David nodded as he took the paper. ‘And if he doesn’t want to come, miss?’
Emma’s stomach did a dive when the footman voiced her own fears. She stood taller. ‘He will. If not with you, then on his own. Tell him I am waiting for him.’
‘Yes, miss.’ The young footman bowed, but there was a troubled look on his face.
She turned away, not wanting to see her doubts on his countenance. This had to work. Otherwise, she would have to kidnap Charles Hawthorne from the streets, which would be next to impossible. She would never know where he would be, so she would never be able to have her servants at that location. And Charles Hawthorne was never about alone. No, this had to work.
After David left, she went down to the drawing room to wait. She ordered tea to ease some of her tension and sat by the window to drink it and have a biscuit. She must find patience.
Charles looked up from his ledgers as Stoner entered the small office. Adam rose from his rug at Charles’s feet and bounced to the heavyset older man.
‘Adam thinks you have come to see him.’ Charles set his quill aside and templed his fingers in front of him.
Stoner closed the door quietly behind him. ‘I wish I was ’ere to do just that, Guv’, but there’s a man at the door who gave me this note for you. Same one as was ’ere several nights ago.’ He handed a twist of paper to Charles. ‘’E won’t leave, either. Says ’e’s to wait for your answer and to escort you.’
One black brow rose as Charles took the note. He untwisted it and read the brief lines, wondering what was going on. The only reason she had to ask him to call on her was the duel. He knew she had no intention of trying to seduce him or even trying to get to know him better. She made no attempt to hide her disgust of him.
Damn Bertram Stockton for getting drunk and telling his sister of their meeting.
Charles knew she intended to ask him again not to go through with the duel. And again he intended to tell her he would. His reputation was very important to him. Not even for Emma Stockton—to make up for what George did to her—would he jeopardise it. When a man lost everything else, he still had his reputation.
But he would go and see her.
He rose and tossed the note into the fire. No one needed to know what was on that paper or where he was going, except for the servant who waited. But Stoner would know since he recognised Miss Stockton’s man.
‘Stoner, tell the man I will be along.’
Stoner watched him through narrowed eyes. ‘It’s that Emma Stockton, ain’t it?’
Charles kept his face bland. ‘Whatever gives you that idea? I get billets-doux from women all the time.’
Stoner’s scowl intensified. ‘You ignore them. She’s the only one I ain’t seen you ignore.’
Charles turned away from his valet’s regard, feeling uncomfortable for no reason he could explain. ‘Just tell the man I will be along.’
‘I don’t like it, Guv’.’
It was on the tip of Charles’s tongue to tell Stoner that he didn’t like it, either. But there was a tightness in his muscles that occurred when he was excited, usually when he was doing something even he recognised as risky. And he felt anticipation even though he knew what she wanted.
Charles jerked at the sound of the door slamming behind Stoner. The man made his displeasure felt.
But what did he himself feel about Emma Stockton, that he was willing to visit her? Desire?
He scowled. She wasn’t in his usual style. Not at all, yet he found her challenging—arousing. Images flitted through his mind: His loins tightened pleasurably.
She stood up to him, something most women failed to do. Usually, women fawned on him, not berated him. Perhaps it was her total lack of interest in him that he found intriguing. She was different, and thus presented a challenge to him.
That was it.
He wasn’t attracted to her for any reason other than he wanted to conquer her. And he would.
Having decided why he was going to do her bidding this once, he made quick work of it. Within fifteen minutes he was out of the door.
He would walk. She didn’t have a stable, and he might be staying longer than it would be comfortable to tie his horse up in front of her residence. He was many things, but he had no desire to ruin her reputation. Although people would think it was Amy he visited.
He headed out, the exercise easing some of the unexpected tension he felt. Her footman trailed behind.
It seemed an age to Emma. Night had fallen. No more coaches rumbled past the front of the house. Had Charles Hawthorne refused?
She rose and went to the door of the room. She paused with her hand on the knob. What could she do if he didn’t come?
A discreet knock made her jump back. ‘Yes?’
Gordon opened the door, his gaze going beyond her. ‘Mr Hawthorne.’
Emma scurried back into the center of the room. Relief made her knees felt weak. She certainly wasn’t reacting to the anticipation of seeing and sparring with Charles Hawthorne.
‘Show him in, please.’
The butler nodded, still not looking at her. She knew he disapproved, but she had no other choices.
Charles strode into the room, his hat in one hand and a silver embossed ebony cane in the other. He handed both to the butler and turned to her.
Her breath caught at the sight of him.
The familiar lock of hair slanted across his broad brow and his blue, nearly black, eyes sparkled. His navy coat fit smoothly across his broad shoulders, yet looked casual, as though he could take it off without his valet’s assistance. His leg muscles rippled under the snug black material of his pantaloons.
He made a perfect leg, with only a hint of mockery in his eyes. ‘Miss Stockton.’
She gulped air and managed, ‘Please be seated.’
She indicated a large chair pulled close to the roaring fire she had told Betty to make. They might be strapped for money, and Charles Hawthorne might know that, but she intended to treat him as though money were no object. Her pride would allow nothing else with this man.
Never taking his attention off her, he moved with liquid grace and sat.
‘Would you like tea or something stronger?’ She was determined to be the perfect hostess.
‘Something stronger.’
His smile was sensual and knowing, as though he imagined she had asked him here for something personal and intimate. She shook her head to clear it of such nonsensical thoughts.
‘Port?’
‘That will do.’
His tone indicated that he did not care for the wine, but he had to. Everything was prepared. ‘Do you like it?’
He shrugged. ‘It is not my favourite, but I have been known to drink it.’
She made a moue of relief. ‘It is Bertram’s favourite so it is what we have.’
‘Ah, your brother.’
His words held a wealth of distaste. She could understand how a man like Charles Hawthorne might not like her brother. He was everything Bertram was not.
‘Yes, my brother.’ She forced a false brightness into her voice. ‘He is the reason I asked you here.’
His mouth curled. ‘I thought as much.’
She held up her hand. ‘Let me call for your refreshment first.’
His dark eyes seemed to bore into her, as though he heard the falseness in her words. A frisson chased down her spine.
‘As you wish.’
Heat rose in her stomach as though she had just taken a sip of a very hot drink. It was the kind of feeling that mixed delight with discomfort. This was not going to be easy.
Only after the port and biscuits were served and Gordon gone, did Emma let herself look at her guest again. His scent of musk and bergamot perfumed the air. It was a heady combination. The man had too much influence over her body as it was.
‘You know why I asked you here.’
He nodded. ‘Of course, and I wonder that you think you can change my mind. I have already refused.’
�
��I have to try again.’ She spread her hands. ‘Bertram is not as skilled as you.’
He shrugged. ‘Then he should not have challenged me, as I told you before.’
She sighed. ‘I know, but he did. You can call it off.’
His fingers tightened on the stem of the wineglass but he took a deep drink. ‘I told you two nights ago why I won’t, Miss Stockton—Emma.’
Her stomach knotted at his familiarity even as the milky richness of his voice stroked her nerves. He was a man who knew how to tantalise a woman even as he violated Society’s conventions. ‘I did not give you permission to use my first name.’
He gave her the smile she saw him use on other women, the one that promised things proper ladies didn’t talk about. She licked dry lips and wondered why she felt as though she had lost control of this discussion.
‘No, you didn’t, but you want something very badly—something that only I can give you. I think that entitles me to a few liberties.’
Heaven help her. This moment she wanted to give him a few liberties. She shook her head to clear it of the disturbing picture of him taking her hand and then… ‘If I give you permission to address me so casually, will you call off the duel?’
He cocked one black brow. ‘I would certainly be more inclined to do so.’
She knew he had no intention of honouring any promise no matter what he said. Disappointment mingled with frustration, the mix replacing the knot of ardour in her stomach. ‘But in the end you won’t.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I won’t. I told you last night that to do so would impact unfavourably on my reputation. There have been times when my good reputation was all I had left in the world. I won’t do anything to jeopardise that.’
She could understand his reasoning, but she didn’t like it. ‘Then why did you come here when you knew what I wanted and that you would refuse?’
He drained the glass of port, poured himself another from the full decanter, and drank it in one long swallow. ‘Maybe I wondered what incentive you would offer to change my mind.’
She watched him swallow the rich red wine, her fingers curling in tension. Soon.
She transferred her attention to his face, only to have his eyes meet hers. Was that desire she saw in his? She was going crazy. A man like him would never want a woman like her. Even his brother had not wanted her, and he was not nearly as sensual as this man.
Somehow, she managed to ask, ‘And what do I have that would be enough?’
His lips pulled back to show strong white teeth as he took a deep breath. His gaze held her. She began to tremble in spite of the warmth from the fire.
‘Become my mistress.’
She gulped in surprise. She had not expected this. Deep inside she felt a liquid warmth that seemed to spread to her limbs, making her feel languid and excited. Her body was a confused mix of pleasure and anticipation even as her mind told her he had just insulted her. She turned her face so she couldn’t see his eyes darkening.
‘How dare you.’ She knew the words were inadequate. They didn’t say anything of her turmoil or of the anger she should be feeling but for some reason wasn’t feeling enough of. She had not been cold enough.
He laughed, the dark rich tone twining its way down her body to centre in her lower abdomen. She felt hot and full and disturbed in ways she had never experienced before.
He leaned forward in his chair so that he was close enough for her to see the black line that circled the navy blue of his irises. He needed a shave. The dark shadow of hair on his jaw gave him a dangerous air that tantalised her.
She edged as far back in her chair as she could go.
‘Afraid?’ he taunted her.
She pulled air into lungs that suddenly felt empty. She wished the fire was dead. She burned. Bravado was her only defense against what he did to her. ‘No.’
‘Prove it.’
She stared at him, her entire body tingling in fear…dread…or worse, anticipation. ‘What do you want?’
‘A kiss. Nothing more.’
She studied him and knew that even one kiss would be one too many. For some reason she couldn’t understand, he drew her like no other man ever had.
‘If I give you that kiss will you withdraw from the duel?’
‘So, we are back to that.’
‘I never left it.’
His smile called her a liar. He poured himself another glass of the port. ‘No, I won’t, so this conversation is over.’
Her heart skipped a beat at his nonchalant tone. He had gone from seducer to philosopher. Confusion and embarrassment engulfed her. He had thrown out the offer to see if he could discommode her, and she had shown him that he could. The wine had to work before things got worse.
He drank down his third glass and stood. He swayed slightly.
She froze. Was it working?
‘I am beginning to feel funny.’ His voice was fuzzy.
‘For not liking port, you are doing a credible job of consuming it.’ She managed to make her voice acerbic instead of showing the anticipation she felt. ‘Perhaps you have had enough.’
He stumbled and suspicion twisted his features. ‘Have you done something to this wine?’
She hid her sigh of relief behind a cough. ‘You have drunk so much.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I have finished five bottles of wine before and walked home.’
‘You mean, stumbled home.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I got home. Now with just three glasses of port I am getting dizzy.’ He took a step towards her. ‘What did you put in it?’
He towered over her, his powerful body limned by the fire behind him. The breadth of his shoulders quickened her pulse. His black hair tumbled over his forehead. His eyelids slanted across dark eyes.
She licked dry lips. ‘A sleeping draught.’
‘I had not thought you the devious sort.’
His words were barely slurred, but it was there. Soon he would sit back down. She found herself truly sorry to have done this to him. But he had left her no choice.
‘I have done what I had to. I have to protect Bertram.’
His laugh was harsh. ‘If he felt the same way about you and your sister, you would not have had to do anything.’
The words were like a sharp barb that stuck in the space below her heart. ‘That is neither here nor there.’
He sank back into the chair he had just left, looking disheveled, even vulnerable. For an instant the urge to brush the hair from his forehead nearly overwhelmed her. This was the man who had insulted her by asking her to become his mistress. This was not a man who needed her comforting.
‘What are you going to do with me?’
She watched him. ‘I am going to secure you somewhere until the time for the duel is past. I believe it will only be three days.’
He shook his head only to stop abruptly and close his eyes for a moment. Opening them, he said, ‘I told you I don’t intend to hurt him.’
‘I can’t take the chance.’
‘You could try trusting me.’
Even in his drugged state, he managed to affect her. She really wanted to trust him, but she dared not. So far, she had not been able to trust any man in her life. Not her father or brother or Charles’s brother. No, she dared not believe he would delope. She couldn’t take the chance he would seriously hurt her brother.
His eyes closed and his mouth relaxed. The tension drained from the muscles in his face.
She moved to the fireplace and pulled the tattered bell cord to summon the men who waited in the kitchen. Soon he would be asleep, if he wasn’t already.
Mama had slept quickly after receiving the draught. Emma had remembered that and sent Betty that afternoon to the chemist to get the medicine. Mama would not approve of what she had just done, but that could not be helped.
Gordon and David didn’t knock. They entered quickly, knowing she expected them.
‘Quickly,’ she said, ‘tie his hands. We don’t know how long he will be aff
ected.’
David whistled low. ‘How much did he drink?’
She twisted her hands together, beginning to think he had taken too much. ‘Three glasses.’
Gordon stared at Charles. ‘He must have the constitution of an ox. I put the entire bottle in that decanter. I would have expected him to pass out sooner.’
Emma gasped. ‘He said he could consume a great deal of wine.’
The footman shook his head. ‘And anything else, miss.’
For the first time, fear that she might hurt him made her uneasy. She had never meant to harm him. Only make him easier to subdue.
She narrowed her eyes to better see if Charles’s chest rose and fell. His white cravat fluttered and relief made her giddy. He was fine.
‘Is the upstairs room ready?’ Her voice was harsher than she intended. She told herself it was not relief for Charles Hawthorne but edginess over what she was doing.
Betty slipped into the room. ‘Yes, miss.’ She glanced at their prisoner. ‘I started a fire, seeing as he won’t be feeling well.’
‘Of course.’ Emma could not begrudge him the warmth since it was her doing that put Charles Hawthorne into this position. ‘Perhaps we should bind his wrists to be safe. I have heard he practices at Gentleman Jackson’s on a regular basis.’
The footman’s eyebrows rose. ‘He’s a regular bruiser, ain’t he?’
Gordon lifted one of Charles’s eyes. ‘He is completely under, miss. I don’t think we need to worry about anything but getting him up to the attic room.’
‘You are probably right.’
Still, apprehension ate at her. He would be a formidable adversary if he awakened before they were ready. As it was, they would have to secure him to the bed.
She watched as the footman took his shoulders and the aging butler took his feet. Charles Hawthorne was a well-muscled man and he had to be heavy. For Gordon’s sake, she wished they had a second footman to help, but they did not.
What seemed ages later, she followed them into the attic room in time to see them lay her prisoner on his back on the bed. Charles didn’t blink or in any way indicate he was aware. She pulled two silk stockings from her pocket and handed them to David.
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