The Viscount's Rose (The Farthingale Series Book 5) (7 page)

“Indeed, Miss Farthingale. You must do as your aunt suggests.” Lord Emory turned her slightly to face him as he spoke. He had an odd expression on his face, a mix of puzzlement, concern, and hilarity. She was not mistaken. The bounder was struggling to hold back a roar of laughter. She would have been more offended if it weren’t for the fact that even she considered her predicament hilarious.

Nicola added her thoughts before Rose had time to apologize to her brother for staining his clothes as she leaned against him. And why shouldn’t Nicola speak up since everyone else seemed to have an opinion on her condition? “I heartily agree, Hortensia. Isn’t that what I was just telling you, Rolf? You need plenty of rest and good country air, so you must come to Darnley Cottage with me this week.”

Lord Emory released her and turned to his sister. “You’re going to the country house? When was this decided?”

“Just last night. Yes, all of us are going and I want Rolf to come too.” She turned to Rose’s parents, who had rushed forward and were now standing beside her. “Please say you’ll let her go with us. My aunt and uncle will take excellent care of her, and my brothers and sisters adore her. She can’t attend any balls yet, so where’s the harm?”

Rose cast her parents a pleading gaze although she wasn’t certain whether she was pleading for them to consent or refuse. Lord Emory was still standing too close to her, his hand now on her elbow to brace her while she struggled to balance on her good foot.

She couldn’t think clearly while he remained so close. She’d spilled tea all over herself and ruined her new gown. Her ankle was heavily bound, and everyone in the room was now staring at her in horror. But all she could think about was Lord Emory. Had he meant his words? That she had only to ask and he would kiss her?

She glanced up to him, wondering how it would feel to have his lips on hers. Warm. Nice. Magical, she supposed. “Miss Farthingale, you’re shaking. Do sit down before you fall again.”

Heat shot into her cheeks. Indeed, everyone in the parlor was watching her, and all she could think of still were how good his lips would taste. Like coffee, perhaps. A hint of whiskey and mint. Maybe a little salt like an ocean spray.

Her mother took her into her arms and began to guide her from the parlor. “You’re right, Nicola. Perhaps a few days in the countryside is just what my daughter needs, especially after that nasty business with her kiln. Rose, I’ve never seen you look so foggy. This isn’t like you at all. You must have bumped your head.”

“No, Mama. Truly, it’s been an unsettled few days but otherwise I’m fine.”

Her mother patted her arm and then turned to Nicola and her brother, both of whom had followed her out of the parlor. “Lord Emory, we’re truly in your debt for saving Rose’s life the other day. What a frightening incident. I know my husband has extended his warmest gratitude, but it doesn’t seem enough. We are entirely indebted to you. Will you remain in the country with your family?”

His brow furrowed as he glanced at her and then Nicola. Sighing, he ran a hand roughly across the back of his neck. “I’ll have to escort them because no one else will dare ride with my unruly younger brothers. But as for remaining the entire week, I doubt it. A few days at most. I will however return at the end of the week to escort them back to London.”

Her mother nodded. “I’d be more comforted if you stayed the week, but at least you’ll be traveling with them. Although you’ve brought Sir Aubrey to task, who knows what other pottery ruffians may be lurking about? I wouldn’t want them to harm my daughter.”

Why was her mother going on as though she were a delicate fribble? Admittedly, she was still injured but the ankle was practically healed. “I’m not afraid of those scoundrels.”

Her mother frowned. “And that’s what worries me most. You ought to be, Rose.”

“But I—”

Lord Emory emitted a soft groan. “I’ll protect her, Mrs. Farthingale. I give you my word of honor.”

Rose’s eyes rounded in astonishment. What? Their ridiculous plan was falling into place? It couldn’t be. But what if it was? More important, would Lord Emory truly kiss her if she asked him?

If she were truly a fribble, she would now fall into a swoon.

But she was sensible.

She didn’t swoon.

That her limbs were tingling and her legs still as soft as melted butter was of no moment. That her heart was pounding like a war drum was a mere coincidence.

Tingles and heart pounding did not count.

Nor did the butterflies madly fluttering in her belly.

Did Lord Emory realize it would be her first kiss ever?

Would he mind?

“THANK GOODNESS YOU’RE
here!” Nicola accosted Rose as soon as she and the rest of her family made their way into Lord and Lady Winthrop’s elegant townhouse the following evening. Rose’s ankle was feeling better so she had decided to attend the musicale after all. Her improving ankle and the dozen desperate notes from Nicola begging her to attend had swayed her.

“You look so pretty, Nicola.” Her friend wore a lovely mint green gown that brought out the cool green of her eyes and the lush auburn of her hair. She looked as refreshingly sweet as the lime ices one would find in the best confectionery shops.

Nicola blushed lightly. “So do you. But you always do.”

“Nonsense, I feel so uncomfortable. I’m afraid to breathe for worry that I’ll damage the delicate fabric.” Her own gown was of the palest blue silk, almost a white-blue that shimmered in the glow of candlelight. “I’m not good at feigning elegance, but I have practiced walking around with my nose in the air. However, I shall be careful not become too full of myself. I’ll keep my feet firmly planted on the ground and my eyes clearly focused on where I’m walking.”

To emphasize her point, she gave a little wave of the decorative white cane she sported that almost matched the color of her gown. She’d borrowed it from Hortensia. Not that she really needed the cane, but it was her first full evening of keeping pressure on her ankle and she didn’t wish to make a fool of herself if it gave out.

They both giggled and continued to chatter as they made their way outdoors into Lady Winthrop’s garden. The walk they chose was lit with pretty lanterns hanging off lush tree branches. In the distance, fancier torches lit the lesser traveled walks.

Rose took a deep breath. “Isn’t it a lovely night? I’m so glad Lady Winthrop decided to hold the recital out here. Can you imagine the crush of hot, perspiring bodies crammed inside their music room?” She inhaled the light scent of roses, so much more pleasant than the heavy perfumes the older ladies and gentlemen seemed to adore.

The rain earlier in the day had ended so the Winthrop garden had managed to dry out in time. The summer sun had warmed the roses, and their petals were draped in full bloom across the arched trellises, their fragrant lemon and rose scent filling the air. “Is your brother here yet?”

Nicola gave a curt nod. “He and his countess are in the card room. Julian,” she said with a wrinkle to her nose to mark her displeasure, “is involved in a high stakes game of whist.”

Rose arched an eyebrow. “Whist? It’s a popular game. Doesn’t sound quite so alarming as you make it out to be.”

“It isn’t the game so much as the people involved and their wagers.” She quickly surveyed their little piece of the garden to make certain no one could overhear them. “They’re betting items of clothing.”

Rose shook her head in confusion. “That’s ridiculous. The loser has to purchase clothes for the winner? The haberdashers and modistes ought to be pleased.”

“No, silly. They’re not betting on articles of clothing to put
on
. They’re betting on what’s to be taken
off
. As in, the loser strips off a tie or a glove or a shirt. Or a gown if the loser is a female. But they won’t enforce their bets here. They’ll go to their private gaming club later and take a private room to watch the losers strip off—”

“That’s appalling!” Rose didn’t require further detail. “How did you learn of this? And why didn’t you tell me all the gloriously sordid details sooner?” She gasped. “Will your brother partake in this… in…”

“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.