"I. . . No, I'm afraid I won't be back for the ball. In fact, I will have to miss the Season entirely. You must—"
Emma paused to think how much to say. "I'm afraid I created quite a scandal earlier. You may wish to disavow my presence here this evening."
Lord
Osbourne
huffed. "We will disavow you entirely if it suits us, but it will not. Now what is this nonsense about quitting town for the whole Season?"
"Oh, it is your wardrobe, isn't it?" his wife cried. "Everything is so dreadfully expensive. You must stay with us, dear girl. There is no need to waste money on your own apartments; we have fifteen empty chambers here! Stay with us and we will see to your dresses."
Emma held up both hands. "No, no. I cannot. It is not my lack of funds, or not entirely. And it's not even my disgrace, though that would be enough. It's clear that my nerves cannot take the gaiety and energy of the Season. Why, even the winter rounds have me tired beyond belief. No, I will retire to the country for the summer. I'm afraid that
Denmore
passed his passion for gardening on to me."
Lady
Osbourne
did not give up. "But we have gardens here!"
Emma shook her head, and Lord
Osbourne
exchanged a meaningful look with his wife before he reached for Emma's hand.
"We will miss you. You have become as a daughter to us. You must promise to return in the fall to stay here. We are old enough to delight in scandal as we no longer create any of our own."
Lady
Osbourne
slapped his arm and giggled like a young girl.
"Nothing public at any rate," he said with a raised brow.
Emma smiled past her tightening throat. "Thank you so much. Your friendship has meant everything to me. Everything. Please remember that."
She rose to her feet and was enveloped in the plump arms of Lady
Osbourne
. After long hugs and several motherly kisses, Emma was free to go, but her feet felt heavy as she descended to the drive.
She'd arrived in London already anticipating her triumphant exit, and now that it was time to leave she couldn't quite imagine it. She would be an impostor in her next life too, though she'd be pretending at respectability instead of worldliness. But the effect would be the same. She would be lonely, without real friends. But everything would be better soon. It must be.
"Where to, ma'am?" her driver asked as he handed her up. Emma tripped over her skirt and fell hard into the seat.
"I don't. . ." Where was she going? Home, she supposed, but she remembered Hart's carriage. He'd arrived at the
Tunwitty's
in the full force of the drama she'd created. He would have been furious. More than furious. Enraged. And he might very well have gone straight to her home, might be there still. Waiting.
"Ma'am?"
But she had nowhere to go. She could not damage Lancaster's chances of finding a wife by driving up to his front step like a whore making her rounds.
"Drive to my street, but not to my door. Turn 'round the corner and stop there."
"Ma'am." He tipped his hat and betrayed not an ounce of incredulity as he closed the door and shut her up in darkness.
Her weary body urged her to lie down on her seat, to lay her head on her arms and curl her legs beneath warm skirts. But if she gave in now, she was sure she would dissolve into a useless mass of jelly, weak and unsure of herself. So she kept her spine rigid and did not let it touch the seatback as they passed from the hulking luxury of the mansions of Regent's Park to the beautiful rows of Mayfair.
Somerhart
lived here, in the heart of the fashionable district. She wondered idly how many properties he owned, and which one he would bury her on, given the chance.
They turned a corner, and the bright lights of Mayfair fell behind them. St. James now, then
Belgrave
. And finally her street.
Her shoulders grew tighter, froze to rock when the coach leaned around a corner before rocking to a stop. Emma eased toward the window, squinting into the night. A light drizzle began to patter against the glass, obscuring her view. She could just make out her door and there was no fuming duke standing before it.
But he could be inside, he could be in his carriage watching for her, he could be careening through the streets right this moment, racing toward her home. Shivers raced from her belly outward.
It hadn't been Hart who'd betrayed her. She could no longer pretend to ease her guilt with his transgressions. He'd been unfailingly honest with her, and she had lied at every turn. But he was a rich, powerful, degenerate duke, so why should she care?
Her lonely door shone wet in the faint light of the corner lamp. How sad it looked, and censuring. She would walk out that door tomorrow and disappear. Hart would never know anything about her but her lies. She would leave him with nothing but humiliation. She wanted to leave him with more, wanted more for herself.
If he was in there, waiting, she owed him this confrontation at least. The chance to call her every foul name he could. The chance to vent his hurt. And he would be hurt.
She should go in. She should.
There was nowhere else to go.
Her hand moved toward the handle, then the carriage dipped to one side and she heard the driver yell, "Hey!"
Emma's heart stopped as the far door swung open. She cringed into the corner, not certain what Hart would do, but fearing it all the same.
Then a little face popped into view. "
Stimp
?"
"Get off my damn carriage, you worthless rat!" the driver yelled.
Stimp
jumped inside, demanding, "And where've you been?"
The box rocked from side to side as the driver began to descend.
"It's fine," Emma called. "This rat is known to me."
Stimp's
jaw edged out. "
Yer
in big trouble."
"Being paid to spy on me again?"
"Oh, not just that. I'm to send for him when I see you. The man's furious."
"Yes, I know."
"And he seemed quite drunk by the time he left off waiting in his shiny carriage. Murder in 'is eyes."
Somehow just knowing made Emma feel bolder. "Drunk and murderous and you mean to scurry off and bring him straight to my door?"
The stubborn chin inched up. "Can you pay me better?"
"Perhaps."
"But you'll pay me once and then not at all. I'm practically on His Grace's payroll." He shrugged, conveying his sympathy but no regret.
Emma turned away to stare again at the sad door that led to her sad little home. Hart was furious. And drunk. And determined to make her pay.
The shivers in Emma's belly intensified until she felt she couldn't breathe. She'd made her decision. She could finally afford to be foolish.
"No need to inform him,
Stimp
. I'll find him myself."
His little face scrunched up. "I don't believe you."
Emma pulled off her soiled gloves and tossed them onto the opposite seat. "Believe me or not, but I'll not sit here and wait to be cornered. Now out of my carriage. If the man wants a fight, he'll get it."
He could not believe it, even hours later.
Scandalous as she was—defiant and reckless and sensual—Hart could not believe she'd offered up her body in a bet.
He told himself she hadn't meant it and wouldn't have followed through with it. Hell, Hart wouldn't have
let
her. But that did not change the fact that she'd publicly offered herself to another man as she'd refused Hart even a hint of private affection.
We are not nice,
she'd said. "No," Hart growled to the empty library, "we are not nice. Not anymore."
The tenderness he'd begun to feel, the dreaded caring, had been pushed down into his gut, condensed into a burning, writhing knot of hatred. He was doing his best to drown it, but liquor was flammable, after all.
Hart clenched his fingers tighter around the leaded crystal in his hands. The scrapes on his knuckles burned like fire when a little bourbon sloshed over the side of the glass and dribbled over his fingers. That bastard Marsh had had it coming. Hart wished he'd gotten more than two blows in before the other gentlemen had intervened. They'd claimed it wasn't fair to continue beating an unconscious man. Hart had loudly disagreed.
Despite that he was alone, Hart growled several heartfelt curses before he tossed back the last of the bourbon and reached for the
bellpull
.
He knew he'd only made the whole thing worse by confronting Marsh. He realized now that it would have been a simple thing to imply that he and Emma had severed their friendship long before. Then there would only have been nods of sympathy and a few congratulations at having the wisdom to cut Lady
Denmore
loose. But there had been no thinking for Hart. There had only been blind, howling fury, prodded on by unexpected pain.
"Your Grace?"
"This bottle's empty."
"Sir." His butler bowed from the room and returned within seconds. Hart was thinking that the man must be a god of anticipation, but then he noticed that his hands were empty.
"Now, Morton."
"Of course, Your Grace. But the footman informs me you have a visitor."
Hart blinked, and even he could tell that his eyelids were moving slowly. "
Stimp
?"
"No, sir, a Lady
Denmore
. Shall I see her in?"
He blinked even more slowly this time as he tried to think past the bourbon and nod at the same time. Was there some other Lady
Denmore
? It could not be Emma. She wouldn't be so foolish. He felt a sudden fear for what he might do to her if she walked through those doors, and then she walked through and Hart's lethargy vanished.
The liquor burned off in the heat of his rage. He pushed to his feet with no trouble at all and no hint of unsteadiness. Emma stared at him, unafraid, and Hart felt a smile twist his lips. She should be afraid. She should be terrified.
"What have we here?" He looked her over, taking in the lovely amber-gold dress that made her skin glow like cream pearl. Her breasts were pushed high, her waist cinched tight He'd never seen her look more beautiful. "A foolish lamb."
"You are the lion, I assume?"
"Oh, I am."
Morton had closed the door behind her and she still stood only a few feet from it. She seemed surrounded by a soft gold aura against the dark wood of his library. Her hair picked up the color of her dress in streaks of lighter brown.
She took a deep breath. Her breasts rose, straining against the bodice. "I was told you sought me out, Your Grace."
"And you obliged by coming to me?"
"I did."
"Emma," he sighed in mock empathy. "Tut-tut. That was an incredibly stupid thing to do."
She crossed her arms over her stomach. "How so? I assume that you wish to chastise me for my behavior."
Hart cocked his head and strolled across the wide room, drawing closer in slow increments that inched his blood toward a boil. "Is that what you assumed?" Her arms tightened. "That I wished to chastise you? How very naive, Emma. I am not your guardian to offer wisdom and guidance. I am not your father. I don't wish to chastise you, Emma."
He drew within a foot of her, and watched her breathing grow fast and shallow. "I wish . . ." Her eyes followed his hand as he raised it to drag one finger along her collarbone. "I wish to punish you."
She inhaled. The tops of her breasts brushed his knuckles. "I've done nothing .. . You have no right."
"Oh, my sweet." He traced a path along the edge of the straining fabric. "If I did not have the right, you wouldn't have come here."
She shook her head and took one step back, throwing up her hands to hold him off. "You are drunk."
"Why did you do it?"
That shocked her into dropping her hands. "What?"
"Why did you play the whore for him?"
"I—" She shook her head again, and all the defiance leached from her eyes. "I knew I could win."