by Shana Galen
Derring’s lips thinned. “I believe he would have, if he hadn’t been prevented.” Derring indicated his injured side. “The leader of the gang—his name is Satin—is not yet ready to part with Mr. Flynn.”
“This Satin stabbed you?”
“A minor wound.”
It was serious enough that the man looked pale and the doctor had thought to administer laudanum. Derring wouldn’t be leaving this house that night. Flynn inhaled deeply. “Tell me where the leader is. I’ll convince the bastard.”
“I bloody well knew you were going to say that.” Derring tried to straighten and winced at the pain.
“That’s why you brought me here.”
“I didn’t intend to send you in alone, but there’s nothing for it now. If we do not move, Satin will relocate Robert. We may never find him again.”
Flynn tugged at his cravat. It felt quite tight suddenly. “I’ll go now. Where are these Dolmeades?”
“That’s where I found him, but he lives on Avon Street. You’ll more likely find him there. The location is understandably hidden. If you would have one of the servants fetch me paper and a quill, I’ll draw you a map.”
“I’ll return momentarily.” Flynn started for the door, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Don’t die until after you’ve drawn the map.” He opened the door to the sounds of Derring’s curses. Outside the room, he paused to consider where he might find paper and pen. No servants waited without, so Flynn opened the first door he came to. A quick glance inside told him it was the morning room.
And it was not empty.
Lady Emma sat at a small, feminine desk, holding a quill and a sharpening blade in her ungloved hand. She looked up suddenly when he opened the door, and exclaimed, “Don’t you knock? You startled me. I almost cut my finger off.”
Flynn stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His every instinct warned him to turn back. Being alone with her in a room was not a wise decision—not after what had happened between them earlier.
That kiss. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he could taste their sweetness again. All the more sweet because she was no practiced widow or courtesan. She was an innocent.
And she was not for him.
He knew this logically, but he was not resigned to the fact. How could he be when she sat there, looking at him with a slight scowl that made her only more beautiful? A scowl should not have that effect. Perhaps it was the rosy flush her indignation brought to her cheeks or the way her dark eyes flashed, but he wanted to kiss the scowl away.
“What are you still doing here?”
She indicated the paper on the desk before her. “Penning a note to my sister. She will have noticed my absence from the ball.” Some servant had taken her cloak, and he took in the picture she presented. Her deep pink gown had a profusion of ruffles at the round neck, which emphasized the creamy exposed skin of her shoulders. She’d removed her gloves to write, and thus there was even more flesh on display—more flesh he wanted to touch, to kiss, to rip ruffles away from and lick.
As though sensing the direction of his thoughts, she put a hand to her heart, and over the ruffles concealing the swell of her breasts. “Has Sir Brook taken a turn? Should I call for Doctor Emerson?”
“Derring is fine. I’ve come to fetch a quill and paper for him.”
“Of course. Take my quill.” She held it out, and he stepped closer to take it. He tried in vain not to breathe too deeply, but he still caught the scent of flowers. Was it in her hair? If he took the pins out and allowed it to tumble about her shoulders, would the scent wash over him? If he buried his face in that glorious hair, buried himself in her, would the scent imprint itself on him permanently?
“There’s more vellum here,” she said, rising and pulling the drawer open. “Mrs. Emerson’s drawing room is quite dark, and she conducts all of her correspondence here. I believe she has foolscap as well, if you prefer.”
He said nothing. How he wished this were a different place, a different time. How he wished he were another man. A man who could court her, woo her, win her. But he could never have her. Her brother would never consent. Henry Flynn, a husband? Who would marry the Viscount of Vice?
“I’m talking too much,” she said, pulling a sheet of vellum from the desk and pressing it into his hand. “I… I suppose you make me nervous.”
He looked down at the paper. He should take it to Derring now. His brother was waiting. And yet Flynn did not move. “What are you afraid I will do?”
She opened her lips, those sweet pink lips, then closed them again. Her small tongue darted out to wet them, and he felt a stab of desire pierce his gut. Her dark eyes rose to meet his gaze. “Perhaps I am more afraid of what you will not do.”
Before he had time to make some humorous quip, she pressed a hand to her abdomen, and said, “Did Sir Brook find your brother? Is he here? In Bath?”
“Yes.” His gaze lowered to her hand, held tight against her abdomen. He explained what Derring had told him, but he was hardly aware of what he said until she gasped and wrapped her hand around his wrist. Her touch silenced him. Her small hand was white and cold, and he realized no fire burned in the hearth. He resisted the urge to pull her close and warm her.
“But no wonder Sir Brook was injured! You cannot go to Avon Street. Not at this hour. It’s not safe.”
“I shall take care.” It felt strange for him to say the words. He could not remember the last time anyone had expressed any concern whatsoever for his well-being.
“Flynn, you must listen to me. It is far too dangerous. Wait until tomorrow. Promise me.”
He had no qualms about lying under most circumstances, but for whatever reason, he could not lie to her. “My brother needs me, Lady Emma.”
“He needs you alive!”
“He needs me tonight,” Flynn said.
She blinked up at him. “You really do hold yourself responsible, don’t you?”
He tried to back away, but her light touch on his wrist held him rooted in place. Her gaze unnerved him now. It was as though she could see down deep into his black soul.
“You’re not, you know? Responsible. You were a child—”
“Emma.” He put a finger over her lips, causing her hand to fall away from his wrist, and her dark eyes to round into saucers. He was not certain what he had intended to say but, he heard himself say, “Good-bye.”
He would have walked away then, but he saw her gaze dip from his eyes to his lips, and he knew what she wanted. He wanted it too—one last kiss, one last taste. If he did not fare better than Derring, perhaps his last kiss ever.
He lowered his mouth to hers, slowly, giving her time to move away if that was what she desired. Instead, she leaned into him, her soft body pressing into his chest as she rose on tiptoes to meet his lips with hers.
She was so soft, so sweet. He could feel the fullness of her breasts where her body met his, and he could not stop himself from cupping her face and rubbing his thumbs along her velvet cheeks.
“Stay,” she whispered as he lifted her chin and angled her mouth so he could brush his lips across it. The order was tempting, so tempting. He wanted to stay with her. He did not want to go out into the night, to travel across town in search of opium dens and a brother he no longer knew. Flynn had never been one for duty—or at least the impulse in him had been well and truly buried—but deep down he felt his better instincts shaking off the rubble of neglect. He could not stay.
He would release her and say farewell—right after he kissed her just one more time.
Flynn slid his hand to the back of her neck, cupping the base of her head and threading his fingers into her thick, dark hair. She melted into him, offering no resistance, her eyes fluttering closed as he, once again, lowered his mouth to hers. He slid his lips over hers, reveling in the softness of her skin, the scent of flowers, and the small sigh she
gave at the contact between them. With one hand splayed across her back, he could feel how warm she was now, and her heat infused him as he allowed his lips to explore hers.
It was not the brotherly good-bye he should have given her, and he moved to pull away. But just as he did so, he felt one of her hands settle on his chest and slide upward to curl around his neck. The gesture was unintentionally seductive, and the flare of desire that flashed through him was more than Flynn could resist.
His need for her took over, and he slanted his mouth over hers, taking her completely. The moment their tongues touched, he felt as though the entire room tilted. He had thought there was something in the air earlier, muddling his head outside that assembly room where they’d first kissed, and now he felt it again.
He could not say what it was. He had kissed many women—more than he cared to count—and yet he had never felt so affected by a kiss. Never felt as though he could not get enough of the woman in his arms. She was no seductress. Her kisses were unpracticed and tentative. He could teach her so much. He would have, if he were not saying good-bye, but for the moment he reveled in those novice kisses, feeling once again like a youth deep in the first flush of arousal.
He was going to put her aside. In only a moment, he would break the kiss and walk away, but the thought made him pull her hard against him and deepen the kiss. He could not remember ever wanting a woman so much, wanting to strip her clothes off, piece by tantalizing piece, kissing every inch of bared flesh slowly until he’d explored every inch of her. And then he would lay her down and worship her slowly, so very slowly, so as to prolong their pleasure until it became the most exquisite torture.
His chest tightened with desire, with the need slamming through him, and he forced his hands to his sides and gently pulled back. He had to stop now or, God help him, he did not know if he would ever be able to leave her. She wobbled, and he put a hand on her elbow to steady her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, and her eyes hazy with desire. He wondered what thoughts turned ’round in her mind. Did she want him inside her as much as he wanted to take her? Did she have enough experience to think of such a thing?
Disgusted with himself, he released her elbow and stepped back.
Her hand caught his sleeve. “Do not stop.”
He shook his head. “Do you know what you are saying?”
“Yes. Stay with me tonight. Take me”—she gestured vaguely to the city beyond the walls of the house—“somewhere we can be together.”
He stared at her. “Lady Emma—”
“No. I’m just Emma. I’m just a woman, and I want you, Flynn.”
The world had definitely tilted. “Your brother would murder me if I even dared to consider—”
“Andrew will never know.” She waved a hand.
He caught her hand. “No.”
“Why?” She stepped closer, her dark eyes bright with challenge. Was she really arguing with him? “Because I am a virgin? Must I give myself to someone else before you will have me?”
“Emma!” The thought of her with another man made his chest tight and his fists clench. She was not his, but by God, he would not think of her with someone else.
“What must I do to make you want me?” she asked, her expression intent. He could all but picture her as a student, with quill poised above paper, ready to take notes.
He shook his head. If only she knew how much he wanted her, how desperately.
“You think I’m a child,” she said. “You think I do not know what I am saying, but I do know. I’ve known ever since we first met, in the drawing room at Ravenscroft Castle. You entered the room, and I knew. I knew I loved you before I even knew your name. I know you felt something too.”
He wanted to deny it, but he could not. Even now he could remember strolling into the drawing room, all swagger and cockiness. He’d been drinking in the carriage to assuage the boredom from the long trip, but he was by no means drunk. He’d been looking forward to the duke’s wedding, and the lovely ladies into whose beds he might fall.
And then he’d seen her. She’d been standing near the hearth, wearing a white gown with small yellow flowers. It was a child’s gown, and she was that age between childhood and womanhood, but he’d not been able to stop his gaze from settling on her. He’d not been able to stop the rushing in his ears when their eyes met. He had not said anything to her other than the customary greetings, but he had devoured her with his eyes. He hadn’t been able to keep her brother from seeing his attraction. Flynn had exchanged no more than five or six words with Lady Emma over the remainder of the week, but she had never been far from his thoughts. He’d lain awake at night and wondered where, in that huge country house, she was sleeping. Had she been thinking of him? Had he, at four-and-twenty, stooped to lechery? How could he desire a girl of no more than fifteen so desperately?
But she was not a child any longer. Gone was the white muslin and the child’s body. Gone were the plump cheeks of youth and the ringlets in her hair. Before him stood a lush, desirable woman.
And she wanted him. She loved him. Him, Henry Flynn, who had never loved anyone in his life, except perhaps Robert.
“Robert,” he said at last, his voice sounding as though it had not been used for years. “He needs me.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. Her hand fell away from his sleeve, and she said, “Then you should go. Be careful. Avon Street…” Whatever warning she had been about to give was left unsaid.
This could not have been the reaction she had hoped for when she imagined declaring her love to him. If she was disappointed, she did not show it. She was truly a duke’s daughter in that regard. He bowed, taking her hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles. When he rose, she handed him the vellum and quill. “Good-bye,” he said, turning to the door.
“Yes. You’ve said that.”
* * *
Emma watched the door to the morning room close. She stared at it for a long moment, listening to Flynn’s footsteps as he moved away. She was a fool. Had she really thought this the time and place to show him her heart? She knew he needed to find his brother, but could men never think logically? Would it hurt to wait a few hours and go in the light of day?
But that was her own selfishness. She hadn’t—she didn’t—want him to go. She wanted him to stay with her. She wanted him to keep touching her and kissing her. She felt alive with him. Most of her life was spent doing what she ought—making calls, chatting idly, dancing with boorish lords. The only time she felt alive was when she could forget she was Lady Emma, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Ravenscroft, and lose herself in her efforts at the charity hospital. No one there cared who her parents had been or how many rooms Ravenscroft Castle boasted. They were grateful for a smiling face and clean bed linens.
At the hospital, for a little while, she could forget Lady Emma and be herself. She felt that way with Flynn. He’d never seemed impressed by titles or lineage. When he looked at her, he didn’t think of her ancestors and the “good stock” from whence she hailed. He saw the woman.
Or at least she wanted him to.
Forgetting her note to Katherine for the moment, she walked across the room and stood before the French doors that opened to a small garden where Mrs. Emerson grew vegetables and the doctor cultivated medicinal herbs. Emma knew it was a pretty garden, though the night was too dark for her to see any of it. In the room’s lamplight, she saw only her own reflection in the glass. She looked…rumpled.
She was not so naïve as to think a match between herself and the Viscount of Vice would be well received. She would never have him, not in that way. Probably no woman would. What she wanted was a few moments in his arms, a few moments she could cherish some day when she was an old woman with ten children and scores of grandchildren and a lout of a husband she’d never loved hobbling beside her. She wanted to look back at her youth and know there had been one moment,
just one, that had been hers alone. One moment that had not been driven by duty and obligation. One moment of pure pleasure filled with love.
She knew Flynn could give that to her.
But whatever the ton said of Lord Chesham, the truth was he had more honor and integrity than anyone gave him credit for. If he didn’t, she would at that moment be well on her way to losing her virginity, rather than standing alone in the Emersons’ morning room.
Emma sighed, closed her eyes, and leaned her head on the cool glass of the French doors. She’d had her chance with Flynn, and it was gone. Now she supposed she would have to look reality in its ugly face and accept a marriage proposal from a man who was not, and never would be, Henry Flynn. The thought made everything inside of her ache, her heart—or where it should have been had Flynn not ripped it from her chest—most of all. She almost smiled at herself. What theatrics! Perhaps she should take up poetry or the stage, or perhaps—
Quite suddenly, the door she rested her forehead upon fell away, and she stumbled forward. She would have fallen if a pair of arms had not caught her. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand settled over it while the other fastened on her arm and dragged her into the dark garden. “Not a word,” he whispered, pushing her back against the wall of the house.
She blinked up at him, momentarily confused. For just an instant, she had thought he might be Flynn. There was something about his voice, about the way he looked in the spill of light from the morning room. But it was not Flynn. This young man looked too rough, too thin. He was almost painfully thin. His dark hair fell in dirty strings to his shoulders, and his clothes were caked with something she did not want to examine too closely. His hand was rough and cold on her lips, while his other hand pushed her hard into the stone. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could not catch her breath.
“If I lift my hand, will you scream?”
Emma shook her head, but he must have seen she was lying, because he gave her a dubious look. “Was that Henry Flynn you were talking to?” he asked. “Nod yes or shake your head for no.”
