Her shoulders heaved with her panting, pale fingers twitched against her skirts.
"I have a few questions for you. I'm sure you understand."
Her hands reached beneath her chin to untie the ribbons of the hat. "Bess, I'll need a moment," she rasped.
Hart caught the motion of Bess rushing around the back corner. A moment later, a door slammed. Emma eased off her hat and smoothed her hair down before she turned slowly to face him.
She looked . . . lovely. Rested and healthy, cheeks turned pink in the warmth of the garden, hair damp at the temples. But her eyes had gone nearly vacant, animated solely by fear.
She said nothing, just stared at a spot beyond his ear. Whatever heat had colored her cheeks was retreating now, leaving sick white behind.
"Surprised to see me?"
When her eyelids fluttered, Hart felt satisfaction rush through his limbs. He was no longer the helpless one.
He cocked his head. "Did you think I would simply shrug and count myself lucky that you had gone? Did you think I would bathe away your scent and dress for the first ball of the Season?"
Her lips trembled as she tried to form a word. "Y-yes. Why would you not?"
"Why not? Hmm." He clasped his hands behind his back and looked her up and down until her fingers wound together in tight anxiety. "I was drunk, Emma. And angry. I was not, however, unconscious. Did you think I would not notice the blood, or remember the way you went so still beneath me?"
"I. . . I don't. . ."
"I know who you are, who you really are. Emily."
Her gaze finally snapped to his, eyes wide and swirling with dark emotions. "Please don't. Please don't tell. I am done with the kind of life I lived in London. This is all I have, all I wanted."
"And what of the deception you perpetrated in town? It is illegal to impersonate a noblewoman, you know."
"I know! I am sorry!" But her eyes were glinting with thought now, instead of regret. "I promise not to return. I've disappeared and that's all I ever wanted. I did just as you advised and bought into the funds. And I've never stolen from you or anyone else."
"Really? What of our trust and our friendship?"
"Please . .. I'll. . ." Her eyes darkened. "I'll do anything to make it up to you. Pleased
Well, she'd gotten there quickly. Hart forced a laugh to cover his hurt. "Anything? Then invite me in. We will start with tea."
She nodded, a simple assent to the implication that he would use her body as payment for her crimes. And that cool nod finally popped the bubble that had muffled Hart's mind since he'd spied her. Everything he'd learned about her in the past month rushed into him like a tidal wave, sweeping his detachment away. By the time he'd recovered enough to think to pull her into his arms, Emma had walked past him.
Shaken, Hart turned and followed her toward the front of this new home she'd made for herself. At that moment, he felt sure he would have followed her anywhere if only she would give him some truth.
Chapter 21
The heart was surely not meant for this type of abuse. Emma's pulse beat madly, the same fluttering, useless speed that afflicted a captured bird. And like those birds, she was sure she would fall dead at any moment, that useless organ too overwhelmed to go on.
When his figure darkened the doorway, Emma jumped, though she'd been standing there waiting stupidly for him to appear. He had to duck to clear the lintel and so he looked that much larger when he straightened to his full height.
The door of Bess's private room creaked open; Emma heard her tentative footsteps as she came toward them through the kitchen.
"Bring tea, please," she said. "And then we will need privacy, Bess."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Privacy," Hart muttered as his eyes roamed the large front room.
This was all there was, this large space and the kitchen and two small bedrooms besides Bess's room in the back. She had her own entrance. She could come and go as she pleased, though she rarely budged. It was the perfect situation for Bess and for Emma, and he would ruin it all.
She hated him for gazing upon the walls, taking stock, and no doubt dismissing it as little worth losing. He could not see the tragedy he was about to unleash; it would mean nothing to him. And still he looked beautiful and tempting. Still she wasn't horrified to think that she would take him to her bed.
"How did you find me?"
He took his time finishing his perusal. By the time he looked at her again, Bess was rushing in with tea. Emma found herself trapped in his gaze for that long moment. Where there had been coolness, there was now heat. His ice blue hatred had shattered into sparkling torment.
She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, until the sound of Bess's door slamming snapped through the room, and Hart blinked.
"How did I find you? I looked for you. I traced you back to Cheshire, spoke to everyone you've ever known. By all accounts you have always loved the ocean."
"But. . ."
He actually offered a pitying smile then, which spun her into confusion. "I am a duke, Emma. Most of our good countrymen will never meet a duke in their life. My status is a useful tool for gathering information from, say, land agents."
She snapped her jaw closed. "I see. Life unfolds its creases for you as it always does."
Hart cocked his head in agreement, surprising her. "I have never known a life like yours, that is certain." His gaze was gentling, his mouth losing its hardness.
He pitied her.
Oh, that scraped her pride in a vicious slash, even though her brain insisted his pity would prove useful. It could save her, save this life she'd carved for herself. And still she bared her teeth in a sneer.
"So you heard my story, did you? Found yourself melting for that poor orphan girl? Let me guess the rest: you thought to yourself 'Well, here is a girl who needs a hand up. A gentle woman unused to a life of labor. She could use an income, a way to buy herself the pretty things she deserves, and I can provide that for her.'"
"Of course not—"
"Did you come here to strike a deal, Your Grace?"
The pity had vanished, along with her most likely chance of mercy. "You are as ridiculous and shocking as ever, I see. I did not come to make you my mistress."
"Do you mean to have me arrested?"
"No."
"Well, pardon my ignorance, but why have you gone to all this trouble if you don't mean to punish or take advantage? Why are you here?"
At least she was no longer terrified. She'd passed terror and headed straight to reckless and irrational, challenging him when she'd meant to appease. But she could either meet him as an equal or fall to her knees and beg for mercy.
She would not grovel, not yet, so she forced herself to wait quietly for his answer, sure that if he would only give his reason, she could turn it on him, talk him out of it. But she'd shocked him somehow. He only swallowed and shook his head as little furrows formed between his brows.
Emma lost her patience. "You've hunted me down like a fox. I have a right to know why. What will you do with me?"
His hands opened as if to show that he held no weapon. "I don't know."
"Come, Hart. You claim to have searched weeks for me. Don't lie about—"
"Damn you, I do not know. I meant to have revenge, repay you for your lies. I hated you. But I promised someone I would not see you hurt. Strange to say it was an easy vow." His voice had fallen to a husky warmth that worked through her, but she fought the pull of that sound.
"Just your coming here hurts me." Her words were too close to the truth, so Emma scrambled to cover her feelings. "Your coach is parked in my lane, ducal crest ablaze in the sun. My neighbors will think me your doxy."
He raised that arrogant brow. "Ah, yes. What would a modest young woman have to do with a bachelor lord? How could the grieving widow of a merchant even have met a duke?"
He knew everything, had ferreted out all her lies. Emma's mouth went bone dry. He was drawing this out, torturing her like a cat tortur
es a mouse. "What do you want?"
"Emma, I . . ." The words broke away on a sigh and he glanced at the chair behind him. When he dropped into it, Emma realized how very disturbed he was. He had probably never taken a seat before a lady in his whole life. This wasn't an act. He stared up at her, unaware of the emotion he'd betrayed.
He whispered, "I believed your lies in London." "Yes."
"And I treated you as a widow."
"Yes."
"I did things I shouldn't have done. Said things to you. . ."
How strange men were. Out of everything, this was his greatest upset? As long as some other man had taken her maidenhead, Hart had felt her deserving of all manner of lust. But her virginity had transformed her into some other being, someone more worthy than who she'd really been.
"Lay your guilt aside, Hart, if that's what it is. I was a maiden, but I was no innocent. . . in case you could not tell."
"You could not have known the—"
"Of course I knew." She was trying to show disdain through her look, but as the seconds passed it grew more difficult. His eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, were normally so shielded. But now she could see everything in them: worry and pain and knowledge, and a dawning horror. And then softness that wanted to pull her in and make everything better.
Emma backed a step away.
"In your father's home—" he started.
"Don ‘t"
He closed his mouth, but his eyes stayed the same, telling her things, making her feel.
He had wanted her body before, but now she was different. Now she wasn't like his other women, she was pure and vulnerable and weak. She was a damsel in distress. A little girl wandering the dark halls where monsters roamed.
In his eyes was everything she'd ever wanted as a girl, everything she'd given up on years before. Emma had grown weary of waiting for rescue. She'd had to rescue herself and she would never forget that.
"Emma—"
"I may have been a virgin, Hart, but I was not the least bit innocent, so wipe that regret from your eyes. If that's all you came to express, then you've done it. I absolve you. You may leave."
"That's hardly why I came, and you do not have the power to absolve me, so—"
"Why did you come? Why? Just tell me. Say what you need to say so that we may both—"
His soft voice broke through her tantrum. "I need to know."
She froze, hand caught midair in its dramatic sweep. "Know what?"
"I need to know why you did it. Why did you come to London and pretend to be Denmore's widow? Why gamble your way through London and masquerade as a scandalous woman? Why . . . why did you come to my house that night, Emma? And why did you leave?"
His eyes wouldn't let her go. They begged for answers and sympathy. She could give him one but not the other.
"I came to London for money, Hart, nothing else. I'd inherited a small amount from my great-uncle and I needed more. Gambling seemed the best way to get it."
"The best way? To become a fraud? Lie and cheat? Risk imprisonment?"
"Would you have had me become a courtesan?"
"As if that were your only option! You were a young noblewoman in need. And the Osbournes adored you. If you had only explained, asked for assistance, they would have been happy to sponsor you, give you a place to live."
"Oh, what a glorious idea from the wealthy man. To live as a supplicant, begging for scraps. Yes, they liked me well enough, I suppose they would have taken me in as a pet. And then what? A short career of obedience until they found a gentleman desperate enough to marry me? And what an ingrate I would be to turn him down."
He shook his head. "There are hundreds of noble-women of limited means. None of them take up gambling as a form of support."
"Yes, it seems I am the only one with the correct combination of skill and gall. I'm quite proud."
"And this was your plan?" Oh, his sweeping gesture held a world of scorn. This. This pitiful cottage. This small life.
"Yes, this. This is what I want."
"I don't understand. You worked for weeks, collected hundreds of pounds, a small fortune." His eyes swept once more around the room, one last dismissive glance. He didn't notice the walnut sideboard she'd found in town and bought with her own coin. Didn't see the fine tapestry she'd hung on the wall to brighten the room with blues and greens the exact shade of the ocean. It was all nothing to him, just a life less than his own.
"Yes, Hart," she whispered. "Yes, this is what I was working for. Just this. So please have mercy on my small life. Don't call on the magistrate or expose me to my neighbors. Don't ruin me. Just leave me be. I promise I'll never return to London."
He stood. She thought he was leaving and felt a small twinge of regret. But he only paced over to her front window and stared out at the smudge of blue that was the sea.
"You love the ocean."
She stared at his back.
"Are you happy here?" His shoulders were nearly wide enough to block all the light. He turned to her. "Emma? Are you happy?"
Her lungs were so weak, her word just a whisper. "Yes."
"Because I am not happy. You had to know how I would feel. You left a scandal in your wake and I am the undying focus of it. Me. The idiot duke once again."
"I'm sorry." She was sorry, but she could hardly force the words out. Emma cleared her throat and gathered up her courage, false as it was. "I'm sorry, Hart. I never meant that. Never."
"I hated you. Despised you. If I'd found you in those first few days I would've seen you thrown in Newgate with no regret."
"I'm sorry."
His strong shoulders rose in a shrug. "It seems it has all gone away. Perhaps because I am not in the city, but . . . I do not care about that. I only care that you are well, Emma. And out of danger. And somehow . . ."
Emma shook her head, not quite knowing what she denied. But Hart provided the answer.
"I feel responsible for you. And we have passion. There is one way to fix this. Fix the scandal as well as your future."
"No."
"Marry me." He looked confused by his own words, almost as confused as Emma was.
"No."
"There would still be talk, of course, but it would end. We are comfortable with each other, alike in more ways than not."
"That is not true." She did not want it to be true. She wanted it all to be lies. His offer, his logic, and most of all the sincerity in his eyes.
Emma's heart was twisting back to life, trying to free itself from the stone she'd built around it. It wanted the freedom to swell with hope or beat harder in despair. It wanted to feel something, but Emma held tight to it, squeezed it until it stilled. She needed him gone. Now, before she broke into a million pieces.
"No," she said again.
"I understand that this is sudden."
"Yes, it is sudden, not to mention completely unwelcome."
"Emma—"
"I am not suffering. I need nothing. Hard as it is to believe, this is exactly the life I want. I am not interested in the disgusting cruelty of the ton. I will not return to London with my tail between my legs, hoping that one day they will accept me. I do not need a vast, echoing castle and heavy, uncomfortable gowns. And I certainly do not need you as a husband."
"I've shocked you. I apologize. But whatever you think of London and the ton, I hope you will consider my proposal. Because I think it is possible . . . Emma, I think I could love you."
"Nonsense," she snapped, shocked that she could even manage that. His words were swimming toward her through dark water. She'd heard them come from his mouth, but now it seemed they were approaching again, the reality of them, the feel.
Her face tingled and went numb, then her neck and her chest. Soon her whole body was a husk, lifeless and dead. "Nonsense," she tried to whisper.
Hart was moving toward her and she could not stop him. Her limbs were paper, weak and useless.
His hot hands rose to cradle her face. Long fingers eased into
her hair, spreading tingles over her scalp. "I could love you, Emma. I could. If we married, it would not be an arrangement, a means of creating heirs and legacies. It would be more. We would argue and laugh and love. You would drive me mad and I would irritate you to no end. We have so much passion. We would scandalize the ton and enjoy every minute of it."
Each word had snuck closer to her lips, until he breathed her name into her mouth. "Emma . . ." He brushed a delicate kiss, then pressed into her, his tongue offering a small, slow taste.
Her heart bloomed, the stone cracked, and pain poured deep into her soul. Emma jerked back, pushed him away. "Stop it. Stop."
Those damned beautiful eyes stared at her, still swimming with tender lust, soft and hot as sin. Emma wanted that softness gone before it swallowed her whole.
"You are ridiculous," she spat. "You speak of my childhood as if it were horrid, yet you would drag me back into that kind of hell. I know who you are, what you are. You are just like my father."
"No! No, I never was."
"You think I would deign to marry a man like you? How long before you would be sniffing after some other woman, or two or three for that matter?"
The softness was fading but there was no anger yet. "I would not—"
"Don't deny it. You are a rake and a reprobate. A connoisseur of women. Do not even claim that I would be your last."
"I will not deny that I have had lovers, but I have never been married, never even betrothed. I know what your father was like, but I promise—"
"You know what my father was like because you were well acquainted." She saw the ice forming over his eyes, saw the way he'd drawn straight, holding himself with rigid dignity. Emma moved in for the kill. "You are just like him, Hart. Do you know how I know? Because you showed me in your chambers. You whispered it to me in your bed."
Shutters of blue metal seemed to snap into place over his gaze. Any semblance of the man who'd just spoken of love vanished with those few words.
A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Page 22
