She was retreating into herself, her face a mask of composure. Perhaps she knew her tears would not sway him, or perhaps they, too, were lies. Miss Dumont was an actress, after all.
Even now, James stared at her and tried to figure out her true face, her true self. Was she shy Miss Dumont, or the seductive Frenchwoman who stood naked before him, whose vocabulary was filthy and he’d liked it that way? Or was she Marie Christine, his sister’s brilliant co-writer?
Or maybe she was someone else, someone he’d yet to discover. A thief who had come into his home, stolen his heart, smashed it to pieces, and reveled in her victory over him — twice.
James considered loathing her for it. But he loathed himself most of all, for falling into her trap. For wanting to tear off her dress even now, bend her over that writing desk in the corner, and fuck her until he didn’t think, didn’t feel, didn’t care.
“Of course not,” Miss Dumont snapped. “I wanted—” She pressed her lips together in a thin line, then shoved more clothes into her suitcase. She closed it with a hard thump. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.”
James didn’t know what possessed him to approach her, to grasp her wrist and pull her closer. He heard her soft intake of breath and wasn’t certain if it was surprise, frustration, or . . .
Oh, yes. Need.
His fingertips pressed to her pulse and its wild cadence was a small victory. Arousal. She might say nothing but lies, but her body could only tell the truth, and its truth was desire.
“It matters,” he repeated. “Tell me what you wanted.”
“You,” she whispered. “Not your brother. Not your title. You.”
God. How could he believe her after everything? Why did that one word steal his breath?
“Why?” She shut her eyes when James slid his fingertips up her arm. “Did you lust after me, Miss Dumont? Was that all?”
“At first,” she admitted, to his surprise. “It wasn't supposed to last beyond one night, James. Believe whatever you will about me — liar, fraud, villain. I am all of those things. But I am telling you the truth when I say I did not intend for it to go on that long. By then, it was no longer lust that motivated me to see you each time.”
James had to know. He tipped her face up. “What was it?”
“Oh, James. Did you not think on the happy dreams that I didn’t deserve? Why I chose Selene to your Endymion, a lover who was mine and yet still lost to me? Haven’t you realized?” She opened her eyes to meet his. “You were my someone.”
James almost staggered back in sudden understanding. All those times at the Masquerade that she had mentioned her someone, a man she wanted and yet couldn’t have.
Him.
It was him.
Oh, she was a liar, yes. She was deceptive. She deserved his anger for her secrets. But this had been the small bit of truth wrapped in the lies she had built. Truth she tried to explain through Fantomina, knowing that once her identity was revealed, the stations they were born into would create a wall between them. An imbalance of power.
Anonymity had made them equals, and now it was gone.
“Emma—”
She flinched when he said her name, reaching for her suitcase. “Now you know why I can’t stay.”
“No.” James grasped her hand. “Not this time, Emma.”
Then he was kissing her. James didn’t know how it happened, how she ended up in his arms. But once she was there, he marveled at his stupidity. At how easily he had dismissed the similarities between her and Selene, when it should have been all too clear that her body fit his precisely right. That her lips had the texture of rose petals and that, no matter what she had been drinking, she always somehow tasted of exquisite red wine.
When she sighed against his lips, it was always with a hint of resignation. As if she had considered resisting but could do no more to stand against him than a reed to the wind. She just bent. She yielded.
And when she ceased caring — ceased thinking, he suspected — oh, how exquisite it was. Her lips pressed harder to his. There was something frantic to her movements, the way she fumbled to undo his trousers.
“Now,” Emma said against his lips as she eased out his cock. “Please. Please, now. I need you inside me.”
“Yes.” It was the only word he was capable of as he reached beneath her petticoats to take off her drawers. “Yes.”
James walked her backward, lifting her onto the writing desk. Then he jerked up her skirts and thrust into her.
They moaned together, held onto each other with the desperation of two people cast into the sea with a single lifebelt. The only sound in the room was the rough rhythm of their breath as their pleasure grew.
When she slid her legs around his waist and whispered nonsense words between kisses, James knew he was gone. He was lost. What did it matter who this woman was? Whether she was mortal or goddess, dream or real?
All the lies in the world could not contrive this, the way their bodies craved contact.
When she came, she dug her fingernails into his jacket and his only regret was that they would not mark his skin. He wanted reminders of her, of this single truth: his name on her lips as she tossed her head back.
He was her someone.
It had always been him.
He returned her truth with his own. “Emma.” He said it as if it were a revelation as he spilled inside her. “Emma.”
When she pulled back to kiss him again, he brushed his fingertips down her cheek and realized it was the first time they had made love in the light.
Chapter 20
What could Emma say to him now? Thank you was no longer enough.
As he stroked her hair, she was tempted to tell him that she loved him. That she had loved him since that night he had taken off her mask in the darkness and spoke of her beauty through touch.
“Stay with me,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t leave too soon, like every other time.”
Emma went still. “What are you asking me, James? I’m a commoner, so it’s not a proposal, is it?” His hesitation told her everything she needed to know. “I thought not.”
She pushed him away and slid off the desk, then pulled up her drawers. James righted his own clothes.
“Emma.” He grasped her wrist as she reached for her suitcase. “Goddamn it, wait. You don’t have to leave.”
“Why?”
Her cheeks burned with a mix of emotions she struggled to keep under control. Anger, yes. Embarrassment, yes. And the heat of arousal that had yet to wane.
Her body was such a simple thing. He touched, she responded. It cared not for her mind, that she was falling into the same trap as all the Dumont women. It simply desired him, and damn the consequences. But she would not listen to it, not now.
“Why?” She repeated. “Shall I stay under this roof and conduct an affair that will surely attract gossip from the servants? They hate me enough as it is for my education, for not being fully one of them. So why not take it a step further and be the master’s whore?”
James flinched. “You’re not—”
“No,” Emma said. “I’m not. Whores are paid, and I’m giving you my notice.”
She jerked away from him and started for the door, but he stepped in front of her.
“I have a flat in the City,” he told her. “My sister can keep writing with you, and you can pay me rent if you wish, but don’t disappear.”
Emma set her jaw. “Your flat would no doubt be unaffordable on an author’s salary. Particularly when that author is a woman.”
“Then don’t pay me rent. I’ve no need of it.”
“You’re dancing around a question, James. You want me to be your mistress.” At his silence, she let out a brittle laugh. “And once you marry, what then? Will you break your vow not to keep one, or throw me out? Because you know as well as I that if we keep seeing each other, this won’t stop.”
James looked away. “We’ll figure it out then. I would never throw you
out.”
“No. I’m giving you my answer now, and it’s no.” She was trembling now that the anger had worn off. “I’ve seen what happens when a woman like me becomes a gentleman’s mistress and he decides one day that he no longer has need of her. If she becomes ill. My father always swore he’d be there for my mother, but he abandoned her when she needed him most. He abandoned us both.”
“I’m not like your father. You’re not a bauble to me, Emma. Not a conquest. I would never abandon you, nor any children we’d have.”
“No, I don’t think you would,” Emma said bitterly. “But everyone in this country is taught from birth who is their equal and who is inferior, are they not? I was good enough to marry before you saw my face and knew my name, as long as I was nobility. A writer, however? Your servant? A bastard daughter of a duke? I suppose I’m meant to be flattered you’re offering to make me your mistress.”
She saw the dawning realization in his features, the stricken knowledge that her words rang true. How could she blame him for it?
Women like her did not marry men like him. They were kept by them. Their mistresses could be the women they loved most and still never be worthy. They were always considered inferior.
Love did not change birth.
“Emma.” His voice was hoarse as he reached for her, but Emma pulled away.
“Don’t.” She choked out the word. “Please don’t. Did you not understand why I hid my identity from you? It wasn’t only the freedom and equality of anonymity. In Fantomina, once her identity is revealed, who suffers most? She does. Her urges are the same as his, but she is the one forced to bear the consequences for being tempted. You can walk away from this so easily, James. And that’s why I’ll never be any man’s mistress. I love you — god help me — but I will not do that.”
His head snapped up. “You love me?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “I love you. But I’m not yours.”
She walked past him out the door, her suitcase weighing heavily by her side.
James’s quick footsteps behind her only made her walk faster, tears blurring her vision. She almost smacked into the butler, Jeffries, when she rounded into the foyer.
“Miss,” Jeffries said stiffly. The old man had always loathed her. His expression changed to bland politeness when he saw James behind her. “Lord Kent, I was coming to find you. Your brother—”
“Has decided to grace you with his marvelous presence,” Mr. Grey interrupted, coming in from the hall. When he saw Emma, he smiled, flashing a roguish dimple in his cheek. “And who is this?”
“We’ve met,” Emma said shortly. “Some time ago. It’s Miss Dumont, and I was just leaving.”
“No you’re not.” James glanced at his butler. “Tell Alexandra that Miss Dumont has taken ill and she is not to be disturbed.”
Jeffries bowed and left before Emma could call him back — not that he would listen to her. He’d eyed her with distaste when he’d noticed James trailing after her, which meant word of the master’s tryst spread downstairs.
Hell, Jeffries probably heard it from the corridor. Emma had not exactly modulated her volume.
“Interesting,” Mr. Grey said thoughtfully. “You don’t look ill, Miss Dumont. Irritated and distressed, perhaps, but being forced to converse with my brother has a tendency of causing that. Speaking from experience.”
“Why are you here, Richard?” James snapped at him. “As you can see, I’m busy.”
“Well, I’m not,” Mr. Grey said with a grin. “And Miss Dumont doesn’t seem particularly keen for your company.”
Maybe Emma was growing ill. She felt a headache coming on. “Quite right. I’m still leaving.”
“No, you’re not,” James argued.
“Yes, I am.”
Mr. Grey watched their exchange with some amusement. “Ah, I see I’ve come in the middle of a lover’s quarrel.” At James’s glare, he chuckled and gestured to Emma’s suitcase. “Shall I help you with that?”
Emma said, “Yes,” at the same time James said, “No.”
“The lady wants my help, so I’m obliged to listen,” Mr. Grey said, taking her suitcase. “I’ve a carriage outside that can take you to your destination. Would you like me to tell the driver?”
Emma let out a breath and looked away. Where would she go? Her funds were limited. She had twenty pounds, which would be enough to rent a room, but she knew James would come searching for her. Her accent, looks, education, and mannerisms limited her options.
“I’ve changed my mind, sir,” Emma said. “If I may have my suitcase back, I think I’ll walk.”
At this, Mr. Grey’s charming smile disappeared. “It’s growing dark and it’s pouring out, sweetheart.”
She lifted a shoulder and forced a smile. “It’s London, and you’ve no reason to feel guilt. We’re strangers. My suitcase, if you please.”
“Emma.” She shut her eyes at James’s soft, resigned voice. “You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?”
“I’ll find somewhere,” she said through her teeth.
“Let Richard take you to a hotel. I’ll pay for a room for as long as you need.”
Didn’t he understand that she didn’t want to be obligated to him? That she wasn’t his responsibility?
“And you’ll have the key, won’t you?” Emma said softly, not caring anymore that his brother was there to hear everything. “You wouldn’t call me your mistress, but that’s how I’d end up being one. Obligated to you, unable to pay you back. And if I decided to leave and disappear, what then? You’d stop me using the precise argument you’re using now.”
“Emma—”
“Stay at mine,” Mr. Grey interrupted with a hint of exasperation. “If it will cease this endless squabble. Kent could go on for days.” Before Emma could protest, he put up a hand. “And before you say no, I’ll add that plenty of ladies have liked it well enough in the past. They’ve informed me it’s stylish.”
“Your lovers, you insufferable lout,” James snapped. “I doubt they take the time to appreciate the decor.”
“Well, at least one of them did. She performed some interior decorating back home in Germany, didn’t speak much English, but was very talented at—”
“I’ll do it.” Emma massaged her temples. “For god’s sake, I’ll stay with you if I may exit this foyer in the next ten seconds.”
Mr. Grey’s face broke into a gorgeous grin. “Excellent. You can let me know if my decor is as stylish as they say.”
Chapter 21
“I miss having you at the house, you know,” Alexandra said to Emma the following week. She lifted her teacup and sipped. “Now if I finish pages at three in the morning, who do I have to pester? No one.”
Mr. Grey’s town house was lovely, and her stay had been quiet and restful. Much of that was owed to the fact that Mr. Grey was often absent. Though Emma knew he worked, she began to suspect that Mr. Grey had taken a hotel room elsewhere.
When she did see him, he treated Emma patiently. Not once had he asked about her relations with his brother. Indeed, he’d asked nothing personal at all. It’s my own philosophy, he’d told her on the carriage ride. Women are welcome to tell me anything they’d like about their own lives, and I’ll listen. Until then, I consider it none of my bloody business.
At some point, she could no longer intrude upon his kindness. She had already looked into booking passage back to France, but had decided to settle on beginning life anew in America.
While opportunities were still limited for women in America, they had more employment and social mobility. Emma considered offering elocution and etiquette services to American debutantes seeking titled English husbands. Still, such a thing might take time, even with Alexandra as a reference.
She was going to need more money.
Emma sighed and tried to concentrate on the topic at hand. “You could always ask Lord Kent if he’s willing to read your work.”
She hoped Alexandra didn’t notice the way she’d hesitated
on his name, reminding herself that he was no longer James. Not to her. One day, another woman would call him that in the darkness.
“Oh, he’s willing.” Alexandra waved a dismissive hand. “Lately, James has insisted on reading everything I’ve ever published. But if I wanted a man’s opinion, I'd go out in public and utter any idea at all and one comes out of the woodwork to offer some garbled insight on the matter.”
Emma flashed a smile at that. “I still think it’s lovely that he’s interested.”
“Yes. I find it rather curious: you leaving the house so unexpectedly, James’s sudden attention to our co-written work.” She tapped her cheek. “You told me not to ask, and yet I can’t help but deduce a few things . . .”
“I’m in love with your brother,” Emma said, setting down her teacup.
“Yes!” Alexandra almost leaped off the couch in delight. “I knew it! Why do you look so miserable? Why did you leave the house? Did he muck everything up? Because I can hit him with something. A book, or a reticule, or a larger, heavier object at your request. I know I always say violence isn’t the answer, but brothers are a different matter. I can stab him with my pen.”
“What? Good god. Don’t stab him. Don’t hit him.” Emma shook her head. “Wait a moment, you knew?”
Alexandra settled back in her chair with a grin. “Of course I knew. I know everything that goes on in the house. The maids gossip when they think I’m not listening; I’m always listening.”
Emma stared at her. “Are you certain you’re an authoress and not a spy?”
Her friend looked downright smug as she lifted her teacup again. “Come now, tell me everything. I heard there was a bit of a tiff in the foyer.”
“He asked me to be his mistress,” Emma said.
Alexandra’s smile disappeared and she promptly set her teacup down again with a harsh clank. “That cad! That bumbling, infuriating fool. And you don’t want me to stab him with a pen? I ought to go for an artery.”
A Touch Wicked (Private Arrangements) Page 9