He dragged his riveted attention from her very ample, very pleasing bosom. “With all due respect, Emma, I do not believe you would be well suited for the role of a footman.”
Her cheeks flushed and her mouth fell open in a most becoming gasp. “Are you saying I'd do better to play the part of a whore?”
He lifted the red gown from the bed, the silk smooth and cool against his fingertips. He could imagine it too well on her, hugging her bosom, pushing them up and forward, matching the erotic red of those lips. “I'm saying your body is not conducive to the role of a male servant. You may take that as you will.”
Emma stalked over to the bed and insolently lifted the footman's tail-coat, her mind clearly made up. Despite her own stubbornness, she would soon see the error of her decision.
Chapter 4
Emma had made a mistake. As soon as she had the footman's slender tail-coat in her hand, the nagging comprehension tugged at her. The jacket was narrow across the back. Far too narrow to fit her.
Hot embarrassment flared through her. She was not as plump as she'd once been, but her ridiculous bosom had never really slimmed as the rest of her body had. In the time that had passed since her first season, she found herself still plagued with self-doubt. She would always be nothing more than a gentleman's daughter with enough money for one not to care about her appearance.
She shoved her right arm through the first jacket sleeve and found it snug.
Drat.
Alistair held the jacket to assist her into it, acting the part of valet.
Once both arms were in, she tugged the flaps together and attempted to button it closed. Her breasts remained stubbornly in the way. The bag of coins smashed unpleasantly into her chest where it sat within her stays. She reached in and liberated the bag, hoping Alistair wouldn't see. Hoping he wouldn't comment, at least. She shoved the awkward sack in her pocket once more.
Emma chanced a peek at Alistair. He merely lifted his brows and drew his lips to the side, as if he might have a mind to say something, but thought better of it. Smart man.
Through determination, sheer resolve, and more than a bit of discomfort to her fingertips against the unwilling buttons, she got the tail-coat on.
Alistair's gaze lowered and his brow pursed into a rather perplexing expression.
Emma approached the long mirror set against the room's wardrobe and only just managed to swallow down her squeak of horror at having been seen thus. Her breasts sat high and round over the top of the jacket, teetering above the forced buttons. She held her breath for fear relaxing the slightest might result in one of the buttons springing loose and killing someone. Wouldn't that be a disaster?
Instead, she forced her fingers to dig against the hard buttons once more to remove the tail-coat with as much dignity as she could muster. Dignity. The word was nearly laughable when she considered what outfit she would be forced to don in order to flee the manor.
“If I might be so bold,” Alistair said. “I find you to be far too pretty to be a sufficient footman.”
Emma gritted her teeth. Of course he would be complimentary, with his knowledge of who her father had been and her impending inheritance of such considerable wealth.
Ignoring his ill-begotten compliment was far more polite than giving in to the bite of temptation to tell him what she thought of his superfluous words. She peeled the tail-coat from her arms and immediately gave a great sigh of relief at her liberation, at least until she glimpsed the red gown.
“I can help you into it,” Alistair offered.
Emma gaped. “You can't be serious.”
“We don't have a lady's maid available.” An amused glint sparkled in his deep blue eyes. “And if we did, I’m sure you wouldn’t want them aware of your presence.”
It was true, of course. Servants gossiped even in homes where they were respectful of their employers. The servants of a rented manor house would certainly have much to discuss and without the censure of loyalty. Especially with a lot of rowdy earls.
“I could run to the stables again.” While she had attempted great confidence, it was a feeble suggestion. She'd made it before, yes, but barely. And she would have to make her way through the house to get to the front where the carriage would be. There would be no way for her to be in the stables with the boy readying it, for he would certainly tell anyone who would listen of a woman he met wearing a bloody frock.
Drat.
Alistair gave a mirthless chuckle. “You could try.”
Her growl of frustration was terribly unladylike and would no doubt have earned her a gentle tsk from her father.
The sorrow in her heart swelled and dragged heavier than it already had been. Goodness, how she missed him. Were he here, he would find a way to keep her safe. He would see his brother brought to justice for killing poor, dear Jenny, and he would ensure Emma was safe. Her world would shift back into the place of rightness it never should have been knocked from. But her father was not here.
Five years later, his loss continued to ache.
A knot of emotion tightened in the back of her throat, but she cleared it away. She would not be weak. She would get through this. It was only clothing, after all, and clothing was of minute consequence when compared to the saving of one's life.
Resolved, she lifted the outrageous gown into her arms and put her back to Alistair. She indicated a screen of painted birds on white silk framed by dark polished wood. “If you'd be so kind as to place the ewer behind the screen and undo the buttons of my gown.”
He inclined his head graciously and did as she asked.
She focused on the cheerfully colorful finches with their pinks and blues and yellows painted in a careful hand while Alistair set to work on unfastening her gown.
His fingers moved deftly over the neat row of buttons. As the gown sagged open, Emma hugged the cool red silk to her chest to preserve what modesty might remain after this ordeal. The muslin gown nearly fell from her shoulders, spurring Emma to dash behind the screen. She peeled off the soiled gown and noted the blood had seeped to her shift and petticoat as well.
Drat.
They would be covered by the gown, of course, and was preferable to being completely bare beneath the garment. Wearing it would already make her feel naked enough.
She carefully removed the purse from the pocket of her gown and set it aside. Losing the wealth she owned would only create more problems, and she already had more than her fair share.
She wet the linen and scrubbed clean her legs where the gore had soaked through clothing and clung to her skin. Her fingers were caked with gore around her fingernails and along the creases of her palm. She cleaned those as well, all the while nearly choking on the knot of grief for Jenny’s loss. Her movements were those in a dream, one she wished she could wake from. Where Jenny’s cheerful humming would pull Emma from this nightmare.
Emma forced her frantic pulse to calm. It would not do well to lose her wits. No, it was too necessary to instead focus her concentration on the task at hand, to think of nothing more than her clothing.
The new gown did not have pockets, which was not uncommon of course. Most typically did not. It was through Emma's insistence with her modiste that she had so many in her own clothing. She would have to hold the bag containing the coins as a reticule. An ugly reticule.
She stepped awkwardly into the red gown and wriggled it upward, one twisting inch at a time. Dressing was a difficult task when one was left to their own devices. But those thoughts made her mind drift to Jenny and brought on the suffocating squeeze in Emma’s chest once more.
Focus.
Once the frock was up, a thick band of fine white linen showed at the top where her chemise jutted out with obvious modesty. She choked down a cry of frustration.
After all, to remove the blasted thing, she would have to remove her stays, a feat not possible on her own.
She pushed the fabric into her stays at the corner of one breast. It remained in place, held there by the wei
ght of her bosom. For once, her décolleté would work to her own advantage. She set to work, pinching and pushing until the entire length of the chemise was neatly tucked within her stays. A second look at the red gown confirmed her chemise was no longer visible.
Emma emerged from the screen, her back facing Alistair. “Would you, please?”
The subtle thump of Alistair's boots on the carpeted floor made their way to her. “Of course,” he answered, and his fingers set to work on the ridiculous gown. It was full dress, what a lady - a scandalous one - might wear to a dinner party or a ball. Certainly nothing a lady would wear about in the middle of the day.
The buttons went slower on this gown and fit snug at her waist.
Exceptionally snug.
Emma drew in a deep breath and was forced to hold it as the buttons were secured. Only the higher they went, the tighter the gown became. Heavens! She might swoon from lack of air.
The gentle pressure of Alistair's fingers dancing up her back withdrew. “Done.”
“I can't breathe,” Emma wheezed.
“Breathing can happen once we're on our way and safe.”
For the time being, she refused to allow herself to consider that breathing later might mean undoing the gown in his presence once more. Instead, she made her way to the mirror and might have gasped, had she possessed the physical capacity to do so.
It wasn't merely how the red silk lay suggestively against the outline of her legs, even through the petticoat and shift. No - it was the way her breasts had been forced upward by the stiffly sewn fabric, setting them on display high enough for her to practically rest her chin atop them if she were so inclined.
Emma put her hands over her bosom to shield their near-naked state. The heavy bag dangling from her elbow spun wildly. “I can't be seen in this.”
A corner of Alistair's mouth drifted upward in a lazy smile. “You won't be. No one will be looking at your face.”
If he were not saving her, she might have slapped him for that. But he was, and she needed his aid. Desperately.
She grimaced at her reflection and resigned herself to her dismal fate. If she was going to escape, she would have to leave wearing the vulgar attire of a whore.
***
Alistair was not a man easily swayed by a woman's wiles. He had always been able to remain fixated on the task at hand without distraction. Apparently, however, he had never met the likes of Miss Emma Thorne in a whore's gown of temptation. Her skin was creamy white against the shimmering crimson fabric, her breasts deliciously round and firm where they rose proudly above the bodice.
Dear God, those breasts. He could scarcely pull his eyes from the bountiful offering surging before him.
He reached for the mask where it lay on the settee lest his focus glide back of their own volition. After what the lass had been through, the last thing she needed was him ogling her.
He handed her the black bit of fabric. “Put this on. It will sufficiently ensure you are unrecognized if we are discovered.”
She viewed the mask with obvious skepticism.
“Ladies use them often when they do not wish to be recognized in their pursuit of,” he paused intentionally, “pleasures.”
Emma accepted the mask with hesitation and tied it about her face. Her blue eyes shone from the slits and brought one's attention down to her incredible mouth.
He handed her the small pot of red wax. “And add a bit of this to your lips.”
She lifted the cap and wrinkled her nose. “It has an odd smell.”
“Mmmm,” Alistair murmured in agreement and left her to it as he strolled around the room, idly flipping open his wardrobe and peering into drawers. Only one drawer of his effects remained to be packed. It would be an easy task to take on. Surely MacKenzie would not have a care how Alistair's cravats were laid out within the final trunk.
Emma gave a hiss of exasperation. “Apparently there is some skill required in putting this nonsense on.” She spun around to face him, her full lips smeared with red, magnificent with savage sensuality.
Alistair gritted his teeth against the immediate slam of 1ust. It had been a considerable amount of time since a woman had incited this kind of reaction in him. But then, he’d spent the last year around the ton where the women were manicured to the point of being prettily vapid and whose willowy bodies were shrouded in shapeless, glittering gowns.
Emma did not possess the slender figure so popular in London. No, she was built with the kind of curves a man could curl his fingers around, a body built for loving, not for engaging in the quadrille. The quadrille be damned. He never had been one for those fool dances.
“I rather thought you'd laugh,” she said abruptly.
“Laugh?” His throat had gone dry and required a gentle clearing. If only his mind could be as easily wiped of its thoughts.
She chuckled. “Do you not see? I’ve made a mess of it. I couldn't get the stuff on properly and it's all smeared about.” She surveyed her reflection in the mirror once more, oblivious to his reaction. “The more I attempt to fix it, the worse it gets.”
He approached her and she lifted her smoky blue eyes to his. Her brows furrowed beneath the black mask in frustrated concentration. “It’s a disaster.”
He eyed her lips, having been given leave to do so. Aye, she did have smears of crimson around the outline of her plush lips, but dear God, that mouth. Full and pouty with a slight cleft in the center of her lower lip. He wanted to taste her, to tease his tongue over that cleft and experience the sweet whisper of her exhale against his hot skin.
“It appears as though you've been thoroughly kissed.” With the smear of the carmine against her skin, she did. And he wished it was he who had been doing the kissing.
“Your mouth doesn't match mine though,” she said in a plaintive tone. “Would I have been kissing someone else?”
“Perhaps you should kiss me.” The suggestion tumbled out without thought, but he didn't regret it one damn bit.
Emma’s cheeks colored a pretty shade of pink below the edge of the black mask. Her gaze darted to his mouth and hovered there before dashing away.
She was tempted.
He almost groaned at the revelation.
“A kiss upon the neck then,” he offered. Why was he torturing himself thus? “To give purpose to the smears of the carmine.”
Emma pursed her lips in consideration, her expression shrewd. “Very well. It is, after all, only your neck.”
“Get a bit on the edge of my cravat as well. To ensure it appears authentic.”
She gave a tense nod and he bent forward obligingly. His pulse charged through his veins with the force of a stallion, hot and eager for the brush of her mouth on his neck.
Her breath drew in and came out in a soft tremble, caressing over his skin like a lover's touch. He swallowed and forced his thoughts to those of his plan for the upcoming whisky smuggling to avoid—
The warmth of her mouth pressed to the side of his neck, just below his ear, deliberate and careful. Ripples of thrilling pleasure danced over his skin and made his groin tighten.
“Oh,” Emma said quietly in his ear. “I missed your cravat.” Her hair tickled against the side of his jaw and the pressure of her lips eased lower on his throat.
She remained there a second and drew her mouth over his skin. His body blazed in response. He didn't know what the hell she was doing, but he enjoyed it considerably. And yet he should not have enjoyed it so.
She was a lady, a virgin, a woman who required saving, not ravishing.
Her breath echoed in his ear and his skin was alight with the heat of her mouth. Good God, this was absolutely the most exquisite pain.
He straightened. “I'm sure that is adequate.”
“Of course.” Emma drew away, but he did not miss the way her eyes sparkled with the primal, age-old glint of desire. Her small, pink tongue ran over her bottom lip. Alistair clenched his fist at the inadvertent sexuality.
“You are an incredibl
e beauty, Emma.”
Her face went immediately blank and she shifted her attention away with such a firm snap of her head, her loose brown locks swept over her glorious bosom. Like a curtain closing every part of her off from him.
A heavy silence filled the room, thick and unsettling.
Alistair fixed his focus on the mirror and the smear of red carmine on his skin and the edge of his cravat. “Perfect. This shall do nicely.”
A whistle sounded in the hall and someone rapped in a succession of knocks. The pattern was familiar, one MacKenzie had used when they smuggled whisky together in prior years. Alistair went to the door, unlocked it, and let his valet in along with Beast and all the dog's excitable energy.
“I found the stable lad.” MacKenzie walked past the two of them without much of a glance and opened the remaining drawer. “Yer carriage is ready.”
Chapter 5
Emma had been given instructions before they left the room. Her entire body seemed to vibrate with the force of her nerves, and she hoped she could remember everything sufficiently.
She was to keep her head lifted, her shoulders squared and her chest pushed forward, putting off the appearance of being confident. Only she did not feel confident. Were they to come upon anyone, as they most probably would, she was to drape herself against Alistair and giggle as if he’d said something intimate.
She held tight to his arm as if he were the only thing keeping her grounded in the insanity of this new world she'd been thrust into. And surely he was.
Beast had remained with Alistair's valet since he would be staying in the carriage at length soon. They all would be.
Emma wouldn't think of the stuffy enclosed space, or the endless hours of nothing she faced. Not yet. No, she would repeat the rules in her head lest she lose her wits. Her senses were on high alert, seeing and hearing everything at once in an attempt to locate the familiar face of either her uncle or cousin. If she were to see either of them specifically, she was to curl into Alistair and kiss his neck once more to ensure her face remained hidden.
The Earl of Benton_Wicked Regency Romance Page 4