by Lynn Messina
“Oh, Trent,” she sighed, as his heated lips moved across her neck.
“Alex,” he corrected, his voice low and husky. “When you’re in my arms, you will call me Alex.”
Emma thought that Alex was a very nice name and said it over and over again as she unbuttoned his shirt in the dark. She kissed his chest and ran her fingers over his arms. What lovely, lovely muscles he had. “You are magnificent, Alex.”
Her observation further ignited his fire, and he moved with admirable speed. Before she knew it, she was lying with her back against the carriage seat and he was revealing her breasts. Since she was wearing her men’s clothes, this was an unexpectedly easy feat, and he gave thanks that her hot flesh wasn’t buried under layers and layers of corsets. He raised her chin with a gentle finger and looked at her through the stygian darkness. “It’s you who are magnificent.”
Emma nodded and pulled his head down to hers, delighting in the feel of skin against skin, delighting in the feel of everything he did. Trent freed her lips and began blazing a trail down her neck and along her shoulders. When his lips made contact with her breast, she gasped in shock and pleasure. She did not know that this was what men and women did alone together, but it came as a wonderful surprise. She ran her hands through his hair.
“Oh, Alex,” she sighed as his tongue darted across her nipple. Lying beneath him, she could feel the strength of his desire, and she wondered just how far this madness would go. She certainly didn’t have the presence of mind—or the will—to stop it. Indeed, if she had her way, they’d never leave the confines of this carriage.
Trent lavished attention on her other breast, and she shuddered as he brushed her stomach with gentle fingers. Then his hand moved lower. Emma tensed for a moment—how could he touch her there?—but relaxed instantly when these new sensations proved just as delightful as the others.
Emma was on the verge of something, just what she didn’t know but she felt certain that it was something magnificent, when the carriage came to a stop. It took a moment for understanding to penetrate her passion-filled mind, but the duke responded instantly. With disconcertingly deft fingers, he rebuttoned her shirt swiftly. He did the same with his own.
Emma didn’t know what to say, so while she gathered her wits, she pretended to be focused on the listening device she brought with her. When her breathing had returned somewhat to normal, she said, “I shall be leaving now. Thank you for your help, your grace.”
She would have opened the door, but the duke’s arms restrained her. “Miss Harlow…Emma, we must talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said in an extraordinarily calm voice.
“You’ll not dismiss my embrace so easily,” he said, the anger evident.
Emma did not have the strength for this. With the absence of real, damning evidence against Windbourne in her hand, her only hope now was Trent. Emma would do nothing to disrupt plan A. “Really, I’m just saving you the trouble,” she said, pulling herself free. It wasn’t the whole truth, of course, but then again neither was it completely a lie. She knew enough about the Duke of Trent than to think that he’d be faithful to a woman like her—or indeed any woman. She would not go down that route. She simply would not. “Thank you again,” she said, opening the door and stepping out into the cool night air.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It wasn’t until a week later at the Earl of Northrup’s ball that the duke managed to achieve a private moment with Emma. This finally, after a frustrating six days of trying his damnedest to talk to her and being thwarted on all fronts.
During their theater excursion the day after the break-in, she avoided his presence with single-minded perseverance, preferring to sit by Sarah’s side and make dull conversation about the actors’ costumes. Whenever he addressed a word to her, she either asked his opinion on the cut of Petruchio’s jacket or tossed out a compliment about Lavinia. By the time the evening was through, he had agreed that Lavinia looked very lovely, that amaranth was a particularly becoming color on her, that her brow was very noble indeed, that she had the best posture of any lady of their acquaintance, that her love of the theater was inspiring to behold and that her conversation was particularly sparkling tonight.
The duke left, convinced that the Harlow Hoyden was up to her old tricks, only this time she was taking it a step further. No longer content to have her sister fall for him, she was determined to have him fall for her sister. This was the only conclusion to be logically drawn from that night’s exercise. Having reconsidered the situation in light of Windbourne’s suitability, she had decided that the only solution was for the Duke of Trent to marry her sister. Trent couldn’t fault her. In many ways, it was an ideal solution—what woman would chose a windbag like the baron over an erudite lord such as he?—but he couldn’t help but be repulse by the very idea. To marry one sister while desiring the other! He could think of no circumstance less appealing or a marriage more doomed to failure. Clearly Emma had not thought it through, or she would have realized the impossibility of the arrangement. She was no more able to resist him than he was her, and if they were tossed together endlessly in family situations, their attraction would one day overcome them. The end result would be a disastrous betrayal.
Two days after the theater, the duke called at Grosvenor Square, hoping to have a private word with Emma. He wanted to dissuade her from this course, and perhaps talk about what happened in the carriage. A man of his consequence did not go around seducing innocents in his carriage—and seduction it was, for he did not know how far it would have gone had the hackney not stopped when it did. A woman with Emma’s breeding should know better than to let him get away with it. There should be a price for such behavior, and although marriage to a notorious young woman too wild to recognize proper behavior had never been part of his plan, he was willing to make the sacrifice for the sake of duty. They had much to talk about, and he would not be denied.
However, it was not Emma who greeted him in the drawing room but Lavinia. “Your grace,” she said, taking a seat, “I’m afraid Emma is not feeling quite the thing at the moment and she requested that I see you in her stead. I hope you’re not disappointed.”
The duke smiled wryly. He should have anticipated this maneuver. “Miss Harlow, it’s a pleasure as always.”
Lavinia laughed. “Pooh, Trent, you are too polite for your own good. Let us speak plainly with each other. It is not a pleasure at all, though I do appreciate your saying so. You had hoped to see Emma, and I am a sad substitute.”
“Not quite a sad substitute, I assure you.”
“Very good. Now you’re getting the hang of it,” she said, happy to see he could overcome his innate good manners to be honest for a moment. “We must do something about my sister, for she is trying with renewed vigor to bring us together. Just a few days ago it had seemed to me that she had lost interest in her scheme, but I’m afraid Sir Waldo must have said the wrong thing to her and angered her. It was Sarah who pointed out to me just this morning that Emma’s reinvigorated efforts coincided with my unfortunate fiancé’s return.”
The duke nodded. Miss Harlow’s speculation was correct, although she could not know the whole truth. For the first time, the duke regretted the gentleman’s code of honor that forbid him from talking ill of a woman’s fiancé. Despite his initial reservations, he was now in complete agreement with the Harlow Hoyden: Vinnie deserved much better than Sir Windbag. No man expected his wife to be accomplished in anything other than the genteel arts—sewing, painting, singing, speaking French—but Trent couldn’t help but believe that he himself would’ve been much gratified by an authoress-wife.
“I’m at a loss as to how to proceed,” said Lavinia, “and am thinking of making a clean breast of it. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not adept at games of deception and should like to bring this sham courtship to an end.” She closely watched the duke, trying to gauge his reaction. Did he think it was time to bring this whole matter to a close, as well? “You have
been abused enough by the Harlow sisters and must be glad to be free of your ill-advised commitment.” Now, thought Vinnie, he’ll either run for the hills like a sane man or come up with some reason to continue the farce like a besotted suitor.
The duke considered her words carefully. What she said was true: His commitment had been ill-advised. When he made it, he had only a small inkling of what he was agreeing to. A sham courtship, certainly, but he had no idea he’d be called upon to commit thievery—or that he’d be unable to resist the scheming imp who tempted him. The latter was an unusual circumstance for him; there had never been a woman before whom he couldn’t resist.
Trent realized that he wasn’t ready to let the farce end just yet. His first consideration, of course, was Emma. He relished any scheme that brought him into her company, and if she knew that her plan to throw Vinnie and him together was unsuccessful, she might have nothing more to do with him. But his second consideration was Vinnie herself. He had grown to like her very much over the past few weeks, and he respected her thoughts and opinions too much to comfortably watch her throw herself away on a wastrel like Windbourne. What he had in mind was a modified version of Emma’s original plan: He would find some peer perfectly suited to Vinnie and toss them together. In order to implement his plan, he would need more time. If he agreed right then to end the sham, he’d have little opportunity to spend time with Lavinia.
“I will, of course, abide by your final decision, Miss Harlow,” he said, after an extended moment of thought, “but I fear you might be giving up too easily. Your original intention to teach Miss Harlow a lesson was wise, if a little underhanded, and I think you should stay the course. I do not regret my involvement. Indeed, I wouldn’t mind seeing Miss Harlow learn something, as she twisted my arm quite mercilessly to get my compliance.”
This was exactly what Lavinia wanted to hear, indeed, had expected to hear. Although Emma’s recent behavior indicated the opposite, Lavinia was convinced that her sister was head over heels in love with Trent. She wasn’t as confident about the duke’s feelings, but all evidence indicated he wasn’t indifferent to Emma’s charms. “Very well. If you are sure.”
“Perfectly. To be honest, Miss Harlow, I haven’t been so amused in years.”
“I’m sure you’re only being polite again, but I’ll not take exception. You put my mind to ease.”
“That’s my intention.” The duke stood up to take his leave. “In the interest of our plan, perhaps you should take a drive with me tomorrow afternoon, assuming, of course, that you do not already have plans. With the return of Sir Windbourne, I expect you’re very busy.”
Trent’s expectation was off the mark. Lavinia had seen very little of her fiancé since his return. “Tomorrow will be lovely,” she said. “I have no pressing engagements in the afternoon.”
“Shall we say three then? And do make sure that Emma knows where you are going and in whose company.”
“I will be sure to inform her,” she said, escorting him to the door.
“Ah, one last thing, Miss Harlow,” he said, “before I forget. I’ve been talking over your drainage ideas with Mr. Berry, the president of the horticultural society, and he was very interested. He asked me if I thought you’d be inclined to draw up a helpful pamphlet to be distributed at the next meeting and perhaps give a lecture. I told him you probably wouldn’t have time with your wedding fast approaching”—fast approaching? thought the duke; her wedding was seven months away—“but it’s something to think about,” he said offhandedly, well satisfied with her reaction. Her face had lit up at the mere suggestion, and it was clear to the duke that she was already thinking about it. Trent left and told the coach to take him to Mr. Berry’s apartments in the East End. Although Mr. Berry did not yet know it, they had drainage systems to discuss.
Trent arrived at the Northrup ball determined to speak with Emma. She had successfully evaded him the whole week through, but that was about to change. He would not be put off any longer.
“I say, Trent, you look as though someone spit on your Hessians and you’re planning your revenge. I know women are rumored to prefer the forceful type, but you’re doing it a bit brown,” said Pearson by way of greeting.
“Good evening, Pearson,” said the duke, barely sparing a glance in his search for Miss Harlow.
“It will do you no good,” said Pearson.
The duke looked at him quizzically.
Pearson fought a smile. “Staring at the dance floor will do you no good. She isn’t here yet. You’ll want to turn your attention to the door.”
Resenting the accuracy of this statement and the smug tone with which it was delivered, the duke said, “As a matter of fact, I am looking for Miss Portia Hedgley, who I saw arrive twenty minutes ago. We might make a match of it.”
Pearson raised a quieting finger to his lips and looked around to see if anyone heard the duke. “You’re a bloody fool to say that aloud, Alex, even to throw me off the scent. You never know who’s listening. It would serve you right if you found yourself shackled to that toad-eating mushroom rather than admit you have a care for the Harlow Hoyden.”
Trent was in no mood for teasing, but Pearson was correct. One never did know who was listening. “I would remind you of the same, lest you get sued by the toad-eating mushroom’s family for defamation of character. They’re just the sort to use the law courts to resolve their problems.”
Pearson agreed to this sentiment and wandered off to fetch himself a glass of wine. When he returned he was very amused to observe that the duke had changed his position. He was now facing the door. “This is the problem with arriving on time to one of these things. As gentleman we should linger over our toilette, so that we don’t have to wait for the ladies, who always linger longer over theirs. It’s the very devil.” As he was saying this, he spied a pair of identical blond heads. “Finally your patience is—”
“Excuse me, Pearson,” the duke said as soon as Emma entered the room. She was dressed simply in a dark green silk dress adorned only with delicate lace trim, but the duke thought she looked breathtaking. Her smile was wide, her dimples were out in full force, and he could hear the trickle of her laugher as he approached. He paused a moment to soak in the picture.
“Good evening, Miss Harlow,” he said, taking her gloved hand and laying a soft kiss on it. “How beautiful you look in that gown.”
“Pooh,” said Emma dismissively, “this old thing? I’ve had it for years, and it’s never done a thing for my complexion. But doesn’t Lavinia look charming?”
Hearing this, Lavinia rolled her eyes at the duke, for she herself was wearing a dress of a similar green shade. Trent responded with a conspirational smile and greeted her with a kiss on the hand.
Emma saw the duke’s intimate smile, though she didn’t know its cause, and took heart. Trent had to feel something special for her sister if he could smile at her like that. She’d been watching the two of them with an eagle’s eye for days, and she could find nothing to convince her that their affection of each other was developing. Alas, they seemed as fond of each other now as they were when they first met. But for the first time in a week, she had hope, thanks to his smile. It would be a happy marriage for both of them. And if she had to move to Scotland or Wales or some other such place in the wild to avoid seducing her brother-in-law, then so be it. Lavinia would never know about the two of them.
Sir Windbourne made up the third member of their little party, and he greeted Trent, heedless to the drama that was playing out before him. Emma had noticed Sir Waldo’s obliviousness earlier in the week, and she laid this sin at his feet as she did a multiple of others. What gentleman wouldn’t mind his affianced bride spending time with the most sought-after peer of the realm? Only a fool, concluded Emma, or a man so in love with his mistress that he wouldn’t care if his wife were caught in flagrante delicto with the footman.
The orchestra struck up a quadrille, and even Emma wasn’t brazen enough to send off Trent and her sister
under Sir Waldo’s beady eyes. She gave the duke a speaking look, making it very clear what she expected of him, and then she addressed a question to the baron to give the duke an opportunity to do it. “Tell me, Sir Windba—uh, Windbourne, what do you think of Jane Austen?”
“Jane Austen?” he asked, baffled by both the question and his fiancée’s sister’s sudden interest in him. “I’ve never met the girl. Why? What does she think of me?”
Everyone laughed at this sally, except its author, who hadn’t meant to make it.
“Jane Austen is a lady author,” explained Emma. “She writes works of fiction.”
“A lady author, you say?” His posture straightened, and he raised his monocle to his eye, as if to spot any such animal as a lady author in the underbrush. “I don’t approve of lady authors. It is my belief that women should not make spectacles by putting themselves forward in such a vulgar way—”
“Emma, why don’t you and the duke join the quadrille? I don’t believe they have started yet. Sir Waldo has many thoughts on this topic and his answer could take a great long while.” Vinnie sent an apologetic smile to her betrothed. “Why don’t you tell me what you think, and I’ll give Emma the condensed version later.”
Because Sir Waldo was much like a tree that fell in a forest—he made a sound whether one was there to hear or not—he approved of this plan.
“I feel awful,” said Emma, casting one last lingering glance over her shoulder. “She shouldn’t have to listen to that pedant tell her again why she mustn’t write. I assure you, once is enough. I can’t understand what she sees in him. Did you see the way she interrupted him? She knew a long-winded speech was coming and sought to save us. Why won’t she save herself? Indeed, was it my imagination or did she even seem a little embarrassed? How can she marry a man who embarrasses her? She will have to spend the rest of her life apologizing for him. Take it from me, it’s hard enough going through life apologizing for one’s own behavior. I shudder to think what it’s like to have to—” Feeling the cool air brush her arms, Emma ceased her senseless chatter and looked around her. The dance floor was not outside. “Where are we?”
