“What you’ve done with your life is remarkable. You’re a regular Midas.” Alex stood and refilled his cup. “It’s time to move on.”
Nick threw the now-wrinkled prospectus back on the desk. “It gives me great pleasure to be in trade. Whenever I’m on the wharf or in a coffeehouse conducting business, I think of Renton. I hope his skin crawls knowing his one and only ducal heir is in the philistine world of commerce.” Nick twisted his mouth in a false smile. “Besides, can one ever have enough money?”
“You need more than money.” Alex leveled a look that would frighten a weaker person to do his bidding. “Don’t look back years from now and discover you’ve turned into a bitter replica of your father.”
“I’m content.”
“You already sound like an eighty-year-old man.” Alex quirked an eyebrow but was earnest. “Come with us tonight to Lady Emory’s ball. Lady Emma is joining us.”
Nick let Pembrooke’s words fade into silence. When would the man realize he was a hopeless cause? “I’m not interested.”
In one swallow, Alex finished the second cup. “You always seem a little more, how shall I say, animated when she’s present.”
“Lady Emma?” Nick hid his unease by pretending to study another prospectus. A prickly heat crept up his neck when he realized the document was upside down. He let it fall from his hands and considered sharing his discovery of Emma at Goodwin’s, but decided against it. Her coy reserve intrigued him enough to keep her secret, at least for another day or so.
“She’s highly entertaining at a social event.” Alex reclaimed his chair. “With a simple exchange, she can have any man tied up in knots. Her political acuity reminds me of her father.”
“Your ideas of amusement are questionable,” Nick reprimanded. Suddenly, “tied up in knots” summoned all sorts of salacious images—neck clothes, silk ties, and Emma tied to his bed with her skin flushed the same lovely pink shade that colored her cheeks when she’d studied his stature at Goodwin’s. He picked up the prospectus again to sweep the picture from his mind.
“Seek her out.” Pembrooke grinned. “You’d learn a great deal from her. Speaking of which, take a look at this for me, will you?” He pulled a document from his morning coat and threw it on Nick’s desk. “Tell me what you think. Emma presented a plan to create a bank for women to Claire. My wife’s enthralled with the idea and wants to invest in it.”
“I’d be happy to.” This plan of hers would be the perfect excuse for a visit. After what he’d discovered at Goodwin’s, it would be an excellent investment of his time to have a little chat with the minx. Emma didn’t disclose she was looking for a particular book. If she thought she’d go gavotting to Portsmouth for a damned pirate queen’s diary, he’d do his damnedest to end her merry dance. He’d already sent word to Goodwin he wanted the pirate’s diary for her.
The mathematical tie of his cravat started to squeeze like a boa constrictor around his neck. In a predictable manner, the tightness occurred every time he discussed Emma. “She’ll be there tonight?”
“Yes, with Daphne.” Pembrooke appeared oblivious to the tumult playing havoc in Nick’s mind. “It’s no secret Emma’s struggling with her friend Lady Aulton’s death. She’ll be mortified when she hears the latest. Apparently, Aulton’s seeking another engagement.” Pembrooke exhaled. “Well, if you’re not interested in Emma, then let other society ladies get a glimpse of you.”
“Thank you, as always, for your unsolicited advice.” Nick affected a look of boredom. It was torture to go to society affairs. His skin turned clammy when every unmarried and even some married women examined him as if he were a sweet-going stallion on the Tattersalls’ auction block. He’d decide who and what he’d go after. No one controlled him.
Of course, a golden-haired, green-eyed enchantress came to mind. Pathetically, a groan escaped and drew a grin from his friend.
“I only want you to experience happiness.” Apparently satisfied with his efforts, Alex smirked in a manner that most men would take exception to, but not Nick. After their long friendship, he was accustomed to such ribbing.
He could never imagine himself in Pembrooke’s position—blissfully happy, married to the woman he loved with two children and another on the way to dote upon.
“It would give Claire and me great pleasure to see you settled.”
“For all that’s sacred, stop.” Nick took a deep breath. “I’ll attend just to satisfy you and your wife’s meddling. However, it changes nothing. I’ll be my own master.”
A picture of Emma surrounded by a gaggle of golden-haired children, laughing and playing at her feet, slipped past his defenses and into his thoughts. The emerald-eyed girls favored their mother while the boys bore a striking resemblance to him.
Damn Pembrooke and his description of ties.
* * *
Emma fanned herself, fighting the evening’s warmth. It kept the inane conversations floating around her at bay. The Earl of LaTourell, Lord Honeycutt, Lord Greyston, and a throng of others, including Daphne, surrounded her.
Her boredom didn’t derive specifically from the men attending her. Emma liked most men. She had a true fondness for footmen with their powdered wigs, laborers with their thick cockney accents, bakers, shopkeepers, even aristocrats with their big noses and round bellies.
What she despised were the so-called gentlemen who hunted the ballrooms for some female prey they could capture in their claws. Men who sought perverse pleasure at stealing the virtue of some debutante or wallflower and forcing marriage were the vilest. Emma’s well-honed avoidance of marriage was never in danger, but some of the innocents in the room were lambs for the wolves who wore suffocating sweet cologne and too-tight breeches.
To keep her sanity, she had to leave the ballroom.
Daphne came to her rescue, and not a moment too soon. She was the only reason Emma attended this evening. Her friend gushed about how much she enjoyed these ton events. Why she loved the crowded affairs and routs was something Emma had never understood.
“Gentlemen, I apologize, but I must have Lady Emma’s counsel on a topic of the upmost importance.” Daphne’s pewter-colored eyes sparkled from the glow of the candlelight and added to her striking beauty. She took Emma’s arm and walked briskly to the side entrance where a full view of the ballroom stood before them.
Billowy drapes of white silk framed each window, making the entire room soft and radiant. Hothouse flowers of red and pink in large silver urns dominated every available tabletop. It was lovely, but mundane at the same time. The room, the guests, and the flowers were a well-worn ritual, the redundancy as stifling as the warmth in the room.
“Em, look there. Wonder what forced him out of hiding?” Daphne whisked her fan in a direction across the dance floor. “The she-wolves will soon be circling.”
Emma followed the motion of the mother-of-pearl fan. Across the sea of elegant dresses and their black-suited partners, her gaze rested on the steps leading down to the ballroom. A tall man dressed in a gray evening coat trimmed with black cord to match his black silk breeches captured her attention with his perfect presentation. The woven silver thread in his moss-green waistcoat caught the light from the candles spread throughout the ballroom. With his golden hair, it appeared a halo encircled his head. If only angels were that gorgeous.
Making a rare appearance at a ton event, Lord Somerton graced the ballroom in all his glory. She moved slightly to gain an unfettered view of his progress. Somerton’s manner and movement resembled a tiger—assured, dangerous, but utterly breathtaking.
She’d do well to remember this was the same tiger that practically pounced on her at Goodwin’s that morning.
Without wasting a glance, he gracefully maneuvered his way through the ballroom until he reached their side. With a subdued flourish, he sketched a perfect bow.
“Emma and I are all agog you’re here,” Daphne said. “Have pigs flown over the Thames?”
“Lady Daphne, I’m honored by
your lovely greeting.” With an assured ease, he settled his gaze on Emma while he continued to address Daphne. “Would you mind terribly if I steal Lady Emma away?”
His words confirmed her worst fears. Somerton meant to dog her about Goodwin’s. She’d made a tactical error not scurrying from sight when she first saw him. Immediately, she straightened her shoulders. She did not scurry from anyone.
Her friend’s smile broadened. “No. Enjoy yourself. She’s the best dancer here.”
Somerton’s grin brought an immediate softening to his features. It was pure sin a man could be that handsome.
“I agree. She’s the best. Lady Emma, may I have this dance?”
Her cheeks were on fire. “I might have promised this one to George—Lord LaTourell.” Lud. She’d never been this tongue-tied, and schooled herself to calm down. Somerton was a constant in her life, nothing more than a frequent visitor to her home.
At the mention of LaTourell’s name, the muscles in Somerton’s jaw tensed and caused his chiseled cheekbones to become even more prominent. “He’s not here, but I am.” His eyes roamed over her figure before settling on her face. He leaned close enough to whisper. “You and I have much to discuss, don’t you think?”
His invitation was a challenge, and she never resisted a dare. What did he seek by tormenting her? All her secrets? All her plans? All her confessions? He couldn’t have any of them.
Somerton bowed to Daphne, then placed Emma’s hand in the crook of his arm. The air between them practically crackled as if charged with electricity. She flexed her gloved fingers against the muscle. If his forearm was this firm, she’d give her monthly allowance to see the rest of him. A view of Somerton without his shirt would be worth a year’s worth of pin money.
What was the matter with her tonight? She had to put such thoughts out of her mind. Her Portsmouth trip was at stake. For this dance, she needed a level head and sharp wits. Besides, she did not drool over men. Period.
Deep down, she couldn’t deny the truth. Every time he was near, she was drawn to him. He was like an exotic nectar, akin to the juice of a passionflower rather than your average hothouse rose. One no bee could resist.
What utter twattle.
Best to get the blasted waltz over with. She admired his form and manners, but that was all. She’d not allow him to sway her from her plans. She’d have him eating out of her hand or running for cover before the last note of the music faded to nothing.
He artfully escorted her around the waltzing couples. Still visible but away from the crowd, they stopped at the far end of the ballroom.
With a deep breath for fortitude, she meant to tame the tiger in front of her. “My lord, what matters shall we discuss?” She kept her voice light.
“Come now, Emma. We’re way beyond ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady.’ He twirled her around the dance floor, his gaze never wavering from hers. “Nick.”
A flutter took flight in her chest, and she dropped her gaze. His effort to unsettle her could not succeed. Determined, she tried to move her body away from his, a simple gesture to create distance and keep him at arm’s length, but his hand tightened on her waist. When she lifted her gaze to his, her stomach tingled almost as if she’d had a glass of her favorite champagne.
Her dress, a heavy ivory silk embroidered throughout with seed pearls, followed their movements. Thankfully, its sheer weight kept her grounded since her instincts made her want to lean closer. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her waist, branding her skin through the gown. The penetrating blue of his eyes held her captive.
“Nick … why are you doing this?”
“Why does anyone dance at these events? Relieve boredom. Enjoy the company of a beautiful woman. Stake a claim. Give warning.” He raised an eyebrow and delivered a slow grin. “Which one do you suppose applies here?”
The sensual web he spun split in two. She’d seen the same expression a thousand times from her brother, Will, before he dropped the ax on one of her misdeeds. “Pray tell, and put me out of my misery.”
“Emma, sarcasm? Such an inelegant emotion from such a bewitching lady. What have I done to deserve your rebuff? I simply wanted a dance.” The twinkle in his eyes was wicked and forbidden in design. “Any man here would risk a flogging for a chance to dance with you in that dress.”
Her reservation melted at his obvious teasing. “That’s quite an extreme. Would you risk a flogging?”
“Repeatedly,” he quickly answered with a squeeze about her waist again. “I’m here about something else.”
She blinked slowly to stay focused.
“I know your game.” His declaration cracked the air like a well-oiled cat-o’-nine-tails.
Her gaze whipped to his. “Game?” He definitely resembled a seraph—Lucifer to be exact.
He whirled her around in a move that made her dizzy. “I know about Portsmouth.”
Emma tripped when her feet failed to lead her body.
His hold tightened and prevented her fall. With a smile, he continued the pretense all was well, while his words gouged a hole in her confidence. “I know about your little escapade to retrieve the diary. Are you mad? You’ll cause your family the scandal of the century if you try another madcap travel escapade for a book. Portsmouth is not some little seaside spa for young ladies.”
“Diary? What are you talking about?” Truly, his inordinate preoccupation with numbers and investments must be making him addlebrained.
With his gloved hand on her back, he pulled her closer. “Goodwin told me all about your obsession with the pirate queen’s diary.” His lips barely touched the tip of her ear, but it was enough that her body tensed as his whisper tickled her skin.
She’d play his game for as long as necessary until she ascertained what he meant. “I fail to see how it could be any of your concern what type of books I seek.”
His low rumble of laughter vibrated against her chest. When he pressed her closer, she didn’t resist. She glanced at the other dancers and caught Lady Swaledale staring.
“Pembrooke gave me a copy of your prospectus for a bank. I’ll be more than happy to help you with it, but in exchange, you’ll stop this ridiculous plan of yours. I’ll not help you if you’re planning some idle, illogical odyssey that has disaster written all over it. Besides, I’ve already directed Goodwin to purchase the dairy for you. There’s no need for travel to Portsmouth.”
As the waltz was ending, the explanation for Goodwin’s behavior crystalized before her eyes. Instead of Goodwin revealing the real reason for her visit, he’d led Nick down a merry path. Relieved, she exhaled a breath. Now was her chance to put the arrogant earl in his place for trying to dictate her actions.
She lowered her eyelashes in a manner designed to give the audience a show of modesty. “My lord, am I to understand you’re instructing me on appropriate behavior?”
“It’s a naval town brimming with British officers, sailors, and others not so savory.”
“I’m flattered you’re concerned for my welfare. Rest assured those who have need of my social calendar are fully informed of my daily activities.” Her body simmered with a mixture of peevishness and amusement at the idea that he actually believed he could dictate her actions. “You, sir, are not one of those individuals.”
The music had stopped, but Somerton pulled her closer, almost as if embracing her. Emma prayed Lady Swaledale had found something else to watch. If not, they’d be married before the morning.
With his lips a hairsbreadth from her ear, he whispered, “I saved you from ruin once. Remember when you set off alone to retrieve a book without thought to the consequences? I kept your secrets then, and I’ll keep them now. No one will know of your trips to Goodwin’s, but I demand you forget Portsmouth.”
Emma stepped back and stood before him as determined as David in front of Goliath. She bit her lip with enough force she could taste blood. Her aggravation threatened to ignite an uncontrollable ire that would consume them both.
She raised he
r chin to prove to him and, more importantly, herself that she wouldn’t yield or grovel before him. “I’ll not agree to any of your dictates. Nor will I accept your meddlesome interference. Certainly not for a book. I’m not that young lady from years ago who is easily enchanted by a kiss.”
“You were the one who demanded a kiss that day. Besides, it wasn’t just any kiss.” The deep timbre of his voice resonated through her capricious body like a tuning fork. “Need I remind you, it was your first.” His voice softened to a silky whisper. “I’m not seeking your kisses, delightful as they are, just asking for your acquiescence. However, if you prefer the same trade, who am I to argue with a beautiful lady? My only condition is I say where and when I receive my kiss.”
She stepped away to increase the distance between them. Heat blanketed every inch of her skin. Her fury grew until it threatened to burst in a string of curses that would make a ship’s captain blush. Somerton’s highhanded dictate burned, and his overbearing ideas of how a woman should behave made her want to scream. She forced herself to take a calming breath. She would not allow herself to be at the mercy of his outrageous demands.
“Explain to me why I am any of your interest? You’re not my keeper.”
He stiffened, and a muscle clenched in his jaw. She’d shocked him, and it delighted her he failed to have a ready answer.
Slowly, one of his devastating, incandescent smiles—the ones designed to melt a woman’s heart—transformed his face. “Because you’re one of the very few people in this world I enjoy.”
Now, her treasonous heart skipped a beat. Was nothing in her control anymore? She swallowed to gain her composure.
Suddenly, the muddle instantly cleared from her brain. Why didn’t she think of this before? There was a perfect way to handle him. She delivered her best dazzling smile, the one she used only for the most special occasions. A feat so rare in appearance, she could recall each and every one bestowed. The first was her seventh birthday when she received Robert, a gorgeous piebald pony; the second when she found the gold ring in her serving of the Christmas pudding; and the third when she’d met the queen. It had worked like magic. Her Majesty had chatted with her for almost twenty minutes.
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