Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (12 page)

There were no dreams of the Duke of
Somerhart
that night. Instead she dreamed of Will, her brother. His warm hands always creased with dirt. His infectious, chortling laugh. His stubborn jaw. She dreamed of him hugging her tight, wrapping his small legs around her waist as he clutched her neck. Even after he'd grown too old for clinging, he'd still held on that way after a bad dream.

Oh, God . . . his tangled brown curls and bright hazel eyes. His angry pout.

She could not reconcile it. Could not. How his little body—always hot and grimy from running, jumping, climbing, always restless—how could it get so cold? His pink cheeks turned to wax. The sweet, sticky fingers stiffened to wood.

It had seemed to her as if that body had not had anything to do with Will. And, God, she'd been so sure that a mistake had been made. It hadn't been him, not Will.

And yet it had.

Emma woke with deep red crescents gouged into her palms. Her pillowcase was stiff with salt, but her throat burned with fury and renewed determination.

She was not weak enough to need rescue. She would rescue herself.

Chapter 6

Unbelievable. He'd been looking for the woman all morning and now this.

He'd spent the previous evening on his best behavior, doing his best to relax her stiffened back to a more sultry line, and he'd had a surprisingly nice time. He'd enjoyed watching her eyes lose their suspicion of him, watching her cheeks glow with laughter. He'd even enjoyed the thought of her wondering why he had stopped his pursuit. But he'd still spent the night with thoughts of her body instead of the real thing. And now this.

She had eaten little the night before. Hart had expected to pile her plate high with breakfast this morning and tease her about it while she ate. But he'd lingered in the breakfast room for over an hour, conscious all the time of what he was doing, and she'd never come down. A maid had returned from her room with a little shake of her capped head, so Hart knew she wasn't there. And it was too damned cold for a ride.

It had been a short-lived mystery though. Hart had found Lady
Denmore
just where he should have looked first. . . in one of the gaming rooms. He had forgotten for a moment that she wasn't a respectable young widow at all. He was reminded now, and beginning to think that she wasn't out to trick one unlucky man into turning over his fortune . . . she wanted the fortunes of many.

"Ho!" several of the young men cried at once. "Another drink!"

"Lady
Denmore
," one gentleman chuckled as the woman in question turned a wine bottle up to her lips, "you are a regular bounder." Hart glared from the doorway, trying to place the young pup's name.

"That's another twenty-five pounds, gentlemen." She gestured to a pile of paper and coins. "In you go."

The men paid up, and then one of them retrieved a heavy leather ball from the corner as Lady
Denmore
reset five wine bottles in a triangular pattern on the floor. Hart felt fury rise up through his chest at the two players lounging against the fireplace, eyes roving over her backside as she worked. They spoke in quiet whispers to each other, then toasted their opinions and drank.

The young man with the ball—Mr. Richard Jones, Hart's brain finally supplied—asked for luck, and Lady
Denmore
complied by pressing a kiss to the brown leather. All the men in the room watched her mouth as it lingered over the skin.

"Now that's good luck," someone murmured, and then the ball was rolling across the carpet. Three of the empty bottles fell before it, but they toppled into each other and two of them broke with a crack. The room cheered, everyone drank, and Richard Jones tossed several coins into the middle pile.

"Time to play for the pot," she called with a gesture toward the middle of the table. "Most bottles knocked over wins, but if you break one, you're out. Agreed?"

The men were still in evening wear. They'd clearly not been to bed yet. Emma stood out like a rose in a field of rocks. She wore a simple morning gown of dusky pink muslin that dipped in a low scoop over her bosom. Little white blooms were woven into her braided chignon. She looked fresh and lovely as a flower, and just as likely to be plucked.

The two men near the fireplace—Lord Marsh and some portly fellow—moved in for this final round of play. They were heavy with drink and exhaustion, and crowded too close to Lady
Denmore
. Not that she seemed to mind. She smiled and sipped from her wine. Marsh leaned over her, eyes devouring her pale skin as he whispered into her ear. She blushed and laughed and shook her head, but her eyes were on the man pitching the ball. One of the bottles cracked open and Emma's smile stretched wider. That was when Marsh's hand touched her hip.

The door hit the wall with a loud bang that snapped everyone in the room to attention. Marsh swayed, blinking owlishly, but when his eyes found
Somerhart
standing in the doorway, he swayed well away from Lady
Denmore
and her enticing hips.

"Your Grace," the lady murmured, and all the men in the room followed suit. "Are you up for a rousing game of pins this fine morning?"

He didn't bother answering. Her eyes glinted her lack of goodwill. She wasn't surprised to see him.

"Carry on, gentlemen," Lady
Denmore
laughed in the face of his silence. "We've a match to finish." The men didn't move. "My turn then?"

She fetched a new bottle from the rows near the wall and replaced the broken one. She repositioned all of them into another neat triangle before she fetched the ball and walked jauntily back to the table. "Good luck?" she suggested, but no one complied. The men's eyes darted toward
Somerhart
.

Nothing untoward had happened as far as Hart could tell, but all of them had been thinking about it. Their guilty eyes spoke volumes.

Lady
Denmore
shrugged and held the ball up to her own mouth for a kiss. Her lips brushed slowly over the stitching and, one by one, the men's eyes shifted back to her. Hart felt his face stiffening. He couldn't quite tell what his expression was, but he knew it was unpleasant. She was deliberately dancing along the edge of scandal, creating an aura of wickedness that would fuel the talk about her into fire. And she was dragging Hart deep into the flames. He should never have set foot in the room. He should have turned his back on her and walked away.

The bottles clinked. Four fell to the carpet without damage.

"Four!" she cried and Richard Jones offered halfhearted congratulations.

"Who will challenge me?" Her lips curved into an enticing, flirtatious smile. "No one? Mr. Jones?"

He looked around at the others before he shook his blond head and bowed in her direction. "Your match, Lady
Denmore
."

"I think,"
Somerhart
growled, "it's past time you men found your beds for the morning."

"Just so," Marsh agreed, with an overloud laugh that the other men echoed as they each collected their winnings. The largest pile remained when the group quit the room. Someone closed the door.

Lady
Denmore
calmly went to collect the empty bottles of wine. After she'd placed them back into the line against the wall, she began to fold up the edges of the thick rough-spun cloth that had been laid out for the game. Broken glass shifted and clinked.

Somerhart
forced his jaw to unclench. "Will you do anything for money?"

Her mouth held its impersonal smile as she continued her work.

"Because you seem quite hungry for coin. And I have a lot of it."

She gave a nod and dusted off her hands. "And?"

"And if you will do anything for it, you should simply tell me. I'm sure we could come to an arrangement."

Her smile widened until her teeth showed, but the woman refused to look at him. She stared down at the mess she'd made. "Do you think I find it charming to be called a whore, Your Grace?"

Goddamn it.
Somerhart
looked around, but there was no wall close enough to punch. "I waited for you at breakfast," he growled instead. "I did not expect to find you hidden away with a group of young bucks making a spectacle of yourself."

"No? Well, I think I've told you before that you are quite naive when it comes to my behavior."

"I am not naive, damn it. I am disgusted. You will drag me down with you."

"Oh, my. I suggest you remove yourself from my presence then. There will only be more of this. Gambling. Flirting. Wine before luncheon. Keeping company with rakes and fortune hunters. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if I were utterly disgraced long before the Season even begins. And I
will
drag you down with me, Your Grace. I promise you that."

She finally met his gaze, and her hazel eyes flashed scorn. That smile, that damned smile, mocked him in every way.

"You were a very different person yesterday," he said.

"As were you. Charming. And kind."

Somerhart
winced and shook his head. "Is that what this was? A lesson?"

"Not for you, Your Grace. For me."

"How so?" he asked her, but his stomach felt hollowed out.

"Yesterday you meant to be charming and you were. But charm is not character, and I will not be seduced by pretense."

"No? What will you be seduced by then? Youth? Drunkenness? A ridiculous game?"

"Coin?" she suggested.

Her smirk coaxed fury into his blood. That little smirk of self-righteousness. He hadn't seen it for a long while, but it had graced the faces of many of his peers ten years before. "I don't need coin to have you," he snapped. "You can claim modesty, or whatever the hell reason you want, but we both know I don't need coin. You want this, Lady
Denmore
, just as much as I do."

Blood rushed to her face. She started to speak, but Hart cut the air with his hand. "You may mock all you like, but your words are nothing more than a shield, and a paltry one at that."

"Wanting something doesn't make it—"

"Oh, but it does for someone like you. You are not in the business of restraining yourself. You do what you like, and you will do this too."

"I won't." Her jaw trembled, but there were no tears in her eyes.

Hart moved toward her and watched her back away. Her hips hit the carved edge of the heavy mahogany table; several coins slid from her pile and clanked into each other.

"Why do all this?" He eased closer. Her fingers gripped the wood. "Just for money? Why not simply marry?"

"I-I won't marry." Her knuckles turned white as her lips flushed a deeper shade of pink.

"Why not? You already married for money once, though it doesn't seemed to have helped much. Or did you lose his fortune at the tables?"

She shook her head. He'd reached her full skirts now; the pretty fabric pressed against his black trousers. Hart stood stock-still and looked her over. She looked so clean and fresh, completely out of place in this room that smelled of whisky and stale cigars. She looked like morning, like innocence stolen from a garden and set down in hell. He was overwhelmed with the urge to make her match her surroundings.

"Lady
Denmore
," he whispered, listening to the way her breath rushed from her throat. Her breasts pressed high with every pant. She wasn't frightened. She was aroused, nearly as much as he, thrilled with the heat of his anger.

"Lift your skirts," Hart rasped.

"What? No. I—"

"Do as I say. Lift your skirts."

She shook her head again, but she could hardly breathe now, her panting was shallow and far too fast.

"Your dress," he ordered, and her hands sank slowly to the soft muslin at her thighs. She grasped the fabric and pulled her skirt up to her calves, and Hart's cock swelled to a glorious ache. Blood rushed low to bring all his nerves to screaming life.

"More."

She jumped a little at the harsh word, but her hands obeyed. She lifted the skirt higher, then shifted her grip to pull it higher still. Hart saw the plain tops of her pink stockings, and then the smooth skin at the inside of her knees. Then her thighs. By the time he saw the lace edge of her drawers, Hart's legs were weak.