Luck Is No Lady (11 page)

Roderick ran his hand back through his hair. Agitation made his voice harsh. “So you came running toward it rather than keeping yourself at a safe distance? What did you think to accomplish with such recklessness?”

She raised her brows at the anger and condescension in his voice and replied coolly, “I thought I might be of some help.”

“It is not your job to help.” Roderick turned away as another footman came to assist Bishop in half carrying, half dragging Marcus from the drawing room. “I expect you to keep your nose in the books. You could have been injured.”

“Oh?” The haughtiness in her tone brought his gaze back around to her. “Like you were? Are you going to tend to your wound?”

She sent a pointed look to his left arm.

Roderick looked down to see a patch of dark blood soaking the material of his coat just below his shoulder, and recalled the searing pain he'd felt when the gun went off.

“It's nothing. Go back upstairs until I can be sure Marcus is fully subdued.”

She strode toward him. Her gray gaze was direct and uncompromising and her jaw was set at a stubborn angle.

“I will go back upstairs after I check your injury.” With a commanding wave of her hand, she instructed, “Remove your coat.”

Emma was a little surprised when he threw her a long-suffering look, telling her just what he thought of her bossiness, but did what she said anyway.

When she first heard the gunshot echo through the building, she didn't realize what the sound was. Once she did, a jolt of fear seized her and her only thought had been to get downstairs to assure herself Roderick was unharmed. Her relief at finding him arguing with Bishop while a young man sat sobbing on the floor had been immense.

Now she stood waiting patiently for Roderick to remove his coat. Seeing the amount of blood spreading through the white linen of his shirt, Emma tensed. The injury might be worse than she first suspected.

“The waistcoat as well,” she ordered. “We will need to pull the shirt away.”

He shrugged free of the waistcoat then loosened his cravat.

Emma refused to look at his face as he undressed. Though she tried to keep her focus directed on assessing the injury, she was distressingly aware of everything else. She wanted to ignore the heightening of her senses that occurred when she was near him, but the details of his person intruded forcefully on her senses, despite her best efforts.

As he tried to peel the fine fabric of his shirt away from his shoulder, he winced.

Emma stepped forward and lifted her hands to assist. Gently grasping the edge of the shirt, she carefully lifted it from his skin and drew it down his upper arm. The bullet had grazed him just below the bulge of muscle that ran up to his shoulder. At first glance the wound was gruesome.

“You are surprisingly calm for having just been shot,” she observed. “Do you often entertain drunk young men waving pistols?”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Not if I can avoid it.”

“He must have been very upset.”

“He was.”

Bentley would have been well within his rights to be angry with the young gentleman, yet there was compassion in his tone. He stood quiet and still as Emma bent her head and prodded around the edges of the injury with her thumb. Fortunately, the bleeding had eased to a subtle oozing. But there was too much red about to see the full extent of the damage.

Emma sighed as she stepped back again and started for the door. “Sit down. The wound will need to be cleaned and bandaged. I will fetch what is needed.”

“I am fine—” he started to protest, but Emma cut him off sternly.

“I will be right back.”

It took a few minutes to find a maid to assist in gathering the linens and a bowl of water. By the time she got back to the drawing room, Bentley was standing by a liquor service, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

Catching her gaze, he gave a winsome grin. “It is starting to throb a bit. Thought this might help.”

“Fine,” Emma said as she strode forward. “Come take a seat, please.”

He did as she asked, lowering himself beside her on a narrow settee. He removed his shirt, lifting it up over his head, as she arranged the bowl of water and bandages on the table beside her.

After she wet one of the bandages, she turned to face him and her knee bumped against his. He was bare now from the waist up, and the alluring image of a hard chest, taut abdomen, and arms defined with lean muscles diverted her attention for a moment before she regained proper focus.

She could manage this.

She directed her gaze back to the injury.

The bleeding had stopped completely now, and she set about the task of wiping away the drying blood.

He was an easy patient, sitting still and uncomplaining as she worked. She had the wound almost clean when he finally broke the silence.

“You have done this sort of thing before? Played the part of nursemaid?”

Emma thought of the many long hours she had sat at her mother's bedside.

“In a way,” she said quietly as she set the wet and bloodied cloth in the bowl and leaned in to examine more closely the edges of the wound.

“Who did you care for to develop such commanding efficiency?”

Emma considered evading his question, but didn't see much point. “My mother. She was very sick before she died. And very stubborn.”

Though just a shallow graze, the path of the bullet had left an angry trench through his skin. The edges would not meet, but at least the wound did not go deep.

“I do not think you will need stitches. As long as it is kept free of infection, it should heal well, though there will likely be a scar.”

“I am sorry,” he replied.

Emma looked up at him curiously. His head was turned toward her and his chin was lowered, bringing his face within a disturbingly intimate distance.

Her stomach fluttered and she frowned. “Sorry for what, Mr. Bentley?”

“Roderick,” he corrected before continuing. “It is not an easy thing to be there as someone you love dies.”

Looking into his startling blue eyes, seeing the compassion there and a sort of kindred understanding, Emma felt something turn within her. It was rather like an unlocking. A release.

And she knew—he had experienced the same pain of being the last tether a loved one clung to as they slipped into death.

“No,” she whispered. “It is not.”

Tilting his head to the side, he asked, “Why did you seek a position here at the club?”

Emma pushed the lock back into place.

She turned away to reach for the strips of bandage. Breaking eye contact with him was the only way to regain her full mental abilities, which would be needed if she were to navigate more prying questions.

Clearing her throat, she turned back to apply a square bandage over the wound before winding a long strip of cloth around his arm to keep the bandage in place. He continued to stare at her, waiting for her reply.

“If you must know,” she answered, allowing a stiff formality to color her tone, “I am in need of the funds.”

“Surely there are other avenues of employment more suited to a modest young woman than what is offered within the walls of a gambling hell.”

Emma kept her gaze trained upon her task. “I considered other options; however, this opportunity suited me best.” She lifted her chin with a bit of defiance. “I happen to enjoy this type of work, and I am good at it.”

“Yes, I noticed.” She could hear the smile in his voice, but refused to look up and see the lovely way his lips curled at the corners when he was amused. The sight of his lips did funny things to her concentration. “Though what you can find so enjoyable about all those numbers and odd little notations is far beyond my comprehension.”

A bubble of humor expanded in her chest. “You have something against arithmetic?”

“I believe arithmetic has something against me,” he answered dryly.

The soft laugh escaped before she could stop it. She pursed her lips as she tied off the bandage and leaned back to examine her work with a nod of satisfaction.

He shifted on the sofa, turning to face her. “You should laugh more often.”

His words—or perhaps it was the intimate tone in which he spoke—succeeded in chasing away her amusement.

Emma was wary as she lifted her gaze. Wary of what he made her feel if she allowed it. Wary of the underlying intensity of his regard. She was unsure how to proceed. A part of her so badly wanted to feel the freedom of being an anonymous woman in the concealing darkness as she had the night they met. She had laughed freely then and had answered his bold comments in kind. It had been so liberating to say exactly what she thought without concern for appearances or consequences.

But such behavior was a luxury Emma could not afford. Not as Mrs. Adams, when her position as bookkeeper was so important to her. And not as Miss Chadwick, the spinster guardian of two young women.

As she watched, the light in his blue eyes dimmed and his brows lowered over his gaze. A hardness entered the strong line of his jaw as he rose to his feet.

“I apologize. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

Emma stood as well and tried to wave aside his concern. “You didn't. It is fine, really.”

He reached down to grab his clothing where it was draped over the arm of the sofa. She watched with a distracted fascination as the muscles of his back and shoulders rolled with his movements.

Straightening again, he turned to face Emma squarely. The warmth of a blush swept across her cheeks as she realized the impropriety of her gaze. It took concentrated effort to shift her attention back to his face.

Something flashed in his eyes. A sort of knowing and questioning all at once. He smiled just a little, and Emma's toes curled in her shoes. She felt breathless and uncertain and confused. Usually so self-assured, she struggled with intense awkwardness as he stood bare-chested, a self-possessed, handsome man, looking at her in that intent way he had.

“It is not my practice to pry into the personal lives of my employees,” he explained. Emma didn't reply. Words were frighteningly elusive at that moment. “But I find myself struggling to curb my curiosity about you.”

Emma steadied herself. “There is nothing about me beyond my abilities as your bookkeeper that should be of any particular interest to you.”

“Hmm.” His smile was challenging. “Yet I cannot shake the sense that you possess some vital mystery that must be solved. Why do you suppose I get that impression?”

Alarm made her stomach clench and her cheeks feel warm.

She forced a slow breath to calm herself. “I haven't the slightest idea,” she replied coolly.

The subtle curve of his lips deepened, as if he was fully aware of her reticence in discussing herself and didn't care.

“Does Mr. Adams approve of you taking this position?”

“My family understands certain circumstances require certain actions,” she answered in an even tone. It was mostly true.

“How long have you been married?”

She gave him a hard look. “Mr. Bentley, your line of questioning is hardly relevant to my employment here.”

“Of course it isn't, but I want to know anyway.”

“My private life is none of your business.”

He arched one dark brow. “Is Mrs. Adams your real name?”

His persistence was extremely frustrating. But Emma had experience with such dogged determination and was not about to reveal anything she didn't want to. One did not live with Portia's relentless tenacity without learning a few things.

“Does it matter?” she asked in turn.

He shrugged. “Not really, though I would hazard a guess you are not married at all.”

Emma did not reply.

For one thing, he had uttered a statement rather than a question. But there was something else as well. Something that swiftly put her back on the alert.

His tone, so casual before, took on a deeper and more complex quality. The blue of his eyes darkened. It was as though he could see past the stiff formality of her demeanor to what lay beneath.

Emma felt an instant twinge of discomfort. She lowered her gaze, only to have her attention snagged again by the sight of his bare torso. The vision of such perfect masculine strength and beauty when she was already so hyperaware of him sent her senses spinning as heat flooded her system.

Quickly lifting her gaze away from his nude chest, she nearly groaned in dismay to find his focus locked upon her as he watched her intently.

And then he smiled, a slow and deliberate curving of his well-formed lips. The memory of how smooth and firm those lips had felt when they had brushed hers flew through her mind. No matter how hard she tried to restrain her reaction, a blush warmed her cheeks.

“Definitely not married,” he murmured. His voice was low and weighted with intimacy.

Emma hardened her features even as her pulse fluttered in response to the suggestion in his gaze.

She replied in as stern a tone as she could manage. “This conversation is terribly inappropriate.”

The smile he flashed was quite wicked. “I am not always known for being appropriate.”

“Well, I am,” she countered.

“That fact is as obvious as your innocence.” His stare was bold and unsettling.

“I should go.”

“Yet here you remain.”

His challenging words echoed a similar observation he had made at their first meeting, when she had insisted she needed to return to the ball, yet hadn't been able to dredge up the necessary motivation to leave the darkened sanctuary.

But this time, unlike then, Emma was fully cognizant of what was at stake. She was not about to stick around on even the slightest chance he might kiss her again. She was already far too aware of the seed of desperation that had taken root within her regarding this man. She could not risk allowing anything to happen that might cause it to flourish and grow.

Something in his gaze, his manner, his devilish grin had her thinking it was not such an irrational possibility.

Emma bent to retrieve the bowl and cloths. “If you will excuse me, I have to get back to my work.”

Then she stepped past him, holding her breath against a whiff of his scent as her movement stirred the air around him, and strode toward the door.

* * *

Roderick watched her retreat.

It was an attractive retreat. Her head was held high and her spine straight. There was only the slightest sway of her hips with each step, but Roderick watched with some interest. There was a unique grace in the modest efficiency of her movements. From the way she walked to the way she sat in a chair to the way she economically used her hands to emphasize her speech.

Once he was confident she was out of earshot, he chuckled and craned his neck to get a glimpse of her handiwork. The bandage was neat and clean and perfectly tied off with a small knot. He had expected nothing less.

Holding a grin, he sauntered from the room, keeping a watchful eye for his bookkeeper. He suspected she would not delight in running into him so soon after her effective little exit.

He bounded up the stairs to his private quarters to fetch a clean change of clothes and thought of what he had discovered.