by Amanda Quick
“Ghosts and secret passageways are always very popular. I have used them myself on occasion.”
“I have not as yet allowed anyone else to read The Mysterious Lady. It needs some work before you see it.” Emily reminded herself of all the changes, additions, and corrections she wanted to make on the poem. “But I shall start at once. Richard, this is so exciting. I cannot tell you how much your offer means to me. To undertake to introduce me to your own publisher. It is beyond anything.”
“It seems little enough to do for an old friend.”
“I do not know how to thank you, Richard.”
He lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “There is no need to thank me. But if you feel the necessity, you may do so by joining a small literary salon I attend on Thursday afternoons.”
Emily was thrilled. “A real London literary salon? I would so enjoy that. I have missed my Thursday afternoon meetings of the literary society of Little Dippington.” A pang of uneasiness assailed her. “But do you think your literary friends will want me there? They are probably much more widely read than I am and ever so much more sophisticated. I shall probably appear very rustic to them.”
“Not at all,” Ashbrook murmured. “I assure you Lady Turnbull and my other friends will welcome you. They will no doubt find you quite … charming.”
Emily sighed happily. “It is almost too much to contemplate. My first important ball, an introduction to a literary salon, and an opportunity to have a real publisher look at my writing. Town life is certainly a great deal more exciting than life in the country.”
“Yes,” Ashbrook said. “It certainly is. And as a married woman,” he added softly, “you will find you have a great deal more freedom here in London than you ever did as a spinster buried in Hampshire. The only rule in town, my dear, is to be discreet.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Emily was totally unconcerned with the problem of discretion simply because she was not planning any indiscretions, least of all with this man who had once so casually ruined her. No woman who was married to a man like Blade could possibly be interested in a shallow creature such as Ashbrook.
Emily frowned thoughtfully. “Richard, do you really believe my title is a good one? I am not averse to altering it if you think it would make my work more interesting to a publisher.”
“We shall discuss it after I have had occasion to read your poem,” Ashbrook said, gazing over her head into the brilliantly lit ballroom’. “And now, speaking of discretion, I believe we should return to the ball.”
“You are quite right. Celeste will wonder what has happened to me.”
Emily turned cheerfully to walk back through the open windows, her mind churning with ideas for The Mysterious Lady. She raised her glass for a quick glance around the room and nearly collided with her husband, who materialized like a large boulder out of nowhere.
“Oh, hello, my lord.” She smiled up at him. “I was hoping you would arrive soon. It is all so exciting, is it not? I am having the most wonderful time. I was just speaking to …” She paused, glanced from side to side with her quizzing glass, and realized Ashbrook had not followed her back into the ballroom. “Never mind. Goodness, you look spectacular, Simon.”
Blade, dressed in his elegantly severe evening clothes, gazed thoughtfully over her head into the garden for a few seconds. Then he looked down at Emily.
“I am glad to hear you are enjoying yourself, my dear. Will you honor me with this waltz?”
“Another waltz is to be played? I was under the impression Lady Northcote had only authorized one waltz tonight.”
“I prevailed upon her to sanction another so that I could dance it with you.” Simon led her out onto the floor.
“Simon, how wonderful of you,” Emily breathed, thoroughly enchanted by the gesture.
“I was rather pleased with the notion myself.” He swept her into the gracious pattern of the dance. “And Lady Northcote was, shall we say, cooperative.”
All thoughts of The Mysterious Lady and her plans to join Ashbrook’s literary circle flew out of Emily’s head. She was dancing the waltz with her beloved dragon. Nothing could be more perfect.
Simon glided coolly around the room, aware that the eyes of the ton were upon him and his new bride. By tomorrow morning Emily would be the talk of the town. He and Emily made a compelling contrast on the dance floor and Simon knew it. The fact suited him.
What did not suit him was the flash of searing jealousy he had experienced when he had witnessed Emily returning from the garden with Ashbrook directly behind her.
“I adore your house, Simon,” Emily declared as she waltzed alone around the red, gold, green, and black library. As she whirled past each of the jeweled dragons, she reached out to affectionately pat the savage heads. The dark green skirts of her gown floated around her slippered feet.
The ball had ended an hour ago and it had taken almost that long to collect their carriage and get home through the crowded streets but Emily could not seem to stop dancing. She felt giddy and effervescent and transcendently alive. She hummed the strains of the waltz she had danced earlier with Simon. “And I especially adore this room,” she continued with a definite little nod. “It is quite perfect, exactly how I had imagined it would be. Exotic and luscious and full of strange and mysterious objects.” She patted a black and gold dragon as she waltzed past the fireplace.
“I am not surprised. I had a feeling you would like it.” Simon poured two glasses of brandy and held one out to her.
“That only shows how well attuned we are.” She took the glass from his hand as she danced past. “You see, Simon? I keep telling you that we communicate—”
“On a higher plane,” he finished for her. “Yes, my dear. I have heard you comment on that fact often enough.” He raised his glass in a small salute. “To you, madam wife. You were a great success tonight.”
“Thanks to Lady Merryweather.” Emily giggled and waltzed away toward the far end of the room. “And Lady Northcote. She was so kind. She and Celeste introduced me to absolutely everyone and I danced nearly every dance, Simon. Two of them waltzes.”
“Araminta told me the first one was with Ashbrook.”
Emily shot him a quick, sidelong glance as she flitted past one of the huge satin pillows. She wondered if Simon knew that it was Ashbrook she had run away with five years ago. And if he did know, would he be jealous? she asked herself. Not bloody likely. Simon was much too self-controlled and sure of himself to be jealous. Besides, he knew he had her heart.
“Yes. Ashbrook invited me out on the floor for the first waltz. Simon, I think I should tell you something about him.”
“What would that be?” Simon watched her intently over the rim of his glass.
Emily came to a halt in front of a delicate Chinese painting featuring plump horses and strangely clad warriors. She studied it closely through her spectacles. “Richard was the man I thought I loved five years ago—the one I ran off with.”
“But you did not run off with anyone five years ago,” Simon stated quietly. “I thought I explained to you that for all intents and purposes, there is no Unfortunate Incident in your past.”
Emily swung around in surprise. “But, Simon … Oh, I see,” she said, suddenly understanding and appreciating what he was doing. “This is part of your scheme to introduce me successfully to Society, is it not? We shall deal boldly with the problem of the scandal. We shall simply deny it ever happened.”
“Precisely.”
“A brilliant approach.” She scowled thoughtfully. “But what if Richard says something about it?”
“I do not think he will do that.”
Emily nodded, considering the matter. “You are probably right. I imagine it would be embarrassing for him.”
Simon’s mouth kicked up wryly at the corner and his golden eyes gleamed. “Somewhat more than a little embarrassing, I think. Rather dangerous, in fact.”
“Yes, he has his own reputation to consider.”
&nbs
p; “Among other things.”
Emily nodded again and resumed waltzing. She slid Simon another speculative glance. “I do not suppose you are jealous of Lord Ashbrook, by any chance, are you?”
“Because of the nonexistent Unfortunate Incident or because he waltzed with you tonight?”
“Either one,” Emily said eagerly. Her heart leapt at the possibility.
“Should I be jealous?” Simon’s voice was utterly emotionless.
“No, not for a single second,” Emily assured him grandly. “I made a very foolish mistake five years ago. The truth is, I realized almost immediately after we left Little Dippington that I did not really want to marry Richard. It was all very exciting dashing off to the border like that and Richard kept quoting the most beautiful poetry. But I was soon obliged to face the fact that I did not love him. I could not possibly have married him.”
“And the waltz tonight? Did you discover any new feelings toward him when he took you in his arms?”
“No.” Emily tilted her head, thinking about her reactions. “No, not at all. It was rather like meeting an old acquaintance whom one has not seen for some time.”
She decided then and there that she did not want to tell Simon about Ashbrook’s generous offer to take a look at her manuscript. Not yet, at any rate. After all, nothing was certain. Ashbrook might declare The Mysterious Lady completely unpublishable. It would be humiliating enough just having Ashbrook know it was unsuitable.
“I see. Like meeting an old acquaintance.”
“Yes. Precisely.” Emily hummed a few more measures of the waltz. “Do you know, Simon, it is very strange, but I do not seem to be able to calm myself tonight. I am still very excited.”
“You should be exhausted.” Simon leaned back against his black lacquered desk. He had already taken off his jacket and unknotted his cravat. The length of white silk hung loose around his throat.
“I know, but I am not the least bit tired.” Emily took a sip of brandy. Her gaze fell on the nearest of the large, tasseled pillows. “Simon, tell me, did you get these pillows from some Turkish harem?”
“No. I had them made up here in London, as it happens.” He sipped his brandy. “Do you fancy them?”
“They are marvelous.” Emily put down her glass and threw herself full length onto the nearest gold satin pillow. She lounged back in what she thought was the sort of languid, sensuous position that a harem lady might adopt. “How do I look? Could I pass for a sultry Eastern courtesan?”
Simon’s eyes moved slowly from the tip of her dragon-embroidered emerald satin slipper to the cascade of red curls at the top of her head. “Perhaps,” he finally allowed.
“You look unconvinced. Maybe the spectacles mar the effect.” She took them off and set them on the nearest lacquered table. Then she leaned back on the pillow again and essayed a killing glance from beneath her lashes. Simon was a large, dark blur across the room. “Is that any better?”
“A bit more authentic-looking, I believe.”
Emily stretched out on her side. The skirts of her gown edged up the length of her leg, revealing her stockings. She pursed her lips and tried for a harem lady’s pout. “There. How is that?”
“Emily, are you by any chance flirting with me?” Simon asked softly.
“Well, as to that …” It helped not to be able to see his expression clearly. Emily felt the warmth rising in her cheeks as she considered the question carefully. “Yes, I believe I am.” She held her breath, waiting for his response.
“You are in a rather strange mood tonight, are you not?”
“I am happy, Simon,” she said, waving one hand to encompass the whole world. “I feel as if I am floating. I have had the most exciting, most wonderful evening of my whole life.”
“And now you want to conclude it by having me make love to you?”
Emily sighed and flopped onto her back, her arms stretched high above her head. She contemplated the blurry ceiling. “I told you, Simon, I am a creature of excessive passions. Perhaps my sensibilities have been overstimulated by all the excitement tonight.”
“A possibility.”
“Simon?”
“Yes, Emily?”
She drew a deep breath. “You told me that the last time we made love I did not quite get the hang of it.”
“I told you that you needed practice, as I recall,” he murmured.
She rolled back onto her side and propped herself on her elbow. “Yes. Practice. I believe I should like very much to practice tonight.”
There was a faint pause. Then Simon’s voice came, low, dark, and silky with sensual menace. “I also told you something else, Emily.”
Emily sat up on the pillow, drawing her knees up under her chin so that her skirts foamed around her toes. She groped for the brandy glass. When she found it she took a large swallow and put the glass carefully back down on the table. Then she wrapped her arms around her updrawn knees.
“You told me I would have to beg you to make love to me,” Emily finally said, hugging her knees very tightly.
“I will settle for being asked very nicely. The point is, my dear, I do not wish there to be any accusations in the morning. You are not going to be able to say I tricked you.”
“I will not say that, Simon.” She waited in an agony of anticipation mixed with uncertainty. “Simon?”
“Yes, Emily?”
“Will you please make love to me?”
A strange stillness settled on the dark, exotic room. There was a faint clink and Emily knew Simon had just set his brandy glass down on the desk. She watched him come toward her. She was unable to see his expression without her spectacles but her whole body was tingling with awareness. She could sense the heavy, enveloping aura of his masculinity and knew that could only be because they really did communicate on a higher plane.
Simon halted at the edge of the huge satin pillow, the most powerful dragon in a room full of the creatures. Without a word he lowered himself down beside Emily and took her into his arms.
Slowly, deliberately, he pushed her back down onto the gold brocade. Leaning over her, he looked down into her face. He was so close now that Emily could see the molten gold in his eyes.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Simon stroked the delicate line of her jaw with his thumb.
“Yes,” she whispered, almost unable to get the single word out because of the tightness in her throat. The odd breathless feeling was sweeping through her again, as it always did when Simon took her in his arms. “Please, Simon.”
“Very well, Emily.” He bent his head and dropped a heated kiss on the top of her breast, which was exposed by the low neckline of her ball gown. “Just remember in the morning that this was all your idea.”
“Yes, Simon.” She wrapped her arms slowly around his neck. Then she smiled tremulously. “It was not nearly so bad as you probably thought it would be, you know.”
“What was not so bad?” He slid the puffy little sleeve of the gown slowly down over her shoulder.
“Begging you to make love to me.” Her smile turned into an exuberant little laugh. “It was not so bad at all.”
“I am glad.” Simon eased the bodice of the gown lower and one apple-shaped breast was freed. He circled the nipple with his forefinger. “Perhaps you will ask me again sometime.”
“I expect I will,” Emily said complacently. “If it turns out to be as transcendent an experience as you have promised.”
Simon gave a husky laugh that turned into a groan. “I can see that I shall have to do it properly this time.
Emily shivered as she felt his finger trace another circle around the tip of her breast. She stirred restlessly, her legs sliding over the brocaded satin. Simon’s mouth came down over hers and at the same time he pinned her thighs with one of his own.
Emily parted her lips and Simon’s tongue slipped into the warmth of her mouth. She could taste the brandy he had been drinking. At the same time the scent of him filled her head. She tightened her
arms around his neck and instinctively tried to arch her hips against his.
“No,” Simon whispered, breaking the contact with her mouth. “This time we will do things very slowly.” He unfastened the bodice of the gown and pushed the gossamer fabric to her waist.
Emily had her eyes closed now but she could feel the heat of his gaze on her breasts. It burned her, branded her, heated her blood. The big pillow on which she reclined was like a great, fluffy, golden cloud. She was sinking deeper and deeper into it as Simon let more of his weight come down on her.
“You have beautiful skin, Emily. Soft and delicate and made to be touched.” Simon trailed a string of small, damp kisses down her throat and over her breast. His teeth closed gently over her nipple and his hand slipped beneath the lowered bodice of the gown.
Emily sucked in her breath. She twisted beneath his hand, already aching for a more intimate touch. “Simon?”
“No, not yet. I told you, this time I am not going to rush things. This time I will stay in control of myself and you will go wild, elf.”
He tugged the emerald ballgown and the thin petticoat she wore under it off over her head. Then he reached down and deftly untied her garters. His hand slid intimately along the curves of her legs as he slipped the stockings off.
Emily turned her flaming face into his pleated white shirt, clutching at him. Simon laughed softly and cupped her buttocks, squeezing gently.
Emily was aware of the feel of the gold satin under her back and hips. It was a wonderfully pagan sensation. “Do I look like a harem lady now?”
Simon smiled slowly and combed his fingers through the triangle of red hair at the top of her thighs. “A very rare and unusual harem lady,” he agreed. “You would bring a very high price, indeed, if you were to go on the auction block.”
She looked up at him through her lashes, feeling deliciously wanton. “Would you sell me?”
“Never,” he vowed, voice darkening abruptly. His fingers tightened possessively in the red curls. Then he drew back slightly.
