"Risk. That's what you like, isn't it? So play with fire. Play with me."
She was shaking, trembling, just as he'd wanted. His breath grew warmer, closer, till his lips must touch her and still they didn't. His mouth hovered just over the skin of her temple, and then he sighed out a secret wish.
"Order me to my knees, Emma."
She sobbed and grabbed blindly for the doorknob. When she slipped under his arm, Hart let her go without a word.
Cheers erupted from the small crowd around her, and Emma made herself smile. She'd tried to relax into the chair, recapture her careless persona, but her body was rebelling. Every few minutes she'd find herself perched on the edge of the cushion, back straight and screaming of tension.
It didn't help that she'd just bet on a third game of billiards. She had no idea how to play, and so she was forced to watch and depend on others for her luck. She hated depending on others.
Shifting in her seat, Emma ran a hand over the hard line of her corset. The motion drew the attention of at least one pair of eyes. The nape of her neck burned with awareness.
Emma scowled. She wouldn't turn around to look, but he was there. Lounging against the wall, receiving obsequious admiration from the people who hovered near. And keeping himself in her thoughts.
Retiring to bed would be worse, of course. And there was nothing else to bloody well do, because one billiard game had tumbled into a full damned tournament among the male guests. Most of them, anyway. Somerhart was far too dignified to participate. Dignified. Ha.
Order me to my knees. He'd purposefully titillated her. Aroused her. Stuck himself like a burr beneath her skullcap.
Lord Marsh, who'd already been knocked out of play, sidled closer to her chair and laid an arm across the high back. "Lady Denmore, I congratulate you. Your luck has improved."
"Mr. Jones is offering tips."
"Helpful pup, that one."
Emma stared silently at the players. Her limbs ached with the desire to leap up and try her hand at the game. It didn't look all that difficult, but she knew it must take subtle skill. It couldn't possibly be as simple as it seemed.
"Lady Denmore . . ." Marsh angled his head closer, though he avoided the appearance of intimacy by keeping his eyes on the billiard table. "I think it only fair to warn you—you being new to our society—that Somerhart is not known for his—"
A bowing footman intruded and Marsh straightened away from her. Emma didn't care. She didn't need additional warnings. She could barely heed her own.
"My lady," the footman said, offering a letter on a silver tray. Emma glanced around before she realized he spoke to her.
"Me?" How odd. It certainly wasn't a proposal of assignation, which might be expected from one of several different gentlemen here; the scrawled writing indicated it had come from London.
She stared at it, a bit dumbfounded, as the servant retreated. There was no one outside these walls who'd write her letters. Too uncertain to open it in front of others, Emma rose and made for the door.
She wondered if Somerhart followed her, and the idea pushed her faster but also sent an unwelcome thrill down her spine. Insidious plague of a man.
Emma ducked around the corner of the massive front staircase and took a deep breath of lemon-scented air. Her childhood home had smelled of lemon polish too, before her mother's death. Afterward, it had smelled mostly of stale tobacco.
The unmarked seal gave way with a sharp crack. Emma recognized the choppy writing and uncertain spelling with a glance. Bess.
Her pulse quickened, then flooded to a drumbeat as she deciphered the message. A thief. A broken window. Nothing missing. Nothing missing. An extremely inefficient thief then. Or no thief at all.
Matthew, damn him for a determined pest. It had to be him, or some lackey of his, trying to find proof of her identity.
What could she do? Nothing from here, certainly. She had to return to London and try to fight him, but with what?
Her heart boomed against her throat, choking her. She only needed a few more weeks. If she could bribe him or convince him that she'd return to Cheshire and consider marriage. . .
Or maybe it was time to give up. If she were arrested, all her money would be eaten up in bribes and solicitor's fees. But she didn't have enough yet. What would've been the point of all this, of risking everything, if she left in the same position she'd been in before? A thousand pounds would support her a few good years, but she had no skill, no income, and absolutely no intention of depending on another.
She needed the rest of the money.
Emma folded the note into a tight square and snuck around the corner and up the main stairs. Mr. Jones would collect her money and hold it for her until she could retrieve it. She trusted him, though youth and kindness aside, she wouldn't trust him more than that. If he found out the truth about her, he'd react with as much viciousness as any of them. Outrage at being tricked. Anger. Punishment. They'd want to put her in her place. She had no intention of being near when the truth came out.
Packing would take no more than an hour. Then she'd get as much sleep as she could manage before dawn.
Chapter 8
Never before had Emma realized how variable time could be. How a minute could vanish in a blink. How one night could drag on for an impossible eternity.
Anxiety and fear sank their twin jaws into her belly over and over again as the night's hours stood still. She felt shaky and exhausted and wide awake. She wasn't sure if she should be relieved that dawn was only a few hours off or upset that she couldn't even hope for more than four hours of sleep now.
She just wanted the fear to stop. The fear fed doubt, and doubt was a gambler's worst foe.
Trapped in the solitude of her room, Emma alternated between tossing and turning in her twisted sheets, and pacing from one corner of the chamber to another, doubt dogging her every step.
She should not have left London. She should never have come to London in the first place. What if she lost everything, including her freedom? So many doubts . ..
Emma paced faster, wishing she could take action, dc something.
So many regrets . . .
Perhaps she should have stayed in Cheshire and made the best of it. But Matthew had refused to accept rejection. He'd grown more aggressive, more obnoxious. And even months after her uncle's death, she'd still been racked with guilt every time she'd passed the ashes of his home. If she hadn't snuck out that night, if she'd been there to save him when the fire had started .. .
When she rubbed a hand over her face, Emma wasn't surprised to find tears. Because her uncle's death wasn't her greatest regret. Not by far. She'd failed her brother in the same way. Worse, she'd known of the danger, known her father was drunk, and still she'd let him take Will riding. She could live with the mistakes she'd made with her own life, but not those she'd made with others'. Will. His body so cold. Stiff with death.
"Oh, God. Please," she prayed, or tried to. "Please." The pressure in her chest failed to ease. Guilt wound through her like a snake tightening its hold. Emma stumbled to the window and pried open the sash.
Freezing air burst in, swimming over her exposed skin. The wind pressed her nightgown to her body and coated her in damp cold. Emma gulped at the sharp, fresh air as if she'd been drowning. She drank it deep in desperate gasps. Within seconds she was shivering, but she could feel the serpent loosen its hold on her soul.
She slowed her breath and leaned her weight against the windowsill.
She needed a distraction, that was all. Something to consume her thoughts. If she could get through this night, she could fix things in London or at least plot her quiet escape from the city. She just needed to get through this one night. Just as she'd gotten through others.
Emma leaned forward until even her shoulders passed the edge of the glass. She hung her head and let the night air caress the nape of her neck. She didn't know why the cold soothed her, didn't know why she found winter so fascina
ting and tempting. She only knew that the rest of her life was smothering her, squeezing all the blood and air from her body. But out here she could breathe.
And, strange as it was, she could breathe with Hart. Even though they were constantly sparring, even though he pushed her toward what she couldn't have.
Order me to my knees.
Emma sighed out a long, long breath, then drew air into her lungs as slowly as she could.
She couldn't risk it. The situation was too precarious. She couldn't go to his room and let him touch her. Her will was gossamer thin, worn down by desperation and vulnerability. But Hart was exactly the magnitude of distraction she needed. Totally overwhelming. All encompassing. Her solution and her problem.
Hart.
It would be madness to let him near tonight. Utter madness.
His room was silent and too dark. The cooler air of the hallway drew a warm, spicy scent from his chambers and swept it over Emma's face. She shivered and slid one bare foot from the hall rug onto the wood floor at the threshold of his room.
As she stepped farther in, her eyes began to adjust to the faint light of the night candle left burning on his bedside table. His short hair smudged black against the pillowcase. One bare arm was flung wide and, as she followed the curve of muscle up, her eyes found a bare shoulder that curved to an angle of naked chest.
The bedclothes cut across that delicious view and made her want to strip him bare for her basest pleasures.
Her skin tightened and tingled with the thrill of her risk and daring. She was sneaking into a man's room, a man she'd fantasized about for years. His skin glowed richly in the candlelight, and though his face was turned away, Emma could see the perfect edge of his jaw and the corner of that succulent mouth.
By God, she wanted to touch him so badly, wanted to explore the texture of every part of him, but that wasn't what she'd come for. Her will simply couldn't withstand such overwhelming temptation. If she felt him under her hands, she'd want to feel him above her, around her, inside her.
Breath shuddered past her lips at the thought. Emma closed the door behind her and leaned her liquid body against it.
The line of his face changed as the flame wavered. She could read a frown in the tense line of his jaw. His long fingers spasmed. Emma watched them, remembering . . .
Her lips felt numb when she licked them. "Don't—" she started, but the word came out a whisper. Emma swallowed and tried again. "Don't get out of bed."
Hart jerked to awareness, startling her into a gasp. He was sitting up and facing her before she'd seen him move.
"Who's there?" he barked.
"Me," Emma answered. "It's me."
His wariness melted into confusion, but only for a moment. Then a feral smile appeared, flashing white in the dimness. "Emma." A leg snuck from under the sheets as he started to rise.
"Stop!"
He froze.
"Don't get up."
He glanced down to his legs and back up to her. "Shall I don a dressing robe?"
"No. Just stay there."
Confusion again. Hart rubbed a hand over his sleep-heavy eyes. "You're planning to join me? Consider yourself invited."
She could only shake her head, saving all her courage for her next request.
Somerhart's mouth sank into a scowl. "I don't know what you're about, Emma, but it's the middle of the night and you're in my room—"
"Take off the bedclothes," she said in a rush.
"I. . . Pardon?" He blinked. Twice.
Emma raised her chin. She hid her shaking hands and tried to make her voice as steady as possible. "I wish to see you naked. Push the coverlet aside."
He stared blankly for a moment, then emotions began to pass over his face like clouds: shock, curiosity, and then, finally, something fierce and hot and infinitely dangerous. "You're taking up my challenge, Emma?"
She curled her fingers tight and pushed herself straighter against the door. "Take off the bedclothes, now." She didn't want him thinking, didn't need his cutting commentary right now.
Her gamble paid off. After a long, arched look, Hart chose to comply. He held her gaze and reached down to the quilted green silk that hid his body.
Her eyes must be adjusting, because she could see the shape of him now, beneath the covers. And then he slowly swept them aside.
Emma held her breath at the sight of his nudity. His wide chest, the dusting of dark hair that trailed down over a hard, muscled belly and lower, to the thatch of black hair that surrounded his sex.
Her heart drowned out any other sound, but Emma was sure that she sighed. His body faced her, shoulders propped high by one elbow, and she had an unobstructed view of his thick erection. Even as she watched, it grew heavier, larger, as if it relished an audience. Emma watched until it grew so firm that it stood only slightly away from his stomach.
It looked made for her to wrap her hands around. Her belly melted into a knot of warm tension at the thought. Her hands clenched and unclenched, crumpling the delicate wool of her nightgown.
"Well?" he growled. "Do I please you?"
Oh, yes. Yes, he pleased her very much and he would do much more than please if she'd let him.
"Touch yourself," she ordered before she could give in and cross the room.
"What?"
"Touch yourself. I want to watch you . . . pleasure yourself." Her whole body clenched at her own words.
Shock again on his beautiful face, and then Hart's eyes narrowed, his brow fell. "No."
"Yes."
He gave one curt laugh. "No."
She swept her gaze down and watched his cock jump as if she'd touched him. "I want to see you, Hart. I want to watch. Now do it."
He started to push up, started to swing his feet to the floor, and Emma reached for the door handle. "If you touch the floor, I'll leave. Lie down."
His scowl didn't budge, but he fell back to his elbow.
"Good," Emma sighed, the sudden burst of alarm spiraling back down to aching anticipation. She watched him, waiting . . . waiting for him to rebel or acquiesce.
His hand twitched against his side. Emma licked her lips. "Touch yourself," she repeated, more a whisper than an order, but he finally obeyed. His fingers, dark against his belly, slid down and curved around the dusky skin of his shaft.
She nearly whimpered at the sight. Nervous with heady, sexual power, Emma glanced up to his face. His cheekbones were flushed and stark, his eyes glittered.
"Did you really think of me the other night? When you did this?"
"Yes." His voice rumbled through her, shooting sparks along the way.
"Show me."
His hand was still for an impossibly long moment. Then his fist tightened. He stroked.
The knees that had previously supported her trembled away to mist, and she had to press her back more firmly to the door. He gave her nothing more in the meantime. His face was carved into lines of anger and tension. And lust.
"More," she ordered, and his whole body shuddered. But he obliged. He fell to his back and stroked again, working his flesh in a slow, steady motion. Emma's body glowed—a dull aurora of power and joy that pulsed brighter with every movement of Hart's arm.
But her feelings fascinated her almost as much as his actions. Her sex beat like a sharp, beautiful pulse. Her face burned with heat. Her limbs felt numb and insubstantial, as if she'd burned into nothingness.
And Hart. . . Oh, he was breathtaking. A long line of tensing muscles and sweat-touched skin. His shaft was thick and so very hard, straining against his tight grip. She wanted to feel. To stroke lightly, trace with her fingertip, squeeze him in her fist. She wanted to work him, see if she could find a rhythm that would make him gasp for mercy. As much as she'd seen in her short life, she'd never actually touched, but she couldn't go to him.
Instead, Emma placed a cupped hand to the throbbing between her legs. The slightest pressure of the heel of her palm made her gasp.
Hart's head snapped
toward her. His eyes opened, blank with pleasure. But his gaze sharpened as it swept over her body, lingering on her indiscreet hand. She pressed her fingers harder and Hart's free hand clutched at the sheet next to his hip. His teeth showed in a grimace of lust, his movement quickened.
She explored him with her eyes instead of her hands, drinking in the absolute wickedness of this night. She wanted to remember this forever. Wanted to think about this when she lay in bed with only her own hands for comfort. And, oh, he'd think of this too. She knew he would, and that made her satisfaction so much keener.
The muscled line of his thighs shifted. His taut belly sucked in and his chest rose and fell in a faster rhythm. Emma looked to his face, to his mouth drawn tight with pleasure. His eyes glittered with something close to rage.
"Watch me," he snarled, and Emma looked back to his stroking hand. She pressed her palm closer and her jaw shook. Her heart kept time with the rhythm he set, speeding up to meet his movements as they quickened. His free hand tightened around the silk.
"Emma," he whispered, "yes." And then he shuddered to his climax while Emma watched. And, oh, God, she wanted to feel him them, find out everything she'd never know. Was it hot? Slick? What would he taste like if she took him into her mouth right now, if she drank him up? Would he rise again if she went to him and crawled over him as she wanted?
His deep, desperate breaths began to slow, and this would be over soon, and Emma didn't want it to— "Get out," he gasped.
She shook her head. She wasn't ready to leave and he couldn't mean that. He couldn't. So she stood, trying not to move, trying to stay. But his breathing was almost normal now, and his limbs growing limp with relaxation. His eyes opened, bright blue against flushed cheeks.
The eyes narrowed. His mouth curled in a snarl. "Get the hell out of my room. Now."
And Emma fled, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter 9
The bedcovers were a warm weight against his body, holding in heat and an unusual lethargy. Hart felt as if he'd sunk deep into the feathered mattress and he wasn't the least bit interested in climbing out. He threw an arm over his eyes to hold off the morning and floated slowly back into a heavy sleep of satisfaction.
A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Page 10
