Of course he’d taken lessons. His father had required it of him. It had been a fairness issue regarding Ben, their father had told him. Looking back, Emerson recalled his brother pitching a fit that if Emerson didn’t attend lessons, then Ben shouldn’t have to either.
Gloved fingers tapped the hand clutching his knee. “Are you sure all is well, Mr. Whitmore?” The way his name tripped off her tongue, even the “mister” portion, had him wishing his brother were anywhere but in the carriage with them.
Emerson’s eyes shot to Ben and the small smile on his shadowed face that appeared more a smirk in the low light.
“Of course I am, my lady. Whyever would I not be?” he said gruffly.
She snatched her hand away, and Ben’s smile broadened.
“My brother has been under a tremendous amount of strain. Something to do with his business at the docks,” Ben said for him.
That annoyed the hell out of Emerson. “Ben, I’m sure Lady Stanford has no interest in speaking of a merchant’s doings.”
“To the contrary, Mr. Whitmore.” Something akin to accusation and disappointment crossed her features as she turned her gaze away and out the window to the wet night.
The streets were clogged with carriages, slowing their progress to Cavendish Square.
Her answer might have pleased him had her expression not disturbed him so.
Oh, to be able to leap from the moving vehicle to the mucked streets. But the risk of leaving her to her own devices—especially after her idiocy in Whitefriars—was inconceivable.
Then again, if she insisted on tethering him to Society’s leash, she must bear the consequences of his presence.Constantpresence.
And he, hers. Hers of orange blossom, spring, and prickly as thorns.Hybrid indeed.
The carriage drew up before Cavendish House, and Emerson jumped out the door, his boots hitting the gravel before it came to a complete stop. From the carriage box, Amir handed down an umbrella, reminding Emerson of the misting rain. He pushed it open and handed it to Ben with a silent command to hold it over Lady Stanford’s head.
Emerson swept her off her cream-silk slippers before they could touch the ground and carried her to the portico. A smallgasp sounded from behind, and he swiveled about—Lord and Lady Huntley. Lady Huntley’s gloved hand covered her mouth, but her eyes sparkled from the light spilling from the open door. So…an ally?
Just over Lady Huntley’s shoulder, he caught sight of the Duke and Duchess of Ryleigh. He barely covered his groan.
Ben, having followed at a more leisurely pace, had closed the umbrella and was handing it to a footman.
Emerson turned to Rose and held out his arm. There was a moment’s hesitation where their eyes met before she accepted the offering.
Once inside, Emerson handed off his greatcoat and adjusted his cravat with deliberate care when what he truly desired was to rip it away.
Rose unbuttoned her ermine-trimmed cloak, and the footman assisted her out of it, and Emerson froze—
Her gown caught the light like the edge of a blade.
Bronze silk, the very bolt he’d sent to her house. It was hardly recognizable. But recognize it, he did, as the fabric molded to her figure as if it had been waiting all its life for her. The sheen shifted with each movement, one instant molten copper, the next the dusky shimmer of aged brandy.
The low, square neckline revealed the elegant line of her throat and the faintest swell of her breasts, framed by delicate embroidery that glimmered like fireflies in the softly candlelit foyer. Sleeves of gauze whispered over her arms, lending her the air of some elemental creature risen from the forge—untouchable, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful.
Emerson’s lungs forgot their purpose. He had meant to stride into the Harlowe soiree like a man on a mission, cool and collected. Instead, he stood rooted to the floor beneath his feet, his chest tight, struck by the shocking knowledge thathehadclothed her. Hehad chosen this color, this sheen, and the result nearly brought him to his knees.
Beside him, Ben’s low chuckle barely penetrated the sudden fogging of his usually well-ordered, pragmatic thoughts. “Well, brother,” he murmured, “if you planned to escape this evening unscathed, I’d say your battle is already lost.” He nudged Emerson forward. “Move. You’re blocking the doorway,” he whispered, jarring Emerson into motion.
He held out his arm again. “Lady Stanford.” His voice was a gravelly shadow of his normal tone. “Shall we?”
With a small, tentative smile, shy really, she inclined her head and laid her over-the-elbow satin-gloved hand atop his.
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.
