But if the spy truly was older. . . Matthew was smart, his father was a magistrate, and he could as easily pay some ruffian to look for her as come himself. She thought of Matthew's delicate good looks, his slim, elegant body . . . No, he would not hang about a London street corner, risking life and limb to ferret her out, not if a man could be hired.
A hired man could be fooled or chased off, though this one seemed determined to stay. Or maybe it was just as
Somerhart
had said. A simple thief.
Emma sighed as she tied off the thread and held the wool cloak up. It looked halfway decent, but the sight didn't raise her mood. She was tired of this place, this cold house that echoed its lack. Most of the rooms were empty and none of them comfortably furnished. Perhaps she should have taken a suite of rooms at a hotel, but the hotelier had sprung at the opportunity to offer her the vacant home that would be empty until March.
Somerhart
thought her living on the edge of respectability, but he had no idea. She was nowhere near the edge, had long ago fallen deep into the maw of indecency, had been deep into it ever since her mother's death, so long ago. Their ancestral home had become her father's personal playground; the caregivers hired for Emma and her brother nothing more than her father's favorite whores. Her home had no longer been a home, just as this place was no home, just shelter from the elements. She wanted a home,
needed
a home, and she was less than two thousand pounds from that dream.
The
Moulter
party began in three days. Three days, and Emma could almost feel the coins sliding through her fingers. But it wasn't just the coin causing her excitement.
Somerhart
, that wretch, he had tapped directly into both her weaknesses. Gambling and lust. He could not know, but he did. Something about her advertised her wickedness to
Somerhart
, and called to his own.
Since that night in the carriage, she had fantasized about him. Imagined him doing things to her that she had seen men do to women. She had been raised in wickedness and now she wanted to experience it herself. But she couldn't. She couldn't.
Emma shivered and spared a glance for the faint glow of the coal fire. She would be leaving within the half hour. There was no point wasting good coal on a soon-to-be-empty room, so Emma wrapped the cloak about her shoulders and settled back into the chair to try to warm up before Lord Lancaster arrived.
"And have you been staying out of mischief, Lady
Denmore
?"
She smiled at the sparkle in Lancaster's brown eyes. "I'm not sure how to answer that, sir. I suspect mischief is my greatest appeal."
"Not so," he protested, though he couldn't keep a straight face.
"I was surprised by your invitation." "Unpleasantly?"
"No, not at all. Very pleasantly surprised. You were quite gallant on the day I took advantage of your brother."
"You deserved the advantage. My little brother is as arrogant as any other young man."
"And you are so very old."
He graced her with a wide smile. "I'm grown ancient under the weight of my familial responsibilities."
Emma nodded with real sympathy. "Yes. I hear you must take an heiress to wife."
Lancaster blinked several times before his laughter boomed out to bounce off the houses around them. The horses twitched their ears in simultaneous irritation. "'
Tis
true, though I hadn't realized it so well known." When his laughter faded, true weariness showed on his face. "My father died last year. I hadn't known until then. . ."
"I understand."
His mouth curved up on one side. "Do you? Well, let's not ruin the day with somber talk."
"It is a fine day."
"My dear Lady
Denmore
, you must be a fan of the frigid cold. I am quite the gentleman, taking you out for a winter drive." He laughed again, a wonderful laugh, and Emma realized she was truly enjoying herself, was truly relaxed. If she were an heiress looking for a husband, she would be ecstatic.
"You are not laboring under the belief that I have money, I hope."
"No." He shook his head and gave her the half smile again. "No. I daresay you haven't a cent. But I thought of taking you for a drive and the idea wouldn't leave my mind. I hope you don't mind my using your company for selfish enjoyment. I'm not free to court you and, frankly, I'm quite relieved that you exposed my problem so charmingly."
This time Emma's laugh echoed off the brick walls of the surrounding homes. Lancaster did not inspire her to fits of lust, but he was dangerous in other ways. He could steal her heart, could likely steal any woman's heart with no effort at all. He would have no trouble getting his heiress.
"You must have been quite young when you married," Lancaster commented. "You are twenty-one now?"
"Yes," she lied without a twinge of guilt. "Lord
Denmore
was a wonderful man. I was not opposed to the marriage."
"And you hope to marry again soon?"
"I do not."
He darted a surprised look in her direction, but whatever he wanted to ask he kept to himself. "Here," he murmured, and bent down to rummage beneath the seat. He straightened with a thick wool blanket, and when he laid it over her knees, Emma realized it had been resting atop a warming box.
"Oh," she sighed. "Oh, that is so, so lovely. Thank you."
"Hm. Well, I can't help but appreciate such a beautiful thank you." His eyes studied her, his gaze lingering on her mouth, and Emma felt warmth flood her cheeks. "I hope you won't mind my impertinence, but
Somerhart
is a very lucky man."
She blushed harder, though it seemed ridiculous. There was no reason to blush.
"You're quite sure your husband didn't leave you a secret inheritance? It'd be damned convenient."
And just like that, Emma's embarrassment dissolved and she was laughing again. She might never again take a carriage ride with such a handsome gentleman. She'd be wise to enjoy it.
The booming knock on her door startled Emma into a strangled gasp. It wasn't a polite knock, and it wasn't at the back door. A constable, was her first thought, and the only logical one she managed in the minute that followed.
Emma set aside her sewing and rubbed her cold hands against her skirts. The skirts themselves were dark brown and merely serviceable, and it occurred to her that she was dressed quite appropriately for a morning trip to jail.
Just as she was pushing stiffly to her feet, the pounding started again and at the edges of her graying vision, she caught sight of Bess rushing down the stairs to the door. Emma edged toward the doorway of the parlor to watch her housekeeper open the front door and make a ponderous curtsy.
"Is your mistress at home?" a familiar voice growled.
Somerhart
.
Emma's knees nearly gave up their fight to hold her weight.
Bess murmured something and began to close the door, but
Somerhart's
hand jumped suddenly into view. "It's barely noon," he explained, as he pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. His gaze traveled past the hall and caught her. "Ah, Lady
Denmore
. A moment of your time?"
"Fine," she muttered, trying to be angry at his impertinence, but far too relieved to do more than pretend. She backed up to the settee and let her knees give way.
When
Somerhart
entered, he made a show of glancing about as he strolled toward Emma. His study stopped with her brown wool dress. "I see no signs of hidden wealth, so I can only imagine that Lancaster doesn't have marriage on his mind."
"What?" Emma finally felt the dumbness of her relief burn away.
"Several people stopped me at my club last night, apparently hoping for a delicious reaction to the news that you've taken up riding with Lord Lancaster."
"Oh? And did you deign to whet their appetites?"
"Of course not. But they hardly needed it. You offer ample encouragement on your own."
"Good reason to sever our fantastical relationship, Your Grace."
"
Mmm
." He sat next to her without invitation and crossed his ankle over his knee. "You've insisted that you have no interest in taking a lover. So what are you about with Lancaster?"
"That's none of your concern."
"None of my—"
"What are you doing here? As you said, it's barely noon. This is completely inappropriate."
"Ha!" The man's absolutely luscious mouth softened into amusement. He chuckled, then the deep rumble bloomed into a real laugh. "Inappropriate? This from a woman who participates in footraces?" He rubbed a hand over his eyes and laughed harder. "Inappropriate to visit before three. In my jealousy, I stormed over here
before three.
Good God, I've gone mad."
He looked nothing like a duke in that moment. With no hat to protect him from the wet day, his black hair was damp and ruffled. His blue eyes blazed with anger and amusement, shielding her from none of his emotions. Emma tried to cover her smile with a discreet hand, but in holding back a laugh, she gave a very indelicate snort.
Somerhart
pulled his chin in. "Are you laughing at me?"
"I'm sure . . . I wouldn't. . . Yes! Did you say 'jealousy'?"
"I did, so laugh away. I insist."
So Emma laughed, half at
Somerhart
, and half with the remnants of her relief. When she stopped laughing, she found
Somerhart
regarding her with a secret kind of smile. It twisted her throat into knots and she found she couldn't manage a witty comment. Still, she opened her mouth and waited for her breath to come back, but she waited in vain. Before she was over that beautiful smile,
Somerhart
pressed it to her parted lips. His smile was warm and tender and silky soft. But his tongue, when it touched hers, was even better. .. hot and slow and rich as velvet.
She didn't want this, she didn't. But his mouth worked magic. How could the cold, controlled duke taste so sweet? How could his lips brush such a gentle feeling into hers? And his tongue was the best kind of temptation, a fleeting glimpse of heaven that retreated just when she wanted more. Emma followed that hot pleasure and felt his hands grasp her shoulders. He eased her an inch away.
"Completely inappropriate . .." He tasted her bottom lip, then her top one, and rewarded her sigh with a much deeper kiss than the first. This kiss pushed aside tender thoughts, and Emma felt pulled down, sinking into heat.
My first kiss,
she thought, which was ridiculous. She'd been kissed before, and not just once. But this . . . this was
intimacy.
An introduction to that other world. The world she'd watched and wondered about, the world of pleasure and secrets and wickedness.
"You . . ."
Somerhart
whispered. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw. "It's you. Driving me mad." His teeth nipped the edge of her jaw before he tasted his way to the skin beneath her ear. He opened his lips over that spot and Emma shivered.
"I left my house furious."
"Why?" she managed.
"You know why." He touched his tongue to her . . .
Fire.
Hating herself for doing it, Emma arched her neck.
"But on the drive over. . ." He drew a fiery path up to her earlobe. "I realized. . ." Every word whispered a cool secret against wet skin. "I'd promised to be charming."
She would have shaken her head, but he caught her ear-lobe between his teeth, trapping her.
"Oh," Emma sighed, then moaned something less intelligible when he began to suck.
Several parts of her body came to strict attention at the sensation. Nibbling, sucking . . . His tongue worked against the sensitive flesh, and Emma thought she could swoon given a few more minutes to enjoy.
She dug her fingers into the shoulders of his coat just before he let her ear go with a tiny, wet
pop.
"Am I?" he asked.
"Mm?"
"Am I being charming, Lady
Denmore
?"