Page 5 of Tempting a Gentleman
Chapter Three
Emma ran her thumb over the ridges of the stamped symbol of the Network—a harped angel set into the silver button. A heavy sigh escaped her as she attached the button reserved for dresses to be worn by PORFs. Lifting up Bronwyn's new ball gown by the puff sleeves, Emma inspected her work. Both seams and buttons were carefully hidden. But to her eye, the design lacked a certain flair that she’d previously managed to infuse in all of Bronwyn’s creations. Emma’s creativity relied heavily on her mood and her knowledge of the client. Bronwyn had changed, and so had Emma’s designs for the woman. She was a pea goose to have believed that nothing would change between them. She and Bronwyn had been a dynamic pair within the Network, but now Bronwyn was Lord Hadfield's partner and a PORF.
The prospect of one day sitting on the Elder Council no longer held any appeal. In fact, most days, little to nothing held Emma’s interest. Even negotiating and bartering with Mr. Hains, the cloth merchant, her favorite monthly event, proved unsatisfying. Her business was booming, with word spreading amongst the ton of her personalized designs as opposed to dresses fashioned from boring old fashion plates. Despite her success, which required her to work long, exhausting hours, Emma’s priority remained first and foremost to the Network, providing disguises and uniforms worn by its members. What was her purpose—to serve PORFs and one day be a Network elder or to design and create stunning creations for the ladies of the ton? Or neither, for they both had lost their appeal.
The grandfather clock in the corner showed nearly eight o’clock. She folded the ball gown and placed it carefully in a box to be delivered to the Hadfield townhouse. Her shoulders sagged as she scanned the shoproom floor that she had worked hard to clear for the evening dance lessons. All her efforts were for naught. Billy had arrived earlier in the afternoon with bolts and bolts of material she had successfully negotiated to purchase from Mr. Hains. With no time to rearrange, the dance lessons would have to take place in the small parlor above stairs, next to her private living quarters. Emma questioned the wisdom in inviting a stranger, and a man at that, into her sanctuary. But she trusted Bronwyn and her husband to have chosen a dance master who wouldn’t take advantage of the situation. She’d made inquiries, but the Network rumor mill was peculiarly lacking in knowledge as to whom Lord Hadfield had employed to teach her how to dance.
Like clockwork at a quarter to eight, her dad walked into the shop. “Hallo, Em. Ye alone already?” He came over and gave her a big bear hug. Her dad was a barrel-chested man with a body that resembled a man of thirty, not of his six and fifty years.
As Emma pulled back, her dad attempted to peer up into the loft. Her mother never spoke of the man who sired her, and Emma never cared to bring up the topic. She considered Mr. Benjamin Lennox her dad, and the man loved Emma as if she were his own. Overprotective and loving, even after her years of solitary living, Emma’s dad still didn’t care for her decision to live alone at the shop.
“Aye. I kicked the lovely Lady Arabelle out an hour ago.” She stepped around his bulky form and retrieved a parcel wrapped in brown cloth. “I heard Brian and Baxter have outgrown their trousers.” She handed over the clothing for her siblings and slipped him a small satchel filled with coin. “I’m sorry, it’s a little less this week. Bronwyn has ordered me to attend her first ball, and I had to purchase material for me gown.”
“It’s about time ye spent a little on yerself.” He gave her back the pouch. “We can do without this week; go spend it on shoes or the like.”
Emma glanced at the clock once more. She needed to be rid of her dad before the dance master arrived. Shoving the money back into her dad’s hands, she said, “If I’m in need of such flipantry, I’ll just take it out of next week’s amount. Now get home before Mum’s dinner gets cold.”
“Aye, yer mum will be piping mad if I’m late. Are ye sure about the blunt?”
“Yes. Now git.” She pushed her dad out the door, and he hovered until she swung the sign in the door to closed, and the three latches clicked into place.
Her dad worked odd jobs for the Network, and her mum was busy raising six growing children, four of them boys. Without her assistance, her family would have to rely heavily on the Network. Her mum was the proud descendant of a founding member—Emma would rather starve than to seek out help. No. She wouldn’t let her family accept charity, even though her mum preached that wealth comes in a multitude of forms and the Network recognizes that. Not was not the case in the upper classes—Coin was king. And when the coffers of the wealthy dwindled, they married to replenish them.
Drawing the curtains closed, she saw the shadow of a rather tall gentleman approaching. For some odd reason, she had expected the dance master to be slim and of average height. Pressing her back to the door, she waited.
Three quick raps followed by a pause and then one solid knock. It was indeed the dance master. Quickly releasing the locks, she swung open the door. What the blazes! Mr. Christopher Neale, brother to the bloomin’ Head PORF, stood on her doorstep. Oh, she recognized the man; he was cut from the same cloth as his brother. The corner of Mr. Neale’s lips curled into a charming grin, and Emma would be a liar if she didn’t admit to the spark of interest that fluttered in her chest. Brow furrowed, she poked her head out and scanned the area.
Mr. Neale twisted and looked about the stoop, removing his hat and gloves. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Up close, Emma noted Mr. Neale’s warm brown eyes, fine aristocratic nose, and his firm but inviting full lips—he was a handsome devil all right, as reported amongst the Network members. Women were rumored to swoon in his presence, and now she understood why. Attempting to gather her wits, she moved behind the door as Mr. Neale barged in.
Emma sputtered, “What the devil are ye doing here? Lord Hadfield advised I was to expect a dance master, not a gentleman known for dallyin’ about.”
He simply smiled and proceeded further into the shop. Mr. Neale didn’t possess a charming dimple like his brother, but the curve of his lips had a profound effect upon her pulse.
“So you already know who I am. Shall we skip the formalities? You may call me Christopher, and I shall address you by your given name. Emma, correct?”
Her ire burst into flames—the audacity of the man to look and speak to her as if she were a pea goose. Except the twinkle in the man’s eyes blanketed her flash of anger, bringing her rage to a mere simmer. She agreed with a curt nod.
With a lopsided smile, he said, “I assure you I’m quite proficient at dancing and an adept teacher. Landon, in his infinite wisdom, believed discretion would be best in this situation. We wouldn’t want anyone outside of our circle to know, now would we?”
The man was a barrister. Perhaps if she used some of the knowledge she’d learned from Bronwyn, it might help place them on more equal footing. Because that damned smile was turning her insides to mush.
Facing the closed door and taking her time to turn each lock, Emma asked, “If I feign a momentary lapse in sanity, do ye believe I’d be able to avoid attendin’ Bronwyn’s ball?”
When she turned back around, his gaze was trained entirely upon her—assessing. Her cheeks burned under his scrutiny.
Tapping his hat against his leg, Mr. Neale answered, “In this case, such a plea will do you no good.”
The spark of energy she had been lacking reappeared. “Then wot would ye advise?” Something about Mr. Neale provoked her to want to spar with him, both verbally and physically. He would be a fine opponent.
The flare of interest in his eyes was unmistakable. She hadn’t meant to evoke such a response. Emma took in a shallow breath to quiet her nerves that had sparked to life and on alert. He was an honorable gentleman. He was a rake. Being the product of a gentleman’s seduction, she would not fall for the gentleman’s charms.
Bustling past him, she twirled about. It wouldn’t be safe to bring him above stairs. Safe for whom—her or him? She would have to figure out an alternative.
Mr. Neale removed his greatcoat and folded it over the waiting room settee. Emma couldn’t help but stare at his handsome, lithe form as he strode over to stand by the measuring table. “There’s not much room in here.” His gaze roamed the room and then narrowed upon her. “Is something the matter?”
“I had a hectic day, and I’ve not had a chance to rearrange things for the lesson.”
