Luck Is No Lady (2 page)

He dipped his chin and a chuckle rumbled from his chest. “The lady was quite persistent.”

She arched an eyebrow, though she knew he couldn't see it. “And I suppose you concealed yourself in order to safeguard her dubious honor?”

“Indeed,” he said with a slow nod. “I am devoted to protecting fair ladies from the dire consequences of their own reckless behavior.”

“How fortunate for me to have bumped into you when I did,” Emma replied wryly. As odd as it was, she was enjoying their unusual and anonymous banter. It was wonderfully liberating to be so bold.

“It was my pleasure.”

His words curled around her in the darkness, recalling her to the potential danger he still presented. He had not made any inappropriate advances beyond his initial embrace, but there was no denying her vulnerability should he choose to be more forward.

The encounter had gone on long enough. She turned to reach for the edge of the curtain, intending to sweep it aside. “Though I am grateful for your assistance, it is time for me to go.”

“If you wish,” he replied in a lighter tone, “but Marwood is likely still lying in wait just beyond this room.”

Emma started and looked back at the stranger's shadowed form. “How did you know it was Lord Marwood?”

“I recognized his labored wheeze and wide-stepped gait. Not to mention in addition to his insatiable hunger for beautiful young women, Marwood is well-known for enjoying a good chase.”

Emma remained still as she considered his words. He could be right. The thought of running into Lord Marwood out in the hall swamped her with trepidation. But to stay where she was…alone in the private alcove with a shameless rogue…

“I can promise not to ravish you if it makes you more comfortable.” His voice was colored with dark amusement.

A shiver trickled down her spine, but she countered boldly. “You can make such a promise, but I would be a fool to take you at your word.”

“Have I given you reason to doubt me?”

“Just a moment ago when you suggested you had no honor.”

“Right, there was that,” he replied with a distinct lack of concern. “You seem to be in the midst of a quandary. Risk capture at the hands of Marwood or stay here with me.”

Emma searched the shadows concealing the stranger's face. Her eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness, but it was not enough to discern any details beyond the faint suggestion of strong masculine features. One of the windows must have been open a crack because a cooling breath of air crossed her bare shoulders. She resisted the urge to shiver. Her instinct prompted her to trust him, but she was far too practical to rely on that alone.

“Who are you?” she murmured.

“Do you really want to know?” His voice held a note of challenge, as if he understood her wariness and welcomed it.

“No,” she answered quickly. Her curiosity had momentarily overridden her sense. She glanced away. The punch she had drunk earlier must have been spiked with something more potent. She was feeling light-headed, and her thoughts were not following the path of discernment they usually frequented. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she considered her next course of action and realized, with some surprise, her headache had completely dissipated.

For the last several minutes, she had ceased to worry over the future and the bills continuing to pile up since Father's death. She had even almost forgotten about the exorbitant loan her father had accepted from the ruthless Mr. Mason Hale just prior to his death—a loan Emma had no means of paying back, despite the threatening demands she had received from Hale in the last months. But her brief reprieve had to end. Who knew what trouble her sisters may have gotten into during the time she had been gone.

“I must return to the ball,” she murmured more to herself than to her companion. A long silence followed, during which Emma stared at that narrow strip of light indicating the edge of the curtain. She should leave. Of course, she should leave. But if so, why were her feet so firmly rooted to the floor?

“Yet here you remain,” the stranger remarked.

Emma looked back at his silhouette against the charcoal night beyond the window. His broad shoulders were squared to her and his head was tipped to the side. It was as though he was studying her through the muted darkness, though he couldn't possibly see her any better than she could see him.

After another moment, he gave a slow nod. “Ah, I think I understand. Have you tired of the hunt already?”

Emma sighed. He thought she was a debutante in pursuit of a husband. She would not dissuade him of the notion. “It may be fair to say I abhor it.”

Though her reply was misleading, it wasn't untruthful.

Emma hated the anxiety inherent in watching Lily and Portia wade through the marriage market with their hearts vulnerable to anyone who might use or abuse them. The vigilance required to keep them both free of potential harm was exhausting.

“I thought all debutantes reveled in the challenge of scouring the balls and soirees for the perfect mate.”

“Perhaps,” Emma replied thoughtfully, picturing the many bright-eyed girls who floated past her frequent position among the chaperones. “I imagine most young ladies are motivated by the idea of meeting a dashing gentleman who will sweep them off into a world of romance and adventure.”

“You do not share their idealistic perspective?”

Emma smiled and shook her head. Even when a debutante herself, she had not harbored such delusions. “I have never put much faith in the stuff of fairy tales.”

“Good girl,” he said in an approving tone. “Better to be sensible and see the world for what it is than to have your illusions shattered after you've built them up to epic proportions.”

“Have your own illusions suffered such tragedy?” she asked, curious about what had formed his pragmatic opinion.

His laugh was low and disconcerting in the darkness. He shifted his weight to push away from the wall, uncrossing his arms. There was nothing specifically threatening in his movements as he went from a relaxed posture to the more ready stance, but a ripple of caution spread through Emma's body. She would have taken a step back, but to do so would have thrust her beyond the fall of the curtain. So she stood as she was, though his increased proximity made her skin tingle and her chest feel tight.

“Sweetheart, the stark reality of life was made clear to me from the day I was born.”

“Perhaps you were fortunate,” she said quietly, thinking of the pain that comes with disillusionment.

“Not many would see it that way.”

There was something in the tone of his response that reached out to her through the darkness. It carried with it a sort of kindred perception, as if they understood each other in a way requiring no deeper explanation.

Emma cleared her throat, unnerved by the sense of familiarity infusing the moment. Giving herself a mental shake, she recalled her responsibilities. She needed to return to the ballroom, but first, she had to ensure her foolish flight had not resulted in any lasting damage.

Tipping her chin to gaze up at the shadowed face of the stranger, she asked, “May I have your word you will allow me to depart your company anonymously?”

He took a slow breath, as if he had to think about her request.

Emma tensed. She was at the mercy of his whim. If he chose to follow her into the candlelight of the room, he would see her face and could easily determine her identity. If he decided to spread tales of their encounter, her reputation would be forfeit and her sisters would suffer the consequences along with her.

After a moment, he said, “Do me one small favor and I will remain blindly behind the curtain while you make your escape.”

A tremor ran through her, but Emma squared her shoulders. She had no choice but to hear him out. “What sort of favor?”

“Do you know how to tie a neckcloth?” he asked.

She blinked, unsure if she had heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“I cannot return to the ball in my current disheveled condition, and I have no idea how to rectify the state of my cravat.”

Reminded of what he had been doing only moments before she had come upon his hiding spot brought a flush of warmth to her cheeks and created a strange hollowness in her stomach. She would have loved to refuse him, to say she had no skill with such a task, but it wasn't exactly the truth.

“You do, don't you?” His tone was confident.

Emma replied with reluctance. “I used to tie my father's.”

“Consider it a quick favor from one friend to another. Then you shall be on your way with no one the wiser as to how you spent the last quarter hour.”

Emma could come up with no good reason to refuse, and truly, to keep her identity a secret and the reputation of her family secure, it was not too much to ask. She took a step toward him and lifted her hands to the loose ends of his cravat.

“Do not expect something of high fashion,” she warned in a soft murmur. “I know only one formal style, and it is quite outdated.”

It was a design her father had taught her years ago when her parents still socialized, before her mother's illness and her father's descent. He'd had a valet back then for everything else, but the styling of his neckcloth was reserved for his eldest daughter.

“Sweetheart, anything you can manage would be appreciated,” he drawled.

Taking another step closer in order to comfortably reach up to his throat, she began to twist and fold the neckcloth into a style she had re-created many times before. Warmth emanated from the stranger and cool night air drifted around her. There was a solid strength to his body as he stood still and accommodating beneath her hands. The sound of his breath began to match the rhythm of her own and the light-headedness she had experienced earlier returned in a rush.

Her fingers fumbled through the familiar movements as what should have been a simple task became weighted with acute expectancy.

By the time she smoothed the edges of the cravat beneath his coat, Emma's breath was tight and her pulse beat in a frantic rhythm. Craving distance and a safe return of her faculties, she shifted her weight to step back, but her retreat was brought to a halt when he lifted his hands to cup her face.

“One more thing,” he murmured. Then his mouth covered hers.

She had not yet lowered her hands, and they flattened against his chest as she tensed in shock. Her stomach went into a tizzy of uncontrollable flutters, and what remaining sensible thoughts she may have had were sent spiraling from her head.

He pressed his fingertips into the hollow at the base of her skull and propped his thumbs beneath her chin, holding her in place to accept the exquisite pressure of his lips. He took a step closer and his feet stirred the fall of her skirts as his body bumped gently against hers. Then he tilted his head and his mouth softened in unspoken entreaty, as if he were asking for something more.

Emma had never been kissed before, and as his mouth moved over hers, she found herself utterly unprepared for the sensations it evoked. She never could have anticipated the delicious heaviness invading her limbs or the tingling that rushed through her blood. When he pulled on her lips, as if trying to draw something from her, her body tightened deep inside with a yearning that came on so swiftly it startled her.

It finally recalled her to her senses—the inexplicable need that overtook all rational thought. Emma was not accustomed to such a complete destruction of mental acuity, and it frightened her.

She tensed the curve of her lower back. The resistance was small, but it was enough, and he lifted his head. Emma fought the urge to run her tongue over her lips. Though he had ended the kiss, he did not step back or release his hands from her face.

“Are you certain you wish to remain unknown to each other?” he whispered darkly. His voice felt like a caress. “We could continue this encounter in a more comfortable location. Somewhere just as private, lit by candlelight.”

“You should not have kissed me,” she replied breathlessly as her thoughts began to reorganize themselves and a raw panic seeped into her bones.

“I do a lot of things I shouldn't. It does not mean I won't do them again.”

Her alarm intensified at the thought of him kissing her again. She could not let that happen, not when his first kiss had been so unsettling. A second might be devastating.

“Not with me, you won't.” She pushed against him. This time he stepped back and dropped his hands to his sides. The loss of his warmth was tangible, but she ignored the shiver that coursed over her skin. “Remember our agreement. You said you would not follow.”

She grasped the edge of the curtain and drew it aside just enough to slip into the room beyond. Her stride was steady as she crossed to the door, despite the riot of sensations still claiming her. Before stepping from the dim study into the well-lit hall, she glanced over her shoulder to note that the curtain was still and solemn behind her.

He had kept his word.

Emma made it back to the ballroom without mishap. Furtively scanning for Marwood, she maintained a sedate pace as she returned to the area reserved for chaperones and aged matriarchs.

The ladies were gathered on settees and cushioned chairs in a corner of the ballroom. Their chosen location provided the best vantage point from which to view the activities of the party and endeavor to keep a close watch on their young charges. Emma placed her back to the wall beside her great-aunt and turned her anxious gaze to the dance floor. Within a few minutes she was assured neither of her sisters had suffered any disasters in her absence. She also allowed herself to hope Lord Marwood had departed the party altogether, since she saw no sign of him anywhere.

With a wave of relief on both counts, she took a steadying breath and prepared to continue through the next few hours of the evening, behaving as if nothing untoward had just happened…even though her skin still tingled with heightened sensitivity, her heart continued to beat heavily against her ribs, and her equilibrium had flipped on its head.

Her great-aunt glanced up in surprise when she noticed Emma standing beside her.

Though Emma was their legal guardian, she was not qualified to be her sisters' chaperone. The Dowager Countess of Chelmsworth—Angelique, as the lady insisted everyone call her—was the aged widow of her mother's uncle and had been the only available option to fill that important role. Her many decades spent amongst the
ton
afforded her the right knowledge and influence to assist in steering the younger Chadwick girls through the necessary introductions and away from any potential pitfalls.

Still, Emma had been wary when she sent the letter to her great-aunt, requesting her chaperonage.

As a young widow, Angelique had gained the reputation of being a bit of a hoyden.

At nearly eighty years old, her eccentricities had grown to a point where she was believed by many to be rather out of touch with reality.

Emma was not in complete disagreement with the assessment, based on her own experience with the lady in the last few weeks. But despite her oddities, Angelique carried significant weight in social circles and certainly qualified, at least, as a figurehead chaperone, as long as Emma took on the more vital responsibilities of the position.

“Darling, what happened to your dance partner?” Angelique asked, the French accent she hadn't lost despite the many decades she had been in England still prevalent in her speech. She lifted one blue-veined hand and moved her fingers in an extravagant and graceful gesture. “Should you not be twirling about on the floor?”

Emma smiled, as she had the many other times her great-aunt confused her with one of her sisters. One wouldn't think it would be so difficult to keep them separate. Though the sisters resembled each other to a significant degree, Emma was the only Chadwick with the fair hair of their mother.

“I am not here for dancing, remember?” Emma replied. “This is Lily and Portia's debut.”

Angelique's frown caused her thinly drawn eyebrows to curl dramatically. “That is ridiculous, darling. It is a ball. All young ladies dance at a ball, no?”