Emilia’s breath caught. Or was that his own?
Release her. Think of Renaud.
His heart hammered in his ears. Heath could think only of her. He drew her closer, so close their bodies were pressed to each other, and he saw, felt, and heard each intake of her rapidly drawn breath. “And what of the other two languages?” he whispered against her ear.
“Greek,” she exhaled. “The other Latin. They were deemed”—her gaze drifted over his face—“wholly unsuitable and nothing any proper lady should”—her lashes fluttered—“or could master.” Emilia tipped her face up.
I am lost.
Heath covered her mouth with his, claiming that luscious rosebud flesh he’d both dreamed of and lamented for almost fifteen years.
A little moan spilled from her lips, a heady symphony of her desire… for him, and it only fueled an insatiable hunger.
Keeping one hand about her waist to keep Emilia upright, he cupped his other under the generous swell of her buttocks and guided her into the vee of his legs.
“I should stop this,” Heath rasped against her mouth.
“I’ll not forgive you if you do, Heathcliff Whitworth.” With that, Emilia tangled her fingers in his hair, and gripping his head, she opened her mouth.
He slipped his tongue inside, and they tangled in a primitive ritual. Sparring. Branding each other. Just as he’d longed to. Only, this embrace contained a bliss far greater than any wicked dream he’d carried of this moment.
“Heath.” She moaned his name, both a plea and a demand for more.
Angling his head, Heath deepened the kiss.
He was on fire.
He was—
His legs went out from under him, shattering their contact.
He went down hard on his arse, an increasingly all-too-familiar state with and around this woman.
Heath grunted as the punishing ice sent pain radiating along his legs. Emilia came tumbling down atop him.
They lay there in a tangle of limbs, Emilia draped over his frame. Neither spoke, and when their rasping breaths at last settled into even cadences, Heath helped Emilia up and then followed behind her. This time as they made for the shore, neither of them spoke.
A short while later, they began the long trek back to Everleigh. In silence.
Chapter 10
If one is resolved to make a match, honorable gentlemen make the best husbands.
Mrs. Matcher
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
Emilia was no longer the naïve girl who’d once believed in gypsy legends and indulged herself in frivolous matters.
Nay, she was nearly thirty and responsible for one of the most heavily read columns in the London Post. As such, she’d already indulged in more than enough frivolities by tormenting Heath. That was the sole reason why, after her return from ice skating with him, she’d sought out her rooms and had remained there ever since.
Groaning, she dropped her head atop her completed article and knocked her forehead in a light, rhythmic tapping. “Liar. Liar. Liar,” she groaned into the brown leather journal.
For now that she’d completed another post, there was no reason that she need remain in her rooms, except for the most obvious and humiliating one: she was hiding.
Oh, not because she was a prudish miss who’d been horrified by any impropriety. After all, there had been many kisses before Heath. Jonah, her father’s stable boy, had stolen a kiss when she was a girl of thirteen. And then there had been Connell. Connell, with his rogue’s reputation, who’d only ever been polite until she’d pressed her lips to his. From there, he’d kissed her whenever there was a moment they two could steal.
Each one of those kisses, however, had been restrained, as if she were some fragile treasure to be cherished.
But Heath’s kiss…
Her breath quickened. Proper, always respectable to a fault Heath Whitworth had made her toes curl. In him, there’d not been a single reservation. Rather, he’d been a man undone by passion, unapologetic in his hungering, and emboldened by her like desire.
She, Emilia Aberdeen, had wanted that embrace to stretch on. And just like that, she’d gone from the secret puppet master tugging on his strings and maneuvering him into completing each action on Lady Sutton’s list to the puppet.
She’d sought out her rooms, changed into warmer, drier garments, and hadn’t left since for the simple reason that she couldn’t face him. Didn’t want to face him, because she needed to sort out precisely what had happened. Or what was happening. It was all so jumbled in her mind that she couldn’t make sense of any of it.
For, what had begun as a game had morphed into something altogether different. Somewhere along the way, she, who’d been annoyed with the always aloof marquess, had found herself not only enjoying their time together, but also yearning for more of it.
And that had been before his kiss…
She slowly lifted her head and touched a fingertip to her lips. “Magic,” she whispered. The manner of embrace that curled a lady’s toes tight with pleasure. The kind of kiss she’d wished Connell’s had been, but never was. One that had sent butterflies dancing in her belly. She groaned. “Fool. Fool. Fool,” she mumbled, banging her head once more against her book.
It was just a kiss. Nothing more. Just two sets of lips pressed together as one. Which hardly merited a reason to be hiding.
Emilia registered too late the slightly mincing but measured footsteps belonging to only one duchess outside her room.
Just like that, remembrances of magical kisses faded.
“What is the meaning of this?” her mother demanded as she entered the rooms without so much as the benefit of a knock.
“I’m not coming, Mother,” she said calmly, not picking her head up from her book.
“Not coming, she says.” The duchess belatedly closed the door behind her.
Oh, it was a dire day indeed when the duchess’ chastisement outweighed her concern over appearances and her own image.
“You most certainly are joining the festivities, Emilia Abernathy Aberdeen. I did not say anything when you opted to skip the first three nights of parlor games.”
“Actually, you did. You demanded I attend.” And Emilia had either said no or simply failed to join in.
“And when every other guest is breaking their fast at a decent time?” Her mother swept over, and Emilia leaned over her journal to obscure the words there. “You are nowhere to be seen.”
“Because I’ve already taken my morning meal by that point, Mother,” she said impatiently, making a final note in her journal lest she forget for later. After all, it was nigh impossible to craft any meaningful guidance on matters of the heart with one’s haranguing mama underfoot.
When her mother spoke, there was a faint pleading to her voice. “It is unnatural to dine alone.”
I was not alone. Every other day she was, but not this one. Today, there had been Heath and laughter and teasing and more fun than she’d enjoyed in too many years. Emilia swung her legs around and faced her mother. “There is nothing natural about my circumstances, Mama,” she said softly.
“Because you do not allow yourself to be normal,” her mother cried and then buried the echo of those words with her fingers.
Emilia stiffened. “I am… normal… enough.”
“No, Emilia,” her mother said flatly. “No, you are not. And ‘normal enough’ are just two words substituted for ‘abnormal.’”
She gave a toss of her curls. “Well, I do not want to be ordinary.” She wanted to be an independent woman, without any need—emotional or otherwise—of a man. Didn’t she? She had for so long. Or she’d believed she had. Today, skating with Heath and speaking of her past and the hurt she carried, had filled her with a warmth that lingered even now. Unnerved, she reached for her book. “If you’ll excuse me, Mother? I am—”
“Busy,” her mother cut in. “I know.” Color spilled onto her cheeks. “You. Are. Wearing. Your. Words.”
&
nbsp; She was…?
Puzzling her brow, Emilia lifted her gaze to the nearby cheval mirror. Oh, blast. Coming out of her seat, Emilia strode over to that gilded frame and proceeded to angrily wipe the ink from her forehead.
“My daughter is not antisocial, Emilia Aberdeen,” her mother snapped, as if speaking in those clipped duchess tones might somehow make them true.
The Emilia of old had not been. The young woman who’d been jilted by Renaud was an altogether different matter. “I’ve no interest in joining in holiday games and festivities, Mother,” she muttered, licking her finger and making another go at removing the ink.
“No, you do not. You want to be the angry spinster who shuts herself away from the world and pens her words in that book so she doesn’t have to face the real world. All the while, you are the one responsible for keeping the memory of Renaud’s jilting alive.”
A denial sprang to her lips… and then stayed there, unspoken, existing only in her mind. For, as much as she wanted to snap and snarl about the ton’s sick fascination with her past, the truth remained that she had let that one moment of her life… define her. Emilia pressed her fingertips against her temples.
“You know nothing about it,” she said and turned dismissively. What was worse, her mother had never attempted to change that.
With a noisy rustle of satin, her mother rushed forward, planting herself in front of Emilia. “You think I don’t know that my daughter’s heart was broken?” she asked. Her voice contained a hurt Emilia had never before heard from the all-powerful duchess.
I never truly loved him. Emilia knew that now. She’d loved the idea of being in love. She’d loved Renaud’s ability to charm and had been thrilled by him, the wicked rogue her parents and all the world had wisely warned her away from.
“You think your father and I didn’t know you loved that bounder beyond reason?” her mother demanded when she still didn’t speak.
Emilia glanced down at her slippers. “I didn’t know you cared either way,” she said softly.
Her mother jerked like she’d been backhanded across the cheek. “Of course I cared. And someday, if you have a daughter, you’ll wonder that you ever dared utter those words to me.” With that, the duchess started for the door, stopping when she had her fingers on the handle.
As she turned back, Emilia braced for that familiar appeal.
“Come or do not come, Emilia,” her mother said resignedly. “Despite your ill opinion of me, I do not want you to attend those events for me. I don’t even want you to find a husband for me.” A half sob, half laugh spilled from the duchess’ lips. “My goodness, if I was so determined to see you in a match I desired, do you truly believe I would have set my sights on Lady Sutton’s roguish son for you and not her boring, perfectly proper one?”
Any other moment in her life, she’d have fixed on the sudden and staggering realization that her mother cared more than she’d ever credited.
Only…
Emilia’s lips slipped at the corners. Was that truly how the world saw Heath? “Lord Heath is not boring.” And he certainly wasn’t perfectly proper. A man who’d snuck off with her, sans chaperone, and given her an early morning skating lesson… And then kissed you like you were the only woman in the world.
Her mother snorted. “I’m his godmother. I know precisely what he is,” she announced with a note of finality. “He’s the dutiful boy now entertaining the other ladies present, as his mother would wish.” The throwaway statement was meant to highlight the very point Emilia had debated her on.
And yet, Emilia went still. Every muscle turned to stone. He was dancing attendance with the other ladies. It was hardly surprising, given the handful of ladies and the even more spare number of bachelors.
It doesn’t matter with whom Heath keeps company.
The burning envy coursing through her set that lie ablaze.
“Either way, you have my word that all my attempts at matchmaking between you and Lord Heath are at an end. I’ll not see you any more unhappy.” Than you already are.
Those words hung in the air as clear as if the duchess had spoken them aloud.
“Thank you, Mother,” she said softly.
The duchess waved a gloved palm. “Do not thank me for doing what any mother ought.”
With that, her mother took her leave.
Emilia stood there, fixed to her spot, replaying that exchange in her mind…
She’d been… freed.
After nearly ten years, the none-too-subtle efforts to see Emilia matched and married to whomever the Duke and Duchess of Gayle felt in a given moment would be a suitable husband were at an end.
As such, there should be joy.
Smile. You should be smiling.
Emilia glanced to the gilded mirror and silently told her brain to tell her lips to form the deserved smile.
Only, the muscles ached, along with an odd pressure in her chest. A pressure that had absolutely nothing to do with the idea of Heath turning his effortless charm upon the pair of diamonds of the first water who’d been seeking his attention just days earlier.
An ugly, taunting image slipped forward of Heath guiding another lady through a skating lesson and then taking her into his arms—
Growling, Emilia grabbed her gloves and jammed her fingers angrily into each respective hole.
Mayhap her mother had been correct. Mayhap Emilia partaking in the holiday singing with the other guests was not an altogether bad idea, after all. Quickening her steps, Emilia made her way through the empty corridors.
A mournful wailing met her ears, briefly freezing her in midstride. Emilia slowed and searched about for the forlorn creature responsible for the sounds of sadness. She resumed walking, and with each step that brought her closer to the music, the strident shrieks grew increasingly louder.
Singing. Someone was singing.
Reaching the entranceway, Emilia stopped at the threshold.
Her heart tugged.
Miss Francesca Cornworthy, fellow spinster, was the oft-teased young woman that had been the unfortunate one tapped to perform at that given moment. Seated at the pianoforte, the bespectacled lady had her face nearly pressed against the sheet music as she squinted.
She could commiserate with the poor dear as she mustered painfully through what might or might not have been a rendition of “Hymn for Christmas Day.”
HARK! the Herald Angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!
Peace on Earth, and Mercy miii—
As the young woman’s words rolled together, nearly indecipherable, giggles went up at the front of the room, where Ladies Ava and Lauren had secured front-row seating for the night’s performance.
Joyful all ye Nations rise,
Join the Triumphs of the Skies;
Nature rise and worship him,
Who is born at…
Stopping in midchord to turn the page, Miss Cornworthy wrestled with the page for an endless moment.
A hum went up about the room. As Emilia glanced about at the pitying expressions, and several mocking ones, her stomach muscles clenched in misery for the younger woman.
She could not let this go on.
Emilia took a step forward, but her plans to join the girl were halted by a deep baritone that added itself to the silence, finishing the unsung lyric.
“Bethlehem.”
All the guests swiveled in their seats to find the owner of the voice.
Her breath caught. “Heath?” she whispered, his name on her lips lost to song.
Christ by highest Heav’n ador’d,
Christ the everlasting Lord;
Late in Time behold-him come,
Offspring of the Virgin’s Womb.
His rich, resonant tones soared, compelling Emilia to stop at the back aisle. Unable to move, she simply stared on as he quit his seat in the middle of the room and joined Miss Cornworthy at the front.
The young woman looked at him with all the deserved awe and wonderment owed a co
nquering hero. When he approached her, Miss Cornworthy said something to Heath, but the words were lost in the length of the room and his song.
A moment later, Miss Cornworthy was relinquishing her spot on the bench to Heath. The pair proceeded to sing. The young woman’s shrieky soprano blended with Heath’s smooth baritone. And he played pianoforte. Emilia fisted her skirts. Was there nothing he could not do?
Veil’d in Flesh the Godhead see,
Hail th’ incarnate Deity!
Pleas’d as Man with Men t’appear,
Jesus our Emmanuel here.
Standing there, with Heath singing and playing the pianoforte, something shifted in her chest. A warmth stirred in a heart that had been cold for so long she’d accepted it would never again feel.
Only to be proven wrong. Only to find Heath Whitworth was nothing like the person she’d made him to be in her mind. And—
A hand snaked around her wrist, startling a gasp from her.
“Generally, one sits through these infernal performances,” her brother whispered from the corner of his mouth, and Emilia became aware of three humiliating truths: She remained standing in the middle of the aisle. Several guests were stealing annoyed looks at her.
And Heath was gazing over the top of the pianoforte. At me. He is staring at me.
Her belly fluttered wildly under that scrutiny.
He winked.
Worse, he’d caught her staring right back at him. The slightly knowing, teasing flicker of his lashes compelled her at last into her seat.
Her cheeks aflame, Emilia buried her chin in her chest in a bid to make herself as small as possible.
“Making yourself invisible is a wise idea,” her brother whispered, leaning down. “But I believe with this performance unfolding, even scandalous you are spared from the ton’s attention,” he drawled, thankfully mistaking the reason for her embarrassment.
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