Nicholas turned.
Henley peeled her hand off his arm and tucked it into the crook of his own. “Miss Payne’s next dance is spoken for by me.”
Chapter 20
Emily licked her lips, her mouth dry as bleached bones, though she’d just drunk a full glass of punch. In the midst of the dozens of dress coats filling the ballroom, only two interested her. Her eyes shot from Mr. Henley, to Nicholas, then back again. Both set their jaws, but Nicholas’s held a sharper edge, his challenge loud, though he said nothing. He simply stood, shoulders back, stance wide. She’d never been to a cockfight before, but she now understood the desire to wager, for she’d bet all her money on Nicholas were a scuffle to break out.
Which is exactly why she pressed her fingers into Mr. Henley’s sleeve and smiled up into his face. “The music has already started. Shall we?”
“I protest!” Mr. Shadwell whined like a tot who’d been told no. “Clearly, I was here first.”
Nicholas glowered at the man. Shadwell blanched and took a full step back. Why had the ninny dared approach her so boldly?
“You are mistaken, sir, for I accompanied Miss Payne to this ball in the first place.” Nicholas cocked his head, studying Shadwell as he might a bit of manure on his shoe. “Furthermore, I defend the lady’s prerogative to dance with whomever she wishes.”
He turned to her then. So direct was his gaze, she might very well be the only other person in the room. He lifted his brow, and once again the strange sensation of time stilling wrapped over her bare shoulders like a whisper.
She swallowed.
Next to her, Mr. Henley opened his mouth, but Nicholas held up a hand. Could he command a storm to stop as well? “Miss Payne, is it your wish to dance with Mr. Henley?”
Moisture prickled across her forehead, her palms, the crease behind her knees. It was a simple enough question, but the implications were legion.
She cleared her throat, looking—hoping—for words. Was he trying to bully her into defying him? Or killing her with kindness?
“Yes.” It was the only logical reply. The right answer. One to which she shouldn’t give a second thought.
So why did her voice sound empty? Her heart turn cold?
Fighting back a shiver, she coerced her lips into a smile then turned and allowed Mr. Henley to lead her across the room to the end of the dance line. Her guardian’s eyes burned into her back with every step. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that, other than acknowledge the little flip in her stomach that she couldn’t control—and try to ignore how lifeless her hand felt on Henley’s arm instead of resting on Nicholas’s warm sleeve.
With her free hand, she massaged her temple. This was insufferable. Finally, her chance to sway Mr. Henley into pursuing her, and she brooded like a moon-eyed schoolgirl over Nicholas Brentwood, Bow Street Runner. What was wrong with her?
Mr. Henley patted her hand and shot her a sideways smile. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”
“You have?” She gazed up at him, searching his eyes. Nothing inside her tingled or zinged or…anything, really.
And when had she started to prefer green over blue?
She forced her smile to deepen. “What I mean to say, sir, is that I, too, have been waiting for this moment. I am honored you sought me out.”
But her smile faded as they swept past the dancers and out the door, leaving the ballroom behind. Mr. Henley’s pat on her hand turned into a strong-fingered grip.
Her brow puckered. “Have the Garveys added on a new ballroom elsewhere?”
“Not that I know of.” He led her down the stairway, slipping her a glance from the corner of his eye. “I merely wanted to have a word with you. Alone. Without your guard dog.”
“Mr. Brentwood is not my…” The rebuttal lay like a heap of ashes on her tongue. Wasn’t that exactly what her father paid him for? What kind of dolt was she to have feelings for a man who was little better than a servant, if indeed the odd sensations were anything other than some tea that didn’t set well in her stomach?
As they sped along, she stole glances at Mr. Henley. Centuries of money echoed in his steps. Aristocracy fit him as neatly as his imported Italian shoes and fine silk shirt. The spicy scent of costly cedar aftershave tweaked her nose. Here was a true gentleman, one with wealth, connections, poise. A future.
Her slippers patted double-time to his long strides. Faces blurred past. Conversations blended into a dull roar, and her lungs started to burn. “I object, sir! Must we go this fast?”
“Sorry.” Yet his pace belied his apology. He strode out the open french doors, across the veranda, and descended the steps into the garden.
“Mr. Henley, really!” She yanked her hand from the crook of his elbow and pressed it to her chest, gasping. “I can barely breathe.”
Behind them, torches twinkled. Ahead, nothing but hedgerows stood black against the night sky, soaking up the moonlight between them. Clearly the party ended at the veranda.
Henley stretched out his hand. “Come along, my dear. There’s a seat, not much farther.”
The queasiness in her stomach increased, not unlike the sensation when she’d escaped the captain’s advances late last summer. Surely, though, this was different.
Wasn’t it?
Slowly, she smoothed her hands along her skirt, shoving down memories. “I don’t think I should—”
“Honestly, Miss Payne. I’ve seen you alone countless times with Mr. Brentwood.” Mr. Henley’s teeth glinted in the faint torch glow reaching this far from the festivities. “Surely you won’t hesitate to sit with me.”
Emily frowned. “You forget, sir, that Mr. Brentwood is my cousin.”
“Is he?”
A chill leeched up through her slippers. “What is that supposed to mean?”
His upper lip quirked. His gaze cut to his offered hand then back to her.
Should she? Wasn’t this what she’d hoped for all along? So why did her slippers drag as she stepped forward?
Bella’s warnings, Nicholas’s concerns, her own gut feelings screamed an alarm, but Mr. Henley’s grip engulfed her glove, pulling her along. His grin flashed white in the darkness, skeleton-like. He led her deeper into the garden, along a path lined on one side with boxwoods as tall as her head.
Ten more paces and he stopped. Letting go of her hand, he inclined his head to an alcove cut into the hedge. A small wrought-iron bench nestled in the recess. Torchlight didn’t stretch this far. Music and voices and laughter lapped at the far edges of the night.
“Please, have a seat.” Henley’s tone was mild, his gesture non-offensive.
Still, her heartbeat pulsed through her veins and throbbed in her wrists. Clearly he had much to say, for her ears alone, or he never would have brought her here. Something as important as a proposal, perhaps? But if it weren’t, was the risk to her reputation worth otherwise?
What to do?
She lowered to the cold metal and lifted her face to where he stood. Shadows hid his expression, making it impossible to guess at his emotions. La, she could barely name her own.
But she could guess. “Are you cross about the coffee-shop incident? I assure you—”
“On the contrary.” His words ended with a small laugh. He sank next to her, his outer thigh pressing against hers. “I am delighted it happened.”
She scooted away from him until the arm of the bench cut into her side. “Why would you say such a thing? Mr. Brentwood embarrassed you in no small way, sir.”
“Ahh.” He nodded, and a swath of his hair fell forward on his brow. “But you see, Miss Payne, it made me realize just how much I want you.”
In one swift movement, he closed the distance between them, bringing with him the smell of pomade and desire. His breath fanned over her cheeks as he pulled her into his arms. “Emily, there is something I should like to ask you.”
She bit her lip. This was it, exactly what she’d wanted. What she’d been waiting for. Working toward. Counted on as the v
ery beginning of her new life.
Or was it?
His lips crushed against hers, forceful, seeking. Bruising. She wrenched from him, wriggling to free one hand.
Then she slapped him for all she was worth.
“Please, Mr. Brentwood?”
Though it was hardly more than a whisper, Miss Bella Grayson’s request piggybacked on the vibrato of a cello string, pulling Nicholas’s scrutiny from the dance floor. Next to him, the pleading eyes of Emily’s redheaded friend sought his as Mr. Shadwell reached for her hand.
“I know ’tis a great honor I bestow upon you, Miss Grayson.” Shadwell’s head bobbed, as did the flap of skin beneath his chin. “I understand your hesitance to dance with a proficient light-foot such as myself. But don’t let it overwhelm you, my dear. I often have that effect.”
“It’s simply not possible for me to say yes, Mr. Shadwell.” Bella Grayson slipped to Nicholas’s other side, putting him smack between her and Shadwell’s big belly.
Casting a last glance over his shoulder—and seeing no flash of Emily’s golden dress nor Henley’s blue suit among the dancers—Nicholas flexed his jaw. Perhaps he could save a damsel in distress and gain a better view of Emily at the same time. He turned and offered his arm to Miss Grayson while speaking to Shadwell. “What the lady is so graciously trying to say, sir, is that she’s dancing with me.”
Bella’s fingers clung to the curve of his forearm like a drowning woman clutching a life preserver. Nicholas led her to the end of the dance line, leaving Shadwell blustering a few I nevers and a distinct who’d have thought.
As Miss Grayson took her place, she smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Brentwood. You saved my life.”
“Happy to be of service, but in all honesty, I must admit ulterior motives.” He stood opposite her and scanned the row of merrymakers as the lead couple skipped down the center. Not Emily or Henley, but a flash of gold at the other end of the line blazed for a moment like a shooting star.
As he and Bella sidestepped, moving up the line, Bella leaned toward him. “I can’t help but notice your preoccupation with Emily. Why did you let Mr. Henley sweep her away from you?”
“You heard her. She wished it.” He bowed as the next couple skipped down the middle, hating the frivolous steps. Whoever invented such a ridiculous custom in the first place? Still, Magistrate Ford’s requirement of logging hours with a dancing master came in handy for assignments such as this—he’d give the man that.
“Pardon me for my boldness, Mr. Brentwood, but you don’t strike me as one who easily gives in to a woman’s whims.” Bella arched a perfectly curved brow as she circled him then stepped back to face him. “And by now you’ve surely discovered that Emily is often whimsical.”
He suppressed a snort. That put it more than mildly. “You are perceptive, Miss Grayson.”
Dipping right then left, he held the position a second longer than decorum allowed, gaining another glimpse of gold from the far end—and a glower from the woman next to him.
“So, why did you?” Bella’s question circled around him, and then she paused, once more standing in front of him. “Allow Emily to dance with Mr. Henley, I mean.”
“Not only perceptive but determined, hmm?” He retreated two steps, as did she, allowing yet another couple to hop-skip down the inner aisle.
“And your answer is?” Bella smiled sweetly as they sidestepped up another rank.
Nicholas couldn’t help but grin back. Bow Street could use as dogged a pursuer as this one. Flannery could even learn a thing or two from her. “I meant to keep Miss Payne occupied and somewhat corralled. Mr. Henley was simply a means to that end.”
A flash sparked at the edge of his sight. He craned his neck forward then back, straining to see past the other dancers for a glimpse of Emily’s golden skirt—but even without looking, the tightening of his chest confirmed what he already knew.
She was gone.
Nicholas broke the line, calling to Bella as he swept past her. “Excuse me, Miss Grayson.”
A sharp tug on his sleeve turned him around.
“Hear me out, Mr. Brentwood.” Bella stood tiptoe, garnering raised brows for her bold behavior. She leaned nearer, ensuring his ears alone would hear. “I’m not sure what Emily means to you, but I speak with a certain knowledge that she means nothing to Mr. Henley. Pray do not let her be alone with the man. Ever. He is not to be trusted.” He nodded, her words echoing in time to his heartbeat as he wheeled about. Of course, he couldn’t be certain it was Henley who’d led Emily away, but for now, he must assume. He descended the stairs two at a time and scanned the reception hall before his shoe hit the last tread. No gold. No Henley.
His search of the sitting room ended with giggling girls and several wagging fingers from their matrons, but no Emily.
A huge buffet had been set up in the ground-floor promenade. Tables of food, ices, punch fountains, and ornate pastry towers stretched the length of an entire wall, but not one gilt-threaded skirt swayed among the rainbow of colors. Suddenly his cravat didn’t just smother. It choked. Tugging it loose, he reentered the reception hall and shot down a different corridor. Pianoforte music poured out an open door at the far end, followed by applause. A swarm of heads began to enter the hallway—tricky to dissect at eye level.
But not atop a chair.
Backtracking, Nicholas dashed down the hall and swung into a small sitting area, sporting a table, two side chairs—
And Millie Barker.
“I thought I saw you pass this way.” She stepped toward him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You’re just the man I was looking for.”
“It will have to wait, Miss Barker.” He sidestepped her and grabbed one of the chairs.
“Such theatrics, sir. Planning on taming a lion, are you?”
Behind him, laughter and footsteps grew louder. He strained his ears. Did any voice carry Emily’s light tone?
Nothing about Millie’s tone, however, could be construed as light. “Put down the chair, Mr. Brentwood.”
“I’ve not the time!” He turned. If he didn’t get out there now, he’d miss his chance.
Millie shot around him. “Not so fast, sir. I have some information you might like to hear.”
Beyond her, couples began to stroll past the double-wide doorway. Nicholas frowned down at her. “Not now!”
“La, I should think you’d like to hear this now.” She batted her eyelashes, though her attempt at innocence merely annoyed him further.
She mumbled something, but he shoved past her. Only when he cleared the threshold of the sitting area did her words strike home. He pivoted back around. “What did you say?”
Sconce light sharpened the bones of Millie’s cheeks, the skin nearest her eyes creasing as she smiled. “I said, Mr. Brentwood, that I know what happened to Emily’s father.” Her smile widened with her nod. “I know exactly what happened to Mr. Payne.”
Chapter 21
How dare you!” Emily drew back her fingers, palm stinging. Her anger pooled on Mr. Henley’s cheek in the shape of a small handprint, visible even in the spare moonlight. She shot to her feet, swallowing the lump in her throat, unsure if it tasted like fear or relief.
She’d never doubt Bella or Nicholas again.
Fire sparked in Henley’s eyes. Before she could run to the sanctuary of the Garveys’ ballroom, his arm snaked out. Strong fingers dug into her forearm, trapping her in place. Shadows hid half his face, the other half lit with a grin. A feral cat could have produced none better.
“I wager Brentwood has dared more than a simple kiss, my dear.” His tone was sensuous. The way his eyes skimmed over her, defiling.
“Beast!” She yanked her arm, but his grasp tightened. “Let me go!”
“So quickly? I think not…not when it’s taken me this long to get you alone. It is my understanding, Miss Payne, that you’ve wished for this all along.”
“Wished for what? Brutality? Humiliation? You are mistaken.” She tugged, yet his fin
gers bit deeper, drilling into the barely healed wounds beneath her glove.
Suppressing a wince, she glowered down at him. “Millie may have given in to your charms, sir, but I am not Millie. And you are no gentleman!”
With one swift yank, he twisted and pulled. Her bottom hit the metal bench so hard her teeth juddered, and for an instant, tiny dots of light danced like fireflies in the night.
“Must you insist upon such drama?” His fingers slid up her arm then clamped onto the back of her neck, holding her in place. “Should we not talk this over like civilized human beings?”
“There’s nothing civil about you.” She arched away from his nearness—but was blocked by the arm of steel at her back. “And I have nothing to say, other than to repeat, let me go!”
Her voice bounced from boxwood to boxwood, the effect muffled and impotent. The alcove they sat in closed in on her, as stifling as the heat from Henley’s body as he pulled her closer—oppressive as the captain who’d done the same last summer.
He reached up and caressed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I have it on good account that it is your intent to marry this season.”
She jerked her face aside. “Are you daft? So it is for half the women in London.”
“I’ve also heard…” He leaned in, nuzzling her neck. His voice was a hot whisper. “That I am your intended prey.”
She froze. Only Bella, Millie, and Nicholas were privy to that information—and she was pretty sure which one had told.
“I entertained such a notion…once.” She sharpened her voice to a razor’s edge. “But no longer. And I’ll thank you to remove your hands.”
Wriggling in Henley’s arms, she gained a tiny amount of space as his head drew back. Why had she ever thought him handsome? Worse, why had she ever thought him the only one who could make her happy? As much as she hated to admit it, Bella and Nicholas had been right, and the truth slapped her with as much force as the mark she’d left on Henley’s cheek. The perfectly fitted suit in front of her housed nothing but the bones of a rake. His gaze violated to a depth that sank low in her stomach, and she shivered.
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