Rapture Becomes Her by Shirlee Busbee Read Free Book Online

Miss Emily now . . .”
    Gripping the tray as if she thought about hitting him with it, she said fiercely, “You leave Miss Emily out of this! She has enough troubles as it is.”
    “I’m not trying to get her or you into any trouble. I’m simply trying to understand what is going on here.” Gently, he said, “I’m on your side, Flora.”
    “That may be,” Flora said sharply, “but until Ma says you’re on our side, I’m not telling you anything—so don’t try to charm me.” Nose in the air, she swept from the room, slamming the door behind her.
    Barnaby glanced around the empty room. “That went well,” he muttered.
     
    Having stripped off her wet clothing and scrambled into the long, flannel nightgown and woolen robe that one of the servants, probably Sally, had left warming by the fire for her, Emily thought that things had gone very well. Especially, when one considered how badly events could have turned out, she admitted tiredly. At least Jeffery hadn’t caught her at The Crown.
    Out of her cold and wet clothing, the flannel nightgown and woolen robe did much to drive away the chill she had suffered during the mad ride home. Weary in every bone in her body, she stared down at the pile of sodden clothes, knowing that she had to hide them before Jeffery came home and stormed into her room. Once he discovered she was not at The Crown, this would be the first place he would look.
    Too tired to be clever, she kicked the wet clothes and muddy boots under her bed and twitched the ruffled blue silk bed skirts back into place. She didn’t think that Jeffery would bother to look under the bed and she half smiled, picturing him down on his hands and knees peering under her bed. No, her cousin wouldn’t look under the bed—it would be beneath him. Not that much else was, she thought disgustedly.
    Turning away from the bed, she pushed back a strand of silvery-fair hair that had come loose from the queue. Reminded that Jeffery didn’t need to find her with a wet head or her hair worn in such a masculine manner, she undid the black silk ribbon that held the queue in place and shook the mass free. The pale tresses hung in wet clumps and she knelt before the fire and finger combed through the bright tendrils as they dried, waved and curled in wild abandon about her head.
    A tap on the door had her stiffening, even as she realized that Jeffery would have just barged into her room. “Yes?” she called.
    The door opened instantly and, framed by a multitude of dusky curls, Anne’s pretty little face, tense with anxiety, appeared around the edge. Seeing Emily before the fire, she glanced back over her shoulder and said to someone behind her, “It’s all right, she’s home.” Pushing the door wider, the edges of her pale rose robe flying, Anne rushed into the room, crying, “Oh, thank God! You are back. Jeffery was looking for you and he is in a terrible state.”
    Emily nodded. “I know—he nearly found me at The Crown. It was only by luck that I escaped.”
    Wearing a heavy, puce woolen robe, Great-Aunt Cornelia followed Anne, her carved walnut cane thumping loudly as she half walked, half limped into the room. “It wasn’t just luck,” Cornelia snapped in her deep voice. “If you couldn’t outwit that mackerel-brained jackass then you’re not the woman I raised you to be.”
    In spite of the situation, Emily grinned at her great-aunt. The widow of her grandfather’s only brother, Cornelia was the only mother Emily remembered clearly. Her own mother had died during her birthing and it was Cornelia who had swept up the squalling infant and carried her away. It was Cornelia who hired Mrs. Gilbert as wet nurse for Emily and much to her father’s guilty relief, taken over the household and the raising of little Emily—leaving him to pursue his horses and hounds.
    Outspoken and irascible, Cornelia was both the joy and bane of the family. Built on Amazonian lines, at eighty-nine years old, she carried