Georgina Devon - The Rake's Redemption

Emma shrugged. ‘A calculated guess based on what I know of you. You just confirmed my suspicion. Thank you. Now I shall send a note.’

‘Don’t forget,’ Amy said, mimicking her sister’s tone, ‘it isn’t done to send a message to a single man one isn’t related to.’

‘You should have remembered that before you put me in this position.’ Emma didn’t try to keep the tartness from her voice. ‘I have had enough of this, Amy. If you don’t behave, I shall tell Father you must return to the country.’

Amy pulled on her finely woven wool robe, for it was still cool in the mornings, particularly since Emma ordered no fires to be lit in order to save on costs. ‘You know he will not agree. I am the fatted calf.’

There was only a touch of bitterness in the younger girl’s words, but it was enough to stop Emma. Neither one of them was happy with the position they found themselves in. Neither one of them had created this situation, but both of them were paying for it.

Emma’s anger melted. Amy was only doing her best to enjoy her first and only London Season. She would be wed all too soon, sacrificed on the altar of gambling.

Unable to swallow her sorrow for her sister, Emma said, ‘You are too young for this and I wish I could spare you, but I cannot. Just as you are correct in saying Father will not allow me to send you home.’ She went to the door, turning back to say, ‘I will tell Mrs Murphy you are up.’

Emma left, feeling worse than when she’d arrived. Added to that was the requirement to send a note to Charles Hawthorne telling him not to do or respond to whatever was in Amy’s note. One complication after another.

In her room, Emma sat down at the scratched and stained writing desk and pulled a piece of thick paper from the drawer. The note to Charles Hawthorne was not easy. Several copies later, she was satisfied enough to sand the sheet before folding it into a twist. She would give it to a footman who had been born on their family estate. She could trust him not to speak of this. Once that was done, she could settle into her daily supervision of the housekeeping and accounts.

That afternoon Emma sat near the window in the parlour that looked out on the back garden, using the afternoon light to see. She looked up from her darning on a pair of silk stockings when Gordon entered and cleared his throat.

‘Yes?’ She smiled at the elderly butler.

His brow furrowed. ‘Mr Hawthorne is at the door, Miss Stockton. He says he is come to take Miss Amy driving.’

Emma’s stomach seemed to plummet in a pleasurable sensation and her fingers tingled. Her weakness tightened her mouth. The man was nothing but trouble.

‘He ignored my note,’ she muttered.

‘It would seem so, Miss.’

‘Please send him away.’

She ignored a traitorous pang of disappointment. He was not to be trusted and he was only amusing himself with her innocent sister. He was nothing to her.

‘Yes, Miss.’ Gordon said the words without inflection but the gleam in his eye told Emma he would enjoy doing her behest.

The door closed behind him just as Amy’s raised voice came from the foyer. Emma didn’t have to think. She knew if she didn’t get to Amy, the chit would take off with Charles Hawthorne and the devil take the hindmost. She dropped her darning without a qualm, even though there was the chance it might come undone. Seconds later, she was in the hallway.

‘Amy!’ She marched to the couple. ‘And you!’ She turned to glare at Charles Hawthorne.

He was dressed casually but impeccably. His navy jacket fit his broad shoulders as if it had been moulded to him. His buff breeches were equally tight, showing muscular thighs that, try as she might, Emma couldn’t quite ignore. And his top boots were shined to a mirror glow. He held his beaver hat in gloved hands.

He quirked one black brow and said with a sardonic drawl, ‘Miss Stockton, how nice of you to come and see us off.’

Emma halted several feet away from them and forced her attention from the man to her sister. ‘Amy, you are not going driving.’

Amy tossed her head, her blond curls bouncing beneath the brim of her stylish straw hat. Her mouth was a mulish line. ‘Of course I am, Em. There is nothing wrong with accompanying a gentleman in an open carriage through Rotten Row. It is nearly five and everyone will be there.’ She slanted a sly look at Charles. ‘And it will do wonders for my reputation when the other gentlemen see me squired by Mr Hawthorne.’ Her gaze slid back to her sister. ‘Even you must admit that Mr Hawthorne sets the tone.’

Emma closed her eyes briefly and wondered why she even bothered when Amy was so determined to throw her reputation to the wind. When she opened her eyes, it was to Charles Hawthorne’s ironic grin.

‘Much as it pains me to seem so arrogant,’ he said, his tone saying nothing of the sort, ‘your sister is correct. I am generally considered a paragon of fashion.’

Emma snorted before she realised it. Scarlet suffused her face but she would not let herself look away from his now laughing eyes.

‘It is true, Mr Hawthorne, that no one has ever accused you of modesty.’

He made her a mocking half bow.

‘No matter how attractive such an attribute would be for you,’ she finished before turning back to Amy. ‘You are right, it is perfectly acceptable. And the weather is delightful. I believe I shall accompany you.’

Amy’s mouth dropped before she gathered her wits. ‘But, Em, where will you sit? Mr Hawthorne drives a high-perch phaeton that will only hold two and his tiger.’

Emma considered her dignity for a second before throwing it to the wind. ‘I shall sit between the two of you.’

‘We will be tight as clams,’ Amy groused, using a term she had coined when young. She had tried to open a clam bought at the fish market and been unable to. Ever since, when something was hard to open or tight, she used the phrase. ‘Really, Em, it is too bad of you to be this way.’

Ignoring Amy’s words, Emma said, ‘I will only be a moment to get my hat and a pelisse.’

Not waiting for an answer, she hurried up the stairs to her room. She rummaged through her closet for the pelisse and hat, yanking the short jacket on without bothering to button it and cramming the hat onto her head with no regard for her styled hair. She trusted the old butler to do his best to delay them, but she was not giving that pair the opportunity to leave before she got back down.

She arrived downstairs breathing quicker than when she had left, but they were still there.

Amy continued where she had left off. ‘It will be horribly crowded with three. I wouldn’t wonder if Mr Hawthorne will be so cramped that his driving will be affected. That would not be good, for I know he is considered a fine whip.’

Still smiling, Charles said, ‘Thank you for the compliment, Miss Amy. I shall do my best not to lose your trust in my abilities.’

Emma cut him a look, wondering if he had meant the double entendre his words had implied. His countenance showed nothing but good humour. Perhaps her thoughts dwelt so much on his possible seduction of her sister that she read meanings into his words that weren’t there. Somehow she doubted it.

She moved to stand between them. ‘Shall we be on our way?’

She heard Amy’s huff of irritation and ignored it. She just wished she could as easily ignore the sense of Charles Hawthorne’s nearness. She wanted nothing to do with him yet her body betrayed her. She straightened her shoulders, determined to control herself, and marched through the door Gordon held open.

Outside was a magnificent ebony barouche that would hold four people comfortably. The top was down for the fine weather and the crest of Lord George Hawthorne, Charles’s older brother, adorned the door. The urge to turn on the odious man who had let them carry on thinking he was in his racing carriage was nearly too much to resist. He had made fools of them.