Hart pressed his lips together. He knew his own reputation with women, but it was just as well known that he preferred privacy above all else. He disdained to speak of women like whores on the bartering block, just as he expected not to be evaluated like a stallion on parade.
"Well, old man," Marsh continued, oblivious to Hart's anger, "I do believe I'll join the play. Perhaps I can divest her of her coin and move on to other trade."
Lord Marsh approached the table, and when Lady Denmore looked up, her eyes slid to meet Hart's. They widened as if the sight of him surprised her. Odd, considering he'd followed her into the room. She blinked, a strange flutter of her lashes, and turned away from him to glare at the cards she'd been dealt.
She reacted to him almost as if she knew him. Perhaps it was only his reputation that made her so nervous. She was a country miss, after all, despite that her voice gave one visions of tumbled sheets and sweat-damp hair.
A seventy-year-old husband. Hart shook his head and pushed away from the bookcase he'd leaned against. She stiffened when he passed her table on his way to the door, her awareness of him tempting him to stop and stand over her shoulder. . . but he walked on.
She was a bit young for him, perhaps. But he preferred widows, after all, and he was presently unattached. Still, well-bred, proper innocents rarely offered up much excitement in bed, unless one counted declarations of love as exciting. Hart did not. Not that he'd had much experience with innocents, but one did hear things.
He moved at a quick pace toward the ballroom, ignoring the dozens of people who tried to catch his eye as he passed. Being a duke was very much like being a prized stud, and as an eligible duke . . . He suppressed a cringe of disgust even as he spied his quarry at the edge of the dancing.
"Osbourne," he started, planting himself next to the old gentleman.
"Ah, Somerhart! On your way into town?"
"Yes. Lady Matherton was kind enough to offer a room so I wouldn't have to fight this damned snow."
"Well, thank God none of the new crop has arrived. If it were April you'd be awash in eager mamas."
"As you say. By the way, I made the acquaintance of your friend, Lady Denmore."
"Ah, where is Emma? In the card room, I suppose?"
Emma. "Yes. The men cower in fear."
"As they should. By God, she's livened things up for us this winter. Taught me a thing or two about whist, I can assure you. Do you play brag? Do not go betting your estate on a game with her. She will divest you of more than your pride."
Hart smiled at the man's hearty laughter. "I was not acquainted with her late husband, Denmore."
"I wasn't acquainted with Denmore either! When I knew him he was plain old Mr. Jensen. He never expected to inherit the title, you know. We ran about town together long ago. I hadn't seen him in . . ." Osbourne shrugged. "Must have been fifteen years now."
"Really? So you had never met Lady Denmore?"
"No, no. Denmore had become garden-mad in his old age. He had no time for hunting or balls. He had ceased to even write letters." Osbourne's bushy eyebrows lowered. "I cannot imagine his interest in a young girl like Emma, but duty comes along with the title, I suppose. Still, they must have got on well. She knew all the old stories about me— some I wish she hadn't, I can tell you that." His chuckle turned to a sigh. "She speaks of him with great affection."
"Of course."
Something of his doubt must have cooled Hart's voice, because Osbourne turned to glare at him. "I daresay she knew him even better than I, and she'd only spent a year or so in his house. She's a fine woman and she was clearly a fine wife. A bit wild for games of chance, but that's the extent of it. A good girl."
"I didn't mean to imply otherwise. She seems quite lovely."
"Hmph."
"How is your arm?"
"Damned thing aches like the devil, but I can't let on. Lady Osbourne is not pleased."
"Well, you seem to be good at charming her out of these piques."
Osbourne flashed a reprobate's smile. "That I am, young man. That I am."
Emma left the table abruptly, startling the other players. She still had twenty pounds in the pot, after all. But better twenty than two hundred. Her thoughts would not bend to her demands and kept careening away from the game to a certain black-haired gentleman.
Glancing about the hallway to be sure he'd gone, Emma hurried toward the music room. She hadn't been prepared for him, not up close. She knew now why she'd thought him an angel that night. He was beauty and power and mystery. Those ice-blue eyes framed by black lashes. That lush mouth and careful control. And he was tall, just as she'd remembered, tall and impossibly elegant.
He hadn't remembered her, and she should have felt relieved, not nervous. But he'd flirted with her. And she'd flirted back.
Unwise and reckless as ever. She thought she'd learned her lesson.
The music room was crowded with women, and Emma had to weave her way through the door. But the suffocating heat proved bearable when she heard the name she'd hoped to hear.
Somerhart. She felt an urgent need to know something about this man and, as luck would have it, the whole party seemed abuzz with excitement at the duke's appearance.
Emma had heard things about the famous duke. Winter-hart, they called him. Or Hartless. But she'd never paid attention, not realizing she knew him. And now . . . now the things she heard were like a veil of sadness over the fantasy she'd once created.
Oh, she had woven quite a hero out of their brief meeting. Yes, he had been at her father's house, a place well known for its unsavory assemblies, but he had left after their encounter. Emma had hounded the housekeeper for information and learned little—just that a man had left Denmore that very night after having words with her father. So she had excused his presence there. He'd likely had no idea what kind of party it was and, upon learning, had confronted her father. Perhaps he'd even threatened violence before leaving in outraged shock.
It hadn't seemed a fantasy at all when she'd imagined it ten years before. It had seemed definite. The actual scenario. He might have even thought of coming back to check on her, to save her from her life.
But. . . no. No, of course not. The man was pretty, but he was no angel and never had been. The easy gossip confirmed that. Emma plucked bits of it like low-hanging fruit as she strolled through the crowd. Cold. Cruel. Ruthless.
And lower voices whispered other words, tales of his past that did not match his present. Decadent and wicked. Shameless and insatiable.
He was no pillar of morality, no upstanding gentleman. It seemed he had attended many scandalous gatherings like that in his youth, though he was more circumspect now. Quieter about his pleasures, but still in pursuit of them. He was a reprobate, just like her father, so why had he bothered with defending a little girl?
"He must be sans lover," Emma heard Lady Sherbourne whisper to a friend. "He only ever makes an appearance to troll for a new bedmate." The woman spoke derisively, not noticing the way the other lady perked up at the words. "No doubt that Caroline White displeased him with her indiscreet prattle. You know why he despises indiscretion, of course."
The other woman nodded thoughtfully, then turned keen eyes on Lady Sherbourne. "Did you ever actually see the letters?"
Emma leaned closer to hear the friend's reply. Her efforts failed. She caught only the word "shameful."
Was he looking for a woman to warm his ducal bed? He had flirted with her, watched her. Emma felt a swarm of sparks float up from her belly, heating her chest and setting off a buzzing in her head.
The thought of his bed excited her, though she tried to feel nothing but disgust. She hated the burst of anticipation she suffered at the thought of danger, of risk. Her father's blood, she knew. And if she indulged it, she'd no doubt follow in his path—always compelled to search out that next adventure, that next conquest, till her soul suffocated beneath a sticky film of debauchery.
She would not accept her fath
er's inheritance. She would not be a whore to pleasure.
Jaw set, she worked her way back through the crowd and toward the card room, ignoring more talk of Somerhart and titters about some scandalous sister of his.
She could not afford to become distracted. She had only weeks to finish her work and leave town. Right now she was risking little. The Osbournes had accepted her with unexpected warmth; their approval went a long way toward paving her way through society. But soon the ton would begin their slow return to town.
Someone from Cheshire would spy her. Someone in town would ask the right questions. And her game would be done.
Instead of walking toward the card room, Emma found herself standing again at the window that overlooked the garden. She stared out at the calmness of the frozen yard and told herself to be glad that Somerhart had not recognized her, thankful that he was nobody's angel.
Her deception could continue until the start of the Season. Then she could retreat with her winnings and never set foot in this impolite world of polite society again.
And if the Duke of Somerhart was a heartless bastard just like her father, Emma was better off. She had only one dream left, one fantasy, and it had nothing to do with a man coming to her rescue.
Hart strolled toward the breakfast room with unusual anticipation. He did not particularly enjoy dining with crowds. In fact, he always took his morning meal in his room at these gatherings, but he found himself eager to search out one of his fellow guests. He had small chance of catching her though; she'd turned in at midnight, for God's sake, before supper had even been served. It was late morning now, nearly eleven, and surely she'd been up for hours.
He spared a quick glance for a tall bank of windows to his left. Sunlight streamed through, belying the ice that frosted the panes. He'd seen her there, last night, fingertips pressed to the glass like a yearning. The tableau had captured him, intrigued him, and Hart had watched instead of approaching. And when Lady Denmore had turned back to the party, when she'd swept past the group of people that hid him from her view, he hadn't reached out to stop her. Her eyes had stilled him, startling in their distance. He doubted she would have seen him if he'd stepped into her path.
She had floated up those stairs and not shown her face again. Perhaps she had only been drunk. Perhaps she hadn't been lonely and lost.
Hart shook his head at the memory. Fanciful nonsense. The scent of coffee invaded his thoughts and led him to the breakfast room, to a table populated by people he'd spoken meaningless words to for years. Men who admired or envied his title. Women who sneered at or were aroused by his reputation. Prigs who would scorn his scandalous sister if she sat down among them. Strangers, acquaintances, false friends. And not an Emma among them.
"The snow's melting," a whiskered gentleman offered as Hart took a seat next to him.
"Admiral Hartford," he answered.
"The roads'll be muddy as all hell today. Are you shoving off?"
Shrugging, Hart considered. London was a mere half hour's ride away—perhaps an hour or two in this muck. Still, an easy escape from this unwanted company. Odd that he hadn't vaulted out the door at first light.
"The wife'll kick herself for not coming. My little Lizbeth is coming out this year, you know. Don't suppose you're finally looking for a bride?" The admiral nodded at Hart's flat look. "So I thought. Well, no harm trying."
"I suppose not. But I doubt I'd make an ideal husband for your little Lizbeth, Admiral."
The man nodded in answer, but his guilty squint made clear that a duke could be any kind of husband he wanted and still make a young woman's family happy. The girl herself .. . not a concern.
Hart drained his coffee, glanced at his untouched plate, and pushed away from the table with a "Good morning," to the assembled guests as he fled.
He should go. Leave for the blessed solitude of the Somerhart town house and be done with this foolish interest in a girl too young to be his kind of widow. The decision crystallized in his mind, prompting a quick turn toward the stairs. He'd leave; have his valet repack, and they'd be gone within the hour. Better yet, he'd borrow a horse from Matherton and the carriage could follow through the mud as best it could.
A raucous burst of laughter leaked through a back window and halted Hart on the third step. He frowned, narrowing his eyes at the alcove that had framed Lady Denmore last night. Laughter again, and shouts. Young bucks, no doubt, and no interest to him. But it sounded as if a crowd had gathered outside. And he'd yet to spot Lady Denmore. Refusing to think why it mattered, Hart spun and stalked to the window, to angle his head so close that the cold flowed down from the glass to cool his skin.
The sun blinded him, sparkling off the melting brilliance of snow and ice. A moment passed before shadows began to coalesce, then solidify. He spotted the source of the laughter just as another round of shouted glee erupted from the group.
Several women stood among the young men. Hart squinted, leaning closer to the glass, feeling more than foolish as he pressed his forehead to the shock of icy cold. The three women were bundled against the wind, hidden beneath layers of wool and fur. Still, one was obviously too short and he caught a glimpse of pale blond hair peeking from beneath another's blue cloak. But the third. . . ? It could be her.
The whole group stood angled away from him, facing a large pond at the edge of the soggy gardens. Across the frozen length, a smaller group had gathered, the men nudging one another, occasionally stepping forward to test the ice with taps and stomps.
Even as Hart watched, that third woman turned her head to laugh and roll her eyes and Hart straightened with a start. It was Lady Denmore, her face bright against the hood of a simple black cloak.
"Hm." Hart pulled a watch from his pocket and measured his plan for escape against the impulse to say a pretty farewell to Emma. She'd thrown off her hood by the time he looked back to her, and the sun set her hair shining like an autumn leaf.
A quick farewell then . . . if he could catch her. She'd already set off for the far side of the pond. The men on the other side looked pleased with her approach. Hart turned and headed toward the entry, hunting for the footman who'd taken his coat the evening before.
"Lady Denmore!"
Emma laughed at the severity of the handsome young man's posture. Mr. Jones nudged him, earning a hot look in return.
"Mr. Cantry, you really musn't regard me as a matron come to interrupt your play. I daresay you're my elder by two or three years, aren't you?"
"Oh, I suppose." His muddy green eyes dipped to sweep over her, as if he could see beyond the cloak to the blue dress beneath, and under that even, to her bare skin. His eyes brightened. "Yes, of course." The smile he offered this time held more than a hint of interest.
"Do you think this pond frozen enough to walk on?"
"I do." Cantry threw a scornful smirk over his shoulder. "These cowards here won't set foot on it."
"Really? It looks quite solid to me."
"But look, Lady Denmore, how dark it is in the center?" Jones insisted.
"Oh, surely only the depth of the water makes it so. Don't you think, Mr. Cantry?"
"I do."
Emma dimpled up at the blond man, tying him to her with a smile. "What do you say we show these men their mistake? A race perhaps?"
"A race?"
She grinned. The last gentleman—older than the others, if she wasn't mistaken—smothered a laugh behind a cough, his eyes sparkling at her, aware of her game. Emma nodded in recognition.
"My brother," Cantry mumbled, "Viscount Lancaster."
"Viscount. An honor."
"My pleasure, madam, I assure you." And it was, she could see by the way his gaze fell to her mouth. Men were such easy creatures.
"Well, let us teach this lord a lesson in assurance, shall we, Mr. Cantry?"
"Indeed," the younger brother growled.
"And a wager to make things interesting? The last to touch the other side of the pond forfeits . .. h
mm. Shall we say fifty pounds?"
"Ah . . . Lady Denmore, surely you don't mean I should race against you"? A lady?"
"Well, your pride is safe, sir, as I issued the challenge. Unless, of course, you fear I'll best you."
Cantry couldn't stifle a laugh at the idea.
"And you'd be doing a good deed by entertaining me."
"True." He was warming to the race. She watched his smile spread to wickedness. "Of course, I couldn't accept your money. But if you were to offer a token instead . . ."
"Ah. A kiss in lieu of fifty pounds?" She cast her eyes down for a moment, trying to look demure. "A kiss. All right. You have a bet, Mr. Cantry. A kiss if you win. Fifty pounds if I do."
Oh, the young man was pleased with his chances, though his brother, clearly the smarter of the two, stood shaking his head at Gantry's gullibility. Jones looked simply dismayed.
"It isn't safe," he protested.
"True," Viscount Lancaster agreed, smile fading.
"Nonsense, gentlemen. I am a country lass, after all, and well acquainted with such dangers. This pond is no more than four feet deep in the middle. Fear not." She picked her way down the sloping bank before they could protest further, and looked up in surprise when a strong hand clasped her elbow. "Thank you, Lord Lancaster. Would you take my cloak?"
"Certainly." He leaned close to untie the knot, speaking softly near her ear. "Perhaps this is not such a grand idea. I hear you enjoy a good wager, but when the ice breaks . . ."
"Pah." Emma let him sweep the cloak from her shoulders and tried not to shiver in the cold. She was saved from his concern by the appearance of his brother, flush-faced and already gloating.
"Lady Denmore, shall I give you a handicap? Say ten feet?"
"Hardly, Mr. Cantry."
Jones was convinced to start the race and they were off. Emma's half boots slid well across the ice, but Gantry's stride gave him the immediate advantage. The large group near the house began booing him, drawing a laugh from Emma despite her breathless pursuit.
A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Page 2
