The earl set his emptied glass upon the tray of a passing servant and faced Emma as the musicians began to play. He stepped backward, onto the perimeter of the dance floor, pulling Emma along with him.
“I have some suspicion that I might be able to steer you properly through a respectable waltz.” He lifted his hand to the height of his shoulder, his palm open.
“I haven’t any idea why I might trust that you are correct,” said Emma. She considered his strong hand, waiting for hers. Slowly, and with a deep and brave breath, she put her hand into his. “But I do.”
Zach’s lips curved. She thought he might have been proud of her boldness.
“Put your other hand on the top of my arm,” he said, and when she complied, he pulled her incrementally closer and placed his free hand under her arm and around her back.
Emma lifted her eyes to his, while lamenting the loss of her even breathing and bravery.
“I will guide you. Don’t think about steps or where you should be going. Hear the music and feel my movements, under your hands and at your back. It’s a very simple step-slide-step motion, beginning with your right foot stepping back.”
Emma nodded. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of him, a dangerous proposition to begin with, only marginally less so because of the task he’d set her. She sank her fingers into the firm hardness of his upper arm. When he began to move, she kept her eyes closed.
And stepped back just as he moved forward. Her touch did perceive his intent, that she knew by the subtle shifting of his left hand that she needed to move toward her left. And then the hand at the right side of her back squeezed slightly and sent her in that direction. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet, letting the earls’ movements instruct her own. Admittedly, it took several turns until she mastered the slide-step but felt a certain confidence in this fairly quickly.
Finally, Emma opened her eyes and found his smoldering gaze upon her, lit with some inscrutable light.
“That’s a very brave thing you did there, rather throwing caution to the wind,” he said, still twirling her around with such ease it seemed almost second nature to him.
Emma shrugged, more so inwardly than outwardly. “I haven’t anything to lose, save from bringing embarrassment onto you. I will leave London tomorrow, and if you’re not worried about being associated with some girl whose name will likely be forgotten before I’m even returned to Hertfordshire, then I will not be either.”
“You could stay a few more days.”
Here, she did falter. But his hold was steady, and their timing quickly recovered.
“Step, slide, step,” he reminded her. “I think you are enjoying yourself and London.”
Not I like having you here. Not please stay with me. How silly she was to just now understand that these were the words she craved!
She could only hope she was successful in hiding the sorrow from her smile. “I would be lying if I said I was not relishing this visit to London. But I miss Bethany, as I’m sure you can imagine. More than anything, I am looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.”
“Ah, I somehow expected that might be your response,” he said lightly.
“Do you think we’ve accomplished our mission? In regard to the Hindrance?”
Zach let out a short chuckle.
Emma defended with a grin, “You hadn’t given me her name when first we discussed this plot, that she was only—your words—a hindrance. Truth be told, even after I met her, she was still The Hindrance inside my head.”
“She is at that,” Zach agreed. “Yet, I dare say, we’ve made a point. Waltzing abets our cause, as it will have been noted that neither you nor I had or will dance with any other tonight.”
“That sounds rather presumptuous, my lord,” Emma returned with another grin. “I think I’ve gotten the hang of this dancing. I might try out these newly acquired skills on some poor—”
“Don’t do that,” he said, all good humor departed.
Emma clamped her lips. No. He wasn’t allowed to do that. She would not permit him to dampen this evening with his constant and bewildering desire to control her. “Lord Lindsey, I—”
The music ended. Abruptly, Emma thought, though she really hadn’t heard the notes in several minutes. The earl stopped moving but did not release her, in fact squeezed his fingers around her hand.
“It won’t come as easily, as perfectly, with anyone other than me,” he said. “Dancing, that is.”
Aiming for a lightness she certainly did not feel, she teased, “You are many things, my lord—overbearing, stubborn, dictatorial, to name a few. I will add arrogant to the list.”
He grinned and there was something knowing, defiant in his gaze. “Have I any good qualities? In your eyes?”
Emma tugged at her hand, and he allowed it to slip away. The floor had cleared of all but a few couples. Good qualities? Painfully handsome. Undeniably appealing. Sometimes very kind. Maybe what she’d dreamed of when she was a child, before she knew that noblemen did not fall in love with chambermaids.
“You are a very fine dancer.” She gave him one last sad smile and left him standing on the now nearly invisible chalked horse’s head on the dance floor.
Chapter Twelve
An hour later, bored and somewhat disillusioned, as Lady Marston would barely permit her to speak to any persons and had threatened and taunted and embarrassed several swains away when they’d dared to approach, Emma wished the evening might end. The sooner she was back at the earl’s townhome, the sooner she might sleep, and then the sooner the morning would come, and she could be away. She might have liked to dance again, but feared the earl might be correct, that she would fail miserably unless in his arms. She’d watched with some delight several of the reels and cotillions but did not feel that she was prepared to put herself upon the floor with only an unsupported hope that she could properly perform any of the steps.
She glanced at the very ornate clock above the arched entryway. The lateness partially explained her fatigue; she was normally abed by now, as she was typically up with the sun. Dear Lord, but she would be tired tomorrow.
“We shall head downstairs for supper now,” said Lady Marston then. “I dislike standing in line like some beggar come to the soup kitchen. If we move now, we might find ourselves near to the front as it will not be served for a quarter hour, at least.”
Emma demurred. “Honestly, I cannot imagine putting anything in my belly at this hour of night.”
Lady Marston harrumphed. “That would explain your waiflike figure. Very well, stay here with Lady Walcott. Do not leave her side.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The old woman waddled away, using the cane more than she had for most of the night, causing Emma to wonder if she truly did have need of it. Feeling guilty that she’d left the lady to her own devices, Emma was just about the chase after her, offer her arm for added security when she saw that a man approached Lady Marston. They shared a laugh over something, and the gentleman extended his arm, which Lady Marston latched onto without hesitation.
The Gray Lady was deep in conversation with another matron, all but ignoring or forgetting Emma’s presence that when a man approached and stood before Emma, she smiled automatically, welcoming the diversion. He was exceedingly handsome, almost too handsome, if such a thing were possible.
“I have made inquiries,” the man said. “I couldn’t not wonder who you might be, and how I might possibly be able to know you, Miss Ainsley.”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” she replied, facing him fully. He stood about the same height as the earl, with shoulders nearly as wide, and leveled a pair of vivid blue eyes upon her. The eyes, she noted, held evidence of frequent good humor, as told by the tiny, crinkled laugh lines in their corners.
“Tristan Noel, and please excuse my bluntness, but let us talk about you.” He leaned forward and said in a quiet voice, “I fear the minutes available to me for this audience will be cut short once Lady M gets wind of it.”
Emma bit her lip, smiling. “Have you been spying on me, sir? Or, is it my lord?”
“Call me sir or mister or the right honorable, or perhaps my beloved. Whatever pleases you.”
“Very fanciful.”
“I have been spying on you. But only most of the evening. Couldn’t believe my good fortune when Lady M dared to leave you unattended, even as it is common knowledge that she never met a buffet she did not like. And Lindsey seems to have quit scowling at you from across the room, that I deemed it a fine time to make myself known.”
“You are very observant, I should say, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel.”
“You left off the my beloved.” He winked at her. “Shall you dance with me?”
“I shall not.”
He thumped his hand over his heart, as if mortally wounded.
“Lady M, as you say, would not take kindly to that,” Emma explained. “But I might walk with you.”
“That will do. For now. Even as I don’t suppose you will allow me to direct you away from this crush, somewhere private.”
“I would not.”
They began walking, Emma hoping that the Gray Lady did not call out that she was to remain in her presence. They stayed to the perimeter of the room, the man’s hand at her elbow when it was required that they move around other persons.
“Miss Ainsley must come complete with some wondrous name between those two very impersonal words.”
“It does.”
“And shall you tell me what that word might be?”
“That word would be my given name,” she answered evasively, unable to keep the smile from her face. “I believe yours is Tristan. I have one as well. Everyone does, usually bestowed at birth.”
“You are teasing me horrifically, Miss Ainsley.”
“Actually, I am thinking what a clever man you are, to have made so simple a question resound with such whimsy.”
“And yet this very clever man has yet to learn your name, indicating that my dreams will now be so damnably anonymous, with only a Miss Ainsley dancing through them. So now we are walking, but I beg that you not let us be waylaid by others, who may have also noted Lady M’s absence and would be tempted to make use of this time.”
“I shall not. Tell me, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel, is this how you find yourself in the company of many young women? Pouncing on them when no chaperone is near?”
“I should think, Miss Ainsley, that my methods might be applauded, for their creativity and for the vast amount of patience I have displayed.”
“Poor Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel —”
“Your beloved.”
“—whose schemes are so vastly under-appreciated.”
“Miss Ainsley of the secret given name, what brings you to London? And how long might the city be charmed by your presence?”
“I’ve come on a mission, actually.”
“Of the mysterious sort?”
“Naturally. Is there any other kind worth the mention?”
“There is not.”
Oh, but she liked Tristan Noel very much. What good company!
“And this would normally be the moment when you revealed your secret mission,” he prompted.
“Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel, it wouldn’t be very secret if I bandied it about now, would it?”
“It would not. Unless, of course, you knew for sure that the ears into which you might speak it, would not, in turn, speak further of it.”
“I know of no ears that can speak, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel.”
“Oh, Miss Ainsley,” he uttered, his grin at the moment devilishly handsome. “I am so glad you’ve come to London on a secret mission, but we are wasting time just now, and we must desist with this tomfoolery that I may—”
Emma clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a burst of a giggle.
“What have I said?”
“Tomfoolery. What a fabulous word. I wish people used it more. Thank you for doing so, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel.”
“Anything to please you, Miss Ainsley.” He stopped walking and took her hand to hold her near. When next he spoke, and while Emma still smiled at him, he moved his gaze back and forth from her face to something over her shoulder. His own smile faded, his tone became serious, and his speech came quickly. “I fear our time is about to be abruptly and sorrowfully cut short. I will call on you on the morrow. Tell me where and say that you’ll receive me.”
“I will be gone on the morrow.”
“You must not be.”
“But I will.”
“I will find you—”
“Beckwith.”
Emma froze, the sound of the earl’s voice behind her causing quite a panic, and no small amount of guilt.
She and Tristan Noel turned at the same time. He released her hand as they did. The earl stood there, glaring at them, having watched their hands separate. Well, more specifically, he glared at Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel, who must actually be my lord Beckwith.
“Lindsey,” Beckwith returned, employing the same frosty tone.
“Hello again, my lord,” said Emma.
The earl spent a few more seconds leering with malevolence at Lord Beckwith before saying, “Come, Miss Ainsley, Lady Marston requests your presence.” He lifted his hand.
Emma stared at his hand, actually debating refusing him. But no, she could not. She’d come to London to help him, not cause him...whatever it was that had hardened his expression and lit that fire in his eye.
Placing her hand in his, she turned to Lord Beckwith and smiled at him once more. “It has been a pleasure, my lord.”
Beckwith’s gaze held hers. He nodded but she could see that he wanted very much to say more. She made note of the pulsing cords in his neck, above his creamy silk cravat. With a fierce scowl that he bothered not to hide, he glanced again at the earl, and then bowed to Emma, his gaze softening.
“The pleasure was entirely mine, Miss Ainsley.”
And then the earl pulled her away from the man, and the ballroom, leading her downstairs, where Emma assumed Lady M waited.
His hand upon her arm was firm—not painful, but rather noticeably weighty—as he steered her down the steps and then, surprisingly, into a darkened room upon the first floor, nowhere near the buffet and his godmother. Once inside the room, lighted only by the bare moonlight spilling in through a wall of windows, the earl closed the door and spun her around.
Through gritted teeth, he declared, “You may not—must not!—find yourself alone, and holding hands, and giggling for Christ’s sake, with any man. And never—not ever!—with Beckwith. And you absolutely may not allow him or any other to avail himself so easily of your charms.”
“I did not—”
“You did,” he clipped. “You smiled at him, and goddammit, he ate it up, took it as the invitation it was meant to be.”
Emma stared, aghast. And very angry. He was being unreasonably ridiculous. “You have accosted me and stolen me from the public room, and whisked me away into a darkened and vacant room, and have used this wretched tone with me, and now think to instruct me on what I may or may not do...because I smiled at a person?”
And here was that famous scowl again, the breathing through his nose, tick in his cheek, stormy-eyed look of which she been the recipient on too many occasions to count. My God, did he dislike her that much? As noted previously when he’d favored her with so many similar looks, his eyes moved from her angry gaze to her lips and back again.
And then his hand, still holding hers, yanked her toward him, and with such might that she all but crashed into his chest. Only her free hand, lifted and pressed between them, saved her from actually colliding with him. She opened her mouth to protest this savage treatment, but found her words swallowed by his kiss.
He crushed his mouth to hers, over hers, releasing her hand now to wrap her up in his arms, his hold strong, his kiss punishing. Emma whimpered under his lips, which instant
ly diminished the severity of his embrace, though he did not abandon the kiss. His hands splayed across her back, one reached up to the bare skin above the back of her gown, his fingers leaving prickling flames in their wake. His mouth glided over hers, his tongue was thrust between her lips. She moaned again, but not in fear. Her fingers clung to the thin lapels of his jacket, her face was lifted to him, her tongue met his and a heat began to build in the pit of her belly. Awkwardly, knowing only what his previous kiss had taught her, Emma pushed her hands up his jacket, over his broad shoulders, and into the hair at his nape. She slanted her head, giving him better access, returning his kiss with equal fervor, while pressing herself against the hard length of him. He kissed and licked and teased and savored, and she could do no more than follow his lead, happy to go wherever he might take her.
One of his hands left her back, slid around the front, between their bodies, and cupped the full weight of her breast at the exact moment that Emma was aware of his growing erection, pressing just below her belly.
Awareness gripped her. She lowered her hands and used all her wobbly strength to push him away. Gasping, she touched her fingers to her swollen lips and stared at him. He was breathing heavily, and that scowl was still in place, or was returned.
And finally, Emma thought she understood. The scowls and darkened looks were not particularly portraying anger at her. She had to truly consider that all those times she’d caught him staring so feverishly, so frighteningly at her, he was only besieged by this need. To kiss her. Were they not scowls at all, but only the earl fighting himself, trying not to kiss her? Dear Lord, that suggested so many occasions of an internal battle, waged with himself, to...not kiss her? Could this be true?
But why would he not want to kiss her? She knew her own practical and cautious reasons for hoping he did not kiss her, even as so many parts of her wished that he would. But what might his reasons be for not allowing himself to kiss her?
If I Loved You (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 2) Page 16
