The Virgin who Bewitched Lord Lymington

by Anna Bradley

  He met her gaze, and found her looking up at him, her eyes huge with wonder. Then she reached forward with a shy finger and traced the outline of his lips, following the upward curve as he smiled down at her, his heart leaping when she smiled back at him.

  “Give me your hand,” he murmured, his fingers closing around hers.

  She shook her head, but she didn’t resist when he drew her hand closer, cradling it in his palm. Samuel traced his thumb over the tiny button of her glove and slowly—so slowly and carefully—slid the button through the silken loop.

  She gazed down at his fingers wrapped around hers as if in a daze, as if she’d never seen such a thing before. Her hands were trembling, but her chin rose, and somehow, that little act of bravery made Samuel’s heart melt in his chest.

  He didn’t wait, couldn’t wait until he’d bared her skin. He caught her slender hand in his and raised it to his lips, the warm, smooth slide of silk against his mouth sending hot sparks of desire spiraling in his belly.

  A tiny sigh left her lips at the caress. “M-madame Marchand was there, and she—”

  “Shhh.” Samuel didn’t want to talk about Madame Marchand, or the Pink Pearl, or Helena Reeves, or Caroline Francis.

  He didn’t want to talk at all.

  * * * *

  It made no sense, that his lips could be so gentle.

  The firm line of them, the sardonic curl at the corner of them, the grim twist of them…they should be hard, shouldn’t they? Demanding. Punishing, even.

  How could she have known? How could she ever have imagined how soft they’d be, the sensuous slide of them against the thin silk of her glove?

  “Show me your hands, Emma.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

  Emma did her best suppress the delicious throb of awareness that uncurled in her belly at that low purr. She didn’t move as he took her hand, his touch tender as he began to slowly draw off her glove.

  There was a part of Emma that wanted to tug free of him—to snatch her hand from his grasp before he could see what she’d tried for so many years to hide, even from herself, but there was another part of her that was weary, so weary of cowering, that wanted someone to see.…

  No. Not someone. Him. Only him.

  She watched, entranced, as he slid the smooth silk down her arm, and she let him, she let him, even as she knew what he’d find…

  Lower, and lower still, his touch firm, her skin learning the shape of his fingertips. His gaze held hers as he slid each of her fingers free of the silk glove, one by one, his movements languid, unhurried, until her bare hand rested in his gloved one. “There,” he whispered, tracing the pattern of lines on the back of her hand.

  The scars were faded now, but one had only to look carefully to see them, her brutal past written across her hand, a piece of her history carved into her flesh.

  “Your hands are no less beautiful because they bear these scars.” He brought her bared hand to his lips and pressed a warm, lingering kiss there. “Have your admirers made you ashamed of them, Emma? Is that why you hide them?”

  It was a kiss, only a kiss, a brush of his lips against her hand, but within seconds, Emma’s head was swimming. “I…no one…” she whispered, but how could she tell him, how could she explain that no man had ever seen these scars before him? No man but the one who’d inflicted them, and he…he…

  But she didn’t have to tell him. She didn’t have to say a word, because Samuel read the truth in her face. “No man has ever seen them, touched them, kissed them. No man but me.”

  Emma shivered at the possessiveness in his voice, the fierce satisfaction in his face as he bent over her hand and traced the tip of his tongue over the deepest of the scars. “This is part of who you are, Emma. You have no reason to be ashamed of them.”

  Everything inside Emma ached at his words. She wanted so badly to believe him, but she’d earned the nightmares that came with those scars, had lived those awful moments over and over again, each time she closed her eyes.

  Samuel saw the doubt in her face—or perhaps it wasn’t doubt, but the fragile hope that rose in her breast at his words—and he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to the center of her palm.

  Emma’s breath caught. His gaze darted to her face at the soft gasp, his dark eyes holding her captive as, one by one, he pressed kisses to each of her fingertips before trailing his lips up the tender skin of her inner arm.

  Emma’s own lips parted when the tip of his tongue grazed her skin, but the kiss was over in an instant, leaving only a hint of heat behind. His teasing mouth wandered from her forearm to the curve of her elbow, and he buried his face in the sensitive hollow, a low moan on his lips as he breathed deeply, taking her scent inside him.

  She didn’t realize how badly she wanted to touch him until, as if in a dream she watched her hand settle gently on the head bent over her arm, and she dragged her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

  “Oh.” Emma let her fingertips drift through the dark strands, her lips parted in wonder at the silky waves tickling her fingers. It seemed impossible such a hard man could have such softness to him, such unexpected tenderness.

  Hadn’t she thought him a hard man, once? Yes, but it seemed a long time ago now. As she drew her fingers through the impossible softness of his hair, Emma could no longer recall why she should have. “How can it be so soft? It’s like dark velvet..”

  Samuel had gone still at her touch, but her quiet exclamation of surprise made him raise his head. He gazed at her for a breathless moment, eyes glittering, the gray iris drowning in a sea of black.

  “Emma.” He gathered her close, holding her against his hard, broad chest as his lips closed over hers in one drugging kiss after another, everywhere he could reach, her skin leaping to attention under the caress of his mouth, as if it had come alive for the first time under his touch. His lips ghosted over the curve of her shoulder to her collarbone, shivers rising in their wake. He lingered at the hollow of her throat, his teasing caresses making her gasp before he dropped a string of sweet kisses over her chin and jaw.

  His hands were shaking when he drew back at last and looked into her eyes. “You don’t need to hide your scars, Emma. Not from me, and not from anyone.”

  He didn’t give her a chance to answer him before he took her lips again, and Emma didn’t allow herself to think of anything but the feel of his hungry mouth on hers, his tongue prodding gently at the seam of her lips. She never even thought to refuse him, but opened for him at once, her hands coming up to rest on his chest as if touching him were the most natural thing in the world.

  “You even taste like vanilla.” His voice was low and husky, his lips curving against hers in a smile Emma knew was sweet, because she could taste it on his lips.

  He wrapped his hands around her waist, squeezing gently as he eased closer, the long, hard length of his thigh brushing against hers. His gaze moved over her face, and then, with one quick flick of his fingers, he plucked at the blue ribbon woven into the locks of her hair.

  Dozens of pins were hiding under the simple ribbon, all of them poking into her head and holding the heavy waves in place. Emma raised a hand to her head. “Those absurd curls took hours to pin in place, my lord.”

  He let out a low chuckle. “I beg your pardon, madam. Does it soothe your injured feelings if I confess removing your ribbon didn’t have the result I’d hoped for?”

  “Hmmm. Perhaps it would. What did you intend?”

  He kissed her temple, then pressed his mouth to her ear. “For your hair to fall in a cascade around your shoulders, of course.” He gave one of the offending locks a gentle tug. “If I’d known it would refuse, I wouldn’t have bothered with the ribbon at all. Still,” he murmured, his voice lowering to a deep drawl as he toyed with the loose wave in his fingers. “It wasn’t an entirely wasted effort.”

  He touc
hed the errant curl to his lips, his eyes darkening as he took in the heightened color in her cheeks, the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat. “The first time I saw you at Almack’s, the chandeliers turned your hair to pale gold, like a halo around your head.”

  Emma gazed at him, mesmerized by his warm eyes, his husky voice.

  “Then I heard your voice again, and do you know what my first thought was, Emma?”

  Emma swallowed. “That you’d heard my voice before?”

  “No. That should have been my first thought, but instead, all I could think was that yours was the only face I could ever imagine living up to the promise of that voice.”

  Emma caught her breath as his words moved through her, into the empty, aching place that lived inside her heart. Men had paid her compliments before, had extolled the beauties of her face, her blue eyes, but their words had never meant anything to Emma. When she’d looked at her reflection in the glass, she’d only ever seen ugliness looking back at her.

  But Samuel’s words touched her in a way no man’s words ever had before, as if through his eyes she could at last see herself as she really was. Not as beautiful, but as…real.

  Emma couldn’t speak, but she rested her hands on his chest, her palms flat against his waistcoat so she might feel the beat of his heart against her palm, the rise and fall of his chest with his every ragged breath.

  The two of them remained like that for long, quiet moments, their breath mingling, until Samuel let out a resigned sigh, and eased her from his lap onto the carriage bench. He didn’t kiss her again after that, but he held her hand cradled in his as his coachman drove them through the dark streets of London.

  He made no move to release her when the carriage came to a stop in front of Lady Crosby’s townhouse, and Emma made no move to pull away. Her hand felt small wrapped up in his much larger one, and she realized with a start that he was the only man she’d ever known who made her feel safe.

  Or perhaps for the first time ever, she just felt like herself.

  Finally, he stirred, and opened the carriage door. He assisted her down, and escorted her to the entrance of the townhouse. “Good night, my lady,” he murmured, pressing a soft, final kiss to the inside of her wrist.

  He turned to go, but Emma stopped him with a hand on his arm. “As soon as Helena’s free of Madame Marchand, she’ll tell you all she knows about Caroline Francis. I won’t go back on my word to you, Samuel.”

  He looked down at her, his eyes soft. “I know you won’t.”

  The entryway was dark and silent when Emma entered, but she heard footsteps coming down the hallway as she closed the door behind her, and a moment later, Daniel appeared. “Helena, lass? Did you fetch her?”

  “No.” At mention of Helena, the warmth Samuel had kindled inside Emma cooled to a dull chill. “Madame Marchand put a stop to it before I could get Helena out.”

  Daniel grunted. “Lady Clifford, then?”

  Emma didn’t like to involve Lady Clifford, but there was no way she’d leave Helena at the Pink Pearl to face Madame Marchand’s wrath. She shuddered as she recalled the way Madame had glared at Helena, the coldness in her voice when she’d ordered Helena out of the room.

  “Yes, I think we must.” Madame Marchand wouldn’t relinquish Helena easily, but she would relinquish her. Even Madame didn’t have the courage to refuse Lady Clifford. “You’ll go?”

  “Aye.” Daniel gave Emma’s shoulder an awkward pat in a rare show of affection, then he was gone, the heavy thud of his boots on the stone steps echoing in Emma’s ears.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Let me have a look at you, my dear.” Lady Crosby took both of Emma’s hands in hers and stood back to consider her. “It was rather brilliant of you to adopt that shade of blue for the season. It’s lovely on you. If I could coax that frown from your pretty face, I think you just might do.”

  “Am I frowning?” Emma peeked into the pier glass, and found a blue-eyed lady with a creased brow and downturned mouth staring back at her. “I didn’t realize.”

  “You’ve been frowning since you woke this morning, my dear—in between frequent dreamy smiles, that is. I do believe I’ve strained my neck, trying to keep pace with your moods.” Lady Crosby regarded her with kind brown eyes. “Did, ah…did something happen with Lord Lymington last night?”

  Emma opened her mouth to deny that Samuel—that is, Lord Lymington—had a thing to do with it, but she couldn’t make the lie leave her lips. That had never happened before. Given the dozens of lies she’d be obliged to tell before this business was done, it was worrying, indeed.

  It was all Samuel’s fault, with his lovely words last night, and his even lovelier kisses. Emma had caught herself with her fingers pressed to her mouth dozens of times today, recalling the delirious brush of his lips against hers, his whispered words in her ear.

  Who would have guessed such a gruff gentleman hid such generous passion, such gentle tenderness under his stern appearance? The sweetness of him, the sincerity, the unexpected kindness…

  Emma sucked in a trembling breath. Flora had warned her Samuel wasn’t at all the haughty lord he appeared to be at first. Emma would have done well to listen to her.

  How had Flora put it, again, that first night at Almack’s?

  He’s blunt, but he rather grows on one.…

  That was all well and good, but it had never occurred to Emma he might grow on her.

  No gentleman ever had before, yet here they were.

  Samuel had been creeping his way under her skin since their dance together the first night of the season. He’d been unforgivably rude to her that night, every inch the high-handed, arrogant marquess, but it seemed she liked arrogant marquesses, because she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since.

  She’d tried over and over to convince herself Lord Lymington wasn’t any different than any other gentleman, but it was no use. He was different. He was honest, and somehow, his honesty had compelled hers.

  And that…well, that changed everything, because it made it impossible for her to lie to herself any longer. He’d slid under her defenses with all that absurd honesty, and now he was clinging there like a prickly saddle burr. She hadn’t any idea how to tear him loose, and worst of all, after last night she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  Not anymore.

  Lady Crosby raised an eyebrow at Emma’s silence. “You hardly had a chance to leave our theater box before Lord Lymington leapt to his feet and went after you, Emma. I confess I’d been hoping the two of you had negotiated a truce.”

  “It was more of an, er…suspension of hostilities than a truce.” If making her laugh, and tugging her ribbons loose, and kissing her senseless could be called a suspension of hostilities, that is.

  Emma tweaked a curl into place, and made an effort to smooth her brow and will the blush from her cheeks before turning back to Lady Crosby. It wouldn’t do to appear at Vauxhall Gardens looking like a cross between a lovestruck schoolgirl and a thundercloud. “There. Is that better?”

  Lady Crosby smiled. “Much better, yes. Come along, then. I don’t like to keep Lady Flora and Lady Silvester waiting.” The four of them were sharing a supper box at Vauxhall Gardens this evening, along with Lord Lovell, Lady Lovell and Mr. Humphries, Lady Lymington, and…Lord Lymington.

  Samuel.

  Just thinking of him made Emma flush with humiliating heat once again. Dash it, of all the times she could have chosen to become besotted with a gentleman, this was the worst.

  But that was the trouble with infatuations. They were rarely convenient.

  Caroline Francis was still missing, Helena was trapped inside the Pink Pearl with an infuriated Madame Marchand, and a mysterious nobleman with a missing pendant—a nobleman who might or might not be a murderer—was running loose in London.

  And here she was, mooning over Lord Lymington
.

  She sighed as she draped a thin silk shawl over her shoulders, and followed Lady Crosby from the drawing room down to the carriage, which was waiting in front of the townhouse. Daniel Brixton stood beside the open door, ready to hand them in. “Good evening, Daniel.”

  “Evening, lass.”

  Daniel’s voice was as gruff as ever, but a tiny wrinkle between his brows disturbed his usual dark impassivity, and Emma’s stomach gave an uneasy lurch. She’d seen that wrinkle before, and knew what it meant.

  Something else had gone wrong.

  “What is it?” She paused, her hand on his arm. “What’s happened?”

  Daniel jerked his head toward the carriage. “Ye’ll find out soon enough.”

  Emma’s heart gave an anxious thump. She leapt into the carriage without waiting for him to hand her in, but stumbled back before taking her usual seat.

  Someone was already there.

  A gloved hand grabbed hers to steady her. “Careful, dearest. Here, sit beside me.”

  “Lady Clifford?” Emma’s knees felt suddenly wobbly, and she dropped clumsily onto the carriage bench. They hadn’t made any plans to meet today, and Lady Clifford wasn’t the impulsive sort. If she was here, then something was very wrong, indeed.

  Lady Clifford nodded to Daniel to close the carriage door and smiled a greeting at Lady Crosby before she turned to Emma. “I’ve got news, and I warn you, dearest. You’re not going to like it.”

  Emma drew her wrap tighter around her shoulders as a chill rushed over her skin. “It’s not Sophia, or Cecilia or Georgiana?” She’d been staying with Lady Crosby these past few months, preparing for Lady Emma Crosby’s appearance in London society, and had hardly seen her friends at all in that time.

  “No, no. They’re all very well. It’s, ah…it’s Helena, Emma.”

  Emma’s stomach dropped, and for one sickening moment the carriage seemed to tilt underneath her. “Tell me.”

  Lady Clifford sighed. “I went to have a word with Madame Marchand this morning, and she informed me, with a singularly unattractive degree of satisfaction, that Helena had some sort of disagreement with Lord Peabody at the Pink Pearl last night.”