by Anna Bradley
The entire time, he’d thought of nothing but Lady Emma Crosby.
He’d hoped he might see her on Rotten Row, but after an hour squinting at every fair-haired lady in blue, he’d finally given up, and gone home to dress. When he’d arrived at the theater and noticed Lady Silvester and Lady Flora alone in Lady Crosby’s box, he’d convinced himself Lady Emma had left London.
He’d even persuaded himself he hoped it was so, until he saw her enter with Lady Crosby and take her seat, as cool as you please, dressed all in blue, the lights catching at the loose strands of her hair.
Before he could stop it, before he could question it, his chest swelled, and he took what felt like his first deep breath since he’d kissed her beneath the rose arbor.
That kiss…it had changed everything.
Samuel jerked his gaze away from Lady Emma’s face, but after a day of being deprived of that face, it felt like losing a limb. Even after it was gone one could still feel it, a phantom remnant of something that had once been there, that one could never reconcile oneself to losing.
She’d never looked lovelier than she did tonight, her blue silk gown the exact same shade as her eyes, with her hair caught up in a simple blue silk ribbon, the pale, silky curls trailing over her white shoulders and brushing the bare skin of her neck.
“Stunning, isn’t she?” Lovell murmured in Samuel’s ear. “Aside from Flora’s, I’ve never seen a prettier face in my life than Lady Emma’s.”
Samuel grunted. “London is full of lovely faces. There’s nothing so special in hers.”
Lovell chuckled. “Then why can’t you look away from her? You’ve been staring at her since she sat down. Has the mighty Lord Lymington fallen victim to Cupid’s arrow, and been brought low by love at last?”
“Love? Don’t be absurd, Lovell. I’m not in love with Lady Emma.”
It wasn’t love. It was…well, he didn’t have any bloody idea what it was.
“Be careful, Lymington. Cupid makes the greatest fools of those who scorn his powers. If a man were to fall in love, he could hardly choose better than Lady Emma.”
She half-turned toward them then, as if she’d heard them say her name, but she looked quickly away, delicate color washing over her cheeks.
“Ah, just look at that blush. She knows you’re watching her, Lymington. Come now, confess the truth. Lady Emma’s been driving you mad all season. She’s a beauty, and worse, just the sort of beauty you prefer.”
“You’re mistaken, Lovell. It’s you who prefers fair-haired, blue-eyed ladies, not me.” He’d never been particularly enamored of fair ladies, and he didn’t intend to start mooning over them now, no matter how distracting he found Lady Emma.
No matter that he couldn’t forget that kiss. Dreamed about that kiss—
“My fondness for fair-haired ladies was a momentary aberration, nothing more. I’ve always been partial to dark-haired beauties.” Lovell’s gaze lingered on Lady Flora, who was seated beside her friend. “But you know very well it’s not Lady Emma’s face that has you enthralled, Lymington.”
“What is it, then? Enlighten me, Lovell. Is it her slippery relationship with the truth? Her sharp tongue?” Her mouth, her lips…Samuel suppressed a shudder at the memory of her kiss, so soft, surprisingly so, tender and giving—
“No. It’s that she’s not afraid of you. Curious, really, that such a delicate lady should have turned out to have such a rigid spine, but there it is.” Lovell waved an airy hand.
As far as Samuel could tell, Lady Emma wasn’t afraid of anything at all. “She would have made an excellent naval commander.”
Lovell frowned. “No frontal assaults, Lymington. I forbid it.”
Samuel didn’t answer, his attention caught and held by Lady Emma, as it always was whenever she was near him. Had he kissed the soft skin behind her ear, fingered that errant curl that refused to lay smooth under the blue ribbon? If he hadn’t, he should have. He should have spent hours tracing those full red lips with his tongue, stroking that creamy skin and nuzzling his face into the fragrant curve of her neck, caressing those slender curves and inhaling the scent of vanilla and wild roses that clung to her—
Damn the woman. She was driving him mad. “I don’t deny she’s…attractive, but—”
“Attractive?” Lovell snorted. “That’s like saying the Mona Lisa’s smile is pleasing.”
“What is it about her face?” Samuel muttered, to himself more than to Lovell. “What’s so arresting about it? There are dozens of ladies here tonight who’s faces rival hers for beauty, and yet…”
Yet he hadn’t spared any of them so much as a glance.
It was her face that bewitched him, her face he couldn’t look away from.
“Lady Flora is ravishing, isn’t she, Lymington?” Lovell let out a yearning sigh. “Those lovely dark eyes. I’ve always admired her eyes, but since we’ve been in London it’s as if I’m obsessed with them. I spend hours every day thinking about her eyes.”
Samuel seized his chance to turn the subject away from Lady Emma’s captivating face. “Lady Flora has turned those fascinating eyes your way more than once tonight. Dare I hope you’ve charmed you way back into her good graces?”
Lovell’s lips quirked in a tender smile as his gaze lingered on Lady Flora. “Charmed? No. Flora’s never been susceptible to my charms. Nothing but honesty will do for such a lady.”
For the first time that evening, Samuel smiled. “Shall we go over to their box and bid them a good evening?”
“I intend to, I assure you, but not just yet.”
“Why not now?” Samuel wasn’t in a humor to be patient.
Lovell raised an eyebrow. “Because a gentleman doesn’t pounce upon a lady who entered her box less than five minutes ago. We’ll wait until the end of the first act.”
The end of the first act? “For God’s sake, Lovell, that’s a lifetime away.”
“My, you are anxious to speak to Lady Emma, aren’t you? I confess I’m relieved at it, Lymington. I was beginning to think your heart was impenetrable.”
“It’s nothing to do with my heart. It’s just…it’s the play. It’s the dullest thing imaginable.”
Lovell chuckled. “Think of it as an ambush, Lymington. Timing is of the essence.”
Samuel huffed. “Ambushes are done quickly, Lovell.”
But Lovell would not be moved. He settled comfortably back in his chair with the air of a man who’d made his plans, and was willing to bide his time until the moment he was waiting for arrived. “All in good time, Lymington. All in good time.”
“When did you become such a pillar of patience and good sense, Lovell?” Samuel grumbled.
“Right around the time you lost your head over Lady Emma, cousin.” Lovell grinned. “Now be quiet, won’t you?”
Samuel shifted in his chair, muttering under his breath, but he knew Lovell was right. Since that night in a dark library in an infamous London brothel, from the moment he’d first heard Lady Emma’s voice, he hardly recognized himself.
A few words in that smooth, soft whisper, and his wits had scattered. Then he’d seen her face, and the few wits he’d had left had fled after them—
“That’s odd. Is Lady Emma leaving?”
Samuel’s head shot up at Lovell’s words, and what he saw made his fingers tighten around his walking stick. “Where the devil does she think she’s going?”
“Easy, Lymington. I’m sure she’ll return as soon as…for God’s sake,” Lovell hissed, when Samuel rose to his feet. “You’re not going to chase her? You promised me no frontal assaults! Just wait until—”
But Samuel was done waiting. He was on his feet and striding from the box before Lovell had even finished his sentence.
Lady Emma had been walking away from him since their first dance together at Almack’s.
Not this time.
This time, he was going after her.
Chapter Twelve
“If you intend to escape me, Lady Emma, you’ll have to run more quickly than that.”
Samuel was still half a dozen paces behind her when the growl left his lips. She might have broken into a run then, just as he’d warned her to—she might have fled to her carriage and the protection of her enormous coachman, but instead she froze in the middle of the corridor as if roots had sprouted from the soles of her feet into the thick carpet below them, leaving her at his mercy.
Samuel was behind her in an instant, one arm snaking around her waist. He eased her back against his chest and pressed his lips to her ear. “Shame on you, my lady, leaving without even bidding me a good evening, and in such a hurry, too. Where are you going?”
He shouldn’t be touching her, but hadn’t years passed since that afternoon at the Royal Academy, when he’d told himself he wouldn’t touch her again? Wouldn’t stroke her silky skin, inhale the soft scent of vanilla that clung to her, that sweetness so impossible in the midst of the dirt and grime of London?
“Everywhere I’ve been today, I searched for you.” Samuel pressed his nose to the delicious curve between her neck and shoulder, inhaling desperately. “Did you think you could avoid me, after our kiss in the rose garden? You should have known better, Emma.”
On some hazy, distant level Samuel was aware he’d lost control of himself—that accosting a lady in a public corridor at Drury Lane Theatre with half the ton mere steps away was madness. Wasn’t there some rule, some wise aphorism warning gentlemen not to pursue a lady when their blood was rushing in a heated frenzy through their veins, burning them from the inside?
If there was, Samuel didn’t know it. He’d never needed such words of wisdom before, because he’d never, in all his thirty-four years, lost control of himself.
Until her.
Emma’s breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, her slender back rising and falling against his chest. She said nothing, nor did she try to break loose from his hold, but her entire body was trembling, the coldness of her hand gripping his wrist tangible even through the fine kid of her glove.
Shame washed over Samuel, enough shame to make him relax his hold on her, yet not so much he’d let her escape him again. After a day in which he’d gone half-mad with longing for her, she was finally in his arms. He couldn’t make himself let her go.
“My carriage,” he muttered in her ear, and began striding down the corridor toward the staircase. Emma didn’t fight him, or offer any resistance at all. If anyone happened to catch a glimpse of them, they’d see nothing remarkable, nothing untoward.
But Samuel knew Emma. Even in the short time they’d been acquainted he understood her, and uneasiness niggled at him as he escorted her down the staircase and through the entrance to the street beyond. Emma was many things, tempting and infuriating in equal parts, but she wasn’t docile. If she was coming with him willingly, then something was wrong.
He handed her into his carriage, and took the seat on the bench across from her, determined to put some space between them, and not to say a word until she met his eyes. She shifted uncomfortably against the seat, fussing with her skirts and delaying the inevitable until at last she stilled, and raised her eyes to his.
Samuel sucked in a breath. Her face was as lovely as ever, but now he was close enough to notice the delicate purple smudges beneath her eyes, and all the words he’d meant to say to her froze on his tongue. What he said instead was, “You look fatigued, my lady.”
“I am, rather. Yesterday and today have been…difficult.”
Samuel struggled briefly with his reply, but he was done with the lies, half-truths, and subterfuge between them. “They might be less so if you spent fewer evenings at the Pink Pearl.”
If she was shocked to discover he’d seen her there last night, she didn’t show it. She didn’t deny it. Her neutral masque never slipped, but now Samuel had seen beneath it, he was no longer fooled by her smooth façade.
“Poor Lady Tremaine was persuaded you were really ill yesterday, but then she didn’t kiss you in the rose garden. For a lady suffering from such a dreadful malady, you kiss with great passion, Emma.”
Samuel couldn’t help a rush of fierce satisfaction as her masque slipped, and color surged into her cheeks. “I beg your pardon, my lord. If you recall, I had a headache earlier that—”
“I recall Lady Flora said so. I also recall thinking she was lying, to give you an excuse to refuse to walk with me.” Samuel sat back against his seat, studying her. “I asked you a question yesterday, Lady Emma—about your friend Helena Reeves. Did you think I wouldn’t notice that you never answered me?”
“No. I think you notice everything, Lord Lymington.”
“Perhaps we’re alike in that way,” he murmured.
“In more than just that one way, I think.”
Samuel thought so too, but he hadn’t chased after her tonight to let her distract him a second time. “I spoke with Helena Reeves at the Pink Pearl last night. She told me a half-dozen lies, then sent me on my way.”
“Oh? What lies were those, my lord?”
“She claimed she once served as your lady’s maid, that she lost her place after some scoundrel seduced her, then fled to London and became a courtesan at the Pink Pearl.” Samuel hadn’t believed a word of it.
Surprise flickered over Emma’s face, but she hid it quickly. “You seem skeptical, my lord, but you must be aware how often young girls are seduced, ruined, and then abandoned to a brutal fate in London.”
“I’m aware, yes, but I’m also aware you were at the Pink Pearl last night and that you saw Helena Reeves. I suspect you told her to lie to me.”
“I see. Did you overhear a lady asking Helena to lie, and decide her voice was exactly like mine? Not a voice a man forgets—that was your evidence last time, I think.”
“No. Not this time.”
“What do your base your suspicions on, then?”
Samuel didn’t answer. Hardly having once taken his eyes off Emma since they’d met offered him one advantage. The slight uptick of her chin, the near infinitesimal tightening of her lips…he saw them, and knew what they meant.
She was lying.
He didn’t know why, but it wouldn’t do her any good.
Not with him.
“I know you were there last night, Emma. I arrived just after you left the library, and I followed you down the street. I saw you get into your grandmother’s carriage a few blocks away from the Pink Pearl.”
“You saw me, or you saw a lady in a hood in the street outside the Pink Pearl, and though you didn’t see her face, you assumed she must be me?”
“No.” His voice was quiet. “You weren’t wearing your hood this time. I saw your face, Emma. I also saw your hands.”
Silence, so sudden and profound Samuel could feel it against his skin, like a hazy mist enveloping him. “Your coachman leapt down to open the door, but you got to it first. You reached up your hand to open it, and braced your other hand on the side of the door. There wasn’t much light, but enough so I saw them, Emma. I saw the scars on your hands.”
She turned away to hide her face from him, but it was already too late. Samuel had seen it, a shift, the subtle change in her expression, another tiny crack in her façade.
“I recall thinking it was curious I hadn’t once seen you without gloves before that night. But it wasn’t curious, was it? It was by design.”
He leaned back, away from her, away from the light streaming in through the carriage window, far enough so his face was shrouded in shadow.
And he waited.
She swallowed, her pale throat working, and twisted her hands in her lap, as if she could erase the scars by rubbing the soft silk over them, like marks on a child’s slate.
Since that first night at Almack’s, Samuel had wa
nted to shatter her composure, to see an honest reaction from her, but as the movement of her hands grew more urgent, more panicked, he found he couldn’t bear it.
“Stop it, Emma.” He caught the tips of her gloved fingers, stilling her. “Give me your hands.”
“No.” She jerked away from him, and folded her hands tightly in her lap. “The scars are…they don’t matter. Are you aware, my lord, that Caroline Francis is missing?”
Samuel blinked. “Missing?”
“Yes. Helena says Caroline has been…entertaining a gentleman since the season began—a nobleman who prefers private engagements.”
“What nobleman?” Samuel demanded, once Emma’s words had sunk in. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know that. Helena hasn’t seen his face. She knows only that he fetched Caroline from the Pink Pearl yesterday. Caroline was meant to return last night, but she never did, and no one has seen her since.”
“It’s the same man,” Samuel muttered. “It has to be.”
“What man, my lord?”
Samuel wasn’t certain he wanted Lady Emma knowing his family’s secrets, but this business had taken a sudden, ominous turn. If Caroline was missing, the only way he could get her story was from Helena Reeves’s lips. He needed to speak to Helena again, and he needed her to tell him the truth this time.
For that, he’d have to go through Lady Emma Crosby.
Samuel didn’t believe for a moment that Helena had been Emma’s lady’s maid, but the truth about the connection between the two women no longer mattered. What did matter was it seemed not a single word would cross Helena’s lips without Emma’s permission.
“The two housemaids I mentioned, who went missing from my country estate in Kent.” Samuel dragged a hand through his hair, his throat tight. “The first, Amy Townshend, disappeared last August, and then Kitty Yardley six weeks later. When Caroline vanished in January, we feared the same fate had befallen her.”
