Every Bit a Rogue Read online

  “Norris.”

  “Yes, Mr. Norris, to your work.”

  Jon escorted her out of the workshop. She turned and started toward the path in the woods. It was a long walk back to Atwood’s estate. Perhaps he should offer to send for his carriage and drive her there himself?

  Bloody hell, why was he acting so rashly? He had just told her that he needed to work—with Norris. Wasting time getting her home would hardly help accomplish that task.

  With effort, Jon kept silent as Miss Ellingham left, knowing it was the wisest course of action. Yet he stayed in that spot until all sign of her had completely vanished.

  * * *

  As she walked along the now familiar path through the woods, Emma realized that her fingers were moving restlessly, gathering and releasing the fabric on her skirt with an almost frantic urgency. She grasped the edges of her shawl and pulled the garment tightly across her chest in an effort to stop the movement—yet her hands merely transferred the movements from her skirt to the shawl.

  What in the world?

  It happened again and Emma paused. She knew what it was, yet could hardly credit it. ’Twas a distinct, familiar, unforgettable feeling that she had firmly believed was forever lost to her.

  A slow, steady smile came to her lips as she recognized and acknowledged what was happening.

  Pencil, charcoal. Sketch. My hands are telling me what my brain is slow to acknowledge. I need to draw. I need to create. I need to sketch Lord Kendall’s machine.

  Chapter Four

  Jon watched Miss Ellingham retreat through the woods, fully expecting her to turn back and offer another reason that she should be allowed to stay. Her lovely face had been set with determination, letting him know that she was not going to be easily dissuaded. Yet the leaves barely moved and the area remained quiet, with only natural sounds of the woods filling the air.

  Jon almost felt an odd twinge of disappointment when sufficient time had passed without seeing her anymore, confirming that she had indeed gone.

  “I dinnae think the lady meant any harm, my lord.” Norris’s voice broke through Jon’s musings. “She was merely curious.”

  Jon turned and faced his assistant. Norris’s Scottish accent was always more pronounced when the man was flustered and caught off guard. In a strange way it was almost a relief for Jon to find that he was not the only man to be affected by Miss Ellingham’s presence.

  What was it about her, precisely, that sent his mind to places it had no business going? She wasn’t coy, she didn’t flirt, she didn’t try to blatantly manipulate him. Her interest in his work was not peppered with insincere or inflated flattery. Nay, she appeared genuinely curious about the machine and wanted to know more.

  This was precisely why he had to insist that she leave. He had refined the design for the reaper thresher countless times over the last few months, achieving the same dismal results—it failed to work as he imagined.

  And the very last thing he wanted to do was to announce this failure to anyone—including himself.

  “This workshop is my private domain,” Jon insisted. “Distractions by ladies are neither encouraged nor welcomed.”

  He took several deep breaths, attempting to clear his head. The pungent scent of warm metal and fresh leather was familiar and comforting. This machine, this work, had been his salvation after Dianna left him.

  Surrounded by the logic of science, he had been able to exhaust his mind, quiet his maudlin thoughts and forget his heartbreak. His work had allowed him to accept what had happened, to put it firmly in the past. Here in his workshop, Jon had found a purpose that gradually morphed into a passion.

  Even as a boy he had been fascinated by any sort of machinery, drawn to the structural elements, the various mechanisms and control components that made it work. It was not considered a proper course of study for a titled gentleman and heir, but the lessons in mathematics and history had provided a solid foundation of understanding when he first began this project.

  Finding himself at loose ends last spring, Jon began reading scientific journals, which in turn sparked his imagination. He had a workshop built, hired Norris after corresponding with him for several months, and gotten serious about perfecting the design for a useful piece of farming machinery.

  “Do you think the lady will return?” Norris asked.

  “Not unless she is invited.” Jon resumed his position at the base of the machine and grasped the lever. “And I can assure you that an invitation from me will not be forthcoming.”

  Norris scratched his head. “She seemed very keen to learn more about our work.”

  “Aye, but her curiosity will have to remain unsated.” With a sharp nod, Jon turned his full attention to the lever, determined not to give Emma Ellingham another thought.

  * * *

  Emma’s thoughts were swirling as she walked back through the dense copse of trees. Visions of gears and wheels and cogs flitted through her mind so intently she was tempted to stop, find a sturdy twig, and begin sketching in the dirt.

  Her lips twitched, then formed a smile. ’Twas nothing short of amazing, but Emma never questioned the driving force behind her need to sketch, to draw, to create. It had been gone for so long from her life, and now that it had so abruptly returned, she was forced to acknowledge how much she had truly missed it.

  As she wound her way through the formal gardens, Emma glanced at the elegant sundial placed in the center of the rose bushes. Startled, she lifted her head, noting the position of the sun, which confirmed that the afternoon was nearly gone. She had stayed out far longer than she anticipated.

  Sincerely hoping that her long absence had not been noticed by her sister—and caused any worry—Emma hurried toward the front of the manor.

  “Miss Ellingham! Miss Ellingham! Oh, I say, what good luck.”

  She turned to find Mr. Hector Winthrope standing at the manor’s front door. Emma stopped dead, wondering if he were coming or going and fervently hoping it was the latter. She was far too anxious to retreat to the privacy of her room with her sketchbook and pencils to stop and attempt to make polite conversation with the man.

  Or even worse, pretend to be interested in anything he had to say. No doubt her sister Gwen would say that Emma was being uncharitable, but quite frankly Emma found Hector Winthrope to be one of the most overbearing, boring gentlemen that she had ever met.

  He was always eager to share his observations and opinions with anyone and everyone. The problem was, Emma was never as eager to hear them.

  His lack of interesting conversation was something that she might have been able to overlook, had he not also been such a small-minded, priggish man, who possessed the most inflated sense of self-importance. Even on the best of days, ’twas a trial to avoid being outwardly rude to him.

  “Good day, Mr. Winthrope.”

  “I was just paying a call on Lady Atwood and was horribly disappointed to find that you were not at home.” His face flushed a rather unbecoming shade of red. “I’m so pleased to have caught you.”

  “Oh?” He approached and Emma felt herself stepping backwards, easing away slowly so as not to appear too obviously impolite.

  “I came today to take you for a drive in my new curricle. It arrived from London this very morning.”

  Emma followed the rather dramatic sweep of Mr. Winthrope’s arm as he proudly pointed to the carriage in the drive, immediately wondering how in the world she had overlooked the vehicle.

  It was, quite simply, a sight to behold. The carriage possessed an exceedingly large set of wheels painted the most garish shade of yellow Emma had ever seen. The narrow upholstered seat was set at least six feet off the ground, causing her to crane her neck to view it fully.

  The vehicle was hitched to a pair of sleek-looking, perfectly matched mares who were stomping their hooves impatiently, while a nervous-looking stable lad tried to keep them under control.

  “I, uhm . . . Oh, Carter, come and see Mr. Winthrope’s new carriage.”<
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  Emma waved energetically at her brother-in-law, who had turned tail and tried to escape the moment he spied her and Mr. Winthrope. She saw Carter’s shoulders heave in a sigh, and with a pained expression on his handsome face, the marquess joined them. He met Emma’s gaze with a look of trapped annoyance that matched her own, but was far too well-bred to display his feelings.

  “Preparing for a bit of racing, Winthrope?” Carter asked, running his hand over the top of the wheel. “You had best be careful when driving these winding country roads. I’ve seen far too many overturned curricles in my day, along with the bruises and broken bones of their drivers.”

  Mr. Winthrope blanched. “I would never be so reckless, my lord, with such a valuable piece of equipment.”

  “That’s a relief,” Carter exclaimed. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “I know the hour is late, but I was hoping to take Miss Ellingham for a carriage ride, Lord Atwood. Unless you object?” Mr. Winthrope’s brow rose in worried speculation.

  Emma’s initial sense of panic was replaced by a surge of relief. Ever since their daughter, Dianna, had run off on her wedding day, leaving Viscount Kendall at the altar, the Winthrope family had struggled to maintain a respectable place in local society.

  As the highest-ranking noble in the county, Carter’s approval was paramount to maintaining their tenuous hold. A polite refusal from him would easily extract her from any obligation to accept Mr. Winthrope’s invitation.

  “Of course I have no objection to Emma riding with you,” Carter replied graciously.

  What? Emma barely suppressed a groan and shook her head vehemently. “How could you,” she mouthed to Carter behind Mr. Winthrope’s back.

  Her brother-in-law grinned wickedly, then cleared his throat. “Normally, I would not hesitate to encourage Emma to accept, Winthrope, for I know how much she enjoys being out in the country air. However, I fear she will clutch your arm much too tightly while perched atop your curricle, endangering you both.”

  “I can assure you that I am a most careful driver,” Mr. Winthrope boasted. “An excellent driver, in fact. Miss Ellingham will come to no harm.”

  “’Tis the height of the carriage that will cause the most trouble,” Carter confided, reaching for her hand and soothingly stroking it. “Poor Emma is most fearful.”

  The eager expression on Mr. Winthrope’s face fell. “Ah, I should have realized a woman of her delicate nature would have that sort of reaction to such a masculine, sporty carriage,” he replied knowingly.

  “Good of you to be so understanding, Winthrope,” Carter said cheerfully.

  Afraid of heights? Emma pulled her hand out of Carter’s and covered her mouth to hide her smile at the exaggerated falsehood. When Dorothea and Carter were courting, he had taken them both on an outing to the medieval castle ruins on the edge of the estate. For nearly two hours Emma had dutifully played chaperone, yet when he had offered to show them the view from the tallest tower, Emma declined, claiming a fear of heights.

  In truth, she had seized upon the chance to offer the couple a private moment, and Dorothea’s mussed hair, flushed cheeks, and slightly swollen lips when they returned let Emma know they had made the most of the opportunity.

  Two weeks later, Carter had proposed.

  “I suppose next time I could bring Mother’s barouche,” Mr. Winthrope said dubiously, casting a look of longing at the curricle.

  “Or I could loan you Philip’s pony cart for a sedate ride to and from the village,” Carter offered.

  “A pony cart?” Mr. Winthrope’s throat bobbed and he let out a nervous titter. “Perhaps we should take a stroll instead of a drive, Miss Ellingham?”

  Oh, dear. Emma hastily choked back a squeak of frustration. His dogged determination to spend time with her might have been considered flattering if it weren’t so unwelcome. Her general lack of romantic interest in men notwithstanding, it would take a much different type of man than Hector Winthrope to capture her attention.

  What precisely do I have to say to make him go away? Forever.

  “I sincerely thank you for your invitation, Mr. Winthrope, however I’m afraid I must decline,” Emma said. “’Tis nearly time to start my weekly art lessons with my niece and nephew and I must not be late.”

  Mr. Winthrope stared at her in confusion. “I thought you were a guest of your sister’s. I did not realize that you work for the marquess.”

  Emma clenched her teeth at his condescending, affronted tone. Honestly, he made it sound as though she were emptying chamber pots and mucking out horse stalls.

  “I consider it a great privilege to share my knowledge and love of art by instructing the children,” Emma replied frostily. “I would never consider it work.”

  “Nor would I,” Carter added.

  “I did not mean to imply . . . that is to say, I intended no insult,” Mr. Winthrope stammered. He glanced nervously at Carter, removed a large white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat, and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “I do hope that you have not taken any offense.”

  “Of course not,” Carter replied cheerfully.

  “Good day, Mr. Winthrope,” Emma said firmly, and then because he looked so utterly miserable, she charitably softened her dismissal with a slight smile.

  A visibly flustered Mr. Winthrope climbed into the carriage. He teetered for an instant as he reached the high, narrow bench, eventually regaining his balance. His mouth opened and closed rapidly, then apparently thinking it best to say no more, Mr. Winthrope lifted the reins, tipped his hat, and took off down the gravel drive.

  “That was an awkward exchange. I hope that he won’t be returning anytime soon,” Emma said with a sigh.

  “Oh, I believe that he will.” Carter’s mouth tightened into a grin. “I had suspected, but this latest encounter confirms it. You have an admirer, Emma.”

  “Hector Winthrope? Bite your tongue, Carter.”

  “Nay, my eyes did not deceive me. He was practically ogling you when I arrived.”

  Emma swatted her brother-in-law’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Stop teasing me. I am far too old for Mr. Winthrope—or any other man—to be ogling.”

  “I disagree. You are a very charming lady, made even more so by your lack of artifice. That could be the very thing that stirs his interest.”

  “You are my brother by marriage and thus compelled to make such foolish statements.” An unwilling smile came across Emma’s lips. “Me and Winthrope? I cannot fathom anything more ridiculous. Besides, I’ve gotten the distinct impression that he prefers his women docile, adoring, and obedient.”

  “Rather like a dog?” Carter offered.

  “Exactly like a canine,” Emma replied, wincing inwardly.

  “True, you are quite different in temperament than the staid, pompous Mr. Winthrope. Perhaps that is what intrigues him. He sees you as a puzzle he wishes to solve.”

  Emma snorted. “Judging by his conversation, I’m doubtful he has the patience or the intellect for solving puzzles.”

  They walked through the front door, held open by a silent footman standing at attention. Carter nodded his thanks and the young man broke into a pleased grin at the acknowledgment.

  “My opinion of Mr. Winthrope mirrors yours, Emma. You deserve much better,” Carter admitted. “There are many fine men who would be honored to court you, and I confess it would please me greatly if you found someone that you would like to marry.”

  Emma groaned. “Heaven help me, not you too, Carter. I already told Dorothea that she is wasting her breath trying to convince me to spend the Season with Gwen, making new acquaintances. I would be miserable mingling with the debutantes, their matchmaking mamas and the young bucks trying to evade them. Please believe me when I tell you that marriage is the last thing on my mind.”

  “The right man could easily change it,” Carter predicted.

  Sebastian’s handsome face invaded Emma’s mind. Flustered, she shook the image away, surprised
to realize she succeeded in doing so without the usual stab of deep-seated pain in her heart.

  Strange.

  They reached the staircase and Emma parted from Carter. He turned to go to his study while she hurried up the stairs, thoughts of Mr. Winthrope, his curricle, and marriage firmly pushed aside, replaced by the ever-growing need to start sketching Lord Kendall’s remarkable machine.

  * * *

  For two days, Emma sketched. After so long an absence from serious work, it felt strange at first, holding her pencils and charcoal, yet it soon grew enticingly familiar, like the renewal of an old and dear friendship. The connection between her hand, mind, and emotions put the feeling of once again being herself back into her heart. It was an uplifting realization, brought low only by the frustration of the results of her work.

  Ah, but that too is a part of the process!

  On the third morning, Emma awoke very early, feeling tired from a restless night. Barefoot, she padded across her bedchamber and opened the heavy drapes. Dawn was just beginning, bringing a faint red light through the windows. She could hear the chirping birds singing to the approaching morning, a lighthearted, welcoming sound.

  Emma took several deep, determined breaths and grabbed her sketch pad. Slowly, methodically, she flipped through the pages, examining each sketch before removing it and placing it on the floor in front of the window.

  When the pad was empty, she knelt and started sifting through the dozens of drawings scattered on the carpet, critically sorting them. On an ever-growing pile in the corner she put the rejects. The rest she carefully lined in two rows, dismayed to admit these measly few were the best of the lot.

  She needed to choose one—or two—as a guide for her painting. One by one she held them up to the light, turning them to and fro, yet none seemed right. Oh, they were well drawn and filled with interesting details.

  However, none of the sketches effectively captured the spirit of Viscount Kendall’s glorious machine. None brought it to life.

  Emma sat back on her heels and sighed. It seemed almost bizarre that an object made of wood and steel would awaken her artistic muse and move her to such emotion. Yet once stirred, the drive she felt would not be denied—nor compromised.