by Eva Devon
Chapter 7
The hordes of admirers had long ago left the theater, leaving it an echoing, glittering cavern. The Hart brothers, too, had departed. The four exceptionally handsome men had been dutiful. They stood at the end of the performance, though they’d occupied different boxes. They’d bowed. They’d applauded.
As soon as the last line had been uttered, she’d allowed her vision to slip to the audience and she’d seen him. Alone, a daunting figure, Edward Hart had risen to his feet clapping, smiling even though it wasn’t joy which caused his mouth to turn, she thought. But then he had inclined his head in the most distinct ways, honoring her, acknowledging her. It had felt as if the stage boards would open beneath her and swallow her up into the workings of the area in which so many things were stored away for a later date.
It had been shocking, that incline of the head. She had not expected such complete approval.
As expected, the crowds had poured out of the theater as she had taken off her costume and makeup. A few people had come to her dressing room bearing flowers. Overzealous gentlemen had brought a few jewels and promises but she had turned them away as quickly as they came.
She had no use for such false friends or lovers.
By the time she had finally donned her evening attire, the theater was all but empty. Only the stagehands and workers were still in the space, clearing things away, making things safe, and readying for tomorrow’s performance.
No, the real performance was about to begin.
Much to her relief, nerves had not gotten the better of her and the play had been a rousing success. But now, her insides hummed just as fiercely as they did when she waited in the wings for her first entrance. In a few minutes’ time, she would attend several parties thrown in her honor. The Duke of Huntsdown was hosting one of them. He’d promised firmly that all of the Hart brothers would be in attendance.
Since the duke had proclaimed all, there was little to do but assume Edward would be there will he or nil he. She had little doubt that particular Hart had slipped out quickly after the performance.
It was difficult to blame him. For even she knew that they were the subject of a great deal of gossip. But would he truly attend his brother’s ball?
It had been tempting to refute her own invitation to the duke’s ball, but such an action would be foolish. Worse, it would indicate that she was still deeply affected by what had transpired. The only reason she had invited them to the play was to show how little they bothered her and that she wished them to see firsthand the sort of person she was. . . Which was not a demure, suffering young woman.
James and Edward had made her life hell with their imperiousness. But she could not deny that they had lent their clear support to her endeavor now. Even if Edward had sat by himself looking like some sort of god of old, judging the mortals below him.
Yes, it was going to be a most interesting evening. She hoped to God she had the fortitude to survive it. Emmaline laughed at herself. Of course she did. She had already survived much.
Still at her looking glass, she took up her fan and reticule, slipping the golden strings about her white-gloved wrist.
Quickly, she picked up her coffee cup and took a last sip of the divine beverage.
She would not see her bed until dawn and so she had drank the glorious, dark stuff while readying herself for the night.
Roderick had already left for his own celebrations, which had little to do with the stuffiness of the ton. Her young dresser had also left. She bit her lower lip and looked again to her mirror, attempting not to feel vain or doubtful. Her crimson, silk gown skimmed her cream-colored shoulders and teased the curves of her breasts. It was a suitable gown for a woman of her status. She wasn’t a courtesan. But she wasn’t a lady. The fabric was shot through with embroidered gold roses which laced the hem and traced along her sleeves, sleeves which were little more than scraps of chiffon.
The gown was entirely suitable to her. Nor was it particularly shocking, in truth. She wasn’t wearing white that had been dampened to her bosoms and legs. She would not be showing the color of her nipples to the world, thank you very much.
Yet, it was undeniable she was that odd, colorful, exotic thing.
An eccentric.
A soft knock at her door startled her from her reverie.
“Come, Sandrine,” she called, certain her dresser must have forgotten some detail. She took another fortifying sip of coffee as she waited.
The door opened slowly. “Alas, it is not she. I hardly think I could be considered a Sandrine. I’m certainly not French.”
Edward!
She stared into her mirror, seeing his imposing figure lingering in the doorway. She felt frozen and, yet, entirely alive at the same time. Her entire body thrummed with it. Dear God, it was not fair that, after all this time, she could not be a goddess of ice.
As slowly as she could, she turned and looked back over her shoulder, pinning him with her gaze and then she stood, allowing her skirts to swish about her legs.
She took him in as he dwarfed her dressing room, demanding her errant wits to come to heel.
In the soft candle glow that mixed with the silver moonlight spilling in through the high circular window, he looked almost otherworldly.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said at last, her voice puncturing the silence with a far more breathy tone than she had intended.
“I’ll go if you wish it,” he replied simply. His once dancing eyes were shadowed, his cheekbones twin slashes along his noble face. He was a man who had become familiar with darkness and knew little true laughter.
Her heart did the most traitorous spasm.
“I wish it,” she declared, still drinking in the sight of him like a dying man witnessing a mirage, willing water to be on the horizon.
He lingered for a moment, his presence somehow filling up the entire dressing room, then he nodded. He turned, but just as he was about to stride back into the hall, he stopped and glanced back over his broad, black-clad shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice a low rumble. Without adding any sort of explanation for his comment, he began to close the door behind him.
“For what?” she called before she could stop herself. She was compelled to understand why he would say such a thing.
“Your performance.” A slow smile turned the corner of his lips with admiration. “I have never seen anything like it.”
She stilled. He’d enjoyed her performance? That was what he had come to say? “Why are you here?”
His smile dimmed and his eyes sparked with intensity, with curiosity. “I could have asked you the same but a few hours ago.”
She bit her lower lip, cursing herself. “I did not intend it.”
His brows rose almost imperceptibly. “To wander over to my club?”
She nodded. Impulsively, she gestured towards him. “I had heard that you are very changed. I found I had to see for myself. I felt I would see best in your own club rather than in my theater.”
“And do you agree?” he asked softly, cocking his head to the side. “Now that you’ve seen me?”
She thought of the many times he had tried to see her in the past in Paris. Of all the times she had turned him away. She had never actually seen him then. She wouldn’t allow herself. She’d been too worried she would be unable to turn him away if she witnessed him begging her.
She could not imagine this Edward begging. “Yes,” she said softly. “I should hardly know you.”
“Strangely, I know myself far better than I did when we were engaged,” he replied, almost to himself. He shook his head and snapped his gaze back to hers.
“You were magnificent,” he said.
“You approve?” she challenged, hating that she did feel pleased, and wondering if he could truly mean it.
“Oh, yes,” he said easily but then his brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She laughed dryly and scoffed, “You shamed me once for even wishing to know you
intimately, my future husband. Look at me now?” She raked her gloved hand before her crimson gown. “A fallen woman.”
He stared at her, his gaze slowly trailing down her frame, skimming the curves of her breasts, her hips, her thighs, then back to her face.
It burned, that look, but not with pain. She could scarce draw breath. For it had felt as if he had stroked her from head to toe in one sinful caress.
Edward’s gaze darkened. “You did not fall, Emmaline.”
“I am still an angel then?” she mocked softly.
“You were never an angel,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Angels aren’t real. And you didn’t fall. You were pushed.”
“By you,” she replied, her throat tightening in the most maddening of ways.
He took a step forward, his massive body overtaking the room. How did he do that? For it had already seemed as if he were in every corner, but now, his presence was in every nook, every cranny, surrounding her and it was. . . Tempting. So very tempting.
Firelight flickered over his hair and his gaze danced with pain as he agreed, “By me.” He pressed his lips together, lips now that seemed to offer the promise of sin rather than duty. “I—”
“Yes,” she urged.
The muscles of his throat visibly worked as he struggled to make his confession. “I called you my angel, because I had created you in my mind.”
“I assure you I do exist outside of it.”
He smiled, a pained expression. “Oh, I am aware. But I never really knew you, Emmaline. That’s why I made you an angel, a mythical thing. Not a woman of flesh and blood with thoughts and desires. How could I know something that wasn’t real?”
She swallowed. His words crashed down upon her. “It sounds as if you did not love me at all then.”
“How could I? How could I love you in the way you deserved?” he asked unapologetically. “I didn’t even know you. I never truly tried to know you. I worshipped you. That is very different than knowing.”
Her heart cracked at his honesty. It was why he had rejected her so thoroughly. For he had put her on a pedestal and he’d thought she had fallen from it and cracked upon the ground like a porcelain angel. “I see.”
“I do not expect your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.”
“No,” she said absently, still shocked by his frank words.
He hesitated. “But I did want you to know. . . I admire you.”
She folded her hands, wishing that she did not have to feel like this. It was so much easier to condemn him and not see that he understood exactly what he had done. “Is this really necessary?”
He gazed down upon her. “Necessary? Yes.”
“Why?” she queried, her voice almost a breath.
“Because you came back to London.”
She lifted her chin. “I didn’t come back for you.”
“Didn’t you?” he challenged gently. “In the end? Didn’t you wish me to see how wonderful you have become? Without me? Despite me?” he said tightly.
“I think you should go,” she bit out.
He nodded. But then he stopped. “What did you see in my club? What change?”
“Pain,” she whispered. “I saw pain.”
“Then you saw well,” he said. “Emmaline,” he declared and, for the first time the kind, gentle Edward she had known shone through. “I am happy for you.”
Those words fell between them and she could make no reply for they were so far away from what she had expected that she could not make herself speak.
With that, he turned to leave. But as he stopped at the door, he glanced back again as if he could not force himself to go yet. “Please don’t come to my club again,” he requested, the timbre of his voice ragged. “I could not bear it. For, Emmaline. . . Though I am happy for you, though I know you are better off without me, I won’t lie to you. Not ever again.”
She swallowed, swaying forward by the lure of whatever it was he was about to say. “Why shouldn’t I come?”
“Because I want you still,” he said passionately. “And I always will.”
Silent now, he slipped through the door.
She stared after him, her heart racing and her body tight. Tendrils of desire curled through her.
Damn the man. Damn him to hell. For despite it all, she wanted him, too.
She’d known it in the club, witnessing the beast within. For she had not been horrified. No, not at all. She had been compelled.
She was drawn to the beast he was now. Fool that it made her.
So, she would have to do as he bid. She would have to stay out of his club. . . And away from the beast.
Chapter 8
Edward still couldn’t quite believe he’d seen her. Alone. In a dark room lit with candles and bathed with moonlight. She had shone like the moon herself under its rays. It had ripped his heart out seeing her, knowing she would never be his. That he could not claim her. That he had thrown her away so foolishly.
It had taken every bit of his will not to cross to her, to pull her against him, and take her mouth with his. . . As if that might solve all their past agonies. He was no fool. Passion solved nothing.
Still, the power of his body had very nearly taken over the reason of his brain seeing her sitting before her mirror in the soft light, her golden hair pooling about her.
She was like a balm for the soul that he could not have, that was just out of reach.
And now, he was stuck in a grand ballroom in his brother’s London house, leveling withering stares at anyone who dared come within five feet of him.
He was a man of exceptional fortune now. And he came from a powerful family.
Mamas did periodically eye him. It was the way of things. Some ladies did think the risk worth it if they were desperate enough for their daughters to rise at any cost.
His cold look quickly sent them on their way.
He was not going to marry a sheep-brained miss. In fact, he would not ever marry. Of that, he was certain.
That also meant he was going to die celibate.
There was no one in the world for him except Emmaline. Despite the fact that he had mistaken his feelings for her so badly. He knew she was the only one for him. . . Because, well, no one drew him as she had done and he could not bear the coldness of. . . Fucking. For that was what it would be.
The hard word matched the hard deed. The idea of such joinings filling his nights? They sickened him. His soul was already dead enough. If he started such empty copulation, he’d lose what little feeling he had left and become nothing but a hollow man.
Some men could go from married woman to married woman blithefully, not giving a whit that they cared neither for the lady’s mind or heart.
Edward could not. His heart and soul had been claimed long ago. He could not give them again. Not when, despite his youthful mistakes, they would always belong to Emmaline.
It simply was not in him. That left him with blood sport and managing the rather violent people near his club to still his raging urges.
The sugary notes of the orchestra filled the room and, much to his horror, he heard the name Madame Trent called out.
It struck him as strange that she should be called Madame now. But no doubt, it was a nod to her profession. Actresses couldn’t be misses after all.
As soon as she entered, the orchestra paused and began to play For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow which, ironically, was a most popular tune in France.
The company sang the words then burst into applause.
It made him sick. The way these people had vilified her and now fawned over her. How quickly they turned. How quickly they forgave themselves for the unforgivable.
His class of people really was despicable. There was no escaping it.
Emmaline swept into the packed ballroom, her crimson, silk skirts trailing behind her. The color contrasted shockingly with her creamy skin which was quite exposed. Rubies lined her throat and decorated her curled hair.
She waved a silver fan slowly be
fore her giving a mischievous smile.
Before she had even gone five feet across the floor, James had invited her to dance.
She curtsied, the bend of her legs and incline of her head perfection. With absolute ease, she extended her gloved hand and allowed him to lead her onto the floor.
James was a good dancer. There was no questioning it.
But it was Emmaline who shone as they traveled about the polished wood floor.
Much to his irritation, song after song, dance after dance, Emmaline was swept across the floor by powerful man after powerful man.
She danced without pause, welcoming each lord with a nod and a smile.
She’d conquered them all and they were all gleefully happy to be at her services. Where were any of them seven years ago? Where were their smiles?
The ladies seemed most intrigued by her, whispering behind their fans. Instead of the usual poison that was spewed, they whispered of her exceptional talent and what a fortune she possessed and surely she was lucky to have the Duke of Huntsdown as a patron.
Edward forced himself to move from his position ensconced at the back of the room.
He had sworn to himself that he would ask her to dance one dance strictly to put the gossips to rest.
For several of them had been eyeing him and then turning to Emmaline. Speculation was rife about him.
Yes, their former relationship would always be under consideration until it had been made absolutely clear that there was nothing and no ill will between them now.
So, he strode about the room as the allemande entered the last notes. Just as the music came to a pause, he positioned himself near Emmaline and her current partner, Lord Cartin.
Edward strode up to them.
She turned and spotted him.
Her cheeks paled.
Slowly, pointedly, he bowed and extended his hand.
As he did so, it seemed as if the entire room pivoted towards them.
“Would you do me the honor?” he asked.