unfazed by Emily’s remark. “As far as anyone will be able to tell, we shall be living in two separate houses. My aunt shall be living with you as an appropriate chaperone and nobody need be the wiser. Besides, it will allow us to socialize without the unnecessary bother of going out and coming back in.”
“But we will know,” Emily protested.
“I daresay that you are quite right, my lord,” Beatrice suddenly said, effectively silencing her sister. “Nobody need be the wiser—we shall be happy to remain, provided your aunt is here, as you say.”
Emily turned to her sister in disbelief. “Beatrice, you cannot possibly mean to . . .”
“We’ve come all this way for a change of scenery, Emily, and I for one have little desire to endure another three hours by carriage in order to return to Hardington.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Besides, I daresay you’d have little issue with the matter if it were Adrian rather than Francis who was living next-door with an adjoining doorway.”
Emily could say nothing to that, so Beatrice merely returned her attention to Francis. “So . . . when might we have the pleasure of meeting this aunt of yours?” she asked.
“I am certain Lady Genevieve will be with us shortly,” Francis said. Then, removing his hat and handing it to Parker, he ran his fingers through his thick hair, ruffling it slightly. Emily stared at him for a moment, stunned by the change in his appearance. Gone was his sleek and carefully groomed look that she had grown so used to. He still looked handsome, but in a roguish way that made her stomach flip as she sucked in a breath.
Shifting his gaze, his eyes locked onto hers, taking in the look of confusion on her face. Something drew her in—his dark eyes captivating—as a slight shiver ran down her spine. Narrowing his eyes, his expression seemed to change. Gone was the hostility, so that for the briefest of moments, he looked as if he understood her. Then, like a candle being snuffed, the moment was gone.
It was absurd. Of course it was. She could barely stomach Francis for more than a few minutes at a time.
A loud thump brought her back to full awareness. Turning slightly, she spotted an elderly woman with silver hair coming toward them at a crooked gait. Her frame was tiny, but her posture was perfectly straight, her head was held high, and her eyes were so piercing that she could very likely strike fear even in the most courageous of men. Had Francis really described her as lovely? Militant would be a more apt description.
“Aunt Genevieve,” Francis remarked with a slight bow. “How good of you to join us.”
Silence followed as Genevieve’s eyes slowly drifted from one face to another, scrutinizing each and every detail about all of them. When she was done, she nodded with great satisfaction, her slim lips widening into a warm smile that instantly lit up her face. The cool façade had completely vanished by the time she stepped forward to welcome the sisters. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you, my dears,” she said. She cast a quick look at Francis. “I see now why my presence here is required, Francis. Shame on you for not telling me how pretty these ladies are.”
“Well, I didn’t think that . . .” Francis began, while Beatrice, Claire, and Emily, their faces quite flushed with embarrassment, performed a series of awkward curtsies.
“Tut, tut.” Genevieve wagged an admonishing finger at her nephew. She then leaned forward against her cane and served Beatrice the most inquisitive of stares. “When did you last eat?”
“I . . .” Beatrice glanced sideways at her two sisters. “I mean, we . . .”
“When?” Genevieve repeated, her eyebrows meeting in the middle.
“This morning, my lady.”
Genevieve leaned back a little. “Well, that really won’t do.” She turned to Francis. “These ladies are as skinny as my cane. You did well in bringing them here, though I daresay we’ll have our work cut out for us if we’re to fatten them up in time for the next ball.”
Francis couldn’t help but notice the look of despair on the sisters’ faces. He decided that it was time to jump to their rescue. “Aunt Genevieve, I really don’t think that . . .”
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Francis,” Genevieve remarked. “But I really don’t give a rat’s bottom for what you think right now. If these ladies are to attract the proper attention, then it’s imperative that they show themselves off to their best advantage. Some ample bosoms are what we need—mark my word.”
A shocked silence followed.
It was Beatrice who eventually spoke. “I know that you have our best intentions at heart, my lady, but we didn’t come here in search of husbands. And even if we did, I would certainly hope that they’d be drawn to our character rather than our looks.”