The Harlow Hoyden

by Lynn Messina

  She laughed. “I imagine lots of things have happened tonight that you did not expect.”

  Taking the seat across from her, he admitted the truth of the statement. Indeed, he still found it hard to believe what had transpired in that room. “Point well taken, my love. Although my ire at your rash behavior was such that I did envision some physical contact between us, it was certainly not of a sensual nature.”

  His voice was low and husky, and Emma felt tingles run up her spine. She had just made love with the man not an hour before and already she wanted him again. It was a sorry state of affairs and one that she would examine in more depth on the morrow. Until then, she would enjoy everything that happened. “I object to your characterization of my behavior as rash. The fate of England hung in the balance, and I acted as any patriot would. What would you’ve had me do?”

  “Seek help,” he answered.

  “I did, your grace,” she reminded him, “but as you were away from home, I had to make do with Philip. I have not asked if everything is all right. Surely only a very important emergency could have taken you from London in the middle of the season and without a word to Vinnie. You and she have become great friends in the past weeks, haven’t you?”

  He did not relish the introduction of her sister into the conversation, for mentions of Vinnie were usually followed by exhortations to kiss her. He answered honestly but with caution. “I consider her a great friend, yes.”

  But for once Emma’s mind was clear of schemes. “Tell me how things are with you. Your estates are in good order?”

  “The emergency turned out to be a tempest in a teapot,” he said. When he had gone scurrying off to Kemsley, he’d been convinced that it was over between them. Now she was wrapped in a sheet drinking brandy in a hotel room with him. Life—and Emma—were unpredictable.

  “Excellent,” she said, taking a sip of brandy. It was smooth and made her throat tingle.

  “You have still not told me of your adventure. How did you discover that Sir Windbourne is a spy?”

  “He is a very stupid spy who doesn’t check a room thoroughly to make sure no one is there,” she said, before going into details of what had occurred during the last two days. “And how did you track me so quickly? As of yesterday afternoon, you were still out of town.”

  Not wanting to explain about Vinnie’s note, he said, “Since the emergency had proved to be only a small matter, I resolved to return to town as quickly as possible. There was a note from Vinnie waiting for me. She was concern about your disappearance. The next time you dash off to chase after a villain, you must send word to her. She was most overwrought in her concern for your welfare. We would have been quite in the dark had Mr. Squibbs not kept his word to me.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Squibbs. I was meaning to ask you, your grace, what right you have to keep tabs on me through my associates?” She found it hard to look suitably outraged in a makeshift toga.

  “I have a vested interest in keeping that beautiful body of yours safe, especially now that I know it can bring me such bliss,” he answered, his eyes steady as they gazed at hers. He saw a gentle blush move up her cheeks and marveled at his reaction. He wanted her again. “And a good thing I did, too. If Squibbs hadn’t paid me a visit, I wouldn’t have learned what had transpired.”

  “I can’t believe Mr. Squibbs went to you after I’d assured him I’d be seeking you out myself.”

  “Don’t be angry. He was only keeping his word to me,” the duke said, sipping his brandy. “And thank God. Who knows what would have happened if he had not told us your direction.”

  “Very likely I would have returned to London with a captured Sir Windbag in tow and we would have missed out on a delightful hostage episode,” she said mercilessly. “Yes, it was a very good thing you found me when you did.”

  “Although I regret my hasty actions, I do not think the situation would have resolved itself quite so easily as you say. Sir Waldo wouldn’t have gone tamely with you, and Philip could have been seriously injured in the process. If I recall correctly, Windbourne’s gun was aimed at him.”

  Remembering Philip, Emma was instantly remorseful. “How is the dear boy? I take full responsibility for his misadventure. I should have known better than to bring a green boy on a such a dangerous enterprise. ’Twas only that he had spoken so passionately about being of help to me, and you were gone.”

  “Since I did not linger long after you, I didn’t get a clear look at his wound, but it seemed to be minor. He’ll need a cane for a few months and all the young misses will swoon at the romantic figure he’ll cut, but then he will be back to normal in no time—and back to Yorkshire, I hope. I find him a tiresome boy.”

  “Never say so, Trent!” she protested. “He admires you so much and you’ll just have to learn to be more patient. And perhaps take a dive every so often at Gentleman Jackson’s. All the young gallants think it’s rude for you to be so invulnerable.”

  The duke laughed. “They would not thank me for going easy on them as a favor to a female.”

  Emma acknowledged the truth of this statement and changed the topic. “Now you must tell me how you found me in that awful little house. You were not behind us, for I kept my eyes peeled to the road in hope—and in fear—of catching sight of you.”

  “I only took one horse and stayed off the main road. It was not hard to navigate the forest by the side of the road and when we came to a clearing I held back. I would like to say you were in my sights the entire time, but you were not. Still, I always had a fair sense of your direction, except when you turned off the main road that second time,” he added. “I had to do a fair amount of backtracking to find you then.”

  “Have I thanked you yet for your perfect timing? A few more seconds and it would have been too late,” she said softly, remembering the feel of that horrible, unforgiving handle pressed against her neck and shuddering, despite the warmth of the fire.

  The duke stood up and walked over to Emma. He placed kisses along her bruised neck. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think Windbourne will escape with his neck unscathed.”

  “I should hope not. The man is a—”

  But the duke had had enough talk of Windbourne and he covered her mouth with his own. He had meant to silence her for only a moment but once his lips met hers, there was no further thought of letting go. He ran his hands down her back and felt her instant response. He picked her up and carried her to the disheveled bed, leaving the sheet on the floor by the fire.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next morning, Emma was awakened by the noise in the hallway, but she resisted the impulse to open her eyes. The duke’s arms were around her stomach, his warm breath brushing her neck. She would not be the one to bring this beautiful night to an end.

  Several minutes later she felt the duke stir. He placed a kiss on her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

  “I know you’re awake, so there’s no use in pretending,” he said, turning her onto her back and observing her shut eyes.

  “If you’re here, then I’m still dreaming,” she said softly as the people above them pounded on the floorboards.

  “There you go again with that drivel,” the duke said, well satisfied with her turn of phrase. “That you are so romantic pleases me.”

  “Does it, your grace? Is that the only thing about me that does?” she asked, playing with the hair on his chest.

  “Alex,” he corrected. “And no, there are one or two other things as well.”

  She kissed his chest. “Would you care to name them?”

  “Your lips, for one. They are—” He broke off as she lavished attention on his nipple.

  She looked at him with an impish smile. “You were saying, Alex, about my lips?”

  “Your lips are magical,” he whispered before covering them with his own. For a few long moments he lost himself in the sensation of her but then he fought the burgeoning desire. He pulled away. “We must ready ourselves for departure. The hour grows late.�
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  Emma didn’t care to talk about the hour. “Please, Alex,” she purred, pressing her body sensuously against his, “an extra half hour won’t hurt. Please, just one last time.”

  Trent tried to resist the arousing lure of her body. “Vinnie is probably out of her head with worry by now. When we are married, I promise we will do nothing but make love all the time.”

  Emma froze. “Married?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course. Two people cannot behave as we have and not get married,” he said, laying a whimsical kiss on her nose. “It’s just not done.”

  “That’s not a reason to get married,” she protested, giving him an opportunity to provide a better one.

  The duke looked down at her in surprise. “I’m a gentleman, Emma. I do not make love with innocents and then desert them.”

  Emma listened to his answer with a growing sense of alarm. If he had given any indication of his regard, had hinted in the most meager way that he loved her, she would accept his offer with zeal. But she would not accept this, this customary sense of obligation. She would not—indeed, could not—marry a man who didn’t share her feelings. That way lay disaster. The Harlow Hoyden could not take a husband who’d come to her from the arms of a dancer in Chelsea, especially now that she knew what women and men did alone together in bed. What she had done with Trent was sacred, and she would not let him devalue it—and her—with his marriage of obligation. “Thank you for your…flattering offer, your grace, but I have no wish to get married. You have done your duty by asking, so let there be no more talk of desertion. Really, we should get dressed. The hour grows late.” She moved to get out of the bed, but the duke held on to her arm.

  “What madness is this, Emma?” he asked, trying to understand how her demeanor could change so swiftly from lover to stranger.

  “No madness. Please let me go. No doubt Vinnie is out of her head with worry by now.”

  But he did not let her go. He could scarcely believe that only a few minutes earlier he had woken without a care in the world. Never in his life had he been happier. “How can you talk so coldly after what we’ve just done?”

  “What we’ve just done?” she asked, her voice almost harsh in her disappointment. “Is it not what you do with dancers in Chelsea and widows and any willing female who crosses your path? Isn’t that what you libertines do? Come now, your grace, there is no need to get maudlin on me. We have passed a pleasurable evening. There’s no reason for you to ruin it with unreasonable demands.”

  At these words, the duke felt the most overwhelming anger of his entire life. He let Emma go, stood up and disappeared into the dressing room. He wanted to argue with her, rail at her, but he was afraid of what he might do. His emotions now were unpredictable, and he could not be relied on for rational behavior. How dare she dismiss what they’d shared as “a pleasurable evening” only? And to call his offer of marriage an unreasonable demand! To think that when he opened his eyes not ten minutes before he’d believed he was holding the future in his arms, to think that he had foolishly assumed it was all sorted out. No woman had ever responded so passionately as Emma. No woman had ever loved him as Emma had. Why wouldn’t she want to marry him? And to be told that it was all meaningless—nothing had ever crushed the duke so. He could not risk being in her presence any longer, so fearful was he of causing her harm.

  It was for the best, he decided, that he hadn’t admitted his love. It had been on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason—some half-formed fear of being rejected—he’d held back. He’d wanted her consent first. But it was good that she didn’t know the truth, that his heart was hers to do with as she wished, for no doubt she would trounce on it without a thought. He had been warned about the Harlow Hoyden, but he’d let infatuation override good sense. Poor Vinnie. She had no idea what a soulless creature her sister was.

  Dressed, the duke entered the bedroom. He carried his greatcoat over one arm. Without looking at her, he said, “We leave in fifteen minutes. I will meet you at the coach.”

  From the bed, Emma watched him leave. As soon as the door shut, she surrendered to the storm of tears that had been lodged in her throat. He had not denied it! She’d given him a chance to say that what they’d done was not at all like what he’d done with the widow Enderling and the dancer in Chelsea. She hadn’t expected him to, of course, but she had hoped nonetheless. God, had she’d hoped. But the fire that had blazed in his eyes when he’d beheld Windbourne holding a gun to her temple had been extinguished by the mundanity of regular life. Sanity had returned and with it the realization that an indulged mutual attraction wasn’t reason enough to get married. He’d thankfully made his escape while his bachelorhood was still intact.

  Determined not to give away the true status of her emotions, she splashed her face with water. Then she looked into the mirror. Her eyes were still red and puffy from tears. She dressed herself in the landlord’s daughter’s gown. Its cut was simple, but the color, a light mint green, was unflattering and made her complexion look sickly.

  “Well, I feel sickly, don’t I?” she muttered, putting on a bonnet that the landlord was kind enough to provide. If only I wore spectacles, she thought, trying cover up her eyes with the bonnet.

  She made her way downstairs and was relieved to see no sign of Trent. The landlady offered her a cup of tea, and she accepted it along with an offer of toast. Although she had awoken ravenously hungry, now in the presence of food, her appetite deserted her completely. She could not bring herself to touch the toast; she could only stare at it and the cup of tea, distracted by thoughts of the duke. Last night had been so perfect. If only this morning he hadn’t uttered that fateful word: marriage. Or having muttered it, accompanied it with talk of love.

  I will not be bothered by this, she resolved, picking up a slice of toast and taking a bite. The piece was soggy and soaked with butter, and it slid down her throat easily. Still, she couldn’t bear another taste. Food was not what she needed now. Now she needed a plan, some way to deal with the duke during the next few hours and the days that followed. She would still see him around town, at social functions that could not be avoided, with the widow Enderling, perhaps, or another woman. Then a horrible thought struck her. What if he was enamored with Vinnie? Oh, God, what if he wanted to marry her?

  The thought was too distressing to contemplate for even a minute, and she forced her mind on to other matters. She wondered how Sir Windbag was faring in a dank Dover prison. That made her smile. If matters between her and Trent had been anything than what they were, she’d have requested a short stop to gloat. It was not often that one witnessed the crushing defeat of an archenemy.

  A clock in the parlor chimed the hour, and Emma realized that the inevitable could not be put off any longer. Taking several deep breaths, she got to her feet, thanked the landlord for his hospitality and walked outside into the blinding sunlight. Although still very early in the day, the temperature was already warm and the sent of spring was in the air. It was the sort of day that made young romantic hearts giddy. Emma cursed the blue sky and walked over to the carriage. The duke had the horses in hand and was only waiting for her to begin the journey.

  He acknowledged her presence with a nod but didn’t look at her. The duke wasn’t quite ready to gaze upon her yet. Although his anger had cooled somewhat during the intervening half hour, he feared the sight of her would ignite the flames again. He’d struggled hard to retain his dignity, to not burst into the parlor and beg her to marry him, and he refused to lose it now that the end of their adventure was so near. He need only return to the Hungry Lion; then he’d be free of her. Well, perhaps not free of her, but he would never have to be alone with her again. The source of temptation would be removed, and he could begin to recover from this fleeting madness one called love.

  He tugged on the reins, indicating to the horses that it was time to depart. There had been a coachman available for hire at the inn, but Trent decided driving was the best way to avoid being trapped
for long hours with Miss Harlow in the small compartment of the conveyance. He preferred fresh air and physical distance, however meager, and the distraction of something to do other than stare at her beautiful features and pine for what could never be.

  Emma was relieved by his decision, for many of the same reasons, but she bitterly resented a society that left men free to make choices. She would have preferred to drive the horses herself and end this interminable boredom. The last thing she needed now was to be alone with her thoughts, her traitorous, torturous thoughts. All she could do was replay this morning’s scene over and over again in her head, from the moment she woke up feeling glorious to the second Trent had uttered the words that crushed her heart. And no good could come of that. There was nothing she could have done differently, nothing save accept his proposal. The very idea was preposterous. Other ladies might marry to appease a gentleman’s misplaced notion of honor but not she. Miss Emma Harlow had too much pride and too much self-respect and far too much sense. Such a union would end in disaster, and it was better to nip the whole thing in the bud than to let it flower into inevitable public disgrace.

  When they returned to London, she would insist on accompanying Roger to the country, where he could recuperate properly. London was a bustling, dirty metropolis and not at all the sort of place a recovering amputee should pass his days. He needed green rolling hills and sweet Derbyshire air and children’s laugher. Surrounded by familiar things, he would grow strong again. He would grow strong again and forget this wretched affair entirely.