Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (23 page)

His cheeks darkened. "You only removed your cloak."

"I was unbuttoning my dress!"

"I have seen—" he started, but choked on his own words. "I've touched . . ." His cheeks looked on fire now as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "You have always tempted me to reckless behavior, Emily. You've always caused me to sin. You are Eve to my Adam."

"Matthew, all we did was kiss. I never meant you to think we would marry."

"But you let me touch your. . . breasts."

Oh, for God's sake. She could not believe his mind was still so twisted around a few paltry embraces. He would ruin everything with his delusions.

"I am a lady, Matthew. I am requesting that you leave my private chambers and my home."

"You are living here
unchaperoned
!"

"Exactly my point. You cannot be here."

"Emily," he growled and stepped toward her.

She lifted her chin and put on her haughtiest face. "You may return tomorrow between the hours of three and six if you wish to call on me, Matthew Bromley."

"I am not calling on you," he hissed. "I am here to take you home before you destroy your family's name and our entire future together."

"We will speak of it tomorrow during civilized hours."

His mouth twisted into the violent sneer she'd seen only once before. Emma stepped back, out of his reach. She was next to the table now and the lamp. She could hit him with it if he attacked her.

Matthew didn't move closer, but his hands clenched into fists. "You must think me an idiot. You will slip away like a rat scurrying from danger, but I am not blind to your deceptive nature any longer, Emily. It is something we will work on during our marriage. I've already spoken to the Reverend Whittier about it."

"I have an entire household here; I could not possibly gather everything up in a few hours time. This is my home, and I will not leave it. I will be here tomorrow during receiving hours.
You may return then."

His eyes glimmered with anger as he studied her. He swept his gaze down her gown. "You are dressed like a harlot," he muttered, but even he could not put much force behind it. It simply wasn't true. Her meager budget restricted her to nondescript dresses that could be taken apart and remade into more nondescript dresses. Still, Emma managed to look outraged.

"You, a man who thinks to be my husband . . . You feel free to call me a harlot? Get out of my home."

His face
spasmed
into tortured lines before smoothing out to appeasement. "My apologies. I did not mean that. I have simply been so worried."

"I am not going to 'scurry away like a rat.' And even if you did think me so cowardly, the banks are not open tomorrow. I do not keep my inheritance tucked away beneath the floorboards, Matthew."

"Of course not. I. . ." He clearly could think of no further arguments. Anxiety had never been his friend.

"Tomorrow, Matthew."

He opened his mouth, closed it. Finally, he gave one short nod of his head. "Fine. Tomorrow. But you may begin packing. We will leave within the week and pray to God no one ever finds you out."

"Matthew," she started, deciding to take one last chance on reason. "Please understand. I enjoy London. If my father hadn't died I would have had my Season, time to—"

"Your father did die, and his death brought you to me, and that is where you were meant to stay. I will hear no more of it. How you could even propose that I leave you here to live a life of utter falsehood . .. You insult me."

She nodded, having known what he would say before he'd opened his mouth. She'd heard something similar many times before. "Then I will see you tomorrow."

"Good evening," he offered with a polite bow, as if he hadn't been hiding in the dark for her like a spider. "And if you try any of your tricks, do not forget that my father is a magistrate."

Emma waited until he had descended the stairs before she followed and locked the door behind him. She'd have to walk the whole house, figure out how he'd gotten in.

Bess,
she thought with a rush of panic, and ran down to the basement and the little room off the kitchen that Bess used as her own. She flung open the door, but Bess was there, snoring, undisturbed even by Emma's loud entrance. She was fine. Emma eased the door shut and stood there in the dark kitchen.

She could hardly see and realized she must have run through the hallway and kitchen on blind memory. But now she felt completely helpless. Lost. The faint smell of bread and thyme expanded through the vast emptiness.

Hart had betrayed her. It must've been him. She really had managed to lose Matthew during her trip to London. He wouldn't have found her but for that damned letter. But now what to do? Run?

She should run. She should. She had made a decent amount, could live something close to her dream. She could have security, if not absolute comfort.

But her victory in sending Matthew away had kindled her natural willfulness. Determination burned inside her, a tiny ember that glowed brighter with each breath. Yes, she was alone here in the dark, in her empty kitchen in her shabby house. She was alone as she had always been, and that would not stop her.

Emma nodded and stepped into shadow. She had found her way through the dark a few minutes ago. She could do it again.

Chapter 13

Over the course of an hour, Emma found that every full circuit of her ground floor hall took fifteen seconds. The south end of her path brought her face-to-face with the wall clock. Four turns saw one minute tick by. Emma clutched her hands together and continued pacing.

Doubt writhed in her chest, and she wished that she could physically beat it down. She did not want to ask for help, but she would do whatever it took. Yes, it was a risk, but if she knew anything in this world, it was the value of risk.

She needed Matthew gone. She needed him powerless to harm her. If she had descended into the depths of blackness she knew ran through her veins, it would have been simple enough. Even a lonely stranger to London could find someone willing to kill a man for a few pounds. But she had not gone to the gutters yet. She wouldn't see Matthew harmed. The man was a threat to her, and his mind took turns that she couldn't comprehend, but she wouldn't see him hurt.

There was one person she could turn to. She did not trust him completely, but she trusted him enough.

She'd reached the wall again, and stopped to stare up at the clock. Five fifty-two. If she said it was an emergency, would his butler follow through? Would he light a lamp and wake him, put the letter into his hands? She could not know. She could only try.

Emma counted off twelve more turns of the hall before she finally lost her patience. She drew the cloak's hood up over her head and tugged on her thickest gloves and prayed that she could find a hack at this lost hour 'twixt night and day. Prayed that she encountered a servant with a heart or at least sharp eyes that could see her sincerity.

Fog crept up to Emma's ankles when she opened the door. No one could follow her path, at least; she lost track of her own body when she stepped into the mist.

If there were a hack anywhere near, she could neither see it nor hear it. In fact, nothing seemed to move in the world but Emma and the thick fog. She could only begin walking toward his neighborhood.

The fog parted for her, swallowed her, over and over again as she walked, like a giant, hungry mouth. Sounds jumped back and forth: her own footsteps and other, unidentifiable noises. She should have been afraid, but she simply walked. Her greatest threat had already appeared.

Matthew Bromley had been the closest thing to an appealing, unmarried man in her uncle's hamlet. And Emma had been a young woman with a body bursting with curiosity. He had chased her and she'd let herself be caught on several occasions. An innocent—or perhaps less than innocent— mistake. His interest in her had only grown focused and intense. He'd no longer been content with walks and kisses. He'd wanted everything, not just her body, but her soul as well. He'd wanted marriage, had demanded it, and she had refused.

Then during a beautiful Lenten moon, he'd asked her to walk with him again. She'd been bored and restless and she'd met him near the river that night though she'd shrugged off his embraces, and by the time she'd smelled smoke on the wind, they'd ventured far down the lane. Her uncle had died in the fire, alone because she'd snuck away.

Emma sighed and stopped to look around. The night was easing from black to gray. Surely the streets would begin to stir soon.

Matthew had been a friend to her at first. He'd hustled her to his father's home, had stood by her side through her grief and guilt. The
Bromleys
had taken care of her and provided a home, but Matthew hadn't forgotten his desire. Only short weeks after her uncle's death, he'd started tapping on her bedroom door, whispering of her duty and his love. He'd cornered her in hallways and stairwells, spoken constantly of their future and the gratitude she should feel for his devotion. Emma had been well and truly trapped.

But her uncle's will had finally been settled, and she'd received her inheritance. What a relief it had been to move out of the Bromley home. She'd let a room at the miller's rambling house, but her relief had been short-lived. Matthew had been furious and unrelenting in his pursuit.

Soon enough, she'd realized she must escape. From the rented rooms and intrusive neighbors. From the constant talk of when she would marry and who. She could not explain to Mrs.
Shropshire
, the miller's wife, why she had no interest in marriage. She'd grown tired of the arched looks of disapproval every time she'd turned down Matthew's offers. And she could not live her whole life on six hundred pounds.

A cart passed by her, splashing dirty water near her feet. Emma moved closer to the buildings, but it was no help. She stepped right into a deep puddle and cursed her bad luck. Another cart rolled by, a woman bundled up to her ears scurried past, and Emma realized that the fog had begun to lighten. Finally, Emma emerged onto a wide street and smiled. Three hackney coaches were lined up just one street down, seeming to float above the road, wheels vanished beneath the fog.

Ten minutes later she stepped from the straw-strewn floor of the hack and stared up at the green door before her. It was morning, finally, but the sun barely shone through the dull gray air. Emma smoothed her hair back and wiped her gloves over her face. She straightened her cloak, eased it back a little to show the fine fabric of the dress beneath. And then she walked up the steps and tapped the knocker.

A long while passed with no answer. The household must be waking, but they certainly weren't listening for a knock at the front door. If no one answered, she'd be forced to go to the back. Emma tapped harder.

Voices approached. She made very sure to straighten her spine and raise her chin to a haughty level just before the door snapped open.

The butler—a rather
young
butler—looked her over. He studied the dark blue silk of her dress and stared pointedly at her wet shoes before he nodded. "Madam?"

"I am in need of assistance. It is quite urgent. Would you take this to Lord Lancaster?" She held out the sealed note. The butler glanced at the paper, but did not take it.

"My lord will be at home this afternoon, madam."

"I am Lady
Denmore
, a friend of your master. He offered his support should I ever need it. I am in need of it now. Please take the letter to him."

"This is quite irregular."

"Yes. Yes, of course it is. I would not have left my own home so early if it weren't dire.
Please.
Wake him. Give him the note. I'll wait outside if you like. You can send me away if he refuses my plea."

The young, round-faced man looked from her face to the note. He was visibly torn between protecting the sanctity of a viscount's home and treating a supposed lady as she should be treated. And he had clearly not had much experience with this type of thing, if any; it occurred to Emma that this young man was the best butler that Lancaster could afford.

"Please follow me to the morning room, Lady
Denmore
. I'm sure Lord Lancaster would be happy if you warmed yourself with tea while you wait."

Emma let out a deep breath and felt the prick of actual tears at the thought of hot tea and a warm room. "Thank you."