Suspended in midair, Emma looked down at him and reached out to touch his cheek. It was rough with late-evening whiskers, but satin-smooth beneath and very warm.
All day he had been a merry companion, engaging, full of talk and laughter. Now the bar of golden light that slanted over his cheekbones revealed a new intensity and seriousness. He looked at her, held her, as if she was the most precious jewel he had ever beheld. Not because she was Lady Emma Weston or the niece of Count Suvarov, but because of what she was. Because she just was.
It made her feel so nervous and scared and exhilarated.
He slowly lowered her to her feet, but his hands stayed at her waist, holding her close. Emma linked her hands behind his neck and leaned back to look at him.
“Do you mean that?” she whispered. “Am I beautiful?”
“You are more than beautiful,” he answered her. “I have never met anyone like you before. Never.”
“And I have never met anyone like you. How could I? There is no one like you.” Emma wished she could tell him what this day, what knowing him, had meant to her. She wanted to tell him everything, all about her life and her fears and wishes, all she had dreamed of for years. She wanted to place all that she was into his hands, for she felt, deep in her heart, that she could trust him.
But more than that, she did not want him to hate her. She did not want to lose that look in his eyes. And it would certainly vanish if she told him who she truly was.
She had only this night. Surely it could not be wrong for her to hold onto what little she had.
He gave her a heart-stopping, crooked little smile. “I am quite ordinary. You could find a man like me every day of the week.”
“Oh, no! I am sure I could not.” She remembered the men she knew—men like Sir Jeremy. Jack was as unlike them as the sun was unlike the moon. She slid one finger along his jaw and the tiny dent in his chin and rested it on his lower lip. It was surprisingly soft under her touch.
Jack ducked his head to kiss her finger. It was so light, almost tickling, but it sent tiny sparks down her arm to her very heart.
“Jack,” she whispered. “I do so wish…” Her words trailed away, for how could she even articulate what she was feeling, what she longed for, what could never be?
He drew her even closer, until she went up on tiptoe and could rest her cheek on his shoulder. “What do you wish?” he murmured.
She made herself laugh, to push away those gloomy feelings and revel in the moment. She heard distant music, a lively, danceable tune. “I wish we could dance!”
Jack kissed the top of her head. “Perhaps we can.”
“We can?”
“Do you not hear that music?” He stepped back and took her hand in his. “Where there is music, there must be dancing. We just have to find it!”
Emma laughed in relief that the strange, tense moment had passed. Yet, beneath that laughter, there was also a small touch of chagrin—chagrin at her own cowardly lack of boldness. She followed him willingly back into the crowd.
———
The setting for the dance was as far from a grand ballroom as could be imagined. There was no polished parquet floor. There was no floor at all, just a clear space with a rough wooden platform at one end for a group of musicians to sit upon. There were no gilt chairs along the edges, where well-dressed matrons could sit and watch their young charges. No chandeliers, no flowers, no jewels. Just a lovely tune and laughing couples twirling about in the glow of the illuminations.
Jack watched Emma as she took in the whole scene, her beautiful rosebud lips parted in astonished joy. He thought she must have attended many balls in her life, danced many dances. It was easy to picture her in a ballroom, clad in silk and pearls, but she fit here, too. Her feet bounced up and down in time to the music, her skirts swaying.
She swung their clasped hands between them and smiled at him. “This is wonderful! Did you know this was here, Jack?”
He smiled, too, and put his free arm around her waist to sweep her close to him. “Not at all. It was— serendipity.”
Her brow crinkled a bit. “Serendipity?”
“A fortunate chance. May I have this dance?”
She tilted her head back and laughed. “Of course you may!”
They stepped out into the flow of the dancers, their steps blending into the bounce of the lively schottische. Emma was a graceful dancer, just as Jack knew she would be, but at first she felt a bit uncertain in his arms. Stiff, as if she was not entirely sure of this style of dancing. Yet, as they moved and turned, their bodies learning the rhythm of each other, her back and shoulders relaxed beneath his hands, and her steps became more certain.
She giggled delightedly as he spun her about, giving her an extra twirl. “Why do people not dance like this all the time?” she said, raising her voice above the music and the voices of the other people. “It is marvelous! Not like some staid old gavotte.”
“Oh?” Jack thought she had obviously forgotten her charade. But he did not care. He only cared about holding her for as long as he could. “Do you often dance a staid gavotte?”
She seemed to come back into herself and remember her masquerade. Her gaze dropped, and a pink stain spread across her ivory cheeks. “I—no. But I have watched them. They do not look very merry. Not like this at all.”
The lively music ended. Couples drifted around them, breaking apart, re-forming, but Jack and Emma stood still, their arms around each other. They stood there, watching each other, as a slow, uneven waltz began. It was obvious that the musicians were quite amateur, but that did not matter at all. Jack thought it was sweet music, angelic even.
Slowly, their feet shifted to the rhythm. Emma leaned into him, much closer than any ballroom waltz could properly allow. Jack slid his hand further along her smooth, slim back and rested his cheek against her hair.
“You are truly like no one else I have ever known,” he said.
“Mmm,” she whispered, her breath cool on his neck as she tilted her head back to smile at him dreamily. “And you are like no one I have ever known. Completely.”
“I would like to know more about you,” he said. It was true. Surprisingly so. He wanted to know more about her life in Russia, about why she had seemed so very far away at the reception. What she hoped and wished for, what had driven her from her home today. He didn’t want her to vanish back into her Lady Emma world, with his Tonya never to be seen again.
He wanted more time with her. Even though he knew very well that that was impossible. She had her family and duties, just as he did.
And if she knew the truth, that he had known of her masquerade all along, that he was not who he said he was, she would be so angry. Even though her surface was so ladylike, he had seen temper and anger flash in those dark eyes when the ruffian had accosted her in the alleyway.
She might even hate him, might flash that temper in his direction, if she discovered the truth.
He didn’t want that. He wanted her to remember this day, and him, with fondness and happiness. The best day of her life, just as she had said.
“You would like to know more about me?” Emma stepped back a bit to look at him. “You already know me better than anyone else.” There was a sad, solemn truth in her tone.
Jack folded her hand more securely in his as they turned a corner in the dance. “Do I? We have only known each other this one day. Surely you must have family, friends…”
“I have people who care about me, as I care about them,” she interrupted. Her earlier laughter had faded into intensity, as if she longed to persuade him of something. The fingers that rested on his shoulder reached until she touched his neck softly. “But I cannot show them all the things I would like to. They are far too busy; they have many important things to do. I wish…”
She paused and looked past his shoulder as if she feared to say too much.
Jack wished for things, too. He wished that they did not have these ridiculous constraints between them, that they
could speak freely.
But his feelings, feelings that were new and odd, ran free. As did his body, which came warmly to life whenever she brushed against him.
“What do you wish, Tonya?” he asked hoarsely, asking her this again. Some time, she would have to answer.
“I wish this dance could go on and on, never end.”
“I wish that, too.”
Emma gave a small, half-hysterical laugh. “But nothing goes on forever, does it?”
“No. It doesn’t.” Even as he spoke, the music crescendoed and stopped, and the air was filled only with the laughter and voices of people who, for this night, had no cares in the world. Jack and Emma came to a stop in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. “But the memories can last for all time, if you want them to.”
“I want them to!” She went suddenly up on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his, her arms twining about his neck to cling as if she would never let go. Jack caught her against him, and he feared he was clinging in much the same way. As if he could not let her go.
Her kiss was unpracticed, her lips hesitant, parted slightly, but it was very, very sweet. He tilted his head to better take all of her in, parting his own lips. She trembled under his hands, like a delicate, exotic bird who could take wing and fly away at any moment. He did not want to frighten her, did not want to lose her embrace, but her kiss was more intoxicating than any brandy. More arousing than that of any courtesan.
He reached out carefully with the tip of his tongue to touch the softness of her lower lip. She gasped and trembled harder but did not push him away. Instead, she moved closer, parting her lips for his intimate caress.
Jack felt his body harden in a way that could prove most embarrassing in a public place, even if they were in the shadows. His mind was full of such enticing images, like drawing Emma even closer, lowering her to the ground, kissing her throat, her shoulders, her…
A cough and a loud giggle from behind him made all these visions burst like a translucent soap bubble. Most reluctantly, he drew his lips from Emma’s and looked back over his shoulder.
Bertie and his lady friend stood there, the girl laughing tipsily behind her hand. Bertie, with his arm about her waist, gave every evidence of the same drunken casualness, but he frowned severely at Jack for the merest instant before he covered it in a lopsided grin.
That one reminder was enough. Jack recalled, like a dash of cold stream water, who he truly was. Who she was. Emma was no lightskirt to be kissed at a public dance. She was Lady Emma Weston.
And he was a damned fool.
He gently took Emma’s arms down from his neck and drew her behind him, deeper into the shadows, away from the view of the curious. She looked most startled, her eyes wide, her lips parted, as if she was not quite in the reality of the moment yet. Then her lips snapped together, and her blush deepened. She opened her reticule and pulled out a handkerchief, which she used to dab at her lips and cover the pinkness of her cheeks.
“It is getting late, old man!” Bertie said. “I’m going to take Lottie home in a hansom. Can we take you and— Tonya anywhere?”
Jack glanced at Emma, who gave a small shake of her head. “No, we will leave here soon and walk home.”
“Good.” Bertie gave him one more hard look before taking Lottie’s hand and turning her away. “I will see you tomorrow, then, Jack. We have a great deal to talk about.”
“Indeed.” Jack watched his friend stroll away, he and Lottie whispering and laughing together. He dared not look at Emma, not just yet. What could he say to her? What could he do? If he saw her, he would only want to kiss her again.
There was a rustle, a waft of lilac scent, as she tucked away the handkerchief and straightened her skirts.
“You have—have been friends with Bertie for a long time?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Jack turned back to her but did not touch her. She looked composed again, back to her Lady Emma self. Only the slight disarray of her hair betrayed what had happened between them. She gave him a small, tentative smile, urging him to follow her change of topic. Very well. If she did not want to discuss their kiss, they would not discuss it.
“Yes,” he answered. “Since we were at school together. We were also in the same regiment.” And now they worked together. But Emma did not need to know that.
“It must be very nice, to have someone you have been friends with for so long.” Her tone was wistful.
“It is. But, then again, it can be difficult to have someone who knows me so well.”
“It is far better than having no one who knows you at all,” she said softly.
Jack did not know what to say. Any reassurances he made, any comfort he offered, would only sound hollow. In the distance, church bells chimed. It was growing very late.
“Shall I take you home now, Tonya?” he asked. Really there was nothing left to say.
She gave a smile that was really more of a mere twist of her sweet lips. “Yes. I suppose that would be best.”
Chapter Ten
The door to the servants’ entrance of the Pulteney Hotel looked ordinary, painted, bound in iron hinges. But Emma knew it was not. It was the portal of doom.
Well, she thought grudgingly, maybe not doom. It just meant the end of her special, wonderful day, and that felt enough like doom at this moment. Once she passed that door and went up the stairs to the corridor where her chamber was, Tonya would be gone forever. She would be Lady Emma Weston again.
Her hand tightened on Jack’s, clinging as if he could hold her back from her own life, keep this magic from ending. He could not, of course. He didn’t even know she wanted to be held back from anything, thanks to her masquerade. Her fiction of Tonya, the Russian lady’s maid, had earned her this time of freedom, yet it had also prevented her from true intimacy with Jack—or anyone. If he did not know the truth of who she was, how could she really get to know him, or anyone?
Perhaps that was all for the best. Jack could remember her just as a charming maid he had met and kissed once. And she would remember him—how?
As a man she could have cared for, even come to love. If life were different. If she were different.
She turned to Jack quickly, before she could lose her nerve, and kissed his cheek. She inhaled deeply of his clean, soapy scent, memorizing everything about this moment to take with her when she left. She felt the weight of his hand in hers, heard the soft sound of his breath.
For a second, she had the wild thought that she could run off with him now. She could just walk away from the hotel, go to live in his rooms, be Tonya forever. Yet she knew, even as the image of the two of them cozy before his grate flashed through her mind, that she could not. Her aunt and uncle counted on her, loved her. She had duties and obligations, and if she deserted them, she could never be truly happy—even if she had Jack.
She gave a choked little laugh. Here she was, creating air castles in her mind, and he had not even asked her to come away with him! How silly she was. Just as silly as she had been when she threw herself on him and kissed him at the dance.
The memory of that glorious kiss made her face burn. At least it was dark here, and he could not see her blush.
“Tonya,” he said, in an oddly strangled voice.
“I wish you would not speak,” Emma answered, resting her forehead against his chest. “This day has been so perfect. It should end in silence. Words would only spoil it.”
She felt his hand on her hair, moving very softly, as if he feared to muss it. “But I must tell you, I—I want to see you again.”
So there it was. He did want to see her again. It changed nothing, of course, but it was sweet to hear nonetheless. “That cannot be,” she said. She was surprised her voice sounded so steady, when her chest ached as if her heart were truly broken. “We had a glorious day. You gave that to me. Now, I must go through that door, and you must go home.”
Emma knew that if she did not leave now, she never could. She stepped back, onto the shallow step that
led to the door, and reached up to touch Jack’s cheek. In the very faint light from the moon and the faraway illuminations, his face appeared carved of marble it was so expressionless. But his eyes burned.
“I have to tell you…” he began.
Emma laid her finger over his lips, silencing him. Whatever he was going to say, she did not, could not, want to hear it. It was best to leave the memories as they were. “Good bye, Jack,” she said. Then she spun around, pulled open the door and dashed inside. The portal of doom slammed behind her, shutting out the life of the streets.
She leaned back against it and pressed her hand to her mouth. She wanted to cry, to wail, to scream, to curse the unfairness of it all. Her eyes and throat ached with the unshed tears, but she dared not let her emotions run free. The belowstairs area of the hotel was quiet; most of the servants were either waiting on their masters and mistresses or clearing away supper or maybe having their own hurried meals.
It was late, and she might be found out, yet somehow she did not care. Her initial desire to have a temper tantrum was fading away, leaving her tired and numb. She wanted to crawl into her own bed and stay there for days and days until she had no desires at all anymore.
Emma wiped at her eyes and made her way to the narrow, twisting staircase that led to the lavish front rooms of the hotel. She passed two hurrying footmen, who gave her scarcely a glance. Her plain dress was still a great disguise, for all the good it did her.
The lamps were turned low in the corridor, making the gilt picture frames and brocade chairs gleam in dull magnificence. It was all so very different, this silent grandeur, from what she had seen today. She might almost have flown to the moon and back, so unsettled did she feel.
She quietly opened the door to her own chamber and slid inside, already loosening her hair in anticipation of her bed. As she dropped her shawl onto a chair, she became aware that she was not alone in the room. She heard Natasha’s choked sobs coming from the shadows.
Oh, no! Had something terrible happened while she was gadding about? An accident or… ? “Natasha? What has happened?”
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