The breath she let out was unsteady. She couldn’t speak when her corset joined her other clothes on the floor. He had her nearly naked, and somehow she knew it was to force her to let down her guard. He was unwrapping her secrets, her armor, everything she had put between them until nothing remained.
“No response?” He placed a kiss along the back of her neck. It should have been a gift; it felt more like a punishment. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as long as we both get what we want.”
James tore her chemise up the back. Emma shivered at the cold air, hating how conflicted she was between wanting to explain, wanting him to continue.
Wanting him.
He knew this; his hands played her as easily as a master pianist, striking all the right keys. Even in his anger, his breathing was as uneven as hers. The arousal pressed against her didn’t lie; he wanted her too. But it was different this time, tainted by her secrets, by her lies.
“What we both want?” she asked, certain he heard how she barely managed the words.
He slid her drawers down her thighs until they pooled at her feet. She was naked now, every shield stripped away except for her mask — and if he untied it now, she would have let him.
But he left it in place, a choice she knew was deliberate.
“Isn’t this why you come to the Masquerade?” His lips ghosted over her shoulder and his hand slid across her breasts, inching closer to her thighs. “You want me to fuck you.”
Helplessly, Emma threw her head back when his fingers settled between her legs.
“Yes,” she breathed, but even that was a lie. She came now for him, for their conversation, for his touch, more.
Everything.
“So wet,” he murmured, sliding two fingers inside her. “I don’t even have to touch you and you’re ready. I suppose that’s what happens when a bored debutante can’t have the man she wants and has her first taste of the forbidden. She craves it.” He misinterpreted her flinch as an admission of guilt. “Isn’t this what you meant by wanting too much?”
Emma wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t, not without revealing herself. His fingers were still inside her, working in and out and she felt her orgasm building. Responses were beyond her.
She could only gasp out one word: “Please.”
“Shhh. I won’t make you beg.”
Clothing rustled as he unbutton his trousers. Then she felt him against her, hard and hot and so ready. But when she moved to face him, he caught her wrist with his free hand and pressed her to the door.
“No. Not facing each other. Let’s not pretend this time, not even with the courtesy of your fake name. You want my cock inside you. Yes or no?”
“James—”
His grip tightened on her wrist and his other hand stayed between her legs, moving in and out faster now.
“No names. Yes or no?”
She was so close now. After their weeks together, he knew how to make her come, how to leave her shaking with ecstasy until she felt like she’d float away without him there to anchor her.
And he used that against her now, until the only word she was capable of was yes and yes and yes.
James thrust inside her. His strokes were hard and fast and frenzied; he pounded into her with enough force to shake the door on its hinges.
It ought to have felt impersonal. It didn’t. His hands were everywhere, stroking down her hips, her breasts. He kissed and licked across her spine, whispering filthy words in her ear that brought her to orgasm faster.
She cried out her release, but he kept going. He fucked her like he wanted to mark her soul. It was lovemaking with the single intent of forcing her to forget every man she had ever been with, until they were replaced with the memory of this.
Of him.
No one else.
He slid out of her and came with a rough groan, sinking his teeth into her shoulder. The pain brought her back to this room, this moment. Where the only sound was their breathing, the blood roaring in her ears.
Then he pressed his forehead against her and whispered, “Marry me.”
Emma stiffened. “No. I can’t.”
“Why not? You admitted you have no husband.”
“I—” She hated saying it again, the same excuse; always the same one — “I can’t.”
James let out a breath and she heard him button up his trousers. “Darling, if your someone hasn’t offered for you, then he’s either penniless or an imbecile. If you know who I am, then you’re aware of my title and my not-insubstantial fortune.”
She jerked out of his arms and bent to pick up her clothes. Her hands shook so badly that she could barely tie up her drawers.
“I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?” he demanded. “If it’s a good match, I’m one of the best. If it’s to be fucked every night, then you’ll have that, too.”
“It has nothing to do with that. You don’t know my name or my face.”
“Then show me.” His eyes bore into hers. “Remove that mask right now and show me who you are.”
Emma clutched her torn chemise to her chest, trembling. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “I can’t do that, either.”
“Can’t.” Now his French took on a dangerous lilt. “Can’t? Is that the only goddamn answer you’re capable of?”
“James—”
“Don’t. You don’t get to use my name while you deny me yours.” He shut his eyes briefly and sighed. “Give me something. Anything that belongs to you. Stop me from walking out that door right now, because once I do, I’m not coming back.”
Emma’s tears fell now, hidden by her mask. That mask, the very thing she believed brought her freedom, now felt like a curse.
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
That word. Such a small word. An awful word. It defeated her. It made her clutch her ripped clothes as if they could bring her strength, but they were armor pierced and made vulnerable. So easily broken now.
“Then this is the last time I see you,” James told her, his voice hard. “Had you only taken off that mask, I would have given you everything. My heart, too, I think.” His laugh was short, rough. “Yes, even my heart.”
He didn’t say goodbye.
Their sandcastle had been swept into the sea.
Chapter 16
Surely God made gin to help men forget the things that hurt most.
Yes, it was the drink of choice for addicts as their lives spiraled out of control. It made sense that most mixtures of gin hurt during the first drink — too sweet, too vile, too strong.
Because then there was the second drink.
Oh, the second drink went down easier. It rewarded men who didn’t immediately push it away and ask for something else. Then every subsequent glass made you feel as if you were floating, beyond everything. Nothing mattered.
After all, James had no wish to see the pieces of his shattered heart. He deserved every fracture, every fragment, for wanting a woman who had asked for nothing from him beyond pleasure. He was the one who demanded more, assuming he had begun to eclipse her someone, that she cared for him.
But she hadn’t.
The dream had been made flesh, and she pined for another man who wouldn’t have her. Just as he’d pined for her.
“So you’ve turned to spirits now,” Richard said, leaning against James’s office doorway. “No wonder your butler looked concerned when I came in. Do you know it smells in here?”
James groaned and leaned his head back against the chair. He’d been drinking steadily for the last couple of days. Last night, he'd passed out in his study, and —
What time was it?
Didn’t matter.
He grasped the nearest gin bottle. “If you’re not going to say anything useful,” James said to his brother, “then get out.”
“I assumed that was useful knowledge. When was the last time you changed clothes? Hell, when was the last time you bathed?”
God, he couldn’t remember. He didn’t
fucking care.
James shrugged and poured himself the dregs of the bottle, downed it quick. Gin was a poor man’s beverage, and he could see why some drank it every night. It went down so easily, once you grew used to it.
“Don’t you have something else to keep you busy, Richard? A new lover to entertain you?”
Richard’s expression darkened. “I don’t care to discuss it.”
“Ah. It’s to do with Miss Sheffield, then. Did you fuck her?”
Richard strode forward and grabbed the glass out of James’s hand, then sniffed it. “Jesus Christ, James. Gin? Where did you get this?”
“A gin palace in Spitalfields. At least it’s not opium.”
At that, Richard snorted. “Am I supposed to be relieved? No wonder you’re such foul goddamn company. Have you seen yourself?”
“If I wanted to hear a sermon, I’d attend church.” James snatched the glass out of his brother’s hand. “Go home.”
Richard, being as much of a stubborn bastard as James, didn’t even move. He scowled, not bothering to conceal his distaste. “I assume your efforts to destroy yourself didn’t come out of thin air. What happened with your masked woman?”
James reached for the gin bottle again only to recall he’d had the last of it. Shit.
“She lied to me and didn’t care for honesty. So we went our separate ways.”
His brother let out a short laugh. “It’s the Masquerade, James. A lack of honesty is rather the point.”
“I know that,” James said.
Richard stared at him. “You let her see your face.”
“More than that.” James’s voice was bitter. The admission felt foul on his tongue.
The answer must have dawned on Richard, because he gaped at his brother. “You offered to marry her?” When James didn’t reply, he ran a hand through his hair. “Good god. What did she say?”
Brandy now. At least he had plenty of that around his desk. James poured himself three fingers and took a sip. It burned, and he liked it.
“I’ve been drinking the foulest liquor in London for three days, Richard. What do you think she said?”
His brother didn’t respond to that. He just watched James down the brandy with a look of disbelief and, almost, understanding. But it couldn't be that. Richard didn't have any comprehension of fidelity or wanting a single woman. He made certain of that by bedding as many as possible.
“James. A man doesn’t turn to drink — especially one as bloody disgusting as gin — because a woman rejected his proposal. You love her.”
James looked at him sharply. “That would be a foolish decision.”
“Ah, and yet here you are. Drunk, smelly, and foolishly in love.”
“Then no wonder I’m a mess,” James murmured, staring at his drink. “Love does terrible things to people.”
“Not everyone.” Richard’s expression was far too perceptive. “You’re thinking of Mother. Kent . . . she’s far from an ideal example. She was ill.”
James shook his head. “You were too young to remember the months between Father’s visits. When Mother was pregnant with Alexandra, he stayed away for the last six months. Do you know she refused food from the servants?” Richard slowly shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t have. Our governess made certain you kept busy in the nursery.”
“I recall some things.” Richard leaned against his desk. “I didn’t see her often then. She was always in bed.”
James nodded. “Mother would only take food if I brought it. The doctors made certain that I knew the pregnancy would kill her if I wasn’t watchful. She . . .” He let out a breath. “She kept herself ill.”
His brother’s eyes widened in surprise. “What? Why?”
“Why do you think?” James’s laugh was bitter as he sipped his brandy. “She’d hoped father would hear of it and come home. Love is a disease that clouds all reason, Richard.”
“Is it?” Richard asked him softly. “I don’t believe that.”
“You didn’t see her, so you don’t know,” James said.
“My, what a convenient excuse. It’s fashioned to absolve one of any responsibility for their own destruction. Here’s the truth: Mother cared more about punishing Father than taking care of her own damn children. She made that clear on more than one occasion.” His brother straightened and said, “Perhaps you ought to ask yourself why an unmarried woman would risk ruin for a mere dalliance. Here’s a tip, James: it would require tearing yourself away from a bottle for longer than five seconds.”
Richard strode out of the room and shut the door hard behind him.
James bathed, shaved, and tried every one of his cook’s concoctions for easing the headache that came from overindulging.
Still, he felt restless, on edge. His fingers itched to pick up a bottle and drown his doubts away. James didn’t even wish to consider the questions his brother asked. They meant Selene had good reason for turning him down.
Questions and doubt left too much room for hope. And James Grey was not a man who depended upon such a flimsy emotion.
He paced now in his dark office while the rest of the house slept. His mind turned over every time he and Selene had ever met, every conversation they had ever had. And, yes, every time they had made love. Things he could not forget.
Stop this, you bloody fool.
He ought to go visit the tavern, or the gin palace again, or have himself another woman. One of his past lovers would no doubt be eager for his return.
With a rough sound, he left his study and headed down the hallway.
He needed to think. He —
The door of the library was ajar, light pooling on the carpet in the dark hallway. Who could be up at such a late hour? It was the middle of the night. Curious, James peered inside.
Miss Dumont sat curled on the settee, reading a book. The nightgown she wore covered her all the way up her neck. Such a prim garment didn't fit the wild state of her hair, the loose waves that escaped her careless chignon. It was clear that she had not intended anyone to see her this way.
James almost smiled — until he saw the pinched frown of her brow and the circles beneath her eyes. She looked as exhausted as he was. Why was she awake?
“Miss Dumont,” he said gently, pushing open the door. “Is everything all right?”
When she raised her head and met his gaze, he noticed she wasn’t at all surprised by him. In fact, Miss Dumont seemed almost resigned to his presence.
How curious. He hoped their last conversation hadn't bothered her. Should he apologize?
Then she offered him a small smile. “Only restless, Lord Kent. I hope you don’t mind me using your library at such an unusual hour.”
“You’re welcome to use it as often as you’d like.” He was hovering at the doorway, uncertain if he should approach. Perhaps she wished to be alone. Still, he found himself asking, “What are you reading?”
Miss Dumont motioned for him to sit in the chair opposite her. “Another one I think you would not enjoy. Men have a tendency to back away when I mention Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Woman.”
James found himself laughing. “Here is where I must ask: did my sister influence you, or was it the other way around?”
This time her smile was genuine. “We may bring out the most radical parts of each other. One of these days you might find us yelling with the suffragettes in the park.”
“God help the men in this country when Alexandra leaves her desk and joins the protests. I’ll have to buy her more books to keep her occupied, but I suspect that only encourages her,” James replied. “What of you, Miss Dumont? Wherever did a woman such as yourself learn these things?”
All too easily, her smile disappeared and she looked away. “A woman such as myself. What could that mean, I wonder?”
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Sometimes I forget to whom I’m speaking.”
“I see,” Miss Dumont replied. “You are reminded that I am not a lady, but a worker. That ev
en female workers seek the right to decide on the future of this country. Perhaps you don’t know this, my lord, but suffrage is not fought for at the whims of privileged gentlewomen. It is women like me who are arrested violently at the hands of men who seek to subjugate them, and women like your sister who give us the means to fight.”
James stared at her, uncertain how to respond to such a passionate defense of suffrage, of her own place in society. Britain, despite its technological progress, still suffered under an outdated class system. Those fortunate enough to rise above their circumstances were still regarded with disdain by aristocrats who eschewed social mobility in favor of a crumbling status quo.
James had thought shamefully little of how difficult it must have been for women in all this, how limited their options were. Miss Dumont had thrust a book at him in an attempt to teach him a lesson, and what did he do with it?
He hid it in a drawer.
Because he couldn’t look at any story involving a masked woman, and because he didn’t wish to consider the message it might have.
And that message was this: he had been so busy avoiding the pieces of his broken heart that he didn’t stop to think of what reason Selene could have had to shatter it.
Chapter 17
At his silence, Emma flushed. She couldn’t keep doing that — conversing with James as if they were still in that bedchamber at the Masquerade.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak to you so informally.”
“No,” James said politely. “The fault lies with me, Miss Dumont. My sister has brought me enough pamphlets and essays that I have no excuse. Especially since she writes so many of them herself.”
Emma cleared her throat. “We, my lord. We write them. I’m afraid much of my role as secretary is, for the most part, a public front.”
Of course, Emma still organized Alexandra’s social calendar — a task which her good friend found unnecessary. But Emma continued secretarial and lady’s maid duties because she didn't wish to take advantage of the Greys’ hospitality.
Theirs was a strange arrangement, but Alexandra was known for being an eccentric. Some found her oddities charming, but Emma had long suspected her friend’s writing accounted for her lack of marriage proposals. Men simply did not like what they couldn’t understand.
A Touch Wicked (Private Arrangements) Page 7
