Fire & Flesh: A Firefighter Romance Story

by Kerri Carr

  His eyes nearly sparkled. He held out his hands in surrender, but continued to lounge comfortably in his seat. “One of my better musings, I think.”

  “Then why do this?” To keep herself from balling her hands into fists, Emily cupped her hands in her lap, black lace on black cotton. She could not have an episode now, not here, and certainly not in front of him.

  “Because.” He stood up in an elegant shifting of muscle and sinew. He reached out and chucked her under the chin in a most impolite way that set her cheeks to flaming. He turned those strange and magnificent eyes on her. “For all I hate of society, and the social season, I loved your father a great deal more.”

  Emily was hard pressed to decide if there could have been an answer that would have surprised her more.

  *****

  As Emily had, thankfully, already been introduced to polite society three years previous she had no need to attend the ball of debutantes other than she wished to see everyone at their very best. There was nothing quite like a gala to show off one at one’s best.

  Silks in every shade of pink, or blue, or yellow paraded by on the most eligible ladies in all of London. Ribbons, she noted, were quite the style; especially if formed into flattering bows.

  It was her preference, due to her delicate condition, that Emily was not in the center of things. She much preferred this spot near the edge of the gathering, with the comfort of a wall at her back. It allowed her to see many, without many bothering to look at her.

  Her own gown was lacking in bows, as it was two years old and of a simpler country fashion. While many women, no matter how many social seasons they had seen, often purchased several new gowns, Emily was far more frugal with her wardrobe. Besides, the simpler style suited her natural look, and the pale blue emphasized her fair coloring.

  “Well,” Owen said stepped up next to her, “this is as droll as I thought it would be.”

  He looked resplendent. She wished he didn't. It would make everything so much easier if the deep blue of his waistcoat, and the matching silk of his cravat didn't bring out that particular hue in his eyes. No indeed, if the cut of his suit were any less perfect she could ignore the way it clung to his form. He was, Emily was forced to admit, an excellently made man, and one of the most attractive in the room, especially now that he had her father's wealth. She noted that more than one woman was already taking notice of her chaperone.

  “It surprises me. I would think, with your well known proclivities, that this would be an excellent ground for you.” Emily flicked her fan out to hide her frown. It matched her gown perfectly.

  “Is that so?”

  “Well of course. You have made it no secret that you greatly enjoy the company of women, and here they are on display for the amusement of every established gentleman. Perhaps that is the problem,” she said musingly. “You do not enjoy the competition.”

  “Your presumptions, Miss Crawford, may have been true if I had even the slightest bit of intention to marry.”

  “You...you don't plan to marry?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I don't.”

  “That's the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard. You can't possibly not wish to get married. You are an eligible bachelor, a wealthy one. Surely you wish for some genteel companionship.”

  While she knew of several men who were not interested in marriage, they usually had some verifiable reason as to why. For her part, Emily wished for nothing more than a good marriage to a kind man.

  “Miss Crawford, I do not think that you know me at all.”

  “Oh?” she asked from behind the privacy of blue and white paper. “Would you care to enlighten me then? Because as far as I am aware, you are two steps above a rake and just below a scoundrel.”

  The laugh was a surprise. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips formed a pleasing shape, but it was the sound that caught her attention. It was not the polite titter of tea rooms or galas. It was a wild laugh, free and unadorned. Emily couldn't quite stop her lips from curling into a smile.

  “Guilty enough, Miss Crawford, but at least I don't make any pretense of myself.”

  “Does pretense bother you so?”

  “It's a lie,” he said flatly, guiding her away from the entry room and towards the dancing hall. There were more people here, and they turned to look when the pair of them entered. “I despise lies.”

  “Why? If I may be so bold?”

  “I love boldness in a woman.” He navigated them along the fringes of the dancing. “But to answer your question, my father is the reason for much of my personality flaws, but he is also the reason I detest lies. He was a grievous liar and a deplorable representation of patriarchal affection.”

  “I am sorry,” she offered as gently as she could. Suddenly she understood both him and her father's kindness towards him a little better.

  “Think nothing of it.” He cleared his throat, “Let us show you off, shall we? That is what we are here for, after all.”

  She tried to ignore the eyes that fell on them. Emily fidgeted. Dancing was her least favorite activity at a party. Here, more than anywhere else, people were interested in everything that one did. There was the continuing worry of her hair being in the right style, or her gown being without flaw, and (most importantly) whether what she said was going to be appropriate to a potential dance partner.

  No, that wasn't entirely honest. She disliked the dancing because she was never asked. Once, in her very first season, a young gentleman had been polite enough to ask her, and her worries had gotten such a hold of her that she had burst into tears rather than say 'yes'. It had been the talk of social circles for several weeks.

  The memory had her fingers tightening on her fan.

  “Are you alright?” Owen asked. He did not sound concerned, so much as he sounded curious.

  “As well as can be expected.” It wasn't exactly a lie. She watched a particularly elegant lady in a peach gown step in a pretty circle with the ease and grace of a person of her station. Emily ignored a flair of unfeminine jealousy. “So you are a bad man, but an honest one?”

  “See, now you understand.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I'm not entirely sure that I do.”

  “Would you like to?”

  The question was so expected that she turned her eyes away from the beautiful sweeping of ladies and gentlemen across the dance floor.

  Owen was looking down at her with an unexpected intensity that set her heart to racing. How had she never noticed that he had a restless curl that fell over his brow, or that his chin had a distinct dip?

  “Pardon?”

  “Would you like to understand me?”

  She blinked twice and then breathed out slowly, her nostrils flaring unbecomingly. “I am not sure.”

  “Well, that's at least honest.” He paused for just a moment before he said, “I'd like to know you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Besides, if I am to see you well married, I might as well know you well enough to ensure the match is a good one.”

  It was a fair point, so she didn't argue it. Rather she turned her gaze back to the dance floor, watching as a round of dancers bowed to one another, and cleared the floor for the next song. She glanced down at her depressingly empty dance card.

  “You're attractive.”

  He startled her for the second time that evening. “I-what?”

  “You have the fairest coloring of any woman in the room. You, and I ask beforehand that you forgive the cliché, are like a porcelain doll, with all those blonde curls, and ivory coloring. And the blue is becoming.”

  “How kind of you to notice,” she mused without humor, though she did run a hand over her skirt to smooth an unlikely wrinkle.

  “The point that I am attempting to get to, Miss Crawford, is that it fascinates me that a woman so lovely as you has not been approached once so far this evening for a dance. Perhaps your father assigned me an impossible task.”

  Emily ignored
the barb, as she was to entrenched in her own thoughts. She wasn't going to tell him about her first dance, and that none had ever followed. He did not need the details, but she could help him to understand. “I made a fool of myself the season before last, it is unlikely anyone will approach.”

  “Ah,” he said, dislodging himself from his leaning position. In a surprisingly elegant motion he bowed to her and offered his hand. “Allow me.”

  “You can't be serious.”

  “I promise not to make a habit of it if you'll accept.” His mouth had curved into a charming grin.

  She could only assume that she went temporarily mad when she tucked her hand into his.

  The murmurers followed the pair of them as he led her forward. Her heart hammered. Her stomach sank towards her toes. At the edge of the dance floor her feet refused to move.

  “I...I don't know if I can do this.”

  He looked into her face, his lips were already forming some brusque response when he understanding smoothed his brow. He clapped his mouth closed and gave a singular nod.

  “Look at me,” he whispered. “Look only at me. There is no one and nothing else.”

  He said it with such certainty that she could almost believe him. His gaze filled with an intensity that could have burned if she could touch it. His hand held hers and she could feel nothing, see nothing but him.

  The music started, and he guided her away from the world.

  It was not polite to stare at one's dance partner, but neither of them looked at anything else. It was as if their gazes were magnetized, drawn to one another with some invisible force. Her skin hummed every time his fingers graced her shoulder, her back, or her palm. When the steps had her facing away from him, she glanced over her shoulder and he was watching her. It was intimate in a way she had no words for; not that her mind would have formed coherent thought, much less words.

  When the song ended, he guided her effortlessly away from the crowd, and into an alcove.

  “What was that for?” She asked.

  “A man needs a reason to ask a lovely woman to dance?”

  “You do.”

  He laughed, and the sound was loud enough to turn what few heads weren't already looking in their direction. “Fair enough, Miss Crawford. You are right, I had a motive.”

  “Which is?”

  “What does a man want more than a woman?” The mischievous twinkle was back in his visage.

  “I...I am sure I don't know.”

  “A woman that another man has.”

  “That's ridiculous. How could you even-”

  “Miss Crawford! How lovely to see you,” a voice interrupted.

  She narrowed her eyes at Owen, whose grin had grown arrogant.

  The new arrival was a broadly-built gentleman with a round face and a well-trimmed beard. His familiar presence was a welcomed one, even if ill timed.

  “Lord Wright.” Emily's smile was enthusiastic as she bobbed is a short curtsy. “You are looking well.”

  “As are you. I...well I didn't expect to see you here.”

  He didn't say 'quite so soon', but Emily heard the words anyway.

  “My father was not a homebody, nor shall I be.” No matter, she thought, that she didn't have a home anymore.

  “A good spirit to have. I am very glad that you are here Mister Wright.” Wright glanced at Owen and his brows knit.

  “Oh, forgive me,” Emily shook her head. “I don't know where my manners have gone. Hudson Wright, may I introduce the heir of my father's estate and holdings, Mister Owen Harding. Mister Owen Harding, this is Lord Hudson Wright.”

  The gentlemen acknowledged each other with a bow, though Owen's wasn't particularly courteous.

  “Heir?” Hudson asked, his gaze lingered on her.

  “Yes.” She struggled to keep her tone light. “My father named him in his will, along with several stipulations.”

  “I...stipulations?”

  “Yes, well it seems that...”

  “I get to marry her off,” Owen broke in. “Shall I put you down in the books then? Or would you rather continue to pretend that you aren't interested?”

  “Pardon?” Lord Wright asked, clearly caught off guard.

  “Ahh, pretending it is.” Owen nodded. “Fair choice. Well, her dance card is currently empty, perhaps you'd like to...”

  Emily felt her cheeks go rose. Suddenly the room was far too hot and her ears felt as if they were burning. “Mister Harding, Lord Wright, if you will excuse me, I find that I am in need of air.”

  “Yes,” Emily heard Lord Wright say. “Of course.”

  She jerked her arm away from Owen's and whirled out of the room. She could hear the murmurers following in her wake. Her throat closed as she struggled to keep what little grace was left to her and dashed out of the gala.

  The garden was far cooler and only a few guests were making use of its solitude. Emily found an empty path and took it. She didn't care where it took her, so long as it was away.

  How could he say such things? And to Hudson of all people!

  Hudson was an old friend. He had attended college with her cousin and spent a summer at the estate. Her cousin had spent a good deal of the time chasing parlor maids, but Hudson had spent many an afternoon with Emily. They had, she thought, grown quite fond enough of one another. It was no wild passion, but he was wealthy and intelligent and kind of heart. He knew of her nature, and had never made her feel poor for it.

  “Emily?” Owen's voice called after her. “Emily, there you are.”

  She said nothing as he walked up behind her. He placed her fan in her hand. She couldn't remember having dropped it.

  “Thank you,” she bobbed a quick curtsy in his direction. “Please, go away. I would like to be alone.”

  He didn't. She wasn't sure that she truly expected him to. His most tedious quality was that of being tenacious.

  “Good Lord, woman, are you going to be polite to me even now?” He looked shocked.

  She drew herself up to her full height and fixed him with a level glare. “What would you have me do?”

  “Well, you could have slapped me for one. I certainly deserved it.”

  She blinked. “I...pardon?”

  “Or told me to go stuff myself, that would have been understandable, too.” He stepped past her and leaned casually against a stature of a satyr. The irony was not totally lost on her.

  “You knew you were being rude?” She barely kept her jaw from hanging open.

  “Well of course. I was being rude.” He spread his hands wide open, as if to show him both weaponless and defenseless. She didn't believe any of that.

  “Then why-”

  “That 'lord' is a boring ponce,” he interrupted. “And completely wrong for you.”

  “He is not. You haven't got the first idea what is right for yourself, much less for me. You...you...you say that you danced with me to gain the interest of others, and then you scare off the first man who shows anything akin to interest!” She flicked out her recently returned fan and waved it in frustration.

  “He is wrong for you,” Owen argued lazily, running a hand through his hair. “I know tiresome when I see it, and he was certainly it. You don't want to marry him; you'd be bored within a week.”

  “Well, he certainly won't now.”

  “Oh he will, the fault was all mine you see. He'll find a way to talk to you on your own, maybe when you go for a drink or wandering through the library or some other such thing. He'll make some lighthearted joke about the entire ordeal and then graciously ask you to dance. You'll be in his debt and feel obliged to allow him, whether you want to or not.”

  She blinked. Emily didn't want to believe him, but he may have been right about the dancing. “I...how do you know what he'll do?”

  “Because he's just like every other dandy-boy in there, Miss Crawford. They all do the exact same things. It's just one big dance of polite words and responses. It's enough to drive a person mad.”

  “Is tha
t what you are? Mad?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and looked over the garden. His eyes took on a strange and sudden sadness. She resisted the urge to ask him what was wrong. His lips curled into a smile that had no humor in it. “Maybe I am, Miss Crawford, maybe I am.”

  “If you are mad, then what do you care if I dance with Lord Wright? Or if he is an acceptable husband for me?”

  He didn't answer at first. Instead he levered his body away from the statue with that graceful nature he had. His long legs made quick work of the space between them. His hand lifted, and she felt the sudden warmth of his palm cupped against her cheek.

  For a wild moment she thought that he would kiss her. He bent his head, just enough that his dark hair fell across his brow. No, she thought, he wasn't a satyr, he was an angel fallen from heaven, sinful and dangerous to look upon.

  She tilted her chin, shocking herself by realizing that she wondered what his kiss would feel like. Interest unfurled inside of her belly. Her eyes started to close, and then he spoke.

  “Because, Miss Crawford, I believe underneath all of that propriety you've wrapped around yourself, you are a little mad too.”

  When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

  *****

  “Ah! Miss Crawford, welcome! Oh, Welcome! Come in, dear.”

  Lady Amelia Wright was a massive woman of magnanimous nature and a booming voice. Her rosy cheeks were bright as spring apples as she guided Emily into her drawing room. The matron's skirts were a cheerful yellow that swished with every step. Lady Wright shared her son's warm coloring, though not his quiet nature.

  “Thank you for inviting me to tea, ma'am,” Emily answered, letting herself be placed into a comfortable chair. It did little to soothe the tightness in her chest. “It was very kind of you.”

  Emily was still surprised at the invitation. While she had known Hudson for some time, she was neither friendly nor familiar with his mother. It was a welcome request, as Owen would not have to accompany her to the home of an esteemed lady of society, while no other gentlemen were present. Things had not been wholly comfortable between the two of them since the night of the opening gala.