The Viscount's Rose (The Farthingale Series Book 5) Page 6

  “The orgy?”

  “Nicola! He wouldn’t! Would he?” The mere thought of Lord Emory stripping out of his clothing to bare his hard, muscled body sent so much heat shooting into her cheeks that she knew they had to be a dark and fiery cherry red by now. “Oh, my heavens! Do you mean to say he’d strip naked?”

  Nicola nodded. “Ew! The thought of my brother, ugh!”

  Not quite the same response that Rose was having, for the thought of Julian Emory’s hard, golden body was quite the opposite of “ew.” Her own body was intensely hot and throbbing from the tip of her nose to the tips of her toes, and if she didn’t soon calm down, her usually pale skin would permanently remain that horrifying shade of cherry red.

  “There you girls are,” came a familiar voice from behind them. Lord Emory, of course. Did his timing always have to be so inconvenient? Her skin was still so flushed that she resembled a fruit—namely, said cherry—instead of the delicate, alabaster-skinned debutante she was supposed to be.

  She didn’t want to look at him, but he came around to stand in front of them, planting his large frame in front of her so that she couldn’t ignore him. She felt the heat of his gaze on her and heard him clear his throat as though hinting that she ought to acknowledge his presence. Crumpets. She couldn’t snub him. “Good evening, Lord Em—”

  The words caught in her throat the moment she glanced up. Standing beside him, indeed clinging to his arm, was the beautiful Countess Deschanel.

  Crumpets again!

  The woman was more beautiful than Rose had imagined. She radiated beauty in even the harshest angles of fading evening light. The pink, violet, and orange rays of sunlight seemed to shimmer around her as the sun set, each hue bringing out the pink blush of her porcelain cheeks and the violet black of her glistening dark hair. Even the orange tones, a difficult color for any woman to sport whether young or old, seemed to give her skin a magical golden glow.

  For that reason alone Rose wished to dislike her.

  Well, not really.

  But she understood Nicola’s distress. How could Lord Emory not be enraptured by this woman? In comparison, she was entirely lacking. Her honey-gold hair never behaved, and she was always fighting back a loose curl springing up here or a stray curl pointing up there. Even when freshly washed and left down, her hair never draped like silk over her shoulders but cascaded in a wild tumble down her back.

  Rose stifled a groan. While Countess Deschanel’s eyes were a perfect dove gray, her own eyes were an imperfect blue muddled with flecks of gray and violet as though they didn’t know what they ought to be, so they were a mix of everything. As for her skin? It was still flushed that hideous cherry red.

  Nicola’s brother introduced her to his goddess. “A pleasure,” Rose said, offering a short curtsy and smiling warmly in response, because it wasn’t the woman’s fault that she was perfect in every way and that men—even intelligent ones—fell in love with her at first sight.

  The countess smiled icily in response. “The music is starting soon, Chatham. Your sister and her odd little friend are obviously capable of looking after themselves. No need to worry about them.”

  Odd friend? Rose definitely felt the air turn glacial in this woman’s presence. Indeed, Lord Emory’s goddess appeared quite adept at sucking all warmth from a room and even from the expansive outdoors in which they stood. Quite a feat, for the evening air was slightly damp and still held the heat of the long summer’s day.

  Surprisingly, Nicola’s brother held back when she attempted to draw him away. “Miss Farthingale, may I help you to a chair? You appear to be struggling on your feet.”

  Obviously, he’d mistaken her embarrassment in imagining him naked for difficulty in walking about with a sprained ankle. Only her ankle had healed just fine and although she carried the cane, she wasn’t limping or feeling particularly uncomfortable in the area of her foot. No, the discomfort lay squarely in her heart. “You needn’t concern yourself with me, my lord. I’ll waddle over to the concert seats on my own.”

  The countess sniffed to mark her displeasure.

  Nicola’s brother shot her a grin and masked his chuckle by bringing one of his fisted hands to his mouth and coughing. “Stay within sight of Lord and Lady Darnley or the Farthingales. I don’t wish to be worrying about the pair of you.” He glanced at his goddess and his smile turned wicked. “I have better things to occupy my time this evening.”

  He strolled away with the countess still clinging to his arm, never once looking back. Rose stared in his direction even after he’d disappeared from view. “We’re doomed, Nicola. I knew she was beautiful, but I never thought it possible for anyone to be so exquisite. Not even I would choose me over her.”

  “Hah! You’re much prettier than she is and it’s obvious that Julian thinks so, too.” Nicola wrapped her arm in Rose’s as they walked together toward the concert area, where seats had been set out and flower garlands and silk bows decorated the prettily fashioned bowers.

  Rose sat beside her parents and tried her best not to fidget during the interminable concert. Nicola’s brother and his goddess sat in the same row but across the center aisle from them so that Rose had a clear view of his profile as he stared straight ahead at the Winthrop daughters standing on the raised dais.

  Having been admonished twice already by her mother to stop fidgeting, she withdrew her small pencil and dance card from her silk reticule. There was to be dancing after the concert but Rose had no intention of participating yet, nor would anyone be signing her card. She began to aimlessly sketch on it.

  Nicola’s brother happened to be the perfect subject, for he was not only handsome but artistically appealing. He had the sort of features that would make for a spectacular portrait—a rugged, manly face with enough smooth lines and angles to appear refined and yet enough raw, male features to remind one of a medieval warrior. Battle hardened but not coarse. After all, Lord Emory had served many years battling Napoleon on the Peninsula.

  “What are you doing?” her mother whispered, leaning over to have a peek.

  Rose tried to draw the card away, but saw by her mother’s expression that she was too late. “You told me not to fidget. So I’m drawing instead.”

  “My dear,” her mother said gently, “you’ve captured him perfectly.” She paused a moment to let out a long breath.

  Rose understood the meaning of her mother’s forlorn sigh. “I know, Mama. I do find him fascinating, but he’s in love with someone else. I won’t allow my heart to be engaged.”

  Her mother patted her hand. “I’m afraid you lost your heart to him that very first day. That’s how it happens with Farthingales. One look and they know. But all hope is not lost. Despite appearances, I think he may be beguiled by you as well.”

  Rose couldn’t help letting out an oinkish snort in response to her mother’s comment. Of course, the sound drifted across the center aisle to reach Lord Emory’s ears. He turned to stare at her, and then his expression softened and she saw the crinkle at the corners of his eyes just before he gave her a rakish smile.

  Her mother gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Most interesting.”

  The man may have smiled at her, but he was going to undress for his countess tonight and propose to her by the end of the month unless she, Nicola, and the entire Emory family succeeded in changing his mind. Crumpets, what a coil! Would he still like her after she abducted him?

  The discordant sounds of Melissa Winthrop’s harp filtered through Julian’s ears with as much charm as metal grinding on metal. Was everyone else struggling not to wince? Or was he the only one who considered the sound offensive to his ears?

  Usually, he slipped away during these tedious recitals. But not this evening. He’d taken the first seat in a center aisle so that he could stretch his long legs, but his position also offered him a clear view of Rose and that was a problem.

  He couldn’t keep his eyes off the girl.

  He studied her through hooded lids. Discreetly,
of course. Too much was at stake to do otherwise. He had to feign disinterest until he found that man at the top of Napoleon’s ring of English traitors, the one who could bring down the Prince Regent and his family and deliver England into the little Corsican’s hands.

  Valentina had her usual death grip on his arm, for she considered him one of her possessions and no one would share him until she was ready to move on to other amusements. He would then be thrown into her refuse pile along with the other men whose hearts she had broken. He longed for the day to arrive. This assignment had long ago grown tedious.

  He stopped staring at Rose and forced himself to keep his thoughts off the girl and her soft blue eyes.

  When the recital ended, the guests drifted off to various entertainments. Those who sought to dine found the supper tables groaning under the weight of the abundant cold meats, salted fish, and succulent sweets on display. Card tables were set up in the card room, and the Winthrops had engaged an orchestra that appeared to be ready to open with a waltz in the ballroom. Julian thought of his promise to Rose about her first waltz, a promise he desired to keep, but he dared not claim it here.

  He glanced around and saw that Rose and Nicola were now seated among the wallflowers, chattering between themselves and making it clear to all the young bucks in attendance that neither girl was interested in dancing. He understood Rose’s hesitation, for she had not quite recovered from her sprained ankle, but Nicola had no such impediment. Why wasn’t his blasted headstrong sister making herself available for a dance?

  “You seem far away, Chatham,” Valentina said, attempting to follow his gaze. Fortunately, the ballroom was packed and she wasn’t tall enough to make out what had distracted him across the room.

  “No, my love. Right here. Just making certain Braswell isn’t eyeing my sister.” That rankled Valentina. Braswell was her toady for the moment and she wasn’t about to share him with anyone. “Ah, no. I see he’s moved past her and is gulping down a cup of ratafia. No doubt he’s spiked it. The drink is vile. Not even I can stomach it plain.”

  He took Valentina into his arms as her frown eased, and he danced the waltz and then a quadrille with her. He gave silent thanks when Lord Braswell approached Valentina to claim the two sets he’d marked on her dance card.

  With Valentina occupied for another hour at a minimum, Julian took the opportunity to approach his sister and Rose. They saw him coming and scampered outside, Rose moving with surprising grace as they both hurried down the terrace steps to the privacy of the garden. Were they purposely trying to avoid him?

  Bloody nuisance.

  He followed after them, telling himself that it was only to protect the girls from the unscrupulous bachelors lying in wait for the first young innocent of ample fortune to walk down the darkened path and fall into one of their traps.

  Wasn’t he honor bound to protect them? After all, Nicola was his sister and Rose was his sort of responsibility ever since he’d pulled her out from her sabotaged pottery shed. In any event, he’d promised her mother that he’d look after her. It mattered little that they were talking about the upcoming trip to Darnley Cottage and not this musicale.

  A promise is a promise and I mean to keep it.

  If Valentina noticed, he’d simply tell her the truth. She’d believe that he’d been chasing after his sister to keep the irritating sibling out of harm’s way. No need to make mention of Rose. Indeed, the less said about her, the better.

  He strode down a darkened bend and almost barreled over the two girls, catching them up in his arms in time to prevent them from falling into a heap at his feet. “Nicola, why aren’t you on the dance floor?” He steadied both girls and then released them, nodding toward the crowded ballroom. His body still tingled in the spots where Rose had fallen against him, and his hand still shook from the ache of wanting to touch of her soft, warm body again.

  “No one asked me.” Nicola shot back a glower, obviously not in the least distressed to be considered a wallflower.

  He frowned. Any dutiful brother would be concerned to find his younger sister ignored by the reputable young bucks on the hunt for a suitable wife. “Let me see your card.”

  “No.” She tucked it into her bosom.

  Julian rolled his eyes. “And you, Rose? Has no one approached you either?”

  Hoping he didn’t ask to see her dance card and discover his likeness on it, she glanced down at her ankle as though to point out the obvious. “I can’t possibly accept anyone until you claim the first dance. Do you recall your—”

  He groaned inwardly. “Yes.”

  But Valentina would run him through with her sharpest blade if he dared to dance with another young lady. He’d been foolish to suggest it and would now have to disappoint Rose. Either that or claim that first dance in the privacy of this isolated moonlit garden. He’d still have to wait for Valentina and her cohorts to be reliably distracted before he’d ever dare attempt it.

  Lord, he was mad to even consider such a thing.

  A year’s work tossed away for a pair of beautiful blue eyes. “Rose, you’ll get your first dance once we’re out in the country.” He turned away from her before she could accept or issue protest.

  Now in ill humor, he trained his annoyance on his sister. “Nicola, I had better see you dance at least once this evening with a proper suitor or I’m going to take it upon myself to find you a husband. So, unless you wish to be forced into a marriage with someone of my choosing by the end of this season, you had better get out there and find yourself a duke or earl or some other pimple-arsed nitwit who’ll find you tolerable.”

  She scowled. “You’re bluffing. You’d never saddle me with an unwanted match.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Wouldn’t I?”

  As Nicola folded her arms to mimic his pose, Rose attempted to intercede. “She finds your friend the Duke of Edgeware interesting. Perhaps you might encourage—”

  “Stop protecting my sister, Rose.” He shook his head and sighed. “Everyone knows the duke has no intention of ever marrying. You’ve craftily mentioned the only bachelor in London who will never be conquered. It won’t buy Nicola a reprieve. I know she has no interest in him.”

  “You do?” Rose tipped her head in confusion. “How can you possibly be so certain?”

  “Nicola is terrible at hiding her thoughts. So are you, by the way.” A slow grin stretched across his face. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

  “Crumpets!” she muttered, her eyes rounding in alarm. “If you’re so clever, then tell me what I’m thinking right now.”

  “Easy.” He arched a devilish eyebrow. “You’re wondering whether I’m bluffing about Nicola. I’m not. And wondering whether I’m on to the scheme you and she have contrived and were most busily whispering about in your own little corner of the Winthrop ballroom. I am.” She gasped and her eyes once more rounded in alarm. Bloody nuisance. His guess had been squarely on the mark. They were indeed still scheming, but about what?

  As the girl recovered from her surprise, she met his gaze in challenge. “An obvious guess. If you’re truly that perceptive, then what am I thinking about now?”

  His grin broadened and turned rakish. “You’re wondering whether I would truly kiss you if you asked me.”

  She inhaled lightly. “Nicola, let’s go inside. The gnats are rather a nuisance this evening and so is your brother.”

  Julian watched Rose skitter back into the townhouse with his sister following closely at her heels. Only once she was out of sight did he release the breath he’d been holding. “Bloody nuisance,” he muttered again, desperately wishing she wasn’t quite so beautiful.

  “Indeed,” the Duke of Edgeware said, stepping out of the shadows. “Chatham, should I be heartbroken that your sister doesn’t desire me?”

  “Oh, bollocks. Ian, I didn’t know you were out here.” He’d been working with Ian Markham, Duke of Edgeware, another agent for the Crown, for many years and had long since stopped callin
g his friend “your grace” or Edgeware.

  “I often sneak away,” Ian said with a nod, “sometimes for an assignation, but mostly to avoid those aggressive, marriage-minded mamas and their drippy-nosed daughters. I’d never slip away with a good sort like your sister, so you needn’t worry about her.”

  “They’re not all horrid. Some of these young ladies are quite tolerable.”

  Ian nodded toward the townhouse. “Like Rose Farthingale? I’ve heard about those Farthingale girls. Supposedly they’re all beautiful, even the youngest ones. Lady Dayne is already dropping hints that one of them might suit me.” He shook his head and gave a mock shudder. “I’m depraved in many ways, but I never rob from the cradle.”

  Julian threw his head back and laughed. “They’re unusual and far more interesting than your ordinary assortment of English flowers. You ought not rule them out.”

  Ian cast him one of those dismissive looks that seem to come naturally to all dukes. “Only trysts and tawdry liaisons for me, old man,” he said, even though Julian didn’t know anyone else as brave and hard working as Ian. The duke lowered his voice to a whisper. “I return to France within the week. It’s my turn to follow Napoleon’s messenger and see where else the man will lead me. Perhaps I’ll return to find you married. I pray that it won’t be to that black widow spider, Valentina. Not even the salvation of England would be reason enough for me to make that sacrifice.”

  Julian sighed. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’ve made a solemn promise to Prinny and intend to hold to it. So I really need to discover the name of the traitor inside the royal inner circle before the month is out or I’ll be forced to take that next step and offer for said black widow spider. I won’t go through with the wedding, but she needs to think I will. She needs to trust me implicitly.”

  “Good luck.” Ian glanced toward the terrace, where ladies and gentlemen were beginning to crowd since the ballroom had no doubt grown too warm. “I had better go back inside. You ought to do the same before your spider comes hunting for you.”