Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (11 page)

Hasty with self-consciousness, she tugged her reticule onto her wrist and stood in a rush, shoulder brushing along his hip. Her hand found its natural place on his arm. A faint clink sounded as her bag hit his belly.

"Ouch. I feel rather like I'm courting a pirate."

Emma let him sweep her away from the table, but she refused to laugh. "I will not be your lover," she murmured as they moved toward the door.

"I sense that only one of us is allowed to be polite at any given time. True?"

One side of her mouth refused to obey and curled up. "Perhaps."

"Well, it is my turn, I suppose. Would you like a glass of champagne?"

"Yes," she answered too quickly, but her fingers were beginning to tremble against his sleeve. She'd been thinking about him incessantly since he'd kissed her. She felt written in those thoughts, every wicked fantasy revealed on her skin. Seeing him—his lips and eyes, the flash of his teeth when he smiled—reminded her of what he'd done and what she wanted him to do.

She had to keep from snatching the glass from his hand when he finally found a servant with champagne. As it was, she couldn't bear to sip it demurely, but turned away and drank it down in three great swallows. When she turned back,
Somerhart
said nothing, merely removed the empty flute from her hand and handed her his own.

"You've worked up a well-deserved thirst, Lady
Denmore
. You must be hungry as well."

"Yes. No." She took a sip from his glass and put her hand to her throat instead of pressing it to his chest, his flat stomach. "I cannot do this." Her heart beat too hard, fueling the insane fight that had broken out inside her. Lust and..
.fear.
She wasn't used to it, didn't know how to appease it. She was afraid of him, and so very, very afraid of herself.

"Lady
Denmore
. . ."
Somerhart's
hand took her elbow and pulled her toward a deep-set window that looked out over blackness. "Tell me what is wrong."

"You are what's wrong."

"I'm merely attempting to feed you."

"Nonsense. You are trying to seduce me, and I've explained before—"

"Yes, you have explained." He closed the curtains and guided her down to the window seat; his shoulders seemed impossibly wide, looming above her. "You were quite impertinent, rude, and arrogant in your position. Which is why I'm surprised to find that you've turned suddenly cowardly."

"I have. I'm afraid. Of
you.
Please leave me be." His hand nudged her chin up, and Emma glared at his silhouette.

"Afraid," he huffed. "And I am the Queen. Or near enough," he added, reminding her of one of her many insults. "You don't look afraid, Lady
Denmore
. You look anxious and even a bit angry." His fingers lingered under her chin, stroking tiny waves of heat into her skin.

"I am angry. You will not leave me be."

"I am not planning to pounce upon you in a darkened hallway. You are very much in control of your own fate. So why so much upset?"

She shook her head and took a gulp of his drink.

"Has anyone ever told you that you drink like an alewife, Lady
Denmore
?"

"No, no one. I believe 'like a sailor' is the preferred comparison."

"Ha! Hoyden." He shook his head at her. "Move over."

She scooted an inch to the left and he took the seat beside her. There wasn't nearly enough room. His body pressed against hers in mirror image. His arm against her arm, his hip against hers. If she leaned over, her head would rest perfectly on his shoulder. If she looked up, his lips would find her kiss.

"How old were you when you married?"

"Nineteen," Emma said without having to think about it.

"And were you happy with the arrangement?"

"Mm. I wasn't displeased. Lord
Denmore
was a lovely man, and my family had declined in the world."

"So you were a local miss who caught the eye of an older gentleman."

"Yes."

"A squire's daughter perhaps?"

"I didn't grow up in a tavern if that's what you're asking."

His shoulder nudged hers. "No, you're well-mannered enough, at least with others."

Emma smiled and took a slightly smaller drink.

"Do you miss him?"
Somerhart
asked, his deep voice quiet.

She was shocked by the gentle question. No one had asked if she missed him. Everyone assumed she was delighted to have thrown off the bonds of a marriage of calculation, and she supposed she might have been. Except that Lord
Denmore
had been her uncle and he had loved her. He'd taken care of her and shown her a real home for a brief, shining moment in her life.

"I do," she finally answered, horrified when her voice broke over the last word. She coughed to clear the tears away. "He died in a fire, you know. He wasn't ill; it wasn't expected."

"I'm sorry."

Emma nodded, and drank the rest of his champagne with ruthless efficiency. "So you see,
Somerhart
, I am a hopeless gambler and an impolite drinker, but I am also a respectable country widow. Boring and not fit to act out a scandal with a duke."

"Hm."

She knew she should stand up. Just two steps and she would be free of the intimate darkness of the window seat. And it
was
intimate, despite the occasional voices that passed their nest. She felt sheltered here, warm and safe.
Cradled in the strength of the very beast who meant to eat her up. Somehow the danger made her feel even more languid, helpless to resist the sweetness of the moment.

Somerhart
shifted, his shoulders turning toward her while she waited for his touch.

"I can barely see you in the dark," he said, "but your voice is its own seduction, Lady
Denmore
." And then he stood and stepped past the curtained alcove, out into the light. "Shall we go to dinner?"

"Dinner?" she mumbled. "Now?"

He flashed a smile. "Is there someplace else you'd rather go?
Now?"

Yes.
"No!" she snapped and managed to stand without the slightest hint of a sway.

"Dinner, then." He offered his arm.

Emma gritted her teeth. "Stop being charming and circumspect,
Somerhart
. It doesn't suit you."

"Liar."

Emma took his arm, but she had the distinct feeling that he was leading her not to dinner, but to her destruction.

Chapter 5

Nothing.
Not even a kiss. All that anxiety and suspense and
Somerhart
hadn't even accidentally brushed his knuckles over her bosom. Emma smoothed her own hand over her nightgown, over the hard jut of her nipple, the curve of her breast, then down to her belly and lower, until she pressed her palm to the soft mound of her sex.

Somerhart
would touch her there, if she let him. And she wanted to let him. If she didn't have this secret to keep, she would cross the hall to the door of his room. She'd heard him go in an hour before, had heard his valet leave ten minutes later. She'd expected a knock then . . . a servant with a carefully worded note or, more likely,
Somerhart
himself, half undressed and dark-eyed with expectation.

She shivered at the thought, pressed her palm harder to her own heat.

She'd steeled herself against him, she'd been ready. But the minutes had ticked by, and with no one to argue against, her resistance had simply trickled away, unneeded and certainly unwanted. Or perhaps this was part of his plan as well. To make her so angry that she would storm his room and demand an accounting.

Emma sighed and let her hand fall away from her body.

She was alone as she'd always been, and it would not do to forget it.

Snow blew against her window, a speckling of icy drops, and Emma was drawn toward it. Lights from the rooms below shone across frosted grass. A tree branch sparkled with a thick layer of clear ice. Nothing moved but what the wind blew. Another empty night, and she was tempted again.

She wanted to run down the stairs in her bare feet and sneak out a side door. She wanted that blast of impossible cold, the stinging of her skin. She could walk for miles, she thought, before her body froze into crystals and was picked apart by a gust of wind, scattered into the world like magic. The little pieces of her would float forever, the whole sky would be her home. Everywhere. Nowhere.

A sound in the hallway pulled her away from the winter seduction. Her heart leapt. Emma held her breath and waited, waited. . . but it was nothing and no one.

What if she did cross the hall? What if she simply slipped into his bed and gave into both their desires? When he discovered her secret, she could tell him the truth. It would be such a relief.

He'd been kind tonight, his arrogance a volatile genie that appeared only when someone else approached. His every smile and attempt at humor had called to mind that night when he'd reached out his protection to a young girl, if just for a moment.

So if she told him the truth, would he reach out for her again?

Emma's heart began to thud. He'd been so gentle. . . asking questions about her life, escorting her from table to table to wait patiently while she played. Then he'd walked her up the stairs, pressed a lingering kiss to her hand, and watched her walk to her doorway, hot eyes burning into her back.

He hadn't treated her as a challenge. He'd been . . .
charming.

And now she sat alone in her room, wondering if
Somerhart
would rescue her from her life.

Her thumping heart picked up speed as the thought swung through her, battering her insides.
Somerhart
coming to her rescue. That had been her long ago childhood fantasy, the hope of her little girl's soul.

He had seemed so gallant, so
good,
and she had wished and prayed for his return. Even months and years later, when her body had begun to mature, when the sights and sounds of her father's gatherings had begun to arouse instead of frighten . . . Oh, she'd still waited for rescue then, with thoughts of a wedding and his marriage bed.

But then her father had died, dragging her little brother to the grave with him, and Emma had known there was no hope of rescue. Or she'd
thought
she'd known, but the leap of her heart was recognizable. Stupid, reckless hope.

"No," Emma said aloud. Her heart beat faster, harder.
"No."
There was no salvation waiting around the corner. There would be no rescue. She could not afford to dream of fairy tales.

Oh, she had no doubt that he would
help
her. Men were always willing to help young women who had fallen on hard times. She'd met many of those women in her father's home.

And how easy it was to imagine being
Somerhart's
lover, being kept by him in a beautiful home. She could live a glorious, disreputable life, bright with laughter and wicked nights. She could set aside all these dark worries and live like a woman.

But a lover wasn't a wife, and the march of years would find her with a new protector and another and then, perhaps, a handful of less affluent gentlemen. And soon enough, she'd be older, less desirable, a doxy trotted into country parties to take on any guest who cared to bend her over the nearest chair.

No, she had no illusions about what life held for an impoverished young gentlewoman. Whore or wife, and she would be damned if she'd become her mother. Whore or wife. Emma chose neither.

She blew out the lamp and snapped back the layers of bedclothes.

Somerhart
was trying to seduce her and, oh, he was good. Better than she'd thought he could be. But his charm was a delicate thing. Emma would break it like glass and watch the pieces fall.