Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

" T ake me to River's Bend Bridge."

Jacob startled awake in the driver's seat and checked to ensure his scarf was pulled up. A drizzling night rain dripped water off the rim of his hat and beaded on his driving coat. He'd sunk into its warmth, catching a quick nap and waiting to see if the Dorshams would attend another soirée. He preferred to spy undercover as a groomsman, coachman, or the occasional footman over wealthier positions, because the upper classes rarely looked at their servants—at least not fully. The Quality acted as if their hearths miraculously lit themselves, or ghosts delivered their food and chauffeured them around town.

A footman aided Miss Dorsham into the coach. Where was her family or Miss Neves, her chaperone?

"Make haste," she said before the door closed.

Jacob snapped the reins, and the team of horses cantered down the lane. The rain slowed to a drizzle. He checked his pocket watch and tilted it toward the hanging lantern. Who was Miss Dorsham meeting close to midnight? In under ten minutes, they arrived at River's Bend Bridge, where another coach was parked. It had an emblem he didn't recognize. The other driver tipped his hat, and Jacob returned the gesture.

Miss Dorsham flung open the door and jumped down before he could assist her. She dashed to the other coach.

Its door opened, and a man emerged.

She threw herself into his arms, wrapping him in a lover's embrace. At first, the man conceded, his hands roving over her back, but then he pulled back, shaking his head and ushering her into his carriage.

His guess had been correct. Miss Dorsham wasn't an innocent.

Several minutes passed before a muffled argument grew louder inside the closed coach.

"It was a mistake." The man's shout quieted the regular nighttime chirping of crickets and frogs. "I was hurt and lonely."

"You ruined me." Miss Dorsham's shrill voice jerked the other driver upright.

"What would you have me do?" Exasperation weighed the man's words.

The door flung open, and a slippered foot dangled. "This can't be undone."

"Let me help. If you need funds?—"

Miss Dorsham fled, her hands covering her face.

Jacob jumped down, ready with the lowered steps, and opened the door to the carriage. Miss Dorsham sobbed into her hands as he aided her inside, got her settled, and returned to his seat.

The rain did little to cool the shame burning under his collar. Sarah had fled with a similar look after he'd proposed. What would you have me do? Give up my dreams over a child?

His world had crumbled that night. He'd spent several weeks attempting to change her mind and all the years since searching for his child.

His heart ached for Miss Dorsham. Although her circumstances were different, it seemed she had been rejected by the one who should face it with her.

Her life would never be the same.

He flicked the reins, and the hoofbeats on the dirt-packed road drowned out her sobs.

E mily spent the next two days mulling over Phoebe's situation. She'd prayed hard, but instead of peace, she felt conflicted and unsettled, tossing and turning these past couple of nights since Phoebe confided her secret.

Morning light streamed through the window as she paced back and forth in the salon-turned-studio. The canvas form of Jacob, which the footman from Brownstone had delivered with the easel, seemed to question her even in its most basic form of mere skin tones.

Can only a woman be a victim?

Phoebe could be very aggressive. When she set her mind to something, she'd stop at nothing to get it, as she had with the phaeton. She'd pestered her parents until they finally relented and purchased her the four-wheeled open carriage, allowing her to drive despite proper etiquette.

The outline of Jacob's eyes peered back at her from the canvas. Do you really believe the worst of me?

Emily swallowed past the lump in her throat and laid out her art supplies.

The light filtered in nicely through the north-facing window of the makeshift studio. An old bed cloth had been laid out beneath the easel to protect the floors. It reminded Emily of the sail on Christian's boat and how Jacob had helped name it the Pirate Catcher . He was terrific with children, more patient than Samuel with Christian's active imagination. She smiled at the memory of Jacob and Christian playing pirates. Her traitorous mind switched to the feeling of his arms about her waist as he pulled her to his side to keep her from plunging into the icy river. She'd shivered in the security of his arms—and not from fear or cold.

She was weak. As weak as her birth mother must have been being unmarried and with child. Jacob was a known libertine. He'd been a gentleman in her presence, but to accept the advances of an innocent like Phoebe was not the act of a nobleman. It was even low for a rogue, who'd usually steer clear of innocents, if only out of fear of being forced to the altar.

Oh, why had Emily allowed Phoebe to persuade her to continue the painting sessions? How would she be able to look at him?

Horses' hooves clopped in the distance, drawing nearer. Her fingers tightened on one of the paintbrushes she laid out. Phoebe was bound to come parading down the lane in her phaeton or Jacob in his landau any moment now. Emily's stomach churned, and her palms perspired. All morning, the unsettling feeling of being a participant in something God would frown upon slithered through her conscience.

Lord, forgive me.

She opened her airtight earthenware and spread out her paints by color. The bladder of cadmium yellow was getting low. She must ask the apothecary to send for more. She no longer dared go to London to replenish her supply from the colormen's shop. In the meantime, she'd have to use the color sparingly or mix the pigment with walnut oil herself, which was toilsome, messy work.

Mrs. Hayes knocked on the door and popped her head in. "Lord Jacob Warren has arrived, miss."

Emily wiped her palms down her durable nankeen dress and followed Mrs. Hayes to the front entry.

God, give me strength.

Lord Warren reclined in a low-back chair in the drawing room and held a carved wooden horse in his hands. He rose as she entered.

She stared at the knot in his cravat. "Good morning, my lord."

"Miss Thompson, you look lovely this morning."

Emily's jaw clenched. Did he think his flattery would work on her? Heaven forbid. She fanned out her sturdy painting frock. "I daresay you should have your eyes checked."

"Your dress is merely an adornment." He widened his stance, and a determined smile quirked one side of his mouth. The man seemed to enjoy a challenge. "I was speaking of the glow about you. The freshness of your face."

"You are overly kind. I'm certain London's ladies do so enjoy your flattering tongue."

"Might you have problems accepting a compliment?"

Emily changed the subject. "That's a finely carved steed."

He eyed the wooden piece. "I'm afraid this one is for Christian, but if I'd had known you'd admire it, I'd have purchased two."

Her breath stopped at the boldness of his statement. He, too, appeared surprised by his words, for his gaze dropped, and he ran a hand across the back of his neck.

"Are you aware of the flummery that spills from your lips?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of me." He shifted the horse in his hands. "Is Master Christian around?"

"Indeed, but not for long. Papa plans to bring him on his rounds today. The elderly of our parish enjoy Christian's lively spirit."

"He is energetic." Jacob broke into a wide grin, his affection for the boy evident. "I found this in a store window." He handed the toy to Emily. "I thought he'd enjoy it."

"How thoughtful of you. Christian will be delighted." The last thing she wanted was for her impressionable younger brother to idolize the likes of Lord Warren. She set the wooden horse aside.

He strolled to the doorway, leaned into the foyer, and called up the stairs in a teasing, boisterous voice. "And where is Master Christian?"

As if waiting for a cue, Christian flung open the other entrance to the parlor, beyond the sight of Lord Warren in the hall, and sped across the room. He swung around Emily and hid behind her skirts.

Jacob used exaggerated footfalls to stomp through the hall as if going in the other direction toward Papa's study. He held a finger to his lips and tiptoed back toward Emily, then snatched the giggling boy from behind her.

Christian reached for her. "Help! Lord Jacob's turned into a green ogre."

"Green. I never said I was green." He ticked Christian's stomach. "I'm a blue ogre."

"Help!" Christian giggled. "They're the worst kind."

Absolutely the worst kind.

Mama opened the door and poked her head inside. "What in heaven's name is going on? Oh." She clasped her hands. "Good afternoon, my lord. Here for a painting session?"

He set Christian down and bowed to Mama. "We have an early sitting to catch the light."

"I'm delighted you're here." She turned her attention to Emily. "Emily, can you watch Christian until your father leaves? He'll wear Papa out before his day begins. This little ruffian has been driving Mrs. Hayes to distraction, and we're in the middle of canning preserves."

Jacob slung Christian over his shoulder like a bundle of sticks. "I might be of assistance."

"Do be careful." Emily held her hands out to catch him if Jacob's grip slipped. "He's only five."

"This shall only take a moment." Jacob wiggled his brows before opening the front door and carrying Christian outside.

Emily froze at the door, which closed in front of her. From inside the house, she followed them from window to window until she reached the salon.

Jacob chased Christian around the grounds, matching smiles gracing their faces. She had to admit, for a rogue, he was great with children.

She finished arranging her paints, only stopping to peer outside when she heard Christian's peals of laughter.

Papa strode down the back stairs and straightened his cravat. "Christian, time to go!"

Emily and Mama met him in the hall to bid him farewell.

Papa kissed each of their cheeks before opening the front door.

Christian hung like a monkey off Lord Warren's back in the front yard.

"Good morning, Lord Warren," Papa said. "I didn't realize you were here."

"Morning, Mr. Thompson." He slid Christian to the ground. "I had hoped to expel some of Christian's energy, but he has unfathomable reserves."

"That is the truth." Papa chuckled. "Have a blessed day. Come along, son."

Jacob reentered the house, a healthy glow added to his face from the exertion. He sat on the tufted sofa in the drawing room.

She stood in the doorway to the foyer and lowered her gaze. "We can begin even though Phoebe hasn't arrived yet."

"One moment, please." He gestured for her to sit in a nearby chair. "I'm glad you allowed the sessions to continue. I promise you, I did nothing untoward with Miss Dorsham. I hope you believe me."

A dalliance with an innocent wasn't untoward? The man certainly held a deranged sense of morals. Emily gritted her teeth and stared at the hem of her dress.

"I commend you for defending Miss Dorsham the way you did. You are a true friend."

Her stomach twisted.

"Emily." He whispered her name in much the same way a gentle spring breeze ruffled her bonnet strings.

His gaze locked on hers, and she instantly regretted looking up. Jacob searched her eyes as if seeking truth. He was the same man who played pirate with Christian, who'd allowed Christian to steer his team of horses, who'd shared with Emily about his family.

How could this man have had a tryst with her friend?

She hoped he couldn't read the cluster of emotions warring inside.

He slid to the end of the sofa closest to her chair, and his scent of citrus and spice encircled her, enticing her to fill her lungs.

"Devotion and loyalty are admirable qualities." He leaned closer and his shirt tightened.

His nearness and sheer maleness left her dizzy, until the icy fingers of self-loathing penetrated her brain, chasing away such thoughts. How could she feel anything for an unspeakable cad?

"I've had time to realize my part in what transpired with Miss Dorsham. I shall be more careful not to mislead her in the future."

"You do not have any sentiments toward Miss Dorsham?" Her voice sounded tight, stretched taut like her canvases.

"She is a lovely woman, but…" He shook his head. "To be honest, in the past, I might have flirted, exchanging witty banter out of sport." Regret hung heavy in his voice. "I used to be reckless—the third son who could push the boundaries. It became a game in which I held all the cards. I knew when to bluff, when to throw more into the pot, and when to fold." He sighed. "But now, I no longer enjoy the game. I'm ashamed I ever wanted to play. And in Miss Dorsham's case, it's time to fold before the hand is even dealt, because she isn't the right person for me."

The hand hadn't been dealt? What did he mean?

His gaze held hers steady. "I've set my sights on another."

Another? His intense stare heated her cheeks. Her? Where was Phoebe?

Phoebe was the one who was supposed to be appealing to Jacob, not her.

Emily folded her hands as she'd seen Mama often do to maintain her calm demeanor, hoping to quell the panic shaking inside her.

"If she'll have me."

The intensity in Jacob's gaze sent Emily's pulse at a frenzied pace. "Perhaps you do not know the goodness of Phoebe's heart."

"I know enough to sit out this game."

"But—" But what?

A knock sounded at the front door, and Mrs. Hayes opened it.

A moment later, Phoebe swept into the foyer, her blond curls piled on the crown of her head.

Praise God. Emily jumped up to greet her friend, leaving Jacob in the drawing room.

Far too much creamy white skin showed above Phoebe's low-cut bodice, and her skirts, dampened in the modish style, clung to her curvaceous figure. Miss Neves shadowed her, and Phoebe handed her chaperone her bonnet and shrugged out of her pelisse.

"Good morning. I was determined to be early, yet Lord Warren has beaten me here."

Emily whispered, "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Quite lovely." Phoebe blinked. "Why are you whispering?"

Emily kept her voice low and glanced in Miss Neves's direction, but the chaperone progressed down the hall, passing Mrs. Hayes Pheobe's hat and pelisse. "Because of…you know…"

Phoebe's face remained blank.

"You still feel the same?" She continued to whisper. "Nothing different? No queasiness?" How could Phoebe not understand what she was talking about? Phoebe's condition had been all Emily could think about since their conversation a week ago.

When Phoebe spied Jacob standing in the drawing room, her hand flew to her breast, reminding Emily of the paintings she'd seen of the goddess Aphrodite. "Good morning, my lord."

Jacob's demeanor turned formal, and he nodded his greeting and joined them in the foyer. "Shall we get started?"

Emily led them down the hall to the salon.

Mama met them near the kitchen. "Phoebe, please come with me for a moment. I have a poultice for your mother. I'd like to explain how it should be applied for the aches in her joints."

Phoebe's gaze flittered to Jacob, but she replied through tight lips, "Of course." She followed Mama toward the kitchen and peered back over her shoulder at Lord Warren with a longing look.

In the salon, Emily pointed to where he should stand and prepared her palette while Jacob resumed a similar position to before. She stared at the array of colors, and a rush of excitement tingled her fingers. It might be odd that she always held this same thrill, but the awe of creative potential and the joy of making an image out of blobs of color never diminished. God must have felt the same when he created the earth and heavens.

"You're smiling." Jacob quirked a brow at her, looking exactly like the sketched lines of his portrait, with that mischievous glint and the confident turn of his lips.

"Am I?"

"Indeed."

"I enjoy painting, creating something out of nothing. Twist your torso a bit to the left." Emily held her hands up as if positioning him even though he stood across the room. "And turn your right toe out just a tad."

Jacob adjusted accordingly.

"Perfect. Don't move."

"Have I told you I've been visiting the tenants to introduce myself?"

"And how is that progressing?"

"Quite well, I must say." The corner of his mouth turned up, and his eyes took on a faraway look.

Emily focused on painting his mouth first and then his nose and eyes. She drew a line for the divide of his lips. One end curved up a tad more than the other.

"I never thought engaging and assisting with their needs could be so fulfilling." He raised his brows.

"Don't move." She pointed the paintbrush at him.

"Terribly sorry." He lowered his brows. "I know it would horrify Miss Dorsham, but so far, I've helped build a chicken coop, thatch a roof, and mend a fence." He smiled with his eyes. "The first went smoother than the last."

Emily added the small crease that divided his bottom lip left from right. Why did that little line intrigue her so much?

"I've been warned about the perils of manual labor. Maybe Father's right. Maybe those of the upper crust know better. A gentleman doesn't use his hands, but they have to serve more purpose than guiding a dance partner or holding a hand of cards. I'm expected to lead a frivolous life. I do not have the weight and responsibilities of my older brother, yet I am a man of means. In London, I felt restless, but here, I feel… I don't know. Settled?"

"Useful?"

"Indeed." He grunted. "As though I'm contributing to something greater. Helping things improve."

"Did you dislike your life in London?"

"No, but I grew up faster than most, being a younger brother. I was allowed into White's gentleman's club at a young age because I followed my brothers, and they didn't want to walk me back. I got away with getting in underage because I was tall and no one bothered to complain. Plus, the club's chairman, a friend of my father, had witnessed his temper when Father dipped too deep in his cups. The man pitied me. He'd taught me to gamble, drink, shoot pistols, and woo a lady by the age four and ten."

Emily's jaw clenched, and her gaze flicked from the canvas, but Jacob's eyes held a distant look. How could he speak so liberally? Was he proud of his past? Didn't he fear judgment?

"Eventually, it grew tiresome, but I still sought the same rush of excitement." He cleared his throat and peered at her. "I shouldn't be telling you any of this."

"You do so because you know I can sympathize with not belong—" She coughed. He knew nothing of her illegitimacy. "Because of our not being from Sylvanwood originally, of course."

His eyes tinged with compassion. "I do not know how you understand me so well, but it's true."

Heat rose into her cheeks. "It's normal to idolize your older brothers, but eventually, you have to find your own way. Is that what happened?"

He shrugged. "My brothers were more cautious. I dove in with the fast set. At first, it was thrilling. Their soirées were wilder, more outlandish—even outright salacious. I went along with their antics, but I never felt I belonged. Something didn't sit right with me. I felt like an unwilling participant in a den of fools. Yet I continued to attend their parties because I didn't quite fit in elsewhere."

He shrugged. "The fact that my behavior irritated Robert kept me accepting their invites longer than necessary. Otherwise, I'd probably have sought other pursuits sooner, such as world travel, but even my desire for that has changed."

"Do you and your brother not get along?" Emily added a finishing highlight to his bottom lip before moving to his nose.

"Because we try to irritate each other?" He chuckled. "It's the way we show our love for each other." His gaze grew distant. "I cannot stay in Sylvanwood for forever. Brownstone Hall is my brother's holding." He released a sigh. "But I don't yet desire to return to the city. Here I feel…fresh. New…and needed."

"Because of your accomplishments."

His eyes danced with excitement. "Precisely. Maybe God is revealing His plan for me."

"I must warn you." She peered at the paint swirled on her pallet. "Once you've tasted purpose, you won't be satisfied with merely living."

A grin passed over his features. "I believe you're right. In London, I was existing. Following orders. Doing what I was told. Here, I have a mission to restore Brownstone Hall and its surrounding land, which includes helping its tenants."

"You don't mind that it's not your holding?"

His gaze shifted upward while he considered his answer. "Not entirely. It's something I can do, and do well, to honor my brother for bailing me out of scrapes and to aid Aunt Louisa, who's undergone grave misfortune."

He'd had a lot of past vices, but it seemed he desired to change. She admired his loyalty to his brother and his candor. If she hadn't known what he'd done to Phoebe, she'd believe he was a man of good character.

"I brought the perfect book." Phoebe swept into the room, holding the volume high.

Jacob's smile faded.

She floated over to the settee, sat, and flipped open the cover. " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage by Lord Byron. I heard his prose is sensational, and I've desired to learn why." She looked up. "Have you read it, Lord Warren?"

"I have not." His tone turned formal. "Although, I've heard rumors it resembles his biography, depicting a lamenting libertine."

Emily coughed. How ironic.

Phoebe spread her skirts about her. "Have you met Lord Byron?"

"We run in the same circles." Jacob's brows flicked into a fleeting arch. He glanced at Emily as if awaiting reprimand for moving, but she'd switched to painting his hairline. "We've amused each other with battles of wit, but Byron's remarks slice a bit too deep. It's hard to listen to him reduce grown men to tears."

"Oh." A confused expression passed over Phoebe's face, but she blinked and moved to another topic. "I heard women swoon in his presence."

"Everyone but Lady Annabelle Milbanke, with whom he fancies himself in love, but only because he believes she can redeem his blackened soul."

"I've also heard he's killed a man," Phoebe whispered.

"You keep company with a womanizing murderer?" Emily blurted the words, unable to keep the shock from her voice.

"One reason I have escaped to Sylvanwood, in hopes of lightening my darkened reputation."

Was that why he was here, for a second chance? Did he regret his decisions? Did he lament his liaison with Phoebe? Was that why he was acting stiffly toward her friend? "Papa always quotes 1 Corinthians. ‘Bad company corrupts good character.'"

Phoebe harrumphed. "Let's not get into that. It's time to read." She reclined on the settee and read with a dramatic flair as though performing for a crowd.

Peace settled over Emily as she thinned her paint to shape Jacob's eyes. His spiky lashes broke the line and added to the spark of mischief. She mixed blues to add depth to the celadon shade she'd painted earlier and create that glint she'd often witnessed in his eyes. Should she make them the same blue as the clear afternoon sky, as they'd appeared when she pulled him from the creek bed? Or should she paint his eyes with a tinge of aqua blue, like the color of a robin redbreast's eggs that his eyes turned whenever he teased her?

The latter. She added the dark depths of his pupils with the end of her brush and then dabbed the white of the reflected light with the tip. A small dot of pink for the inside corner of each eye, and she added a shadow to the very outside corners as if he held back a smile.

Emily had painted many portraits for elite families in Sylvanwood and surrounding towns. Usually, the subjects focused on an object or out a window. Jacob, however, regarded her as she studied him. Every time her gaze lifted from the canvas, his was on her. She tried to focus on the shape of his eyes and lips, but her stomach fluttered, and her cheeks warmed as their gazes locked.

The slight curve of his mouth lifted higher on one side, and he glanced at Phoebe before his lips parted to reveal a row of straight white teeth.

Emily peeked over her shoulder at Phoebe, who now lay on her side across the settee, a rolling landscape of feminine curves. Her elbow propped her head as her other hand turned the pages. Gone was the dramatic flair. Now she seemed fully absorbed in the heady words of Byron.

"The parted bosom clings to wonted home,

If aught that's kindred cheer and welcome hearth;

He that is lonely, hither let him roam,

And gaze complacent on congenial earth."

Heavens! What was Phoebe thinking, choosing that book? She was playing a dangerous game. Emily had heard Lord Byron's writing was exotic, but she'd never imagined a debauched, sullen protagonist. Occasionally, Phoebe paused and lifted her thick lashes, likely to ensure she'd captured Jacob's attention. Didn't she know this was how she wound up in her dilemma?

Emily knew little about wooing a man, but if her friend wanted to lure him into marriage, this was not the way.

Jacob smiled with an amused twist of the lips like one would use to avoid disappointing a child. He met Emily's gaze, and something flashed in their depths. Laughter? Oh, goodness. She wanted to shake Phoebe and tell her she was going about this all wrong. And she would as soon as she had a moment alone with her.

She focused on the canvas. Blue eyes stared back at her. His likeness was taking shape. She feathered his brows with tiny brushstrokes, making sure to turn the ends down, and then checked the real Jacob's eyebrows to ensure her accuracy.

The way he looked at her transported her back to the wooden bridge, where he'd held her in his strong arms to keep her from falling into the river. How was it that the cool blue of his eyes always appeared so warm?

It felt as though he saw past her defenses to her real self, not the cast-off daughter of some noble, or the vicar's adopted daughter, or a woman with secrets. He saw her hidden wit and understood her passion for creating. They had led different lives, but he understood how it felt to not truly fit in.

He certainly was handsome. No wonder women fawned over him and the society papers gossiped about his every attendance, especially with that boyish grin, and that enticing crease in his bottom lip. How would it feel pressed against hers?

God forgive me. What was she thinking? She closed her eyes and gave herself a mental shake. The man was off-limits. Not only because her dearest friend had set her cap for him but also because he was worldly, and she was not.

She kept her eyes closed until her heart settled back into a slow and steady rhythm. Focus on the task at hand.

Otherwise her vulnerable heart would be broken.

Phoebe sat up and placed the book face down on the settee beside her. She fanned herself with her hand. "The room has become a tad warm. Shall I ring for refreshments?"

At least Emily wasn't the only one who felt warm. "Don't get up. I've got it." She ensured her fingers were free of paint before tugging the bellpull. "I could stand a bit of refreshment, and I'm certain Lord Warren could stretch his legs."

Jacob stepped toward her. "I'd like to see the progress."

"It's not finished yet." Emily waved him off, but he walked around her and faced the canvas.

His brows rose. "It is coming along nicely. You've truly captured my face. It's as if I'm looking in a mirror. There's even an essence there."

Emily caught a whiff of lemongrass and inhaled his spicy citrus aroma. The scent suited him. Exotic yet familiar with the promise of excitement.

The crease between his brows deepened. "I appear as if I'm about to smile. Look how my mouth turns up on one side."

Phoebe squeezed in between Emily and Jacob. "You are."

Emily stepped aside so the paint on her hands wouldn't get on Phoebe's muslin day dress.

Phoebe lifted gloved fingers to her lips. "That's unheard of. Maybe for a woman, but men do not smile. At least not in portraits."

"I can fix it." Emily reached for her brush. "I merely paint what I see. You are rarely serious."

He touched her shoulder, and she stilled. The heat of his light grip burned through her sturdy apron and gown. She willed Mrs. Hayes to hurry with the refreshments before she caught fire.

A smile, like the one in the painting, blossomed on his lips and spread into a full-blown grin. "It's perfect. It shall incite my brother all the more, being taunted by my provoking smile." He turned his head to face Emily. "Outstanding."

She dropped her gaze to the floor, hoping he didn't notice the heat in her cheeks. She'd heard plenty of criticism and praise in the past. Why did this man's words affect her so?

"Phoebe." Time to change the subject to Phoebe's attributes. "I've been dying to hear about your party and gowns for the London Season." Emily couldn't quite make herself meet Jacob's eyes, so she stared at his chin. "She has a magnificent flair for fashion."

Phoebe flounced back to the settee and patted the cushion beside her. "Please, Lord Warren, have a seat. Your legs must be tired from standing so long."

His gaze lingered on the painting a tad longer before he moved to sit.

"Necklines have lowered substantially." Phoebe fanned her gloved fingers across her chest, highlighting the cleft barely hidden behind the folds of white muslin. "Almost to the point of immodesty."

Emily paused in blending her next color, and her gaze flickered to Miss Neves. The woman merely pulled loop after loop through her embroidery. What sort of chaperone was she?

"Waistlines have also lowered a few inches for a more fitted look." Phoebe's hands slid from under her bosom down her sides and rested at her waist.

Jacob's Adam's apple bobbed, and he shifted in his seat. She tried to warn Phoebe with a quick head shake, but her friend ignored her.

"Men's fashion has also taken a turn." Jacob cleared his throat. "I have it on Beau Brummel's word that we will see more trousers worn with Hessians or half boots."

Emily relaxed, grateful he'd taken control of the conversation.

"Brims are becoming thinner," he said, "and Brummel wears a beaver hat with the top slightly curved."

"You don't say." Phoebe pulled her fan out of her reticule and toyed with it in front of Jacob, slowly opening then folding it shut.

Emily may not have been to court or had much knowledge of flirting, but Phoebe had read her enough gossip columns to understand the meaning behind the gesture.

Kiss me .

Phoebe issued Emily a hard stare that clearly said, leave us .

Emily hesitated.

"I wonder what's taking the tea so long?" Phoebe snapped her fan shut. "Might you run and check, Em?"

As much as Phoebe wanted her to leave, Jacob gave Emily a don't-do-it glare.

"Oh, and look." Phoebe pointed at the brushes. "Your black brush has touched the blue. Perhaps you should wash one."

Emily didn't see a spot of black but took the brush and excused herself. She hurried to the kitchen to ease the tension building in her shoulders. How did Phoebe expect her to sing her friend's praises when she acted like a brazen light-skirt?

Why did her heart have to race every time her gaze locked with Jacob's?

Lord, what am I to do about these feelings?

Mrs. Hayes looked up from readying the tea tray. The lines in her forehead deepened. "What's a matter, luv?"

She held up the brush. "I need to clean a brush."

Mrs. Hayes took the brush from her fingers. "I'll see to that, and tea will be ready in a wee bit. Don't you fret." She rested her other hand on her hip. "His lordship is a polite young man, and kind too. Look at the way he is with Christian." She lowered her voice. "He deserves better than Miss Dorsham."

It wasn't like the housekeeper to be so outspoken. "They are of a similar class, whereas I'm?—"

"You're a child of God. He created ye special, and God doesn't make mistakes."

Emily had said those exact words to Christian. She believed them for Christian. Why didn't she believe them for herself?

"It's time for Miss Dorsham to step aside. She's off to London in a few weeks." She pointed at Emily with the dirty brush. "Get back in there and rescue that poor man. The Good Lord knows he needs it." Mrs. Hayes scooted Emily from the kitchen and back into the salon.

When she arrived, Jacob was standing on the opposite side of the room, wielding the book of poetry like a shield. He gave Emily a wide-eyed, what-took-you-so-long stare while Phoebe hit her with a why-did-you-rush-back glare.

Emily could not win in this situation, so she sought refuge in front of her canvas to think.

Mrs. Hayes believed Emily should set her cap for Jacob? It was out of the question. If he'd ruined Phoebe, she wanted nothing to do with the rake. He should do the right thing and marry her whether or not he enjoyed her company.

But Jacob had been acting more like a gentleman than a rogue. It was Phoebe who acted like a wanton woman.

Emily's thoughts whirled. She needed to stall to sort things out. "Have you told Phoebe of your latest progress at Brownstone Hall? She has an eye for fabrics."