by Shana Galen
And Emma supposed she’d had her moment of pleasure. No one could ever take the night she’d spent with Flynn away from her. No one could ever erase the memory of holding him in her arms. For those brief moments, at least, he’d been hers.
She had dropped the curtains when she heard the sound of hoofbeats again. The quarrel above her had stopped, which meant Andrew was probably pacing and cursing, and Katherine had retreated to her room with yet another megrim. Then the hoofbeats stopped, and Emma lifted the curtains again, curious as to who the visitor might be. It was obviously someone who did not know she was in residence; her very presence tarnished the entire house. She gaped when she recognized the Chesham livery.
Her heart raced as though she’d run ten miles. The blood seemed to drain out of her head, and she felt dizzy for a moment before she clenched her hands and forced herself to calm down. It couldn’t be Flynn, she told herself. What did she expect him to do? Tell her he’d fallen madly in love with her and could not live without her? She almost burst out laughing at the very thought. He’d made it quite clear he would never marry, not willingly, at any rate. It was probably his mother, come to apologize for her son. Emma would now be forced to endure an awkward tea with the viscountess, listening to apologies she did not want.
She pressed a hand to her hair and straightened her shoulders. She should attempt a smile, if not for the viscountess, for the benefit of the servants whom she could hear emerging into the vestibule to receive the unexpected visitor.
Finally, the coachman hopped down, lowered the stairs, and opened the door of the equipage. Emma wished she had a chair or perhaps a mountain nearby on which to lean, for it was Flynn who emerged. Her knees felt quite weak at the sight of him. He looked even better than she remembered him. He stepped down from the carriage, and her gaze roved over him appreciatively. He was perfectly turned out in a blue coat and buckskin breeches that showed his lean, muscular thighs to advantage. His cravat was snowy white, and his boots gleamed in the sunlight. His dark hair fell over his forehead in carefully tousled curls, and his chiseled cheekbones stood out in his square face.
His gaze swept over the house and settled on her in the window. His hazel eyes met hers, and he held her gaze for a moment before entering the house. She felt her face flush, quite familiar with the look in his eyes. Desire, she would have termed it. Once she sought it. Now, she did not know what to do, what to feel. Was he here to apologize? Had his mother forced him to come? Did he feel obliged to ask for her hand in marriage? Oh, how mortifying. She would rather be ruined than be anyone’s obligation.
Before she could escape, the door to the parlor opened, and he was announced. She did not even hear the butler’s words. All she could do was stare as Flynn bowed to her, quite formally, and search for her raspy voice. “Lord Chesham.” She sounded young and cowed, and she quickly cleared her throat. “What an unexpected…pleasure.”
He grinned at her, seeming to see straight through her false words. “Is it?” Moving forward, he paused before her and took her hand. “Lady Emma, you must forgive my intrusion. I found myself quite eager to speak with you.”
“Is your brother well?” she asked with some alarm. Her gaze met his again, and she felt as though the ground under her feet trembled.
“He is fighting. The doctors assure us he will be well, in time.” The intensity in his gaze softened. “Thank you for asking.”
She nodded, not certain what to say next. Perhaps he had not come to propose. Perhaps he wanted her to know Robbie was well. She floundered for a moment, trying to think of what to say, what to do with her hands. Finally, she said the only thought that entered her mind. “I have forgotten my manners. Shall I ring for tea?” Oh, but she detested herself and this ridiculous formality. He had not come all of this way to sip tea.
“Actually,” Flynn said, “there is something I would like to discuss with you in private. This appears the perfect time—”
The door of the room shot open, and a voice boomed, “What the devil are you doing here?”
Emma jumped, almost glad for her brother’s interruption. She did not want to speak privately with Flynn.
“Ravenscroft,” Flynn said, sounding jovial. “How good to see you again.”
“I wish I could say the same. But circumstances being what they are, I’m going to have to shoot you.”
Her brother was holding a rifle. Flynn stepped clear of Emma, ensuring she was safely out of Andrew’s line of fire. Really, did Flynn think she was the one who needed protection? Emma angled herself so she could see his face. He looked quite relaxed, as though he had not a care in the world.
“That is unfortunate,” Flynn said, “and I imagine rather messy. I must warn you, I tend to bleed profusely from head wounds.”
“Then I’ll aim for the heart.” Her brother moved closer, and the servants, watching with rapt attention—this was as good as the theater to them—moved aside. “Or lower.”
“If I might persuade you to give me a few more moments on this earth, I was hoping to propose to Lady Emma before I die.”
Oh, God. She had been right. He was probably hoping her brother would shoot him so he did not have to go through with it.
“You think if you propose I’ll let you live?” Andrew said.
Emma had to flee. “Really, Andrew, this is quite ridiculous. If you want to shoot Flynn, go right ahead, but I won’t be a player in your theater. Good day.” She started for the vestibule, fear and panic gripping her in equal measures. At that moment, she did not care what Flynn did. She hardly cared if he was shot—well, that wasn’t quite true—but she did not want his charity marriage proposal.
“Emma!” Andrew said. “I’d like to hear what Lord Chesham has to say.”
She kept walking. “Well, I would not.”
She had almost reached the stairs when footsteps sounded behind her, and she felt Flynn’s hands on her waist. She didn’t need to look to know it was he who touched her. Her body reacted to his touch, his nearness, his body. He spun her around and took hold of her hand. “A word before you retire, Lady Emma.”
“I’d rather not hear what you have to say, my lord.”
He was lowering himself to one knee, and she shook her head. “Please stand.”
“Are you so angry with me you want to see me dead?”
“I am not angry with you at all, my lord, but if marrying me is the only means of saving your life, you are sorely out of luck.”
He shook his head. Clearly, he did not think she would refuse him. Why would he? She’d told him she loved him. She’d practically begged him to make love to her. It was a reasonable assumption on his part that she wanted to marry him.
But that did not mean he wanted to marry her.
She tried to loosen her hand from his grip, but he held on steadfastly. “Lady Emma,” he began.
Oh, Lord. He was actually going to do it. She shook her head. She glared at him. She attempted to shoot daggers from her eyes, but he soldiered on. Idiot!
“I must ask you to allow me to confess the violence of my affections for you—”
She gaped at him. “Really, Flynn?” He could not possibly be proposing to her with such trite and overused sentiments.
“Shh!” he said, continuing. “Forgive me for startling you with—”
“I’ll do no such thing, and if you value your life and your manhood, you will not shush me again.”
“Emma,” he said, a warning in his low voice.
“Next you will be speaking of the sacredness of your feelings!”
He closed his mouth and let go of her hand.
“Ha!” She pointed at him. “I knew it! I will save you the effort and the lies, my lord Viscount of Vice, and say, in reciprocal trite fashion, I am sensible of the compliment you pay me, but I fear my feelings dictate that I decline your proposal.”
And she turned an
d walked away, not running until she’d reached the first floor and was out of sight.
Nine
Flynn rose slowly and turned to look at Ravenscroft. “I believe you have a clear shot now, Your Grace.”
The duke lowered the rifle. “I cannot do it. I was taught never to kick a dog when it’s down.”
Flynn let out a bitter laugh. “You mean you refuse to put me out of my misery.”
Ravenscroft shrugged. “That too. Join me for tea?” He clapped a hand on Flynn’s shoulder and ushered him toward the library.
“You have nothing stronger?”
“You mean to dull the ache? I’m afraid not. I want you to feel every second of your misery.”
Flynn gave him a rueful look and followed him through the parlor’s door and into the next room. Ravenscroft might find his rejection amusing, and Flynn might like to pretend he did as well, but truth be told, Emma had wounded him more than he would ever allow anyone to see. For, at some point after he had returned her home and the truth of what he must do occurred to him, he had ceased viewing this proposal as a duty and began to see duty as a means to an end.
Lady Emma was beautiful, alluring, brave, kind. And he could not deny there was something between them, some force that pulsed whenever they were together, making it all but impossible for him to resist touching her.
He’d grown accustomed to the thought of not having to resist any longer. Even as he’d tended his brother, he’d allowed his thoughts to wander to the wedding night. It was thoughts of Emma and the pleasure they would share that had given him strength in those first difficult hours.
But he’d forgotten who he was, and the simple fact that no woman of virtue or reputation would ever want to marry him. Could he convince her he was no longer a man of vice? It was not as though he had spent the last two nights in drinking and debauchery. He’d been nursing his brother back to health. The more Flynn thought about it, the more he realized he was nothing short of a saint. Perhaps if he convinced her of his new virtues…
He was trying to think what these new virtues might be when Ravenscroft spoke. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”
Flynn gave the duke a withering glare and then looked about. They were in the library, and Ravenscroft held a snifter of something distinctly not tea, but he hadn’t offered any to Flynn.
“You are in no danger of me weeping,” Flynn said, sinking into one of the library chairs. He was suddenly quite weary.
“Don’t make yourself comfortable. You’re not staying.”
Flynn raised a brow. “We’ll see.”
Ravenscroft glowered at him. “Keep talking like that, and I won’t help you.”
“I didn’t think you planned to help me anyway.” Flynn raked a hand through his hair and leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. There had to be some way to make Emma speak to him, to make her see reason.
“I didn’t, but I didn’t expect you to be so Friday-faced, and I can’t have you blubbering all over me.”
“I told you, I blubber only in private.”
“Then you do plan to blubber.” Ravenscroft tossed back his brandy and poured another three fingers. Whatever he was about to say, he obviously needed fortification.
Flynn shook his head. “What do you want me to do? Admit I’m…” He had almost said heartbroken, but even he might cast up his accounts if he said something so pathetic. “Admit I’m disappointed? I am.”
“Why?” Ravenscroft asked, taking another swallow. “I told you to stay away from her, but you didn’t heed my warning. Why?”
“Why?” Flynn rose. “Why do you think?”
“Her dowry?”
Flynn laughed. “I don’t even know what it is, and if I did, I could find another woman with more money and a title, if that was what I cared for.”
“Then why Emma?”
Flynn shook his head. He wasn’t going to give Ravenscroft any more to laugh about. “Why not?”
“If that’s your answer, you might as well leave now.”
“Fine.” Flynn turned to go, but his feet wouldn’t lift from the ground. He couldn’t walk away. This might be his only chance. He raised his gaze to Ravenscroft, cursing the man for making him do this sober. “I love her,” he said.
“Sorry, old boy, I couldn’t hear you. You’ll have to do more than mutter.”
Flynn wanted to growl. “I said, I love her.”
“You mean you’d love to bed her.”
“No. I don’t want you to plant a facer on me, but if that was what I wanted, I might have accomplished it already. I love her.” Flynn didn’t fail to note Ravenscroft curled his free hand into a fist.
“As much as I hate to say it,” the duke said through clenched jaw, “I believe she loves you as well.”
“She has an interesting way of expressing her affections.”
Ravenscroft shook his head. “For all the women you have supposedly known, Flynn, you are an idiot. She doesn’t want to marry because she has to. She doesn’t want to force you into matrimony.”
“No one forces me into anything I don’t want.”
Ravenscroft nodded. “Very good. That might just work. More of that, and you have a chance.”
“What are you going on about?”
“Groveling, Flynn. Expressing your undying love and affection. That’s the way to win her.”
“I don’t grovel.”
“Then shall I have the butler see you out? Drake!”
Flynn gritted his teeth. “Wait.”
Ravenscroft gave him an innocent look. “Forget something?”
“No, but I may have remembered how to grovel.”
* * *
Emma tried to sleep, but she couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position. She supposed the problem was that she was not actually tired. She’d been hiding in her room since Flynn’s arrival, and there had been nothing for her to do but rest.
She had expected he would leave before dinner, but unless he had gone very quietly, she had not heard his coach depart. Had her brother really allowed him to stay and partake in a meal? Poor Flynn. She did not wish Katherine’s company on even her worst enemy right now. His presence also meant she had to stay in her room, and Emma was hungry. Her stomach protested its empty state, making a nap all but impossible, even if she had been tired.
She turned in her bed, pulling her pillow over her head in an attempt to block out her thoughts. It didn’t work, and she rolled onto her back again, then all but screamed when she saw the shadow in her darkened bedroom. The man’s hand came down over her mouth, and she bucked in protest until she heard Flynn’s voice. “It’s just me, Emma. If you scream, your brother will actually shoot me this time.” He lifted his hand slightly. “No screaming?”
She nodded. She was angry with him, but she didn’t want to see him dead. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“I wanted to speak with you, and you did not come down to dinner.”
“And you had to sneak into my bedroom? You could not have sent a note?”
He opened his mouth then closed it again. Of course, he hadn’t thought of writing a note. Flynn was a man of action, not words. And, truth be told, she rather liked having him in her room. Her heart had begun to beat rapidly, and when he sat on her bed, his hip warm against her thigh through the bedclothes, she felt her limbs begin to tingle with something akin to anticipation. She’d changed out of her day dress and wore her chemise and a thin wrapper, which was scant protection from his warm body and even warmer gaze. She would not allow anything to happen between them. She would order him out in a moment…if she had the willpower.
“I could not exactly propose to you in a letter.”
“That again?” Emma sighed. “I’m not going to marry you.”
“I believe you. You’ve already refused six proposals. Why not make i
t seven?”
She waved a hand. His proposal was nothing like the others. He was not like the others, and he knew it. “Flynn, you know you do not want to marry me. You only feel obligated. Stop it and go back to your usual ways.”
“The Viscount of Vice?”
“Exactly.” She shivered a little as she considered exactly what the Viscount of Vice might do to her.
“And what do you think the Viscount of Vice would do were he to find himself in your bedchamber?” he asked.
“Not propose marriage!”
“No.” He reached out and brushed her hair off her shoulder, causing her to realize that the sleeve of her wrapper had dropped down, exposing her bare shoulder. “In fact, he would have less sacred ideas in mind.” His hand was warm on her shoulder, and her skin heated at his touch. “He would think only of pleasure.” His finger traced her shoulder to the strap of her chemise, then hooked inside it and pulled it down farther until the swell of her breast was exposed. Her body felt suddenly heavy, and that place between her thighs, the place where he’d once touched her, pulsed and throbbed.
“Flynn,” she whispered, not certain what she intended to say after his name.
“Yes.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers. She felt herself fall back onto the pillow as he coaxed her lips to open to his tongue. His hands covered her shoulder then swept over her body, coming to rest on her bare breasts. She was not at all certain how she had come to be bare beneath him, but she could hardly object when he lowered his mouth to her nipple and took it in his mouth.
Emma wrapped her hands in his hair, wanting his body on hers, wanting to feel his weight pressing into her.
“Emma,” he whispered.
“Hmm?”
His tongue had moved to her other nipple, and delicious spirals of heat moved through her. “I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?” she said, all but panting.
“I have given up being the Viscount of Vice.”
