Page 1 of Tempting a Gentleman
Chapter One
Ensconced in the Hadfield drawing room, Emma sat stiffly on the edge of the ornate blue-velvet settee. The fine furniture was a far cry from the well-worn wooden bench she and her best friend Bronwyn, now Countess Hadfield, used to occupy for afternoon tea. She’d rather be huddled about the kitchen table at the back of Bronwyn’s parents’ shop than be worried about messin’ up the plush fabric that cushioned her bottom.
Emma stared over Bronwyn’s shoulder at a portrait upon the wall. She guessed it was a close male relation to the current Lord Hadfield as they shared a similar rakish smile. Emma hadn’t yet met Bronwyn’s brother-in-law, Christopher Neale, although she’d heard plenty about him. Bronwyn yammered on. “It’s been six weeks, and not one of the countless overqualified candidates have passed Christopher’s final interview.”
Her friend since childhood, dressed in one of Emma’s latest satin creations, paced about the luxurious room. It was easily three times the size of Emma’s parents’ parlor, and while Bronwyn looked at ease in her new home, Emma would prefer to be back on the east end of town. Bronwyn paraded back and forth in front of the stern paintings of past Hadfield family members, her forthright march tamed to a ladylike walk. Her friend had undergone other subtle changes since marrying the head of the Protectors of the Royal Family—PORFs—but Bronwyn had vowed she remained the same and would remain Emma’s best friend until her last breath. Bound by an oath taken years ago, Emma was compelled to support Bronwyn in any and every way possible. But even if she hadn’t sworn to serve and protect PORFs, Emma would not abandon her best friend. Even if it meant she had to endure the back-aching pain of being perched on the edge of a formal settee for over an hour listening to Bronwyn’s complaints. Emma held in her sigh.
Bronwyn swiveled to face her. “I swear my brother-in-law is purposefully scaring each and every applicant away.”
She wanted to cross her arms and glare at Bronwyn, but that would not be ladylike nor becoming. Instead, she calmly crossed her ankles and said, “Ye only have yerself to blame. Ye was too good of a legal secretary, working all hours without complaint.”
Bronwyn’s eyes narrowed—Emma had obviously failed to mask her irritation. The clean, freshly redecorated Hadfield drawing room walls were closing in. It had been two decades since she had stepped foot into a townhouse on the west end. The knots in Emma’s shoulders tightened. She had been but a toddler of three or four, holding her mum’s hand tightly while being escorted into the Hereford library. The wife of the man who sired Emma had learned of her existence and summoned them in the middle of the night. It wasn’t until years later that Emma understood the old biddy’s threats and demands.
Exhaling slowly, Emma refocused on the blur of green silk as Bronwyn continued to flounce about the room. She hadn’t shared that night's events with another soul, even her closest friend. No one would understand the anger and shame that night had evoked. And she’d be damned if she’d let anyone make her feel that way ever again. But she wasn’t in the Hereford townhouse. She was safe in the company of her dearest friend, who had managed to infuse warmth into the cold, aristocratic room. Wall panels covered in paper etched with an intricate pattern that reminded Emma of wild daisies. Thick, royal-blue window coverings with complementary cream and aquamarine for the delicate upholstery. But it all spoke of wealth and Bronwyn’s new station within the ton.
Emma shifted, planting her foot firmly on the Persian rug to prevent her knee from bobbing up and down. If she didn’t love Bronwyn like a sister, she wouldn’t evenconsiderenduring hours upon hours of torture, let alone subject herself to the misery. Until today, Bronwyn had accommodated Emma’s wish to conduct their visits on the east end of town. When Emma received the missive early this morn conveying Bronwyn’s invitation for tea, she couldn’t delay the inevitable.
All rules regarding etiquette thrown out the window, Bronwyn stomped over to Emma and glared down at her. “You meant that as a compliment, I’m sure.”
“Luv a dove. Just tell Mr. Neale to settle.” Emma’s lips curved into a smirk. It was good to see her old friend’s fiery nature again.
Bronwyn removed one hand from her hip and waved it about in a circle. “Everyone thinks Christopher is the easygoing brother and my husband the demanding one when, in fact, it is the other way around.” Bronwyn flopped into the wing-backed chair facing Emma and flung her arms wide. With the return of her old ways, the woman cared not that her skirts were askew and her cap sleeve had slipped precariously to the edge of the PORF mark. Bronwyn had purposefully chosen her upper arm, the least discreet of places upon her body, as a challenge to Emma. A challenge she had welcomed.
Emma snorted. “Ye’re in love. Blinded to yer bloomin’ husband’s faults.”
Unable to relax despite the return of their childhood familiarity, Emma extended her leg and then curled one ankle behind the other. “At least Lord Hadfield demanded he receive the PORF mark and gain the responsibilities along with it as soon as he was made aware of them, unlike his brother.” The need to remain on guard steeled her spine and added an unnecessary edge to her tone.
Bronwyn raised her brows. “You know Landon would prefer you address him by his first name.Andyou are aware that my husband won’t hear of Christopher receiving the mark until he is wed. And in typical Neale fashion, my brother-in-law will only marry for love.”
Bah. The Head PORF, no matter his relation to Bronwyn, would always command her respect. And what was Bronwyn babbling on about? Marriage. Love. None of that mattered. The man had a duty. Christopher was next in line to inherit the Hadfield title and PORF responsibilities until Bronwyn birthed a son. It was well known that the Neale men never lived long. If she were in Christopher’s position, she would demand the right to fulfill a generations-old oath to protect the royal family. Instead, the man abided by his brother’s wishes with no objection. It left Emma with no desire to meet Bronwyn’s brother-in-law, despite her friend’s efforts to contrive an introduction between them.
“How do ye suppose Mr. Neale will find a wife if he can’t bloomin’ well find a secretary?”
“That is a valid point.” Bronwyn’s facial muscles twitched and contorted until Emma was pierced with one of Bronwyn’s I-have-a-plan looks. “Aha! If Christopher weren’t plagued by both searches, his temperament would be much improved. I shall redirect my efforts to finding him a wife. Once he is wed, he’ll be more amicable.”
“Are you implying that Mr. Neale is in need of…” Emma wagged her eyebrows.
“I am. I am indeed. Men are much more accommodating if they are…well… Never mind. You are an innocent. I shouldn’t be speaking of such things.”
Bronwyn’s words poked at a bruise upon Emma’s heart. They no longer shared a similar position within the Network. They lived on opposite sides of London. And while Bronwyn had never shown an interest in beaus or marriage, she was the first to find love and a partner in life. The ache in her chest spurred Emma’s retort. “Oh my, ain’t ye all hoity-toity now. Yer lady rules don’t apply when ye are speakin’ with me.Andaccording tomyNetwork sources, Mr. Neale is well acquainted with a number of widows. He has been spied visiting Madam Sinclair’s establishment on occasion. I doubt a wife will make a difference.”
“I can assure you, Christopher is well beyond his wild days, and since Landon left the law firm to him to run, Christopher’s only mistress has been work. In fact, his work ethic reminds me of someone I know rather well.” Bronwyn arched an eyebrow.
Bronwyn’s defense of her new brother-in-law didn’t surprise Emma, but to believe the Network’s information on the man was utterly wrong was highly unusual.
“Speakin’ of work, I’d best be gettin’ back to the shop.” Emma rose. Blood rushed to her legs, causing sharp prickling sensations along the backs of her knees. “Please don’t bother calling for a coach to be readied. It’ll be quicker if I simply take a hackney.”
Bronwyn stood and reached for her hands. “I’ve one more favor to ask before you leave.” Serious blue eyes bored into Emma. “I can’t postpone it any longer; I must host a ball, and I want you to attend.”
Good Heavens—a ball. The blood drained from her hands, leaving them cold and clammy in her friend’s grasp. “Ye know I’d lay me life down for ye, but I’ll not attend a ball amongst me clients.”
She could hardly manage being here when it was just the two of them. Surrounded by socialites, she’d find the walls of Hadfield townhouse even more restricting. To stand amongst those for whom she acted as modiste? She wanted nothing to do with their world. It was a world of ruthlessness, deceit, and greed. It was the reason why PORFs and the Network established themselves apart as separate organizations many generations ago. No. She couldn’t do it. Emma shook her head. “Not even if ye ordered me to. I’d rather face the Network elders’ council and risk banishment than parade meself before the eyes of the ton.”
Bronwyn’s shoulders sagged as she released Emma’s hands. “I understand.”
Blimey. The simple, undemanding statement stole all of Emma’s bluster and replaced it with guilt for denying her friend her support. Placing her hands behind her, Emma clasped them tightly and inhaled deeply to fortify her nerves. “I don’t know how to dance.”
Bronwyn’s watery blue eyes lit up. Her friend blinked, and Emma’s lips curved into a smile. Years of kinship returned. Emma found herself engulfed in a hug similar to the one Bronwyn had bestowed upon her a year ago when Bronwyn turned one-and-twenty, and Emma had gifted Bronwyn with a box of chocolates. The woman’s secret weakness.
