A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  "Whore," the man repeated, his hatred pushing her heart to an even higher gallop. Hart kicked him without looking away from her.

  "You do not know him?" he repeated, and Emma shook her head.

  He finally turned away from her and, in the same motion, swooped down to slap the man's square face. Emma's ears rang with the startling sound.

  "I told you to watch your tongue. Now what is your name?"

  "Burl." The man's lip curled in rebellion. "Burl what?"

  "Burl Smythe."

  "And what is your interest in Lady Denmore?"

  Smythe's mouth grimaced, his eyes darkened with vio­lence. "Lady? Is that what she calls herself?"

  Hart kicked his thigh again and muttered a few curses under his breath. She could tell he was reminding the man to curb his tongue, but Emma couldn't quite hear it. She was waiting, waiting. She probably should have run. If she could make it past the carriage, they might lose track of her, spend precious time figuring out which direction she'd turned. But then what? She wouldn't have even the money she'd brought to London with her. She'd be destitute. Ruined.

  So Emma just stared at this stranger who was about to de­stroy the world she'd worked so hard to weave together.

  "She's a jezebel," Smythe was saying. "A whore leading other women down the path of evil. She's a deceiver. Satan masquerading as a highborn lady."

  Some part of her brain insisted that this made no sense. Why would this hired spy hold such contempt for her? Why was he so angry? But the rest of her mind was buzzing, buzzing, drowning out everything but his hateful words and the incessant pounding of her panicked heart.

  Emma breathed in deep and heard herself moan as she exhaled.

  "She says she doesn't know you, Mr. Smythe."

  "Lies! Lies on top of lies!"

  Hart's eagle eyes swung toward her and paused there for a moment. His gaze narrowed. "You know what he speaks of."

  "I don't," she whispered, pressing harder against the door. Maybe she could go through the door and escape out the front, maybe she could grab her winnings from Moulter's as she fled.

  Hart aimed that piercing gaze back at Smythe. He said, "Perhaps you could be more clear in your grievances," and then the world opened up behind Emma.

  The solid door vanished and she was falling into fear and uncertainty and wondering if she'd fainted. But her flailing hand caught smooth wood and her back bumped against something warm. "Ma'am?" Bess murmured close to her ear. She helped Emma right herself just as Smythe began to roar with fury.

  "Lizzy," he shouted. "Lizzy!"

  The solidness that had been Bess trembled against Emma's back, turning into something weaker. "Oh," Bess sobbed. "Oh, no. Oh, God above, save me."

  "Lizzy!" he roared again and lurched to his feet. He lunged toward them, throwing himself down the stairs. Both Hart and the driver sprang forward to catch him. He hitched back, but then his jacket slid from his shoulders and he pulled his arms free, leaving the two men to stumble back, hands clutching brown wool.

  "Burl, no. Please," Bess cried out, but her words pushed fire into his eyes.

  "Faithless whore," he growled.

  Stimp flew at him and was brushed aside as easily as a fly.

  The man loomed huge, fists rising. Bess backed away, re­treating into the house, and Emma fell to the floor, landing hard. She didn't have time to register the pain that shot up her back; an angry bull was charging straight for her.

  She scooted backward and almost managed to dodge the rock-hard fist that swung toward her. The blow caught the top of her head and knocked her into the wall, but he didn't stop moving. He pushed right past her and snagged Bess's dress as she tried to escape around the corner into the kitchen.

  Bess was pulled off balance and swayed right into his punch. Bone cracked. Blood spurted from her nose. Emma screamed in horror. She tried to push to her feet, but when a shadow crossed her vision, Emma ducked and flung her arms over her throbbing head.

  "I've got him," Hart grunted. "Emma, are you all right? Emma?"

  She looked up what seemed to be an impossibly long dis­tance and caught sight of Hart's worried face as he pulled Smythe out by his neck.

  "Fine," she murmured as she tried to catch up to the mean­ing of what had happened. "Bess?" She searched out the hud­dled form pressed into a far corner. "Bess?"

  A meaty thump sounded from the alley and then Somerhart walked back in. He started to reach for Emma, but she shook her head. "Em fine."

  He nodded and stepped past. "Mrs. Lizzy?"

  "It's Bess," the woman sobbed in a wet voice. "It's Bess now."

  "All right, Bess. I'm going to call for a doctor."

  "Don't bother. Please. It's just a broken nose. I've had them before."

  "I don't think—"

  "No," she insisted, though her voice was still muffled by blood and grief and the hands pressed to her face. "No, don't. Please, sir."

  He looked to Emma. "I'll take care of her," she said.

  "Bess," he said softly. "Is that man your husband?"

  She began to cry in earnest. "I'm sorry to have caused trouble. I didn't think he'd find me here."

  "Did you run from him?"

  Emma still wasn't sure of her steadiness, so she crawled across the few feet of floor that separated them and curled her arms around Bess's rounded back. "It's all right. Shh."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. I'll go. Just don't send me with him. He'll kill me. He will."

  Helpless, Emma looked up to Hart's face. He looked carved from granite, hard and cold.

  "Do you have children?" he asked.

  Bess shook her head, blood trickled from between her fin­gers. "None. He beat them all out of me."

  "Christ." His cool facade cracked then, revealing the cru­elty she'd heard tales of. "You're determined to be free of him, then?"

  "Yes."

  "Then he's bound for a dozen years in Her Majesty's Navy. Will that suit?"

  "Y-yes."

  "Lark," he ordered. "Head for the docks. Stimp will help you find a likely taker, I'm sure."

  A few moments later, the crunch of carriage wheels echoed against the walls of the alleyway.

  The threat was gone, and it had had nothing to do with Emma. She held Bess while she cried and wished that she could cry too.

  Chapter 10

  "She'll be all right," Emma whispered as she closed Bess's door and faced Hart. His brow was pulled into a dark frown, his eyes as sharp as ever.

  "And you, Emma?"

  "I'm fine," she insisted, though she raised a hand to the crown of her head. Hart reached for her and his hands cra­dled her face, fingers spread to ease into her hair. He pressed a soft kiss to her head, a lingering touch of his lips. A strange sensation overcame her at this tenderness, a feeling like melted wax flowing down through her body.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered, brushing a hand over her head as if searching for bumps or bruises. "I'm sorry I didn't stop him, sorry I brought him here."

  Emma wasn't sure she could speak. She shook her head and drew a shallow breath. "It wasn't. . . You needn't apol­ogize, Hart." His fingers trailed over her temples, gentle and perfect. Her eyes closed as she murmured, "It wasn't your concern."

  The soft stroking stopped. His hands stiffened. "Not my concern? Your life? Your safety?"

  Oh, she did not want to do this now. She wanted to keep her eyes closed and keep his hands moving, but the hands had stopped; the strange warmth was beginning to fade. Emma sighed and opened her eyes as Hart's arms fell back to his sides.

  "No," she said simply. "It's not your concern."

  "I disagree."

  "You often do." She suddenly found it impossible to be­lieve he'd touched her so tenderly not seconds before. His eyes glinted ice and judgment.

  "Who did you think he was, Emma?"

  "Who?"

  "Burl Smythe," he bit out. "Who did you think he was?"

  She wasn't in a frightened state anymore, and if he thought he could corner
her into a confession, he was sadly mistaken. Emma gave him innocent eyes. "I thought he was the thief. Then I thought he was a madman after my person. Or some dockworker with no position and a vengeance against his betters."

  "Liar," Hart said very clearly.

  "You do love to insult me."

  "I saw your face," he insisted. His features grew harder still. Not only did he not believe her, he resented her self-defense.

  Emma steeled her heart and moved toward the kitchen. She strolled past him, offering an arched brow and a pout. "I was terrified, Somerhart. I feared for my life. Are you determined to sit in judgment of my reactions? 'This was not genuine enough. That was condemning.'?"

  "You say that you—"

  Emma spun around, stopping his path through the narrow kitchen. "Why don't you explain something to me, Somer­hart? How is it that you know Stimp, hmm?"

  Silence.

  "Spying on me, Your Grace? Paying local children to watch my home? Or perhaps he follows me around and re­ports back to you on who I've been with, who I've talked to?"

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  Emma turned and continued into the hallway that led to the larder and then on to the stairs that climbed to the front door. "You have no right to spy on me. You have no claim and no cause."

  "I was concerned."

  She glanced over her shoulder to see him below her, fol­lowing up the stairs. "Oh, I don't think so. I think you are suspicious. You were betrayed by a woman in your past. A lover. A scandalous woman."

  "That's nothing to—"

  "But I am not your lover, Somerhart, and you've no right to treat me so poorly. What is it, exactly, that you suspect?"

  They'd both reached the landing at the front door. Emma felt Hart's hands close around her upper arms. He pulled her back against him, her back to his chest, and his mouth pressed just behind her ear.

  "You are my lover, Emma, and well you know it."

  "No."

  "I've brought you to climax. And you've brought me as well. Remember?"

  Remember? My God, she couldn't stop remembering. His beautiful naked body in the soft candlelight. She shivered under his grip and fought the need to press her hips back against him.

  "We are lovers, Emma, but if you require formal consum­mation, allow me to provide it." His mouth opened against her skin, his teeth grazed her, scraping more shivers down her flesh. Sensation flowed like water, dipping between her breasts, spreading over her belly.

  Her nipples tightened as his hot mouth pressed harder. His tongue flicked up to her earlobe as she became aware of the hard length of his arousal snug against her back. Oh, she wanted it, wanted everything. No one would interrupt. She could take him upstairs right now and truly become his lover. But she had just avoided disaster, and though the relief had made her giddy and reckless, it made no sense to take any more unnecessary risk.

  Emma shook her head. "Tell me about the woman."

  That stilled his mouth. His fingers tightened to vises on her arms, then abruptly released her. "Who?"

  "I've heard the rumors."

  "Oh, really?" The words snapped out like cracking ice. "Which rumors are those?" Emma lifted her chin. "You know."

  "I'm sure I don't."

  "The rumors that you fell in love with a demirep. Some­one else's mistress. You asked for her hand. Begged her. There were letters . . ."

  "Ah, those rumors." His bark of laughter was hard enough to make Emma jump. "That story is a decade old and I'm sure it has only gotten more sordid with each telling. And, by the way, my dear, I don't take kindly to the telling of it."

  She swung toward him and met his gaze. Cruelty again. Ah well, she had certainly distracted him from his seduction. "I see," she said carefully.

  "And those old stories have nothing to do with our affair."

  "That is patently untrue. You control your world, Somer­hart, and now you consider me part of it. You issue demands, dictate rules. You have been paying that child to spy on me. Why, I cannot imagine, but your real fear . . . your real fear is that a woman will make a fool of you. Again."

  His sculpted lips disappeared into a tight white line. "Watch your mouth, Lady Denmore."

  "You have controlled every one of your partners in the past decade, Somerhart, but you cannot control me. I will not be intimidated. You have nothing to take from me and nothing to threaten me with."

  "Nothing but your secrets."

  She'd been expecting this and was very careful not to let her fear show. "I have no secrets. No more than the next woman, anyway."

  "If I dug into your past—"

  "Why would you? Why even think it? You are a duke. Rich and powerful. I am no threat to your life, your position. Look into my past if you feel the need. But my life is mine, just as private and valuable as yours is to you. If you really wish to investigate me, do so. But don't bother calling on me to apologize for your unfounded suspicions, for I'll have nothing to say to you ever again."

  "Unfounded," he scoffed.

  "I am not pursuing you!" Emma cried. "I have resisted you at every turn! And still you come skulking about here with your questions as if I were applying for the exalted position of the duke's whore. My God, you are proud. Hor­ribly arrogant."

  Somerhart rocked back on his heels and pierced her with a hostile glare. "Is that what last night was about? My pride? Bringing me low?"

  Emma inhaled so quickly that she felt momentarily dizzy. She watched past blurry eyes as Hart crossed his arms over his chest. She managed to take another breath. "W-what?"

  "You meant to knock me off my arrogant pedestal."

  "I. . . No." She was so shocked by his words—a confes­sion, really, of vulnerability—that she didn't care that she'd been trying to drive him out the door. "Yes, you are proud. Of course you are. And I wanted to see that. Your body, so proud and strong. I wouldn't. . . I just wanted to see what I couldn't have. I cannot act on it, but I wanted . . ."

  His crossed arms relaxed and fell to his sides. Emma shook her head and looked away from him, down to her scuffed shoes that had once been pale ivory and butter-soft. Now they were as worn and hardened as she felt.

  She started when his fingers brushed her hair. "You look so young all of a sudden, saying those lovely things to me."

  No, she wasn't young. She was as old as the earth, and determined to be just as unknowable.

  "Why are you so resolved not to have me, Emma?" The pads of his fingers were touching her again, spreading that warmth over her cheek, her chin. She jerked away.

  "We cannot manage a quarter hour together without argu­ing. We more often exchange barbs than compliments. So why are you so determined to be had?"

  His lips quirked into a half smile. "There is passion be­tween us. Irrational passion. If we'd only acknowledge it, I daresay we wouldn't argue half as much."

  "If we didn't see each other, we wouldn't argue at all."

  His smile didn't budge. "Speaking of arguments, you start one every time I ask you about your stubborn position. Had you noticed that? And I would truly like to know what ridiculous idea you have stuck in your head. You say you will not take a lover, but it's clearly nothing to do with morals. Or your reputation. Both are tattered or at least worn to a sheen."

  "How dare—"

  "And you've said several times that you won't marry, so it's nothing to do with some future, honorable gentleman. And you want this, want it enough to do wicked things with me in public places. Perhaps I am dim-witted—no, don't say anything—but I cannot fathom your reasoning."

  Emma refused to answer. She strolled toward the small front window and stared blindly out.

  "I'll have an answer," Hart insisted. "And I don't think it's arrogance to say you cannot resist me forever. You want this. You want me. And I won't go away until you tell me."

  No, she could not resist forever. She was hardly resisting at all anymore, vaguely hoping that he would overwhelm her and she would mindlessly give in. Emma pressed her hand to the co
ld glass. Perhaps she should tell him that she had the pox. That would cool his blood. But, no, her cheeks were reddening at the mere thought. She wasn't quite that desper­ate yet, though she might be in the future.

  Then the perfect answer occurred to her. Unconventional as he was, he was still the young man who'd come to her rescue as a child. The man who'd raised his younger sister. Despite his cold veneer, he wouldn't find a heartless, selfish woman attractive.

  "My mother was ruined by childbirth," she whispered. The words fogged the glass.

  "What?"

  Emma whirled toward him and made her mouth smirk. "My mother. She ruined herself having children for my father. Only two, mind you, but both were a tragedy. The first one ruined her looks, as my father pointed out often enough. She grew fat, you see. But it was the second that did her in. It took her almost a year to die, and I wished every day that she had died during the birth. She was made useless and ugly and sick. A foul embarrassment to the family. So I do not wish to risk having children, Your Grace, and therefore I will not engage in intercourse with you or anyone else."

  His face was wiped blank with shock. "There are ways to—but you were married."

  Emma lunged in with the final blow. "Well, I did my best, you understand, between prayer and resistance. I was deter­mined not to become a fat matron saddled with a passel of sniveling brats." She smiled brightly. As she watched, his eyes grew incrementally more distant.

  "You are young. You—"

  "Yes, I am. And I mean to make the most of it."

  "By living as a nun?"

  "As you've pointed out, I'm hardly living as a nun." His body grew stiffer and straighter as each second passed. "There are many ways to prevent conception."

  "None of them reliable enough for me. It is not that I want to wait to have children, Somerhart. I do not ever want them. Apparently you are willing to take the occasional risk. I am not."

  "I would support—"

  "Oh, and would you carry the child for me as well? Grow fat and bloated? Would you go through the blood and pain and gore of childbirth? Turn your chest into a pair of swollen cow's teats? Become a slave to every clinging need of an idiot child?" She forced a little shudder. "No, thank you."