In actuality, a line of sweat was dripping down her back from the oppressive heat in the ballroom, but she’d never admit such a thing. Lord Harthorne was correct. It was only a stroll, and she was not the foolish, naive girl she had been six months prior. One stroll did not mean she’d stepped into the Garden of Temptation and someone had slammed the gate, locking it behind her.
“All right,” she said, wincing at the slight tremble in her voice.
As Philip led Jemma toward the open terrace doors across the ballroom, he saw Scarsdale standing with his wife and one of her friends near the refreshment table. Scarsdale raised his brow, giving him a clearly questioning look that said, What the devil are you doing? Damned if Philip knew. He wove a path toward the terrace doors as he considered things.
Earlier this afternoon, he had confided his financial problems to Scarsdale, the only other person besides Aversley who Philip trusted enough to talk to about his situation. Scarsdale had begrudgingly admitted that if he were in Philip’s situation, he would likely proceed as Philip was proceeding. Once the duke had attested to that, it had not been hard to get his friend to help him. That help had consisted of Scarsdale—who just like Aversley and himself had no clue who the debutantes with large dowries were this Season or any other—calling Sophia into his study and making her take a vow of secrecy before he explained that Philip needed her help creating a list of eligible debutantes. Scarsdale’s man of business had been waiting to see him, so he left Sophia and Philip, and they sat and made a list of ten names. Or rather, Sophia penned the list and he just sat there.
Frankly, at the end of the conversation with Sophia, Philip was depressed. It was disturbing to know he was now most definitely in the lot of men searching for a wife with a large dowry. He considered once more whether he should borrow the money Aversley had offered, but when you borrowed something that meant you repaid it, and he currently could not see how he would ever repay Aversley, even for what he’d already borrowed. He’d be doing the exact same thing his father had done, which had gotten them nowhere and only made matters worse. Borrowing against nothing wasn’t the answer. The only thing he had of worth was his title. It wasn’t the grandest of titles, but some ladies would be happy to be married to an earl. He had to sell himself to save his family. That was it—the cold, hard, indisputable truth. Hopefully, the buyer would be a woman he could love.
So what was he doing escorting Jemma onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air? He should be accompanying one of the ladies on his list onto the terrace or dancing with them, but when he’d walked by Jemma and Glenmore and overheard the cad demand to see the lady’s dance card and then call her a liar, he’d had an actual momentary mental picture of stalking up to Glenmore and planting him a facer.
He glanced sideways at her as he led her through the terrace doors and into the starry night. They headed toward the railing to where there was a space to stand and look at the sky. They paused near a glowing torch, and as she tilted her head to the sky with a soft little sigh, he studied her. Her usually disheveled red hair was piled on top of her head with a half circle of white flowers surrounding the updo. Wearing her hair down in all its wild, ringlet glory suited her personality better, but this way he got a very nice glimpse of her neck. Something he’d never taken much notice of before. It was creamy, long, slender, and devoid of her trademark freckles. He had the sudden urge to press his lips to the expanse of inviting skin.
What the devil? He had clearly been without a woman too long.
“The sky is lovely,” she said dreamily.
He glanced up to drink in the night with her but found his gaze straying back to Jemma. The gown she wore bared her thin, delicate shoulders and showed that, though the night was warm, gooseflesh covered her arms. He shrugged out of his coat as she turned and stared at him but did not speak. Once it was off, he held it just over her shoulders. Her eyes had rounded to twin orbs of bluish-green with a fiery torch reflecting in them.
“Might I?” he asked. “I see you’re cold.”
She nodded, then said, “You cannot possibly be as nice as you seem.”
Her tone was not sharp; it was slow and musing, and he took her words as a compliment. “You see me as nice?” he asked, settling the black, superfine material over her small frame.
She scrunched up her nose in the most adorable way. “I hadn’t really meant to say that. Sometimes things slip out when I’m not careful, but, yes, you seem nice. Almost too good to be true from what I know of men.”
Her words hinted at why she was sometimes cold and off-putting, almost purposely argumentative. Some man had hurt or disappointed her. Possibly both.
Philip scrubbed a hand over his face as he contemplated her words. She saw him as nice, and that was something he was trying to correct so he’d catch a wife. “I’m not nice,” he growled.
She burst out laughing, and several people turned to stare at them, or maybe they were staring at her. She didn’t have the high tittering laugh that so many ladies of the ton had, nor would he describe her laugh as musical. It was a throaty, deeply sensual laugh that seemed to come from her belly, and the thought of holding her, her body trembling as she laughed, heated him through. Wonderful. The first woman he’d been attracted to in ages—and never with such suddenness or intensity—and he could not afford to be attracted to her. She had no dowry whatsoever.
“Hmm.” Her brow flickered a bit. “It seems as though only someone who was truly nice would try to claim he wasn’t,” she said, swiping at the tears of merriment glistening in her eyes. “I’ve never once met a rake who claimed he wasn’t nice. They always claim the opposite.”
Philip made a mental note of that. He’d have to stop saying he wasn’t nice. “Have you known many rakes, Jemma?” he asked, curious to learn more about her. Hell, had he really just called her by her given name? She didn’t look shocked. In fact, she appeared positively unconcerned. Still, his manners demanded he apologize. “I beg your pardon. That slipped.”
“Happens to you, too, does it?” Her voice held a definite teasing note.
“When I’m not thinking things just slip out,” he said, teasing back with a parody of her words. He tried to school his face to look serious, but he could feel his uncooperative lips tugging into a smile. “I hope I didn’t offend you greatly with the use of your Christian name.”
She grinned. “I thought you English did so love your wall of propriety.”
“I never had much use for propriety myself,” he remarked, leaning close to make sure no one around them could hear, though the nearest couple was several feet away. “I’d prefer to call you Jemma, if you don’t mind it. It suits you much better in my mind than ‘Miss Adair.’”
Her pink tongue darted out to lick her upper, then lower lips. “I find I’m curious as to why, Lord Harthorne.”
“Philip,” he replied, his gaze fixating on the rapid pulse at the hollow space between her lovely collarbones. That small shadowy space fluttered with each beat of her heart. He was certain that her heartbeats had doubled in speed since they’d been standing there. Could it be because of him? Impossible. And even if it wasn’t impossible, it didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter.
He forced himself to look at her face. “If I’m going to call you Jemma— Am I?” She’d yet to agree, after all.
She nodded.
“Then I insist you call me Philip.”
“All right. Philip it is...if you tell me why you think ‘Miss Adair’ does not suit me.”
“Because I could tell from the moment I first met you that you held English rules of decorum in low favor. You wore a green-and-white striped day gown and you were the only lady without a bonnet to protect her skin from the sun. Your hair was down, and one ringlet kept fluttering in the wind by your right cheekbone. You looked lovely.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “However do you remember with such great detail what I wore the day we met and what my hair was doing? That was over six months ago.”
&nb
sp; He could lie. He could make some casual, caustic remark. Isn’t that what a rake would do? He found he didn’t want to be a rake with her. He didn’t have to be, either. Since she was not a potential wife for him, he could be himself. “I suppose I studied you with the mind to write a poem about you.”
Her lips parted and pulled into a shy smile he’d not have thought her capable of if he weren’t seeing it with his own two eyes. “And did you?” she almost whispered. “Did you truly write a poem about me?” She grinned. “I mean, of course, before the one you started about my eyes.”
Philip chuckled. He wished more than anything he could say that he had, but he wouldn’t lie to her. “I started to compose it in my mind, but you said something biting and I lost the thread of it.”
He expected her eyes to narrow or something of the sort to show anger or hurt, but instead, she chuckled, that compelling throaty laugh of hers. He found himself grinning, probably like a damned fool. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because I could see by the tightening of your face that you didn’t want to tell me, but you did anyway. I admire that, and I never thought to admire anything about a man again.”
The way her eyes glistened in the bright moonlight and the flaming torches made him feel as if he were lost in their blue-green depths. He could not allow himself to become lost. He had two people relying on him to keep their futures secure.
“How do you know Glenmore?” he asked, instead of telling her what he was really thinking. He could compose a thousand poems about her eyes, her face, her laughter. He could write an ode this very moment.
“I don’t really know him,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. A damned good thing. He had to stop allowing his mind to linger on her.
Philip leaned back against the railing so they were facing each other. “That’s good. He’s a rotter.” He didn’t usually speak ill of anyone, but for Glenmore, he’d make an exception.
She smirked. “How very improper of you, Lord Harthorne,” she teased. “But I daresay, I’m glad you’re not afraid to break a few rules. Do tell why Lord Glenmore is a rotter.”
Now he’d gone and done it. There was no delicate way to tell a woman the things he knew about Glenmore. “Just take my word for it,” he said.
Her mouth turned down, and her relaxed shoulders drew upward. “I don’t mean to sound tart-tongued, Philip, but I take no man’s word for anything. And I have a keen interest in learning what it is you know about Lord Glenmore.”
He leaned closer. “Why is that?”
“Well,” she said, looking left, then right over her shoulder to see, he presumed, if anyone was near. It was only the two of them and one other couple out there at the moment. She faced him. “My grandfather expects me to marry Lord Glenmore if and when the man asks, and unfortunately, it seems Lord Glenmore is quite taken with my lack of proper decorum.”
Philip’s gut clenched at the thought of Jemma possibly having to marry Glenmore. “You can tell your grandfather that you learned Glenmore is a sadistic man who takes pleasure in bending women to his will with violent measures. If your grandfather holds any love for you, he will not expect you to marry that man.”
Jemma bit her lower lip for a moment before speaking. “My grandfather only cares about my obeying his commands, and what he desires is a match between Lord Glenmore and myself.” She sighed. “I’m afraid it’s up to me to ensure Lord Glenmore decides being married to me would not be worth his trouble.”
While he had his own problems to deal with and his own bride to secure, how could he not help her? She obviously needed someone, and he liked to think he was the sort of man that would never turn away from a person in need. Hellfire.
“I can help you with that a bit, I think,” Philip said.
“How?” she whispered, wide-eyed.
“I can tell you a bit about Glenmore, for starters. We went to school together and used to be very good friends...until I learned what he was really like.”
“What can you tell me to help me rid myself of him?” she asked, excitement making her tone waver.
He shrugged. “Pretend you’re insipid.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Glenmore likes fascinating women.”
“Oh, I see!” She smiled, but the smile swiftly faded and she gawked. “Did you just call me fascinating?”
He chuckled. “I suppose I did. Now then, also pretend you’re vain. He’s a preening peacock who wants to be the only bird in the room. Do you take my meaning?”
She nodded. “I should talk about myself excessively and never ask questions about him. What else?”
Heat seared his face. This last part was likely the most important, but he couldn’t just blurt it out. Yet, he had to. “There is no delicate way to give this last bit of advice.”
“Just tell me,” she urged.
“Er, he likes passionate women.” He hoped it didn’t shock Jemma too much. Philip cleared his throat. “Because he wants to control the passion.”
Not looking the least bit shocked, she gave a decisive nod. “Yes, I gathered as much from some of his comments.”
“What the devil did Glenmore say to you?” Philip growled, leaning nearer, definitely too close to be wise but still with a proper space between them. Her scent and heat surrounded him in a heady swirl.
A blush swiftly stole over her cheeks, showing that she was not immune to embarrassment after all. “Let’s just say I think he views me as a wild horse to be tamed.”
“Sounds like him,” Philip agreed, trying to shake the image of what it would take to tame her, in the best sort of way. Philip swallowed. “Show him you’re more like an old mare.”
She frowned. “Or I could show him I’m untamable.”
The woman would kill him with her direct speech, and she would do so without ever knowing what her words were doing to him. Thank God, he’d removed his coat. He was so hot it was if the sun were beating down on him.
He cleared his throat before speaking. “I admire your spunk, but the wisest path is to stick to displaying the characteristics I suggested.”
A frown creased her brow. “Why?”
Philip scrubbed a hand across his face. He could not believe he was having this conversation at a ball with a woman. An innocent, no less. “He’s the sort to feed off defiance. Er, he likes to have control, so if you show him you’re untamable I think he’ll consider conquering you a greater prize.”
Her mouth dropped open in shock. “Well, then I’ll heed your advice. Thank you for everything.” She slipped his coat off her shoulders and handed it to him. “I’d better go back inside. No doubt my chaperone, or even my grandfather, will be looking for me. Hopefully we’ll meet again, Philip. I’m glad you rescued me,” she said in a serious tone. “I’m going to start my plan immediately, and when I’m done with Lord Glenmore, he’ll despise me.”
She grinned, but Philip’s gut clenched. What had he done pitting this innocent woman against a depraved man such as Glenmore? What if the advice he’d given her somehow backfired? Or worse, what if Glenmore saw through the act and became rough with her, possibly even ruined her? Philip wouldn’t put it past the man. Philip had set her on this path, and now he simply had to watch over her, protect her.
“I can help you get rid of Glenmore,” he said. “Be an aid in your scheme, if you will.”
“I never take help without having something to give in return, and I have nothing to give you, Lord Harthorne.”
Her voice had taken on a hard, reproachful edge, and it took a moment for him to realize she had reverted to assuming the worst about him.
“I realize,” he said patiently, “that you don’t know me, not really, but I am not the sort of man to expect any sort of payment, scandalous or otherwise, from a woman I’ve assisted.”
A blush stained her cheeks. “I’m sorry. Still, if I accept your help, I’d like to be able to help you with something in return. I don’t wish to feel indebted. But I can’t imagine you need any i
nformation I might have.”
“Not unless you know how to turn me into a rake,” he joked, surprised he felt comfortable enough to talk so freely to her.
She gaped at him, but then she slowly closed her mouth and swallowed. “It just so happens, I could tell you exactly what makes a man a rake.”
“You’ve experience?” He quirked an eyebrow at her in an attempt to lighten the question, though her hard tone of seconds ago made him think her answer would be a firm confirmation.
She tilted her head and assessed him for a long, silent moment. “Why do you want to become a rake?”
“Because men who are rakes always get the women they want.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you wanting one particular woman, or many?” Her voice had become cold and hard again.
“One will do nicely for me,” he replied.
“Then it’s a deal,” she said with a curt nod. “You assist me in ridding myself of Lord Glenmore, and I will help you become a rake. Albeit a nice one.”
He frowned. “The words rake and nice seem to contradict each other, but that suits me perfectly. I’ll be England’s first nice rake, though I do think I mustn’t appear too nice.”
She laughed. “If you say so.”
“I do, and we have an agreement. How shall we get in contact with each other?”
Before Jemma could reply, a silver-haired woman in a purple gown came rushing through the terrace doors, her chest heaving and her eyes franticly searching the balcony. “Miss Adair!” she cried out in a high-pitched voice as she scurried over to them.
Philip glanced over Jemma’s shoulder as she turned toward the woman.
“Mrs. Featherstone, whatever is the matter?” Jemma asked.
“What’s the matter?” she repeated in a hushed, panicky tone. “What’s the matter is that I’ve been searching everywhere for you!” The woman glanced around, her mouth pinching. “And now it seems I must search out your sister, as well. Your grandfather will dismiss me if anything happens to either of you.” The woman wrung her hands as she looked from Philip to Jemma.
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