Luck Is No Lady (16 page)

How was she going to manage this?

It was a lovely party held in a large conservatory that stretched along the back of the Lovell mansion. The room was long and narrow with musicians set up on one end of the room to provide music for dancing, a buffet table loaded with extravagant refreshments on the opposite end, and various furniture groupings interspersed throughout to accommodate those who preferred conversation.

Lily and Portia were both on the dance floor and were likely to remain occupied until the musicians took a break.

The dowager countess was settled into a comfortable corner with Lady Greenly and Lady Winterdale, and for the last fifteen minutes at least, the three contemporaries had been debating the marriageable qualities of several of the bachelors in attendance.

Emma stood stiffly behind Angelique's chair.

She was barely cognizant of the conversation going on between the elderly ladies. Her thoughts were twisted up on a path rife with anxiety. But when she happened to catch the name of one of Lily's suitors, she forced herself to alter her focus. Though most of their talk was likely to be conjecture or gossip rather than true fact, it paid to know what types of whispers followed a gentleman through society.

At present, they were discussing poor Mr. Lockton, the gentleman with five motherless children, who had shown a certain amount of interest in Lily.

“A good catch all around, I would say,” Lady Greenly declared. “In possession of a good fortune, several lovely estates, and a well-appointed carriage. He is not too old, nor is he too young, and he carries himself as a gentleman should. Respectful and proper—”

“And dull.” This from Angelique, who had her opera glasses raised conspicuously as she studied the gentleman in question.

“Not to mention those five brats of his.” And this, of course, was from Lady Winterdale, who seemed to find a delightful negative to every man who came under scrutiny.

“The children do not necessarily need to be considered a deficit,” Lady Greenly argued, and Emma agreed, knowing Lily adored children and would make a kind and compassionate stepmother.

“Lockton certainly sees them as such,” Lady Winterdale added, lowering her voice. “I understand he keeps them at an estate in Scotland and hasn't visited them but once since their mother passed more than four years ago.”

“That is heartbreaking,” Angelique exclaimed, turning away from her perusal.

“But is it true?” Lady Greenly queried skeptically.

Lady Winterdale shrugged and gave her friends a haughty glance. “My Thomas says Lockton has had no less than six mistresses in succession since coming to London upon Mrs. Lockton's death. I doubt such…activities have left him with much time to travel back and forth to Scotland.”

Emma glanced toward Lockton herself.

Six mistresses? She could hardly imagine it of the staid and mannerly gentleman.

Angelique harrumphed. “A man who cannot keep a mistress is not likely to keep a wife any better.”

The other ladies made low sounds of agreement.

“Lord Fallbrook, on the other hand, appears to know just how to get a lady all atwitter,” Lady Winterdale suggested with a sly look, turning their attention to another of Lily's potential suitors, who was bent toward a young lady in a private corner.

Whatever he was saying, it was bringing an attractive blush to the girl's cheeks.

“That man is quite charming,” Angelique said, but her tone was less than complimentary.

“Perhaps too charming?” Lady Greenly asked.

Every man the ladies analyzed came up short in some fashion or another. So presentable at a glance, when one began picking away at the facade, there appeared little to recommend these noble examples of manhood. Emma was beginning to want none of them for her sisters.

Perhaps Portia had had the right of it all along.

The subtle thread of panic that had been with her all evening wound tighter through her chest. She could not start thinking that way.

Needing respite from the doubts inspired by the ladies' conversation, Emma quietly excused herself and made her way, as inconspicuously as she could, toward a set of French doors. They had been thrown open to the night air, where a terrace overlooked the Lovells' extensive gardens.

Emma claimed a spot near enough to view her sisters on the dance floor, yet not so far from Angelique she couldn't rejoin her in a few moments. The room was not overly warm, but her thoughts had been in a riot for the last several hours. She hoped the cool night air wafting in through the open door might help her collect herself and formulate a plan, but the tension riding her shoulders refused to ease. The breeze, as lovely as it was, was not nearly strong enough to clear her mind of the threatening words she had received earlier that day from Mr. Mason Hale.

Emma wished she knew more about the moneylender and what he was capable of. The tone of his latest missive was undeniably dark. He was losing patience with them, and Emma feared what that could mean.

Their father's debt to Mr. Hale had to be addressed in full, and soon.

Thoughts on just how to do that trampled over themselves in her mind. The amount of the loan was staggering. She couldn't imagine what steps Mr. Hale would take if they did not meet his demands, but she had no intention of finding out. Anger rose within her and she wondered, not for the first time, what had motivated her father.

“This setting suits you.”

The sound of Mr. Bentley's voice brought her anxiety-ridden thoughts to an instant halt. Intense self-awareness, laced heavily with a far more disturbing sensation, flooded her system.

With her heartbeat accelerated to a manic rhythm, she turned just enough to look over her shoulder into the night beyond the open terrace doors.

He stood leaning negligently against the stone terrace railing, just out of reach of the glittering lights of the conservatory. His masculine elegance melted seamlessly with the mysterious darkness.

Emma met his gaze. Despite every rational reason she had to resist, there was an invisible pull in her center she could not ignore. It had been there from the beginning and had been made only stronger by what had occurred in his private apartments that morning. Seeing him now, she realized it was inexorable she would eventually encounter him out in this world. It was where they had first met after all.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice trembled despite her desire to stand strong.

He smiled and swept a brief glance out over the crowded room. “I wanted to observe you here in this world of privilege and nobility.”

“How did you know to look for me here?”

His lips curved in a smile, but the shadows were too thick for her to discern the exact tone of his amusement. “I believe I mentioned Bishop has an invaluable set of skills.”

He did not seem angry in regard to her deception, yet there was an edge to his voice and a stiffness in his bearing that made her nervous.

“What else did he discover?”

He folded his arms across his chest and shrugged. “Only that your mother died several years ago, your father just this last November. You now reside with an elderly aunt, and you are the guardian of two younger sisters who are both here tonight, charming their suitors.”

“Bishop should be commended.” Emma took a steadying breath. “What do you intend to do with the information?”

He tipped his head to the side as he peered at her. “You think I would use it against you?”

She knew he wouldn't.

“Then why have Bishop seek it out?”

He pushed away from the railing and crossed the terrace toward her. Each step he took increased the sensitivity of her skin and sent a wave of awareness through her body. Her heart beat so frantically now, she could barely maintain a steady breath.

He stopped a few paces away—still outside, still partially hidden in shadow—but at least now she could better see his face, though she did not count on being able to actually discern anything in his expression. Their game earlier in the day had proven he only revealed what he wished to show.

While she waited for him to answer, he cast his gaze down the length of her body and up again to meet her eyes. The long look left her feeling vulnerable and exposed, as though he saw far more than a shimmering gown and artfully styled hair. Despite her discomfort, when his attention passed over the wide expanse of her bare shoulders and the upper swells of her breasts, she couldn't help but recall the feel of his fingertips traversing the same path.

A flush warmed her skin.

Capturing her gaze, he replied in a lowered voice, “I was not content to know only what you felt willing to tell me.”

“You had no right to pry into my private matters.”

His lips quirked in a smile. “I had some right.”

Emma glanced away. She wasn't sure what to say to that, because she wasn't exactly sure what he meant. As her employer, he certainly deserved to know the truth about his employee. The security of his business required a level of trust, which she had disregarded from the start.

But she suspected he was not talking to her as Mr. Bentley, club owner, in that moment. Rather, she felt in her bones he spoke of something more intimate. And she had no idea how to respond to the implication that his interest had become far too personal.

“I am tempted to ask you to dance.”

“No. That would not be a good idea,” she replied swiftly.

The idea of being drawn into his arms for a dance caused a rush of tingling sensation through her blood. She did not think she would be able to maintain her composure in such a scenario. Just talking to him was nearly too much.

She looked out over the crowd. No one seemed to even notice that the eldest Chadwick girl stood in an intimate conversation with the notorious owner of a gambling hell. Being a spinster wallflower had its perks.

“Is it dancing in general you object to or just dancing with me?”

The dark tone of his voice brought her attention back to him.

“I have not danced all Season. Everyone knows it. Given your…reputation, dancing with you now would cause an instant scandal.” Her gaze softened as she willed him to understand. “Scandal is something I must avoid at all costs.”

Emma hated having to play into the prejudices of society. She was coming to understand that very few members of the
haut ton
actually possessed the virtues they insisted upon feigning while under the glitter of ballroom lights. Yet, like Lady Winterdale, very few would hesitate to condemn another for behavior deemed the slightest bit inappropriate.

It was all a game of secrets and deceit.

She, especially, fell in with the hypocrisy. Didn't she spend her days in a pursuit entirely unacceptable to her station while insisting her sisters remain devoted to a society that would shame them for their destitution?

But not Roderick Bentley. He did not pretend to be other than he was, whether in his club or out amongst those who would reject him for the state of his birth yet strive to be connected to him in finance. Roderick accepted himself as he was and accepted others in the same generous and forthright manner.

If she possessed such courage and confidence, what would she do?

If she were not responsible for her sisters and there was just herself to consider…

The moment became too quiet as they stared at each other. He studied her. Seeking something.

Her heart ached within the restraints she could not break.

After a bit, he smiled. Mischief flashed in his eyes and swirled there with something else she would not have recognized before that morning.

“Admit it,” he said. “You don't want to dance with me because you know you would enjoy it.”

His voice had lowered again into those intimate tones that flowed so warmly across her skin, making her feel like they were the only two people in the room.

Her limbs felt heavy and weak. Her blood rushed faster through her veins and her heart picked up speed.

“I will admit no such thing.”

“But you do not deny it either.”

Emma glanced away again. He was right—she couldn't.

They stood in silence for a moment. Then she felt him step up beside her until he stood close enough for his coat to brush her bare shoulder. She looked up and saw something anticipatory in his gaze. Something that set her nerves alight with delicious sensations.

“Walk with me in the garden.”

His voice was dark and seductive. Tingling awareness spread through her, and a delightful chill rose on her skin, contrasting sharply with the warmth in her blood. The muscles in her abdomen tensed as heat flowed to the apex of her thighs.

The memory of his lips pressing against hers, his hand covering her breast, and his hips cradled between her legs rushed through her in a consuming wave. She swayed a bit and her hip bumped softly against him as her gaze fell to his mouth.

“I cannot,” she answered reluctantly.

“You can if you want to.”

“Roderick,” she began, but did not say more as something beyond her in the ballroom caught his eye and he glanced up.

She watched his features tense sharply before he slid his hand around her waist and, without explanation or preamble, drew her through the doors onto the terrace.

“Wait,” she protested, but he held her tightly to his side, walking them purposely into the shadows. If she were to struggle, it would draw notice, and that was the last thing she needed. “What are you doing? You must return me to the ballroom,” she whispered.

He stopped at the edge of the terrace where stone steps led down to the garden. Then he pressed into an alcove created by the angles of the house, drawing her with him. His arm remained around her waist, his hand warm over her hip. “I will. Just not yet,” he whispered.

“Have you lost your mind? If anyone saw us—”

“No one saw us,” he answered in a low murmur. “Your reputation is secure.”

His attention was focused back along the terrace toward the doors through which they had just exited.