To Taste Temptation (25 page)

“It’ll be all over. I’m sure time and distance will make a great difference.” Emeline said the words sturdily, as if she completely believed them, but inside she was not so certain.

And no matter her words, Melisande must’ve sensed the doubt. Her eyebrows were up almost to her hairline again. But her friend didn’t comment. She simply stood and gave one of her rare signs of affection.

Melisande drew Emeline into her thin chest and hugged her tightly. “Good luck, then, dear. I hope your plan works.”

And Emeline laid her head against her friend’s shoulder and prayed, eyes squeezed shut, that her plan would work. If it didn’t, she had nowhere else to run.

Murder! cried the guards. Murder! cried the lords and ladies of the court. Murder! cried the people of the Shining City. And all Iron Heart could do was clasp his head in his bloodied hands. The princess cried and begged, first to her mute husband that he might break his silence and explain what he had done, and then to her father for mercy, but in the end, it was no use. The king had no choice but to sentence Iron Heart to death by fire, the execution to be carried out before the next dawn....

—from
Iron Heart

“It was a lovely party, wasn’t it?” Rebecca broke an hour’s silence with her tentative question.

Sam tore his gaze from the gloomy scenery rolling past and tried to focus on his younger sister. She was sitting across from him in their rented carriage, looking forlorn, which was his fault, he knew. It had been three days since Emeline had quit the house party so abruptly. He hadn’t even known she was gone until long after she hadn’t shown for luncheon on the day they’d made love in the corridor. By the time he discovered her flight, she’d had a two-hour start.

Still, he would’ve followed her if Rebecca hadn’t talked some sense into him. She’d begged him to stay, pointing out the scandal he’d create if he pursued Lady Emeline so soon after she’d left. Personally, he didn’t care two figs about possible wagging tongues. But Rebecca was a different matter entirely. She’d been spending quite a bit of time with several of the young ladies from good English families. Scandal would kill any budding friendships.

Sam had tamped down his raging need to hunt Emeline, catch her, and hold her until she came to her senses and stayed by him. He’d sat on his hands and made polite conversation with giggling girls and insipid matrons. He’d dressed in his best clothes, played idiot games, and ate overly rich foods. And at night he’d dreamed of her snapping tongue and her soft, warm breasts. For three days, he’d restrained himself, until finally members of the house party had begun to leave and Rebecca deemed it appropriate for them to depart Hasselthorpe House as well. It had been three days of hell, but that was hardly Rebecca’s fault, and he was a cad to be such a boring traveling partner.

He tried to make up for the hours of silence she’d endured. “Did you enjoy the party?”

“Yes.” She smiled at him in relief. “At the end, many of the other young ladies were talking to me and the Hopedale sisters have invited me to come have tea with them some afternoon in London.”

“They should’ve been talking to you at the beginning of the party.”

“They had to get to know me, didn’t they? It’s really not all that different from people at home.”

“Do you like it here in England?” he asked softly.

She hesitated, then shrugged. “I suppose so.” She looked down thoughtfully at her hands in her lap. “And what about you? Do you like England enough to stay here with Lady Emeline?”

He hadn’t expected such a blunt query, although he should have. Rebecca was a very perceptive girl. When they’d arrived in London, he’d planned on staying only long enough to do his business with Mr. Wedgwood and look into the Spinner’s Falls massacre. Now his business was finished, and soon he hoped to talk to Thornton and clear up Spinner’s Falls as well. What then? “I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

He glanced at Rebecca impatiently. “She hasn’t stood still long enough for me to talk to her, for one thing.”

Rebecca watched him for a moment, then asked hesitantly, “Do you love her?”

“Yes.” He answered without considering the matter, but he found that it was true. Somehow, without his even realizing it, he’d fallen in love with his prickly Emeline. The thought was strange and at the same time perfectly natural, as if he’d known all along that she was the woman he needed. It was a joyous feeling, as if he’d been waiting all his life for this missing piece.

“You should tell her, you know.”

He looked at his sister in exasperation. “Thank you for tutoring me in love. I’ll tell her as soon as the lady permits me to catch her.”

She giggled. “And then what will you do?”

He thought of Lady Emeline and how she argued with him every chance she got. He thought of how far apart they were in rank. He thought about the fear she tried to hide, successfully with everyone, it seemed, but him. He thought about how startled she looked when she fell apart in his arms, as if she couldn’t fathom not being in control of everything around her, including her body. And he thought about the sadness he sometimes saw in her eyes. He wanted to hold that sadness, cradle it and comfort it until it turned to happiness. He wanted to feel her hands on him again, like the night she’d bound his broken feet, soothing him, laying her balm on his soul. She’d warmed him. She’d healed him.

And he knew what he would do. He grinned at his sister. “I’ll marry her, of course.”

“W
HY ISN’T
M
R
. Hartley home yet?” Daniel asked.

Emeline looked up in time to see her only child poke a piece of paper into the fire in her room. The paper caught and Daniel dropped it just before the flame reached his fingers. The burning sheet fluttered down, fortunately landing in the hearth rather than on her carpet.

She paused in writing out a series of last-minute instructions for the party tonight. “Dearest, would you mind not setting Mother’s room afire? I don’t think Harris would be particularly pleased.”

“Aww.”

“And I’d rather you not burn up your fingers. They are quite useful, you know, and you might need them in later life.”

Daniel grinned at this silliness and came over to climb into a chair near her desk. She winced as his shoes scraped against the satin chair cushion but decided not to comment. It was nice to have him here with her again after being separated so long.

He leaned on her desk, his chin in his crossed arms. “He must come back soon, mustn’t he?”

Emeline looked back at her writing, struggling to maintain a composed expression. She didn’t have to ask who Daniel was referring to; he was a tenacious child and obviously wouldn’t give up the subject of their neighbor—her lover—easily.

“I don’t know, dear. I’m not privy to Mr. Hartley’s plans.”

Daniel scratched one finger across her blotter, wrinkling his nose as he made an indent in the paper with his fingernail. “But he is coming back?”

“I assume so.” Emeline inhaled. “I believe Cook was making pear tarts in the kitchen today. Perhaps you should go see if they are done.”

Usually the mention of freshly made tarts would be an immediate distraction for her son.

Not today. “I hope he comes back. I like him.”

And her heart contracted. Three simple words and she was reduced to near tears. Carefully, she laid aside her pen. “I like him, too, but Mr. Hartley has his own life to lead. He can’t be always around to entertain you, to entertain us.”

Daniel was still watching his fingernail, his bottom lip beginning to protrude now.

She tried to make her voice cheerful. “There’s always Lord Vale. You like him, too, don’t you? I can see if he’d escort us to Hyde Park.” Her son’s lip protruded farther. “Or...or to a fair or perhaps even fishing.”

Daniel cocked his head to look at her skeptically. “Fishing?”

Emeline tried to picture Jasper with a fishing pole, standing beside a rushing river. Her imaginary Jasper immediately slipped, flailed wildly, and fell into the river.

She winced. “Maybe not fishing.”

Daniel was back to pressing half-moon shapes into her blotter. “Lord Vale’s all right, but he doesn’t have a big rifle.”

Faint praise indeed.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she said softly.

She looked down at the papers scattered on her desk, at the instructions she’d been writing, and her vision blurred. She felt as if her heart were breaking. Damn Samuel for ever coming into their lives. For seeking her out at Mrs. Conrad’s salon that first day, for talking to her son so gently, for making her feel again.

She gasped at the thought. That was the real problem. He’d made her feel again, cracked the shell that had hardened around her emotions and left her defenseless and vulnerable. She was too raw now, her skin too soft. How long would this feeling last? How long before she could grow another shell? She looked at Daniel, her beautiful boy. He was growing so fast. It seemed like he’d been a tender little babe only yesterday, and today she worried for her furniture with his big shoes. Did she even want to shield herself from emotion again?

Impulsively, she leaned forward, her head nearly touching his. “It’ll be all right. It really will. I’ll make sure it is.”

One side of his face scrunched up in thought. “But can it be all right with Mr. Hartley?”

“No, dear.” She straightened and turned so that he wouldn’t see the sadness in her eyes. “I don’t think it can.”

“But—”

They both looked up as the door opened and Tante Cristelle entered the room. The old lady looked at her with a gaze that had always been too sharp.

Emeline turned back to Daniel. “I must speak with Tante now. Why don’t you see if those pear tarts are done yet? Perhaps Cook will let you sample one.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Daniel wasn’t happy at the dismissal, but he’d always been a good boy. He slid off the chair and made a half bow to his aunt before slipping from the room.

“That one missed you most severe while you were away.” The lines around Tante Cristelle’s mouth became more pronounced in her disapproval. “I do not think it is well that he is so close with you.”

This conversation was old, and normally Emeline might argue, but today she didn’t have the heart. She gathered her papers silently. Behind her she heard the thump of Tante Cristelle’s cane on the Persian carpet and then felt the old woman’s frail hand on her shoulder. She looked up into wise eyes.

“It is the right thing that you do tonight; never fear that.” Tante Cristelle patted her once—an extreme outpouring of affection—and walked from the room.

Leaving Emeline with eyes once again filled with tears.

B
Y THE TIME
the carriage pulled up outside Sam’s town house, it had been dark for hours. A late start combined with a wait for fresh horses at one of the inns had made the journey back to London an overlong one. And then, once they had turned into the street where they lived, there had been an uncommon crush of carriages. Someone must be hosting a ball. As Samuel stepped down and turned to help Rebecca from the carriage, he realized that the lights were blazing in the house next to his. Emeline’s house.

“Is Lady Emeline having a party?” Rebecca asked. She hesitated before the steps. “I didn’t know she would be throwing one, did you?”

Sam slowly shook his head. “Obviously we weren’t invited.”

He saw her glance swiftly at him. “Perhaps she planned it before she met us. Or...or she might not have expected us back from the country so soon.”

“Yes, that must be it,” he said grimly.

The little witch was thumbing her nose at him, showing him that he had no part in her London life. He knew that he shouldn’t rise to the bait, but his hands had already bunched into fists, his legs twitching, ready to stride into her house and confront her. He grimaced. Now was not the time.

He relaxed his fists and held out his arm to his sister. “Shall we see if Cook can lay out a cold supper for us?”

She smiled up at him. “Yes, let’s.”

He led her up the front steps and inside, all the while aware of the house next door and the elegantly dressed guests arriving for Emeline’s party. He sat his sister in the dining room, ordered a simple supper, and was even able to make polite conversation while they ate. But his mind was elsewhere, imagining Emeline in her most elegant gown, her bosom glowing white and erotic in the light of thousands of candles.

After they ate, Rebecca excused herself, already yawning. Sam went to the library and poured himself a glass of French brandy. He paused and held the glass up to the light. The liquid shown translucent amber. When he was growing up, his father had drunk homemade spirits, bought from a family ten miles away through the woods. Sam had once taken a sip. The drink had been clear like water and hot, burning his throat as he swallowed. Had Pa ever drunk French brandy in his entire life? Maybe once while visiting Uncle Thomas in the big city of Boston. But it would have been an exotic thing, something special to be savored and thought about for days afterward.

Sam sank into a gilt armchair. He didn’t belong here; he knew that. There was too wide a gulf between the life he’d led as a boy and the life he led now. A man could change only so much in one lifetime. He would never fully fit into English society, and he didn’t really want to. This was the life that Emeline led. The beautiful town houses, the French brandy, the balls that continued until well past midnight. The ocean that yawned wide between her world and his—both metaphorically and physically—was too great a distance. He knew all that, had considered it many times before.

And it didn’t matter.

He gulped the rest of the brandy and rose with purpose. He needed to see Emeline. Worlds apart or no, she was a woman and he was a man. Some things were basic.

Outside his town house, he saw that the lights still blazed next door. Coachmen sat huddled on their perches, a few running footmen stood together, passing a bottle between them. He leapt up Emeline’s front steps and was confronted with a burly footman. The man made a move as if to block his path.