When You Wish

by Alexandra Ivy

  Besides, a renegade voice had whispered in the back of her mind, she would at last be far from the Devilish Dandy.

  Surely it would be better to face a dragon of a dowager than the scandal her father always managed to create?

  In Kent she would be free of the ugly whispers that followed in her wake. There would be no finger-pointing and icy glares because her father happened to be the most notorious jewel thief in all of England. There would be no more nightmares such as those she had suffered when her father had been lodged in Newgate, awaiting the hangman’s noose. Or the painful combination of guilt and relief when he had escaped mere moments before his execution.

  But as she had rattled for hours over the bone-jarring roads and her slender form had chilled to that of an icicle in the frigid January air, she had become increasingly concerned that she had been far too hasty.

  What did she know of Lady Hartshore?

  It was her Man of Business who had conducted the interview and ultimately chosen her from among the candidates. For all she knew, Lady Hartshore might be a ghastly tartar who would treat her with the same callous cruelty as the Falwells. Or she might even be so feeble that she would demand constant nursing. Hardly an enviable future for the next several years.

  And she would not even have the comfort of her sisters’ visits to ease her loneliness.

  Her tumbled thoughts were eventually halted as she realized the jolts and sways had begun to increase at an alarming rate. Even worse, the coachman had begun to belt out bawdy lyrics that brought a blush to her cheeks.

  Clinging to her seat, she had just been on the verge of demanding the coach be brought to a halt, when she had been so unceremoniously tipped into the ditch.

  With a shiver Emma realized she could not simply remain in the carriage to freeze to death.

  Blast it all, she should have remained in London, she thought as she awkwardly crawled out of the coach. At least no one there was attempting to break her neck.

  A sharp breeze greeted her as she leaped onto the muddy lane. It whipped her hood from her head and tumbled her honey-gold curls around her pale countenance. With an impatient hand she brushed the strands from her emerald eyes and moved to where the coachman was propped against the wheel, seemingly indifferent to the fact he had nearly killed them both.

  She glanced down, easily smelling the cloud of alcohol that hung around his reclined form.

  Drunk.

  She might have suspected, she seethed with a building fury. No coachman could be so gloriously inept without being thoroughly bosky. And now she was stuck in the midst of the muddy, damp, godforsaken countryside with a sodden servant.

  “Wake up,” she commanded in surprisingly shaky tones.

  “Tomorrow,” he slurred as his eyes slid shut. “Be right as a fiddle on the morrow.”

  “Oh, do wake up, you fool.” Emma shivered as another gust tugged on her cape. “We shall freeze to death if we remain here.”

  The only response was a soft snore as the coachman sank into a drunken stupor.

  Emma stomped her foot in frustration.

  Now what?

  The narrow lane was hardly a bustle of passing coaches. It might be hours before someone came along. And while the horses remained unharmed and patiently standing before the overturned carriage, Emma swiftly dismissed the notion of using one to ride to safety. At best she was a wretched rider, and with no saddle or habit she was more likely to end up back in the ditch than at Mayford.

  Clearly her only option was to walk in search of help.

  Emma heaved a sigh as she returned to the carriage to remove the blanket and retrieve her muff. The last thing she desired was to trudge through the mud for goodness knew how long, but there seemed few options. At least if she were moving around, she would be warmer than waiting beside the road.

  Pausing long enough to drape the blanket over the slumbering servant, Emma determinedly scanned the sky for signs of smoke. There had to be a cottage nearby, she silently reasoned, and a cottage would surely have a fire burning on such a chill day.

  At last determining that there was a large plume of darkened gray against the brooding clouds, Emma squared her shoulders and headed for the nearby woods.

  With brisk steps she plunged through the muddy ditch and up the small hill that was covered with brush. The going was not terribly difficult, although she knew that her gown and half-boots would be ruined beyond repair.

  But as she reached the thick trees, her pace became less brisk and she began glancing over her shoulder with increasing regularity.

  It was not that she was a coward, she assured herself, clutching the cape close to her shivering form. But having spent her entire life in cities such as Brussels, Paris, and London, it was decidedly unnerving to be surrounded by such profound silence. She would have far preferred to have been dropped into the meanest neighborhood of London than this isolated middle of nowhere.

  There might be anything hiding among the thickening trees, she thought as she peered into the shadows. Smugglers, highwaymen . . . cows.

  Holding her muff as if it might offer protection from an evil scoundrel or raging cow, she kept her gaze firmly trained on the encroaching shadows. It was only reasonable to be prepared for disaster, she thought, attempting to excuse her unusual bout of nerves. If her father had taught her nothing else, it was that a young maiden should always be on her guard. And that nothing was ever as it seemed to be.

  Intent on scrutinizing every tree and shadow, Emma hurried forward. She was so intent that she failed to note the growing soggy ground. Perhaps not so surprising for a maiden more accustomed to cobbled roads than the treacherous bogs that could dot the countryside. It was not until she had stepped forward and plunged her leg knee-deep into the gummy mud that she realized the extent of her foolishness.

  “Oh ... bloody hell,” she cried, exasperated beyond measure.

  Hiking up her skirts, she glared down at her missing leg, damning drunken coachmen, lurking cows, and muddy quagmires to the devil.

  How was she to get out of this mess? Not only was her leg firmly stuck, but the slightest attempt to free herself sent a sharp pain through her trapped ankle.

  Gads, but she wanted nothing more than to sit down and have a good cry.

  Chewing her bottom lip and blinking back her threatening tears, Emma attempted to thrust aside her self-pity. She could cry later. For now she had to keep a clear head. She could not remain stuck in the mud for the entire night.

  “My, my. What have we here?” A dark, distinctly male voice abruptly shattered the silence. “Surely it is too late for you to be a Christmas present? And those legs could never belong to a poacher. Perhaps a wood nymph, if a rather muddy one?”

  The sardonic musings had Emma’s head spinning around to discover a dark-haired gentleman attired in a many-caped greatcoat and tall beaver hat standing atop a small knoll above her. With his legs spread to a wide stance and his arms folded across his chest, he appeared inordinately large to the trapped young maiden.

  Hurriedly lowering her skirts, Emma pressed a hand to her heart.

  “You startled me,” she breathed.

  “I can readily return the accusation,” he drawled, moving forward to stand at the edge of the bog. “It is not often that I stumble across a maiden stuck in the mud.”

  As he approached, Emma could begin to make out his features in the encroaching dusk. A strong countenance, she decided, with the firmly hewn features that revealed an iron will. His brows were straight and as richly dark as the satin hair. The nose was perhaps too long and his mouth a trifle too wide, but that did not detract from the fact that he was astonishingly handsome.

  Still, it was the eyes that captured her attention. Thickly lashed, they were a peculiar golden color with a rim of dark brown around them. They seemed to glow in the half-light with a peculiar intensity.

  It was only when she realized that she was staring at the stranger like the veriest half-wit that she noted the unmistakable
twitch of his lips.

  “It was an accident,” she informed him, stiffening in outrage as his laughter rang clearly through the woods.

  “Well, I did not presume that you had deliberately lodged yourself in that quagmire.”

  Cold, tired, and wishing she were anywhere but in Kent, Emma felt a flare of exasperation.

  Gads, had she not endured enough? The last thing she needed was this gentleman openly laughing at her predicament.

  “I am delighted you find this so vastly amusing.”

  “Vastly?” He pretended to consider the word. “Perhaps not vastly. But certainly moderately. Yes, yes. I find it moderately amusing.”

  Her lips tightened in an ominous manner. “Are you going to help me, or just stand there, grinning?”

  Supremely unaffected by her sharp tone, he slowly crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I have yet to decide.”

  “What?”

  He peered ruefully down at his gleaming Hessians. “I did travel all the way to London to be fitted for these boots. It would be a remarkable pity to have them ruined.”

  Why, the puffed-up coxcomb, she fumed. To actually put the gloss of his boots over the safety of a young lady . . . well, she would be better off without him.

  “Very well. I shall do it myself,” she gritted out.

  “Hold a moment,” he said with a chuckle. “I was merely jesting. Are you always so grim?”

  Emma glared at the strong countenance. Although he had been handsome upon first glance, his devilish smile seemed to illuminate the male features. It was a smile that enticed one to allow inhibitions to be tossed aside and join him in laughing at the world. She felt the most peculiar heat singe through her blood before she was silently chastising her foolishness.

  “I will have you know that in the past two days I have been rushed from my home, battered for hours over what could only laughingly be claimed as roads, nearly killed by a drunken coachman, and now stuck in the blasted mud,” she informed him stiffly. “You would be a bit grim yourself.”

  “Perhaps I would at that,” he conceded as his smile widened. “Now, let us see about rescuing you, my muddy damsel in distress.” Courageously tossing aside concern for his boots, he stepped into the mud. “Hold on to my shoulders.”

  Emma did as he commanded, although not without some trepidation. She was not in the habit of standing so close to strange gentlemen, and it was decidedly unnerving to feel the ripple of hardened muscles beneath her hands. This was no effeminate dandy, she realized, but a man accustomed to physical activity It did not help that he had removed his hat, and his silken hair tickled her cheek as he bent down to grasp her leg just below the knee.

  It was far too intimate for her peace of mind, and it was almost a relief when a sharp pang distracted her awareness as he gave a firm tug of her leg.

  “Oh.”

  He immediately glanced up, the golden eyes darkened with concern.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “It is my ankle.”

  “You must have twisted it.”

  The heat and clean scent of his body swirled about her.

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me, but I must get you free,” he said softly. He waited for her hesitant nod before he once again lowered his head and gave her leg a firm tug. She bit her lip as the pain stabbed through her body, and she determined to be brave. Then, without warning, there was a sucking noise and her leg was free. Unfortunately it all happened so swiftly that Emma was caught off guard. With a cry she fell backward, but with graceful speed the gentleman grasped her tumbling form and with a twist he ensured that he hit the cold ground while she landed safely atop him. Momentarily stunned, Emma could do no more than stare at the dark countenance so close to her own. The gentleman, however, was much quicker to recover, and that glorious smile curved his full lips. “Now, this is a delightful predicament.”

  A thoroughly ridiculous heat flooded her cheeks as his arms pressed her close to that hard frame.

  “Please, let me go.”

  “Come now,” he teased. “I’ve ruined not only my boots, but my coat as well. Surely I am deserving of some reward?”

  Emma once again felt those renegade tingles flood her body. Tingles that she refused to acknowledge as anything more than anger at his audacity.

  “I have very little money,” she coldly informed him.

  His ready chuckle rumbled through the silence. “Then I suppose I shall have to make do with this.”

  With slow, exquisite purpose, his hand slid up the curve of her back, at last tangling in her thick curls. Emma’s lips parted in outrage at his daring. She had every intention of giving him a sharp set-down, when he abruptly pressed her head down to capture her lips in a searching kiss.

  Although Emma’s life with the Devilish Dandy had been far from respectable, it had not included trysts with young gentlemen. In fact, Emma had never possessed so much as a gentleman caller in her entire life. But for all that, she had convinced herself that she knew all there was about physical desire. It would be pleasant enough, she supposed, to be held in a man’s arms. But the kissing had always seemed rather messy, and as for all that groping... well, it had made her shudder to even consider the notion.

  Now, as their lips met, she was wholly unprepared for the searing heat that exploded in the pit of her stomach.

  No, oh, no, she thought with a flare of panic. The man was shameless to take advantage of her in such a fashion. She should be terrified, not shivering in pleasure.

  But there was no denying the waves of tingling excitement racing through her body, shocking her with its fierce intensity. This was not messy. It was sharp and poignant and utterly delightful.

  The lips eased their demanding pressure, but only to move and blaze a trail of fire over her cheek and down the line of her jaw. Emma’s heart halted, then burst back to life with a thundering speed.

  She wanted to lift her head so that he could nuzzle the line of her neck. To press her body even closer and thrust her hand into the midnight satin of his hair . . .

  A moan of panic was wrenched from her throat as she realized the direction of her thoughts.

  What was happening to her?

  She was no common tart to enjoy being kissed and fondled by every passing rake.

  Good gads, she did not even know his name.

  As if sensing her sudden horror at her behavior, the gentleman reluctantly allowed her to pull back, although he kept her firmly anchored around the waist.

  With a sense of shock she glared down at the smoldering golden eyes.

  “Why . . . why did you do that?”

  Not surprisingly, he gave a husky laugh. “What an absurd question, my dear. Why does any gentleman kiss a beautiful young maiden?”

  With a commanding effort Emma attempted to gather her shredded composure. A deucedly difficult task when perched atop a very firm, very male body.

  “How do you know that I am a maiden?” she charged in shaky tones. “I might very well have a husband who will be eager to kill you in a duel.”

  “So bloodthirsty,” he teased, thoroughly indifferent to the threat of being summarily hauled onto the field of honor. “I know that you are a maiden by the innocence that shines like a beacon of invitation in those amazing eyes.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Then you are a scoundrel for having taken advantage of a defenseless lady on her own.”

  “Perhaps a bit of a scoundrel,” he readily admitted.

  Emma determinedly arched from his disturbingly wide chest. She simply could not think while pressed so intimately to his hard frame.

  “Let me go.”

  “You would not like to linger a bit longer?” he mused. “The cold and mud are a small price to pay for the pleasure of such delectable lips.”

  “You must be as bosky as my coachman.”

  A rather mysterious smile curved his lips. “No, just appreciative of magic when it occurs.”

  Her eyes briefly clos
ed as she struggled to scrub away the memory of his kiss. It had been a brief moment of insanity, she assured herself. A moment that would never occur again.

  “I shall scream if you do not release me at this moment.”

  His gaze slowly lowered to her lips. “I fear that there would be no one to hear. Still, you have made your point. Such a pleasant activity should be saved for more comfortable surroundings.”

  With a show of reluctance the stranger loosened his hold and Emma was free to scramble awkwardly to her feet. In her haste, however, she had forgotten her tender ankle, and stepping upon it, she gave a sharp gasp.

  “Oh.”

  In a smooth movement the gentleman had also risen, and before she knew what was occurring, he had bent down to sweep her off her feet.

  “Here.”

  Emma’s eyes widened in disbelief. Never in her life had a gentleman handled her in such a fashion. Which was no doubt why her heart was racing and her breath coming in short gasps.

  “What are you doing?”

  Moving forward with astonishing ease, he gazed blandly down at her outraged expression.

  “You are injured and cold. Like any proper knight in shining armor, I am going to rescue you.”

  “I can walk,” she bravely lied, willing to crawl if it would remove her from the heat and sheer male strength of his body.

  “Do not be a goose.”

  Short of a humiliating struggle that she was bound to lose, there was nothing Emma could do to alter her situation.

  “Where are you taking me?” she instead demanded.

  The golden eyes once again smoldered with amusement.

  “To my home, of course. There we shall be warm and comfortable enough to continue our delicious activities at length.”

  * * *

  With a sense of anticipation Cedric Morelane, Earl of Hartshore, watched the emerald eyes glitter with a wary suspicion.

  It was rather bad of him to tease her, he acknowledged. Any young female would be frightened to be at the mercy of a strange man. But he had discovered a delicious enjoyment in watching her battle between fear and awareness of the attraction that had sparked to life between them.