by Eloisa James
“Kerr!” Lockwood hissed at him. “Wake up, man. There’s a woman behind you!”
The last thing Gil wanted was trouble with women. Tomorrow he was going to St. Albans, and . . .
He looked. She was trouble. Trouble in all the ways he most liked.
“My lord,” the woman said huskily. “You are playing with such devotion that you haven’t noticed me.”
“I’m afraid that I’m at a disadvantage,” Gil said, rising and bowing. “I am Gilbert Baring-Gould, the Earl of Kerr.”
“Mais, monsieur,” she cried, drawing back, her voice breaking slightly, “Darling Gil, you haven’t forgotten me, have you?”
Gil blinked. Surely he hadn’t—
“Oh, but you have forgotten me,” she said, her voice dipping into a husky lament. “Hélas, gentlemen—”
She cast a brilliant smile around the circle. “This is why we Frenchwomen consider you Englishmen so very dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Gil said. He was almost certain he’d never met her before. Except perhaps there was just the faintest hint of something familiar about her. “Absent-minded, perhaps, but not dangerous.”
“You admit it,” she said, pouting.
Lockwood was clearly anxious to assuage her disappointment. He stepped forward and kissed her hand. “Ah, mademoiselle,” he said softly, “my heart is French, I assure you. I could never forget the merest press of your fingertips.”
“Do you tell me, sir,” she said, in the most ravishing lisp, “that you Englishmen are not all as unmannerly as Lord Kerr? For I do believe that he has quite forgotten our acquaintance.”
Gil was torn between amusement, disbelief, and just the faintest—faintest—hint of embarrassment. Could he truly have forgotten such an exquisite bit of womanhood? “You must help my decrepit English memory,” he said. “When was that encounter, mademoiselle?”
She pouted. “That shows the worst of your memory,” she said, “for I am no mademoiselle, but Madame de Custine. And you, sir, were so kind as to—” She stopped and gave him a smile that told the entire room just how kind he had been. Damn that French brandy, Gil thought to himself. There was nothing to do for it but accept the scandal: his godmother would hear of this within five minutes. “I gather I was kind enough on that forgotten occasion that you remember me, my dear Madame de Custine,” he said, kissing her hand again. “I consider that quite generous.”
Her eyes were glinting at him above her mask. The very curl of her mouth surprised Gil. How did he ever drink enough brandy to forget her? “Consider it a tribute to your skills, my lord,” she said, and the innuendo in her voice was unmistakable. Lockwood stepped back and picked up his cards. The man next to Lockwood turned and whispered to a friend.
Gil sighed inwardly and threw down his cards. An ace and a king fell onto the table. Actually, his godmother would know within three minutes.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I must beg your leave to make my apologies to this lady.”
Chapter Eight
“Would you say,” Gil asked, staring down at the glorious bit of womanhood who had sought him out, “that you might have embroidered a bit on our acquaintance?”
“Pas de tout.”
“I just thought that you might have taken poetic license,” he said, steering her toward the windows leading to the garden. “Cast a romantic tone over an encounter of the most pedestrian nature . . . Did I help you into a carriage, perhaps?”
Emma gave a little gurgle of laughter. The pleasure of being French had gone to her head. She felt tipsy with a sense of power, exuberant with her own lies. She pitched her voice to a purring reproach. “How can you say such a thing, Lord Kerr? I vow that you came close to breaking my heart!”
They passed through the doorway, Emma’s wide, brocade skirts sweeping the door panels. Why on earth hadn’t she come to London before? Why hadn’t she known how much pure fun it was to hunt for a man, to cut him from the pack, just like one of Farmer Ben’s sheepdogs might do with a prize ram?
“But I don’t mean to scold you,” she said, breaking off a sprig of jasmine. It smelled dizzily sweet.
He didn’t answer, simply walked at her side, the lightest touch on her elbow leading her farther into the gardens.
He wouldn’t try to take her virginity in the gardens, would he? Well, of course, he had no idea that she was a virgin, and Emma had the distinct impression that he would never know, if he were sufficiently drunk.
The garden was alive with shadowy figures, laughing and stepping in and out of patches of moonlight: Harlequin in his spangled costume brushed by a fairy whose right wing trailed to the ground. There was Homer or perhaps Zeus: at any rate, a man who thought to ape the gods or Greeks.
They settled primly onto a bench, and Emma put away thoughts of intimacies in the garden. Of course Kerr had no such idea in mind. He would take her to his house before something of that nature happened. She felt an inner tremble of excitement at the very thought.
“So, madame . . . I am sorry,” he said, turning to her. “I have quite forgotten your name again.”
“You may call me Emelie.” Somehow her smiles didn’t seem quite as potent when thrown in his direction. The young lord she’d collared inside looked faint at each movement of her lips, but Kerr’s face didn’t change an iota.
“Ah,” he said sleekly, “Emelie.”
“It was my grandmother’s. A charming name,” Emma said.
“Moi, j’y avais penser toujours la meme chose,” he said. “Comment pourrais-je oublier votre nom, quand votre visage si comme une fleur y apparaitre ensemble?”
For a second Emma panicked. But she spoke French like a native. She only needed to keep her head. He was talking flummery, asking how he could have forgotten her name since she had the face of a flower. “Le mystère du recollection d’un homme: qui peut savoir pourquoi ils oublient les choses les plus importantes?” she said. That was good: men did seem to forget what they should most remember. And then, as quickly as she possibly could: “Se souvenir d’une femme, c’est à moi: je trouve que ce soit impossible d’oublier meme les details de notre rendezvous nocturnale.” That was good, too: if she had spent a night with Kerr, she definitely wouldn’t forget the smallest detail.
There was a liquid promise in his smile that made her feel light-headed. “You’re speaking too rapidly for my poor skills, Mademoiselle Emelie—”
“Madame de Custine,” she said, “if you don’t wish to address me as Emelie.” If he had the faintest idea that she was not a widow, her whole masquerade would be for naught.
“I do feel I should apologize for the dastardly event of forgetting our original meeting,” he said silkily. “Where did you say that we met?”
“It’s inconsequential,” she said softly. “I know you likely forgot, as it was years ago . . . but I could never erase you from my mind. Never.” She leaned forward so that he could look into her cleavage, except he seemed fascinated by her eyes instead.
“You couldn’t?” he asked.
“Now I’m to marry a worthy burgher—a merchant, as you call them here in England.” Oops, she had almost let her accent slip there. It was something about the spicy smell of his skin. She drew back a little.
“I wish you the very best in your forthcoming matrimony,” he said.
“Of course,” she purred. “But marriage is such a serious endeavor . . . pleasant, altogether necessary, and yet stifling. I know, since I was married to my beloved Pierre until his much lamented death.”
“Ah,” he said.
Emma rushed on before he could ask any questions she might not be able to answer. “At any rate, it’s been years since we—since we—but it was in Paris, monsieur.”
“Paris,” he said, and his tone hardened. A crease suddenly appeared between his brows, and Emma relaxed. There was something different in the air between them now: a smell of possibility. Bethany had been right about his dissolute behavior, then.
“Paris,” she said, the words sof
t in her mouth. “You probably don’t remember, my lord. I’m afraid you had sampled a bit too much brandy that evening.”
“Undoubtedly,” he said, his voice hard.
“But I could never forget . . .” Emma couldn’t believe how much husky longing she poured into her own voice. Perhaps she should have run away and joined a traveling theater troupe! “When I saw you across the room this evening, it seemed a gift from the gods.”
“Well,” he said, “I suppose that I should be grateful that I apparently behaved in an acceptable manner, even while a drunken sot.”
“I am to marry my wealthy burgher in a week,” Emma said. “I am only in London to choose my wedding clothes. ’Twas a mere accident that I happened to be at the masquerade.”
“Ah.”>
She bent over and ran a finger down his cheek. Small prickles tingled her finger. “I wish you to do me a favor, my lord.”
“Of course.” But his voice was courteous, detached. The mention of Paris had convinced him that they had once met, but it had also iced him over somehow.
“You see, my lord, I do believe you owe me a favor.”
“Indeed?” his voice was positively chilly.
“Certainly.” Her finger slipped to his lips. His bottom lip was plump, sullen, beautiful. “I am to make the good marriage. My mother, bless her sainted memory, would be joyous. And yet I would like one more experience . . . just one . . . before I lapse into a life of rectitude.”
His eyes narrowed. “Could you possibly mean what I think you mean?”
Emma kept her voice low and sultry. “I certainly hope so.”
And then she held her breath.
Chapter Nine
Self-loathing is an ugly thing to display before a beautiful woman. Gil forced himself to drain every bit of that emotion from his voice before he spoke. “I’m afraid that I was not myself during my stay in Paris,” he said carefully.
Her eyes met his. “I understand that you were having difficulties,” she said. “I believe that you were mourning the loss of your brother.”
Damn. He couldn’t believe that he had babbled of Walter, spoken of Walter’s death to this woman. How could he? And since he had spoken to her on such an intimate subject, how could he not remember their encounter?
Her eyes were sympathetic. He made himself gather the shreds of his self-esteem and bury the pain that was Walter down deep in his heart, where he tried not to look anymore. There was no point to that pain, and no end to it. He understood little, but he did understand that.
“I must have bored you to tears,” he said lightly.
“Pas de tout,” she said. Her hand touched his and sent small shivers of sensation across his hand. “Never that.” Her eyes caught his, and she looked away.
For the first time, he took a hard look at her. He’d been amused and faintly bored by her arrival in the card room; the only reason he accompanied her to the garden was because he held another winning hand, and cards had lost their interest. Slim, winged eyebrows rose above her jeweled mask. Her hair was thick, like rumpled silk, and the dark red of a garnet, with the same hints of mysterious depths. A man could hide his face there and not miss the light of the sun. Her eyes were sultry, curious, intelligent . . . looking at him in a way that made him feel unsettled. Had it been so long since a woman looked at him with genuine desire rather than calculated interest?
Since his stay in Paris, he had brought no woman to his house, nor did he accompany them to their abode. He visited Madame Bridget, but only for the pleasure of chattering in French. He played with fire, but dropped the women at their doors, untouched. Sometimes, he wondered if he’d been eunuched by that orgy of grief.
Her forehead was high, an aristocrat’s delicate white brow. It was a pity that she was marrying a wealthy burgher. Not a pity, he corrected himself. A joy. She’ll have five children and forget the extravagances of her youth.
For she was young, he could see that. Another wave of self-loathing almost caught him on the hip: apparently he had been so sotted on a Parisian night that he ravished a young lady.
Then he caught her eyes again. Well, perhaps she wasn’t that much a lady. Ladies rarely had such a fascinated gleam in their eyes, at least not Englishwomen. Leave that to a Frenchwoman.
Her fingers were playing on his wrist, as if she couldn’t stop touching him. One thing he’d learned in his misbegotten life was that you have to forgive yourself. For being the only one in your family left standing. For not being there to catch Walter as he fell from the carriage.
For ravishing a young woman. Because, apparently, he had conducted himself so well that she wanted a repeat.
And he, as he sometimes had to remind himself, was a gentlemen.
Gentlemen never disappoint ladies.
One moment Emma was sitting on the bench, gazing with some satisfaction into her future husband’s eyes, and the next she was on her feet, heading back into the ballroom. Something had changed between them.
He was so much bigger than she, although she was a tall woman. His hand was on her shoulder, and though it was gentle, it made her quake inside. One could only suppose that he had made up his mind to grant her request.
There had been a flash of such pain in his eyes when she mentioned his brother that her stomach clenched at the sight of it. And yet when she glanced sideways at him now, all she could see on his face was a kind of raffish enjoyment.
He slowed as they neared the open doors of the ballroom, looked down at her, and there wasn’t a trace of grief in those eyes. They looked wicked, like a promise in the moonlight, like the end of all the great love stories rolled up in one. And that smile on his lips ought to be outlawed. For the first time she really believed Bethany. This man had cut a swath through Paris. It seemed likely that not a Frenchwoman in Paris resisted him.
“I gather,” he said, ignoring the curious faces that turned toward them, “that you wish me to do you a favor.”
“If you would be so kind,” she replied, keeping her eyes on his so that they didn’t drift to his lips. Was this her, wondering how he would taste? She’d never thought of such a thing before. For a moment she felt a sense of vertigo, as if the old Emma who painted bees in her studio had been replaced by a lascivious Frenchwoman, licking her lips at the sight of Kerr.
Well, he was her husband.
Almost.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
She blinked, confused. Wasn’t he going to sweep her into his carriage and have his way with her? Frankly, she wouldn’t even mind the carriage. True, Bethany had said that carriages were not appropriate, but—
“Yes, of course,” she managed and took his arm. But she had forgotten that new dances had come into fashion since the days when she and Bethany had a dancing master, and she hesitated at the edge of the floor.
“A waltz,” he said to her. “New, German, and quite fast. Allow me.” He put a hand around her waist and pulled her close.
She gasped.
“It’s a three-step rhythm,” he said to her, laughing at her confusion.
Around them was the swish of satin and silk as milk-maids and queens turned in the arms of kings and clowns. She put her hand on his shoulder, and they stepped into the gaily colored throng.
His hand guided her, and after a moment she learned the pace.
“That’s it,” he whispered into her ear. “Frenchwomen are always fast learners.”
Suddenly daring raced through her again, turning her veins to fire. The mask on her face hid the normal Emma, turning her into another woman, a bolder, more courageous version of herself. “I believe that you must be beginning to remember me, my lord. Those were your very words on an earlier occasion.”
Wonder of wonders, he didn’t freeze but smiled back at her. His hand strengthened at her back and pulled her closer. Shivers crept up Emma’s legs and made her feel weak in the knees. She licked her lips and felt even weaker when she saw his slow smile.
“Would you like to t
ake a short drive, Madame de Custine?”
“Emelie,” she said. “And yes, that would be quite pleasant.” Pleasant wasn’t quite the word, not for the sense she had that the pounding of her heart could be heard by the whole room.
They began to make their way through the crowded floor, Kerr brushing off the greetings of his friends. From the glances that followed them, Emma could say without hesitation that she would receive at least four letters tomorrow detailing her fiancé’s contemptible behavior.
From the corner of her eye she saw her cousin Mary and quickly turned her head the other way. Her mask may have served as an adequate guard against Kerr’s recognition of her, but one good look from her cousin, and the masquerade would be ruined.
He was steering her with a mere touch of her elbow. One jerk of his head, and a footman appeared with her pelisse, and Kerr threw it over her shoulders. His fingers lingered for a moment, and a potent whiff of her own perfume drifted to her nose. That’s why women wear perfume, she thought suddenly. For their own pleasure.
“Have you always had a fondness for Englishmen?” Kerr asked.
“Of course not,” Emma said. “Most Englishmen are so unattractive: pasty white, with that yellow hair that one knows will sneak away in the night, leave the man naked as a billiard ball within a few years.”
She walked ahead, and Gil followed. He was thinking hard. Clearly, Madame de Custine had been in Paris when he was there, and she had somehow found herself in the way of his marauding, drunken self. And if she now wished to have a final affaire before she married her worthy burgher, who was he to complain? “Before your comment, I saw no particular reason to celebrate my dark hair,” he told her.
She pursed her lips and then gave him a slow, raking glance, from the top of his hair to his boots. Gil almost laughed. There was nothing more enjoyable than a Frenchwoman in passionate pursuit of an hour’s entertainment.
