Meet My Love at Midnight (Midnight Meetings Book 5)

by Gina Conkle

  “Dance with me, and I will answer truthfully.”

  “I don’t dance,” he ground out. “I thought you understood that.”

  She cast a glance down the hallway past the kitchens. Ryland’s study and the family library were down that hallway. “I could teach you. One dance.”

  His balled-up hand on his hip tightened. The knuckles turned white. Brilliant chandeliers showed his tiredness. He’d worked all day while she and others like her reclined in luxury. What was she thinking? He must want his home, to remove his boots, put his feet up before a fire, and—

  “I’ll do it.” Emerson grabbed her elbow, his long stride leading them to the quiet end of Ryland House.

  She trotted to keep up. They whisked past the dining room, past the hallway leading to the kitchen, past two ferns on tall pedestals meant to discourage party-goers from venturing down this hall. Emerson’s profile was a stoic line against beige walls. Overhead lush murals of pastoral bliss covered ceiling panels, creating a wonderland of elegance. Evergreen boughs decorated ledges in this empty section. Red bows had been tied to the chandeliers. Mistletoe dangled from one of them.

  Mr. Emerson stopped underneath it, his mouth a hard line. “Start the dance lessons.”

  He was not in the kissing mood.

  She smoothed her skirts. The stoic thief taker was with her. Not the sensual flirt. It would take some work to lure him out again, but feminine intuition told her he was just under the surface.

  “Very well. We’ll start with an allemande.” She stepped beside him. “Tap your toe forward like this and turn to greet me.”

  The thief taker executed an excellent point and turned to greet her.

  “Next,” she began. “A light hop to one side, like a spring is in your step, and then a hop back in place so that I take a turn under our upraised arms.”

  His bow was perfect. “My first question.”

  Dread roiled her stomach. She stared at the beige wall, hopping to one side with him. It was time to pay her due.

  “Why me?” he asked.

  She bobbled the second hop. Her head whipped sideways. Hazel-green eyes sparkled, alive and penetrating.

  “Problem with the spring in your step, milady?”

  Hands at her side, she absorbed him. Questions and answers winged through her head like arrows. His Why me? wasn’t among them.

  Emerson extended a hand, palm up. “Aren’t you supposed to take a turn under our upraised hands?”

  “I didn’t expect…” her words trailed off. Her pulsed beat faster. More like a cornered rabbit considering fight or flight.

  “You didn’t expect that to be my first question.”

  She set her hand in his. “No.”

  Long, cool fingers enveloped hers. Dancing lessons were going to be harder than she thought. Jack Emerson was not a man to be managed.

  “Because my questions was of a person nature…about us.”

  Darkness pooled in the depths of his eyes. Exactly what a mortal woman would find if Roman god came to trifle with her, and she was ripe for trifling.

  Emerson guided her twirl under their upraised arms. A rough execution that go the job done. Her heart raced. It throbbed in her ears. He wanted her bare, naked desires and all.

  “Why you,” she repeated, eyeing beige walls. “Because most people think being a wealthy widow is freedom. To an extent, it is. I make my own rules and run my own house. I have no one to gain say me. That is one side of my independence.” She faced him. “The other is an empty bed.”

  Auburn lashes dipped half over his eyes. “I’d wager you could crook your finger to any man in that ballroom and find a man to fill your bed.”

  “That’s the rub, Mr. Emerson. I don’t want any man.” She hesitated. The world spun. “I want you.”

  He gulped air.

  Eyes like sharp pieces of glass, Emerson walked her backward into an alcove. Violins and laughter drifted down the hall. Her skin was hot and needy. So was her mouth wanting his. Emerson’s hips planted her to the wall. He braced the wall with one hand. The other caressed her shoulder, sending sweet shivers to skin between her legs.

  The moment of truth had come. What kind of lover was Mr. Jack Emerson?

  Fast and passionate? Or leisured and careful?

  His gaze riveted on her shoulder. Skin pebbled under his stare.

  “I’m a draper’s daughter,” she volunteered. “I spent my childhood in Vintner’s Ward.”

  Male nostrils flared. One fingertip traced an unhurried line along her collarbone. “Your skin…it’s like silk.”

  Her nipples tightened to painful points. The heel of his hand grazed her breast and words tumbled from her mouth.

  “I, I married my first husband because my family needed the money.” Her velvet-clad bottom ground against the alcove wall.

  His wandering finger tugged velvet down her shoulder. She gasped. No seam ripped. The ball of her shoulder barely showed but Emerson feasted on the sight of it. Took his time. No rucking up her skirts for a fast tup. He could seduce her with his intense stare alone. No other lover’s skill needed.

  “I…” she caught her breath and grabbed the open ends of his coat. “I was alone tonight because I always am.” Forlorn notes pitched higher. “Because I won’t…I won’t settle.”

  Emerson kissed her shoulder. A light kiss. A wisp of mouth on skin. As sweet as it was sultry. Slightly open-mouthed yet enough to tantalize nerves she didn’t know she had. Unusual places reacted to his breath on her neck and shoulder. Goosebumps skimmed her ribs. Stomach muscles tensed. So did her calves as she pushed up on her toes.

  He was bent on slowly undoing her.

  His mouth was on her shoulder. This time the tip of his tongue licked her.

  Her legs gave. Emerson caught her by the waist. He grinded himself against her. She grinded back. A languorous rubbing of his body and hers. The slowness. Almost painful because of desire pooling…everywhere.

  Velvet slid over shot silk underskirts and rough wool breeches. Her thighs wobbled. Buttons on his coat dug into her palms. She’d tear his coat if she wasn’t careful. His gentle attack on her shoulder didn’t let up. The thief taker rained kisses on her collar bone. The base of her neck.

  Ohhhh…and the top of her breast.

  “Your kisses,” she huffed. “Don’t stop.”

  “I couldn’t sweetheart. Even if I tried.” His Irish brogue was lyrical.

  Emerson pushed the sleeve down another inch and kissed her shoulder again. Reverently. As if that part of her needed a good, worshipful kiss.

  Her breasts ached, confined in velvet, a corset, and a shift. Her bodice barely covered the one breast. She was in chaos but hardly moved. Both nipples hurt. Skin on her thighs prickled hotly. And he dabbed her shoulder with the tip of his tongue, sliding a warm wet line to the dip where her shoulder met her chest.

  Emerson was tasting her in a dim alcove.

  What would happen if he tasted another area?

  His mouth covered hers. A good thing, because she almost blurted out that rather bold question. She took command of the kiss and sucked the tip of his tongue. Emerson was warm cinnamon, spicy cloves, and a hint of orange zest from mulled wine. How exotic for an unexotic man. He groaned, grabbing a handful of her skirt with one hand and her falling sleeve with the other.

  Forcefulness washed over her. It bounced between them, a vibrating cord. Slow and heated. Desperate and deep. Passionate touches on her sleeve, her skirt. There was longing too.

  Emerson was giving in. Their kisses lingered as if they would explore all the thousand ways their mouths could connect. He pulled away, leaving scant inches between his nose and hers. Auburn brows pinched two lines above his nose. Emerson had her flat against the wall.

  She tasted him in her mouth.

  His erection rubbed her. The har
dness. The solid length. She let go of his coat and squeezed her hand between their bodies and found his placket. The heel of her hand stroked him. Wool scratched her palm. Auburn strands fell across his face, a mask of a man losing himself to pleasure. Up and down her hand went to the music of violins.

  “I want you,” she whispered hoarsely. “In my bed…my home…”

  “Is it time to douse these candles?” A woman’s voice intruded down the hall.

  Emerson tensed from head to toe. Isabella held her breath.

  “At midnight, yes.” Belker’s voice echoed.

  “It’s just past, sir.”

  The butler chuckled. “Then fetch Morton and Sims to let down the chandeliers. And no funny business under the one with mistletoe.”

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  Once their footfalls faded, Isabella exhaled, sagging against the wall. “That was close.”

  Emerson let go of her. He was breathing hard. His placket tented, and his eyes had a wild quality. Glassy-eyed and feverish. His queue was nearly undone.

  She reached for him. “Your hair…”

  “No.” His voice sliced the air.

  She recoiled. Her skin cooled and she hugged herself. He studied her in the same manner he studied people of questionable character, people he was hired to track down and bring to justice.

  “This,” he said, hand arcing between them. “It can’t be, milady.”

  Jack Emerson turned on his heel and left without a word.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Her big bed was properly warmed, thanks to Neddie, the best lady’s maid in all of London. Hot coals glowed on the grate. Lavender-scented sheets covered her. Isabella lived in the lap of luxury.

  Alone. And hot and bothered.

  She rolled over and mashed her face into her pillow. “What a miserable night.”

  A tear sprang from the inside the corner of her eye. Why did the first tear hurt so? It was like a needle poking skin. Was it because she wasn’t used to crying? Because she’d formed an outer shell around her person? And now emotions were cracking their way out?

  She curled up like a babe, pulled the covers over her head, and hugged a pillow. An ache filled her. The sharpness of it. She’d confessed her loneliness to the one man she wanted—a man who didn’t want her.

  His eyes… So distant. But it was his voice. So cold. A shiver wafted down her spine.

  How quickly she’d escaped Ryland House with all its festive cheer. Belker must’ve sensed she was in a bad place because the butler couldn’t bring a carriage ‘round fast enough for her. The good man tucked her into a Ryland carriage with orders to the coachman to take her home immediately. Once home, she nearly ripped off her gown.

  She hunkered deeper under the covers—

  Plink.

  Her head popped out from the counterpane. Her unbraided hair was a black curtain she brushed aside. Light beamed from the streetlamp across the floor. Neddie didn’t close all the curtains.

  Plink. Plink.

  The noises were at her window. Plink. Plink. Plink. Tiny pebbles sprayed the glass.

  “What’s this?” She climbed out of bed and sped to her window.

  On the street below, a lone horseman waited. A tall figure of a man in a black tricorn. A man who sat a horse well and turned feminine heads. Lamplight cast a kind glow on hazel-green eyes searching her bed chamber window.

  She pushed open the sash and leaned out. Cold air riffled her shift. Long black hair draped one shoulder as she rested both elbows on the frame.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the man who never knocks on lady’s bed chamber windows.”

  “I never have. Until tonight.”

  Fingertips touched her chest. “Should I be honored?”

  His mouth was a hard slash…at least the part she could see. His collar was flipped high, hiding much of his face. Did he come to rub salt in her wound? Or was this about his position with Bow Street?

  “Don’t worry, I won’t report you to Sir John for kissing me.” She reached for the sash.

  “Wait! I’m not here for that.”

  “Keep your voice down,” she hissed, poking her head outside. “You’ll wake the neighbors.”

  He walked his horse directly under her window. “I have one more question.”

  “We’re quite through with our game of questions.”

  Emerson’s gaze locked with hers. “I have to know. Did you mean it?”

  She couldn’t back away. Need was in his voice. It hit her. Precise. On target. Delivering a strange blow. She’d been shot in the thigh once. A hunter with poor aim and a poorer command of pistols was at fault. She’d survived because the lead ball went clean through. But Jack Emerson lobbed a shot that stuck.

  “I should hate you for that.”

  “Hate’s a strong word.”

  “Passion runs strong in my family.”

  A smile split auburn whiskers. “Hate me like you did in the alcove sweetheart, and I’m yours. Forever.”

  His brogue curled her toes. She bent lower out the window. Emerson’s horse snorted and stomped the ground, impatient with the goings on.

  “You mean it?” Her voice was an embarrassing squeak.

  “Yours is the only window I’ve sought.”

  Her fingernails gouged thin crescents in the window frame. Jack Emerson needed her. Even more he wanted her to need him.

  “Stable your horse in the mews. I’ll meet you in the courtyard.”

  His grin was cocky. “All the better to let me in.”

  “To the mews with you,” she laughed and shut the sash.

  Searching her wardrobe, she found an old gown of practical wool and slipped it over her head. The back gaped open. Wine stains mottled the skirt. It was from her days working in her father’s wine shop. An interesting choice for a woman who left the merchant class and now wanted to find her way back in.

  She ran through her plush hallway, down the stairs, through the kitchen to the back door opening to the mews. Jack Emerson waited, hat in hand, for her. She opened the door and jumped into his arms. She wrapped both arms around his neck and both legs hugged his body. Big, calloused hands slipped inside the opening at the back of her worker woman’s gown. She kissed Jack soundly on the mouth.

  A full kiss. Fast and passionate. A mashing of lips. Nothing pretty. Whiskers scratched her cheeks. Her face would be pink tomorrow because there would be more kissing. Lots of it. And little sleep.

  Jack held her in the quiet courtyard, his gaze sliding to her carriage missing a wheel. “That’s why you took a hack tonight.”

  “The wheel broke this morning.”

  He hummed thoughtfully. “It was a gift.”

  She hugged him tighter. “A Christmas gift because you never know what will come. Misfortune in the morning could be a boon late at night.”

  Her legs relaxed until her toes touched cold cobblestones. Emerson’s hair was neatly combed. Head tipped up, he whistled softly, taking in her town house.

  “My home is in Hammersmith.”

  “You mean you won’t live here.”

  “I’m a simple man. I keep long hours and work a dangerous job.” Mouth firm, he turned his hat with both hands. “I would love you deeply, thoroughly…forever—” his arms stretched wide “—if you’d have me.”

  “If I’d have you?” She took his hand and led him to the back door. “Let me take you upstairs and show you all the ways I love you, Jack Emerson.”

  He stopped her at the threshold, his eyes piercing the darkness. “You’re certain of this? Of us?”

  “From the first time you smirked at me.” Unruly hair fell across her face.

  Jack traced her hairline and tucked the locks behind her ear. It was a small touch, yet it spoke of tenderness. A lifetime of it. There would be gossip. Doors once opened to
her would close. She was a woman who rose in Society’s ranks and willingly chose to walk down that social ladder to marry this man.

  She hugged him close. “Touch me like you just did all the days we’re man and wife. Talk to me, knowing we’re equal partners. Laugh with me when I’m foolish, and we’ll be so very happy together.”

  His brogue was a perfect whisper in her ear. “You have my solemn oath. I will love you. Always.”

  And that was the beginning of their long and passionate tale.

  The End

  BOOK LIST

  Midnight Meetings series

  (Georgian romance)

  Meet the Earl at Midnight, Book 1

  The Lady Meets Her Match, Book 2

  The Lord Meets His Lady, Book 3

  Meet a Rogue at Midnight, Book 4 (a novella)

  Meet My Love at Midnight, book 5 (a short story)

  Look for three more full length Midnight Meetings series books in 2018 and 2019.

  The Scoundrel Meets His Match, Book 6

  When a Marquis Meets a Woman, Book 7

  Meet the Gentleman at Midnight, Book 8

  Norse series

  (Viking romance)

  Norse Jewel, Book 1

  To Find a Viking Treasure, Book 2

  To Steal a Viking Bride, Book 2.5 (a free short story)

  Forgotten Sons series

  (Viking romance)

  Kept by the Viking, Book 1 (May 2018)

  Her Viking Warrior, Book 2 (Sept. 2018)

  Her Viking Warrior, Book 3 (Jan. 2019)

  AUTHOR BIO

  Gina’s fate was sealed when her mom read aloud ‘The Highwayman.’ She was doomed to love history and romance. Growing up she was a little different. The same is true of her writer’s path. Some days she pens sensual Georgian romance full of sparkle and grit. Other days she writes evocative Viking romance full of adventure and heat. Gina grew up in sunny, southern California but now lives in Michigan with her husband and their two almost-grown sons where snow days are perfect for reading and writing.

  Connect with her in these places:

  Website Follow her on BookBub Follow her Amazon Author Page