The Forbidden Lord (9 page)

Or had she merely been trying to confuse him? If it hadn’t been for that kiss, he would’ve sworn the woman was Emily. She tasted and looked and smelled like Emily. And she had a connection to Lord Nesfield.

His blood ran cold. Yes, there was that.

Muttering foul oaths under his breath, he adjusted his clothing to cover his still-obvious arousal and walked slowly toward the house. He glimpsed a human shape in the shadows of a nearby tree, but assumed it was another couple dallying in the dark garden, and walked on, deep in thought.

If it had been Emily, she’d been awfully stubborn in her lies. Could even Nesfield have coaxed the prim rector’s daughter into pretending to be his niece? And why? The man would need a strong reason for giving a nobody like Emily both a new identity and a lavish coming out.

A nasty thought cut viciously through his mind, stunning him with its ugliness. What if Emily were Nesfield’s mistress? Nesfield would never marry a rector’s daughter, but he might try to arrange an advantageous marriage for her once he was done with her…as payment for services rendered.

He shook his head. That was absurd. Nesfield could hardly have taken Emily as a mistress, then discarded her in two months’ time. Nor could Jordan believe that the Earl of Dundee and his wife would cooperate in such a scheme.

Nonetheless, Emily couldn’t have done this without Dundee’s cooperation. And Nesfield’s.

The thought of Nesfield and Emily plotting together was enough to make him doubt his suspicions. How could Emily, the girl who’d quoted scripture at him and refused to lie, be capable of such a deception?

But how could two women be so much alike? And how could he be attracted to them both?

Devil take her, whoever she is
, he thought sourly as he climbed the steps to the balcony, then crossed to the ballroom. She’d knocked him back on his heels with her little display out there, then left him craving her voraciously.

He entered the clamor of the ballroom and paused, searching the roiling knots of dancers for the little chit. She’d infected him with some disease to make him want her like this—that was the only explanation for such insanity. If he had any sense at all, he’d leave at once and put her out of his mind.

Instead he stood there, scouring the room for a glimpse of her pearl-twined hair and shimmering white gown, the gown he’d pawed only minutes ago in his eagerness to taste her bare flesh.

“You look as if you’ve been hit on the head with a mallet,” came a familiar voice at his side.

He glowered at Ian’s grinning expression. “It wasn’t a mallet. And the spot was a bit lower, unfortunately.”

Returning his attention to the ballroom, Jordan finally spotted Lady Emma. She was waltzing with young Radcliffe as cool as you please, without a hint in her sweet expression of the scene she’d played with him in the garden. The puppy was holding her close enough to imprint his lecherous body on her skirts. Where was the chit’s chaperone,
for God’s sake? Somebody ought to put a stop to her outrageous behavior!

Ian followed the direction of his gaze. “It’s not like you to be interested in an innocent.”

“She’s no innocent, I assure you,” he snapped.

“So you don’t still think she’s the rector’s daughter you mistook her for?”

“I don’t know what to think.” White anger seared Jordan when Radcliffe lowered his head to whisper something in her ear and she laughed.

“Come, man, I met her mother, a formidable matron if ever I saw one. Why would a woman of Lady Dundee’s social status put an impostor forward as her daughter, risking her husband’s reputation and the future of her other daughters?”

Why indeed? “I don’t know; perhaps the countess grew bored in Scotland and this is her entertainment.” His eyes narrowed. “And what about Lady Emma’s speech? If she’s from Scotland, where’s her brogue?”

“She wouldn’t have one, not with an English mother like Lady Dundee. The countess probably worked with her for years to prevent her from developing an accent.”

“You can’t eliminate an accent that easily. She ought to have some trace of it.”

Ian sighed. “Even if Lady Dundee were foolish enough to pass off a nobody as her daughter, Nesfield says the woman is his niece, too.”

“So why do Nesfield’s niece and the daughter of his rector resemble each other so much?” Except in their experience with men. “Strange coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. How did you come to meet a rector’s daughter, anyway?”

“She was at Dryden’s masquerade ball in Derbyshire two months ago.”

“Was she in costume that night, wearing a mask, that sort of thing?”

Jordan sensed a trap. “Yes.” He added hastily, “But I saw her without her mask.”

“For how long?”

With a black scowl, Jordan returned his attention to the dancers. He could only imagine what Ian would think if he admitted he’d seen the girl’s face in dim moonlight for a mere matter of minutes.

“I take it from your silence that it was a brief glimpse.”

“It was enough.”

Now the deuced woman was dancing with Pollock. With a jealousy bordering on idiocy, he remembered Pollock’s vow to find a woman to love.

Well, it won’t be her, Pollock
, Jordan thought. Pollock wasn’t for her. None of them were for her. If anyone had her, it would be him, and he wasn’t about to become entangled with a deceitful, coy flirt.

Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. All it wanted right now was to drag her back outside and lay claim to her like some half-witted stallion.

“My God,” Ian said dryly, “this rector’s daughter must have made quite an impression on you for you to remember her after so short an encounter.”

Jordan met his friend’s speculation with stony silence. How could he explain the way Emily had affected him that night? He didn’t understand it himself. “It was enough to make me almost certain that this woman is
not
Lady Emma, but Emily Fairchild, engaged in some scheme of Nesfield’s making.”

“That man is the most humorless, self-important creature in all England—why would he indulge in something so risky to his reputation?”

“I don’t know. But I do know the woman I met, and I’d swear that’s her.”

“Well, I hope you’re wrong.”

“Why?” A horrible thought suddenly seized him. Ian was now watching Lady Emma, and at the sight of his intent scrutiny, another ridiculous spasm of jealous anger wracked Jordan. “You’re not thinking of courting her instead of Lady Sophie, are you?”

Ian shot him a sideways glance. “Perhaps. I’m ready to put an end to this search for a wife.”

With a fervency that astonished him, Jordan wanted to tear his best friend into little pieces.

“Judging from your murderous expression, however,” Ian went on with decided amusement in his tone, “I’d best not try it. I’m not the sort to fight over a woman.”

Devil take the man. Ian had merely been gauging his reaction. “I don’t care if you court the chit,” Jordan grumbled, trying futilely to regain lost ground. “But don’t expect me to pick up the pieces when I prove to be right.”

Ian laughed. “Now that I think about it, I don’t believe Lady Emma will suit me after all. Two dances with her told me that. Lady Sophie meets my requirements better. I want an easy wife, not some flirtatious, unruly Scot. I have no tolerance for breaking in wild fillies.”

Jordan wouldn’t mind having a go at breaking in this particular filly. Judging from that kiss in the garden, Lady Emma could make the most devout monk forswear his vows of celibacy. And Jordan was no monk.

But even if she were Emily, he needn’t refrain from seducing her—for it would mean she was a designing, lying wench and not the innocent he’d thought. For some reason, that possibility infuri
ated him. He’d liked Emily Fairchild exactly as she was.

“Look at her,” Jordan bit out. She’d taken a new partner, that idiot Wilkins. “She’s an incomparable actress. Well, I will expose her little game, whatever it is.”

“Why? What does it have to do with you?”

Ian wouldn’t understand. It was like discovering that the unicorn you revered for its magical powers was really a horse with a horn attached. It made you want to tear off the horn and kick the horse. “If she’s an impostor, people ought to know,” he grumbled.

“What rot! You’re not doing this for the good of society. You want that girl, and you want her badly. You’re besotted with the very sort of woman you’ve always avoided.” Ian’s smug smile broadened. “What a sweet revenge for all those women who’ve tumbled head over heels for you and received nothing for it but a cool glance.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m not besotted. I’m never besotted.”

“Then it should be a singular experience for you. Beware, my friend; they say it isn’t easy to dismiss love.” He added, only half-facetiously, “Protect your heart if you can.”

“No need,” Jordan retorted. “As Pollock is so fond of saying, my heart is made of granite. No one, and certainly not some pretty chit up to no good, shall change that.”

A
n hour later, Emily still couldn’t decide what bothered her most. That she’d fooled Jordan by giving him precisely what he wanted—a reckless interlude with an experienced woman—or that she’d played the wanton with such ease. What sort of wicked person could do that, could lie to a man and tease him so…so scandalously?

“You’re awfully quiet, Lady Emma,” said a voice at her side. “Are you bored?”

She glanced at Mr. Pollock and, as she’d been doing all evening, said what she thought Lady Emma might say. “Of course I’m bored. You city folk are so sedate. In Scotland, we’d have been dancing jigs until dawn, but already this ball seems to be ending. I’m quite put out over it.”

The two coxcombs who flanked Mr. Pollock laughed. He smirked at her, his eyes brightened by too much punch. “Yes, and those Scottish lads are wild, aren’t they? Walking about with nothing under their kilts. I imagine their jigs are…enlightening for a young lady, shall we say?”

It was a shocking thing to say to a girl at her coming out, and he probably knew it. Tamping down on her urge to chastise him, Emily instead tapped him playfully with her closed fan. “I see you take my meaning exactly. You English should try wearing kilts sometime. It would certain liven up these affairs.”

The three men laughed raucously, and Mr. Pollock the loudest. Then he leaned toward her, his voice lowering. “Name the time and place, Lady Emma, and I shall be happy to wear a kilt for you.”

She ignored the decidedly naughty implication behind the comment. “I wouldn’t dream of dressing you in a kilt when you already have such splendid attire.”

That seemed to please him enormously, which didn’t surprise her. Mr. Pollock, for all his blond good looks and devil-may-care manner, was what Lady Dundee would surely term a dandy. His head was perched above the largest number of folds she’d ever seen in a cravat, and from the unnatural way he moved, she guessed that the starched material chafed his neck. She could suggest a soothing ointment for it, but doubted he would appreciate it. Besides, Lady Emma wouldn’t know about such matters, would she?

“I wonder what your mother would think of your interest in kilts,” Mr. Pollock murmured.

“Mama doesn’t understand me at all,” she said in a conspiratorial voice. “These days she lets herself be guided by my Uncle Randolph, and he’s a sour old fart.”

Papa would have a nervous collapse to hear her use such language, but she secretly enjoyed shocking these pompous nobles—especially since she’d never have to suffer the long-term consequences of her outrageous behavior.

Oh, she was truly becoming wicked.

Mr. Pollock seemed to like it, however. He arched one finely plucked eyebrow. “Having had my share of set-tos with your uncle, I’d have to agree.”

Her heartbeat accelerated. Could he be the one? “Really? Has he insulted you, too?”

“Warned me away from your cousin, he did.”

“What did you do about it?” she asked, holding her breath for his answer.

Just then his two friends, peeved at being ignored, made their presence known. “Pollock, Blackmore’s scowling at us again,” one of them whined. “This time I think he’s really angry.”

Curse the fools, she thought as Pollock faced them, her question forgotten.

“Ignore him,” Pollock said harshly.

“Ignore him! I can’t ignore him. I invested in his latest concern, and I need that money. I think he—” The man hesitated, casting Emily an apologetic look. “I think he has his eye on Lady Emma, and I for one shan’t stand in his way.” He grabbed his friend’s elbow. “Come on, Farley, I’m parched. Let’s have some punch.”

As the two fops left, Emily seethed. How dare Jordan scare off the other men? How would she find out who’d been courting Sophie if he frightened them all away?

Her gaze shot across the room to where Jordan stood beside a Ming vase, downing champagne and scowling at the men who’d just left her side. How she’d dearly love to crack that vase over his head! The scoundrel hadn’t danced with anyone else this evening, further rousing people’s speculations about his interest in her. He’d probably done it purposely, curse him.

Suddenly he caught her looking at him, and his
scowl disappeared. With deliberate slowness, he allowed his gaze to drift down her gown as if he could see every inch of what lay beneath. He might as well have stroked her naked skin with his hand, for every place his gaze touched, her body grew all hot and tingly. When his eyes finally came back to hers, they were smoldering. Then he smiled insolently, knowingly, and to add insult to injury, lifted his glass in a mocking salute.

She snapped her gaze back to Pollock in utter mortification. The miserable wretch! When Emily Fairchild had wanted his attention, he’d thrust her away, but let a wanton like Lady Emma kiss him, and he broke out his best seduction techniques! No wonder Lord Nesfield suspected him of treachery. He was a cad! He deserved to be deceived, and oh, how she would enjoy doing it!

“Why aren’t you running off, too?” she challenged Mr. Pollock. “Aren’t you afraid of Lord Blackmore?”

“Not at all. We’re friends of a sort.” He leaned nearer, two spots of color rising in his pallid cheeks. “If you have an ounce of sense, Lady Emma, you’ll steer clear of him. He has no interest in a woman beyond the obvious. Don’t think you’ll snag him as a husband, because you won’t. He boasted to me only this evening of his granite heart. Even as lovely as you are, I doubt he’ll soften it for you. Beware of setting your cap for him.”

“Don’t worry; I find him rude, arrogant, and annoying. He doesn’t interest me at all.” A pity he kissed like the very devil and made her toes curl whenever he looked her over.

“I’m glad to hear it. I thought you might…be flattered by his attentions.”

“Not at all. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not
discuss Lord Blackmore. The subject gives me terrible indigestion.”

Mr. Pollock laughed. Then he began to describe his latest visit to his tailor, wringing a smile from her. Dear heavens, the man certainly placed great store by choosing the right clothes. She’d never met a man for whom examination of the cut of a waistcoat required at least an hour. How frivolous could one be? Emily Fairchild would have told him right out that he was wasting his life. Unfortunately, Lady Emma must pretend to find the tale enormously diverting.

A few minutes later, as Mr. Pollock was deep into his recitation of how he’d enlightened his tailor on the subject of waistcoats, she saw Lord St. Clair approaching beyond him. She mustn’t lose this opportunity to speak with the viscount in private and determine if he could have been Sophie’s love.

Waiting until Mr. Pollock paused, she said in a sugary voice, “I hate to trouble you, but would you be a darling and fetch me some punch? I’m simply parched.”

“I’d be delighted.” He gave her a gallant bow, then hurried off across the room. And none too soon, for she turned to find Lord St. Clair at her elbow.

He wasn’t classically handsome—his black brows were rather thick, his complexion a bit too dark, and his features too coarse for that. But he stood out among his pampered, perfectly coifed peers, and not only because of his great height. It was his eyes, black as sin and far too knowledgeable for a young woman’s comfort. It was hard to imagine timid little Sophie running off with him. But then, it was hard to imagine her running off
with any man, so Emily supposed it could be Lord St. Clair as easily as anybody else.

The smile he gave her was genuine, if a little formal. “You seem to have acquired several admirers, Lady Emma. Every time I turn around, you’re surrounded by men.”

She wasn’t sure she’d call them men. They were more like children, with their fawning and their petty arguments about whose horse could run a faster mile down Rotten Row. It was refreshing to speak to a man with a brain.

“I’m sure I’ll fall out of fashion by the next ball,” she quipped. “From what I’ve heard, the fashionable become unfashionable with every change of the wind.”

“It does seem that way sometimes.” A servant passed with a tray of champagne glasses. He took one and handed it to her. “I heard you say you were thirsty.”

“Yes.”

She fumbled for some way to bring the subject back to Sophie, but he surprised her by addressing a completely different topic. “I’ve come to apologize for my friend’s behavior earlier. He can be…odd sometimes when it comes to women.”

His mention of Jordan made her steal a glance toward the earl, who was glowering at them both. She deliberately turned her back to him. “Odd? From what I’ve heard, he has no use for women at all except for what they can provide him in bed.”

The scandalous statement seemed to surprise him. “I see you’ve been listening to Pollock. Don’t put too much stock in what he says. He envies Blackmore.”

“So Lord Blackmore did
not
boast about his heart of granite?”

“I have no idea. It does sound like something
he’d say. But no matter what he claims, he has the same vulnerable heart as most men. He’s merely erected a large shield around it.”

How very sad, she thought. “It sounds as if you know him well.”

“We’ve been friends since childhood, and we attended Eton together. There’s little we don’t know about each other.”

Emily fought back the urge to ask him about Jordan. Instead, she should be questioning him about Sophie. Dismissively, she remarked, “Well, I think he’s insolent and boorish.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Why? Because he mistook you for a rector’s daughter? You needn’t worry about that. I set him straight. He won’t trouble you with such nonsense anymore.”

“You don’t mean to say that he still thinks I’m this…Emily creature!”

Did she imagine his slight hesitation? “No, of course not. Your waltz seems to have disabused him of the notion.”

Thank heavens, the kiss had worked. This masquerade would be difficult enough, especially if Jordan were Lord St. Clair’s good friend.

“Actually,” the viscount went on, “I believe he’s as interested in you as he was the rector’s daughter.”

Emily’s pulse began a wild thumping.
Steady, now
, she cautioned her foolish heart.
It’s not me that Jordan finds interesting, but that wanton creature, Lady Emma. And he’s forbidden to both of us—now more than ever
.

“Well, I don’t return the interest, I assure you.” She tucked her hand in the crook of St. Clair’s elbow. “I much prefer you to him. You don’t spend the evening scowling at me.”

“I’m flattered, Lady Emma, but…” He paused.

“But what?”

“My interest lies with your cousin.”

Aha! Her flirting had finally turned up something useful. Odd that he’d announced his infatuation in such a cool manner, but Lord St. Clair didn’t seem the sort to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“Does she return your interest?” She held her breath. This masquerade might end tonight if he cooperated. It couldn’t end too soon for her.

“You mean she hasn’t mentioned me to you at all?” he said.

Oh, dear. She scrambled to rethink her tactics. “You must understand, we’ve had little chance to talk since my arrival. With this illness, she sleeps all the time and only rouses to take her medicine.”

The concern in his face seemed appropriate, though not excessive. “That sounds serious.”

“Not really,” she hastened to assure him. “I mean, it may
sound
serious, but I’m sure she’ll be fine after a few days’ rest.”

For a woman who’d been taught that lying was an awful sin, she’d certainly learned the art of it quickly. Obviously wickedness was as easy as it was wrong.

She was saved from more lies when Lady Dundee emerged from the crowd and bore down on them like a mother elephant thundering to the rescue of her calf. “Where have you been, you naughty girl? I told you not to stray too far!”

It took Emily a second to remember her role as willful “daughter,” but her response was quick. “I refuse to follow you about like a ninny, Mama. I intend to enjoy myself, no matter what you and Uncle Randolph intend.”

Lady Dundee whipped out her fan and worked it furiously. “The very idea! That a young girl should think of enjoyment before her elders’
wishes—what is the world coming to?” She leaned toward Lord St. Clair, her tone conspiratorial. “I do hope you’ll keep an eye on my daughter. You’ve been so very solicitous of Sophie that I know I can trust you to be a good influence on this willful creature here.”

“I’ll do my best to curb her youthful impulses,” Lord St. Clair answered, flashing Emily a sympathetic glance over the countess’s head.

Emily bit back a smile. Obviously, the countess also believed Lord St. Clair to be a likely suspect for Sophie’s love.

Mr. Pollock suddenly emerged from the crowd to join them, a glass of punch in his hand. He glanced sullenly at Lord St. Clair and the untouched champagne in her hand, then gave her the punch. “It’s the last of it, Lady Emma. I think you were right about the ball ending.”

Lady Dundee fixed her penetrating gaze on Mr. Pollock. “Of course it’s ending. I’m told Merrington’s affairs never go late. Our young ladies need their rest.”

She glanced quizzically at Emily, who gave her the barest nod to indicate that Mr. Pollock was one of her suspects. Then the countess bestowed a regal smile on both men. “So I fear we must be on our way as well. We’re attending a breakfast tomorrow.”

“Which one?” Lord St. Clair asked.

Lady Dundee snapped her fan closed. “Lady Astramont’s. Perhaps we’ll see you there?”

“If I may caution you,” Mr. Pollock offered, “Lady Astramont is terribly unfashionable. Only the most tedious people attend her affairs. I fear you’ll be bored to tears.”

“Probably,” Lady Dundee said with an impatient wave of her bejeweled fingers. “But she’s an
old friend of mine. We came out at the same time. I can’t slight her by not attending her breakfast on the one occasion when I am in town.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Lord St. Clair said smoothly. “And may I express my hope that Lady Sophie will be well enough to attend also.”

“I’m afraid that’s unlikely. But she’ll be fine at home while Randolph and I take Emily to the breakfast.” She tugged on Emily’s arm. “Come, girl, you need your rest. We don’t want you falling ill, too.”