Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (15 page)

"They seem to find me singularly unremarkable and can't imagine that I could inspire you to such . . . indiscretion."

His jaw shifted forward a fraction of an inch, but he said nothing.

"You clearly can't stand the idea of people discussing you. So why are you doing this? And for no reason, I'll remind you, since I won't give in."

Though his jaw jumped with tension,
Somerhart
shrugged and let his arms fall to his sides. "It seems this morning that I enjoyed myself far too much to care that people may talk."

"It can't happen again." Her words conveyed a strength she didn't feel, and he must've known it for his teeth flashed in a quick, wicked smile. Emma steeled herself, knowing he was about to press his seduction, knowing she must tap some heretofore unfound resolve.

But he surprised her. Instead of sliding into the seat beside her,
Somerhart
took the bench across the narrow aisle. The man seemed content to talk. Again.

"Do you have family?"

"No. Will you tell me about your sister?"

He grunted and crossed his ankles. "What do you wish to know?"

"Is she truly scandalous?"

"Oh, yes. Truly."

Emma smiled at the affection in his voice. "Yet you seem to love her."

"Of course. She is my sister. Why don't you wish to marry?"

Emma had been relaxing, but now she scowled. "You should be careful of your choice of topic, sir. The wrong lady would assume you were leading toward negotiation."

"Pardon?" His eyes flared with horror and Emma choked on her laughter, relieved she wasn't some young maid with dreams of marrying the handsome duke.

"This is twice now you've asked why I won't marry. Are you quite interested?"

"Good God, I'm usually more careful. Your bad influence again, I'm sure."

"Me?"

"Your recklessness is catching."

His gaze fell to her mouth as she chuckled. "You think it reckless to consider marriage?"

"I'm a bachelor duke. It's reckless to even be this near an unmarried woman. Many of them have hidden tentacles, you know."

"Quite hunted, are you?"

"Quite."

"Then what are you thinking, Hart? I'm the worst possible choice of lover. Unmarried, poor, clearly grasping for wealth and attention. And then there is the notoriety! For God's sake, employ your ducal brains."

Her speech had no effect, or rather it coaxed a wide grin from his lush mouth. "You are a harsh mistress."

"I'm no mistress at all."

"You will be."

"Hardly."

The grin faded to something secret and sly. "Must I order you to lift your skirts again? Or perhaps something more wicked this time?"

More wicked? Good Lord. All the moisture in her mouth dried to sand. "No," she started to say, but her voice was swallowed by his.

"You are quite naughty, aren't you, Emma?" She'd thought herself safe because of his distance, but he was too dangerous for safety at any length. "That picture of you hasn't left my mind for a moment. Would you obey any command, I wonder?"

"No."

"What if I ordered you to your knees, Emma? Right here?"

His words exploded through her. She had to open her mouth to draw even the smallest breath. Images played behind her eyes. Those things she'd seen and never done. A man's head thrown back, fingers tangled in a woman's long hair. A woman on her knees, mouth opening. Lust spun tight deep inside her.

Hart leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs. "Would you, Emma?"

She shook her head as her nipples peaked. His eyelids dropped until he showed nothing more than glittering slits of bright blue. "I think you would."

"No." But she could almost
feel
it. His hand fisted in her hair as she did his bidding. Pleasure racking his body, shaking his muscles to steel. Oh . . .

"No." She pushed to her feet, tried to lock her liquid knees. Hart stared up at her with sleepy eyes. "I did not come to London to take a lover," she insisted.

"Regardless, you have."

"No."

He leaned back and searched her face with an insolent gaze. "You want me to take control." His own words made him smile as the blood drained from her face. "That's it, isn't it? You want me to tell you what to do, so you'll have no choice but to give in and enjoy it."

"I want you to leave me alone!"

"This morning you wanted me right. . ." His gaze dipped low, his cheeks flushed.
"There.
You demanded it."

"I. . . don't. . ."

"Don't what?" The sharp look had faded to unfocused softness, a haze of blue desire. His left hand rose to stroke down the front of her skirt. A feather touch that whispered over the navy satin. "You smell like . . .
heat,
Emma. Like someplace I want to be."

"Oh."
She wanted to give him that, give him everything. Oh, God, she
wanted.
"I can't! You don't understand!" With an awkward lurch, Emma broke free of his mesmerizing nearness. He rose slowly, shaking off the spell he'd woven around both of them.

"What are you looking for?"

Emma backed away, but he stalked forward, keeping her within reach. She was conscious of his long-fingered hands and the warmth they contained.

"A challenge?" He nodded in answer to his own question. "A challenge. Am I making this too easy for you, a woman who needs risk?"

"No, I don't want—"

"Fine. I won't come to you tonight. I'm not a supplicant, nor will I ever be. But a challenge? I can be that. I'd love to be that."

Her back hit the wall. She was only six inches from the closed door, but Hart reached her before she could catch hold of the doorknob. His palm hit the wall above her head. He loomed above, his clean scent sneaking into her soul.

Emma's breasts strained the seams of her bodice with every rapid breath.

"You take control, Emma," he whispered. The words tickled her ear, he spoke them so close. Shivers raced down her neck, down her chest and her belly. "Take control of me. Come to me." Her neck arched, wanting his mouth to bite her. "If you do, Emma, I
may
give you what you want. Or I may offer more than you can handle.

"Risk. That's what you like, isn't it? So play with fire. Play with me."

She was shaking, trembling, just as he'd wanted. His breath grew warmer, closer, till his lips
must
touch her and still they didn't. His mouth hovered just over the skin of her temple, and then he sighed out a secret wish.

"Order me to my knees, Emma."

She sobbed and grabbed blindly for the doorknob. When she slipped under his arm, Hart let her go without a word.

Cheers erupted from the small crowd around her, and Emma made herself smile. She'd tried to relax into the chair, recapture her careless persona, but her body was rebelling. Every few minutes she'd find herself perched on the edge of the cushion, back straight and screaming of tension.

It didn't help that she'd just bet on a third game of billiards. She had no idea how to play, and so she was forced to watch and depend on others for her luck. She hated depending on others.

Shifting in her seat, Emma ran a hand over the hard line of her corset. The motion drew the attention of at least one pair of eyes. The nape of her neck burned with awareness.

Emma scowled. She wouldn't turn around to look, but he was there. Lounging against the wall, receiving obsequious admiration from the people who hovered near. And keeping himself in her thoughts.

Retiring to bed would be worse, of course. And there was nothing else to bloody well do, because one billiard game had tumbled into a full damned tournament among the male guests. Most of them, anyway.
Somerhart
was far too dignified to participate.
Dignified. Ha.

Order me to my knees.
He'd purposefully titillated her. Aroused her. Stuck himself like a burr beneath her skullcap.

Lord Marsh, who'd already been knocked out of play, sidled closer to her chair and laid an arm across the high back. "Lady
Denmore
, I congratulate you. Your luck has improved."

"Mr. Jones is offering tips."

"Helpful pup, that one."

Emma stared silently at the players. Her limbs ached with the desire to leap up and try her hand at the game. It didn't look all that difficult, but she knew it must take subtle skill. It couldn't possibly be as simple as it seemed.

"Lady
Denmore
. . ." Marsh angled his head closer, though he avoided the appearance of intimacy by keeping his eyes on the billiard table. "I think it only fair to warn you—you being new to our society—that
Somerhart
is not known for his—"

A bowing footman intruded and Marsh straightened away from her. Emma didn't care. She didn't need additional warnings. She could barely heed her own.

"My lady," the footman said, offering a letter on a silver tray. Emma glanced around before she realized he spoke to her.

"Me?" How odd. It certainly wasn't a proposal of assignation, which might be expected from one of several different gentlemen here; the scrawled writing indicated it had come from London.

She stared at it, a bit dumbfounded, as the servant retreated. There was no one outside these walls who'd write her letters. Too uncertain to open it in front of others, Emma rose and made for the door.

She wondered if
Somerhart
followed her, and the idea pushed her faster but also sent an unwelcome thrill down her spine. Insidious plague of a man.

Emma ducked around the corner of the massive front staircase and took a deep breath of lemon-scented air. Her childhood home had smelled of lemon polish too, before her mother's death. Afterward, it had smelled mostly of stale tobacco.

The unmarked seal gave way with a sharp crack. Emma recognized the choppy writing and uncertain spelling with a glance. Bess.

Her pulse quickened, then flooded to a drumbeat as she deciphered the message.
A thief. A broken window. Nothing missing.
Nothing missing. An extremely inefficient thief then. Or no thief at all.

Matthew, damn him for a determined pest. It had to be him, or some lackey of his, trying to find proof of her identity.

What could she do? Nothing from here, certainly. She had to return to London and try to fight him, but with what?

Her heart boomed against her throat, choking her. She only needed a few more weeks. If she could bribe him or convince him that she'd return to Cheshire and consider marriage. . .

Or maybe it was time to give up. If she were arrested, all her money would be eaten up in bribes and solicitor's fees. But she didn't have enough yet. What would've been the point of all this, of risking everything, if she left in the same position she'd been in before? A thousand pounds would support her a few good years, but she had no skill, no income, and absolutely no intention of depending on another.

She needed the rest of the money.

Emma folded the note into a tight square and snuck around the corner and up the main stairs. Mr. Jones would collect her money and hold it for her until she could retrieve it. She trusted him, though youth and kindness aside, she wouldn't trust him more than that. If he found out the truth about her, he'd react with as much viciousness as any of them. Outrage at being tricked. Anger. Punishment. They'd want to put her in her place. She had no intention of being near when the truth came out.

Packing would take no more than an hour. Then she'd get as much sleep as she could manage before dawn.

Chapter 8

Never before had Emma realized how variable time could be. How a minute could vanish in a blink. How one night could drag on for an impossible eternity.