Nonetheless, as they walked amid the fruits and vegetables of Covent Garden Market, he consoled himself with what he could see: the soft, pale skin of her ear and cheek, the delicate slope of her nose, and those pretty, golden freckles. He wondered how many freckles she possessed that he couldn’t see. He wondered how long it would take to kiss them all.
Whenever he started thinking such things, Harry tried to steer his thoughts in a more impersonal direction, but just as he’d suspected the other day, it wasn’t proving an easy thing to do. He kept remembering the sight of her on that ladder, the curve of her breast and the slender lines of her torso. He kept thinking of long, slim legs and imagining soft, hot kisses. Pandora’s gifts, in other words, just weren’t going back in the box.
He decided a bit of conversation was in order.
“Miss Dove, I am beginning to appreciate how you have learned so many things,” he told her as they strolled on opposite sides of a long wooden stand laden with bushel baskets of the first summer fruits. “You are a good listener, and people respond to that.”
He was rewarded with a smile. “Thank you. Of course, it would be easier if I could tell people I am Mrs. Bartleby. People would be much more assiduous. But since we are keeping her identity a secret, I must be content to remain merely her secretary.”
“Yes, as you were interviewing people, I noticed you introduced yourself in that capacity. I take it Mrs. Bartleby doesn’t need to butter people up but her secretary does.”
She made a face at him. “I do not butter people up.”
“Oh, yes you do. You butter up everyone you meet. Well,” he added wryly, “everyone but me.”
To his surprise, she stopped walking, bringing him to a halt as well. “I am so sorry about what I said that day, truly,” she said, turning to look at him over the top of the fruit stand. “I don’t know what came over me to speak with such a lack of tact.”
“You should be sorry,” he told her with mock severity. “It was a most unflattering assessment. You are a difficult person to impress, Miss Dove.”
“Am I?” She plucked a plum out of the basket in front of her. “Why do you care? You said it doesn’t matter what others think of us,” she reminded as she put the plum back and selected another, “so why should you care about impressing me?”
Startled by the question, he stared at her over the top of the fruit stand, and no quick, witty answer came to his lips.
“It’s not so simple, is it, my lord?” she murmured, and a tiny smile curved her mouth as she lifted another plum out of the basket for inspection. “Sometimes, what others think of us does matter, even if it shouldn’t. Which is why young ladies eat chicken wings and why I pay attention to the opinion of my landlady. Knowing proper conduct is important. That’s why people read Mrs. Bartleby.”
“How wicked you are to use my own words about impressing you against me.”
She met his gaze over the plums. “The point is, we all care, to some degree, what others think of us.”
“I don’t,” he told her. “Not about most people anyway. But you and I are…friends.” A lie, that. He didn’t want to be her friend. He wanted to kiss her, and that was the reason her good opinion mattered. It gave him better odds.
“So we are friends now, are we?” she asked, sounding amused.
“Except for the fact that you don’t like me,” he amended and watched her smile. “I am choosing to ignore that fact.”
She laughed. “For the sake of our friendship?”
“Just so.”
She put the plum back in the basket, picked up another, gave a vexed exclamation, and put it back. “These plums are dreadful, and at such a price, too!”
He glanced at the placard. “A dozen for sixpence seems reasonable to me.”
“It’s outrageous. In season, plums should be three for a penny.”
“You are a miser, Miss Dove.”
She didn’t seem to like that description. She frowned at him. “I am frugal,” she corrected.
“What ever you say.”
“And I don’t much care for plums anyway. The skins have a rather sour taste. Oh, I do wish it were August! Then the peaches would be in. I adore peaches, don’t you?” She lifted her face, closed her eyes, and licked her lips. “Ripe, sweet, juicy ones.”
Erotic images flashed through his mind, images of peaches and a very naked Miss Dove. Lust flooded through his body, and before he could stop it, he was fully aroused.
“My lord, are you all right?”
“What?” Harry shook his head, striving to regain his equilibrium, as the object of these sensual imaginings looked at him with concern.
“You have such an odd look on your face. Are you ill?”
“Ill?” That was one way of putting it. “On the contrary,” he lied. “I am well. I am perfectly well.”
She nodded in acceptance of that statement and returned her attention to the fruit displayed before her. He jerked at his collar, exasperated with himself. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t a lad of thirteen, for God’s sake, unable to control his own arousal. And he certainly wasn’t the sort of man who allowed a woman’s opinion to bother him or erotic imaginings of her to interfere with matters of business, and he didn’t like virtuous women any way. This sudden attraction to Miss Dove was inexplicable. And most inconvenient.
Though their situation had changed somewhat, she still worked for him. The circumstances that had always acted as a wall between them were still in place. He had to keep them there. He was a gentleman, and a gentleman did not take advantage of women in his employ, especially innocent virgin spinsters. He must stop thinking erotic things about Miss Dove. He simply must.
As she moved along the fruit stand, he lingered behind, striving to eliminate from his mind any fantasies of feeding fruit to her while both of them were naked. Once he felt his baser desires were firmly under control and he was again master of himself, he caught up to her where she was waiting for him at the end of the stand. “Are you finished here?”
She shook her head and held up a small wooden basket. “I thought to purchase some of these early strawberries.”
Harry made a smothered sound and gave up the fight. After all, he reasoned, there was no harm in thinking luscious things about her. He just had to remember not to act on them.
Marlowe was behaving very strangely. Emma contemplated this fact as they sat across from each other on the grass in the Victoria Embankment Gardens and consumed an impromptu luncheon of cold tongue, bread and butter, and strawberries.
He’d remarked she was difficult to impress, yet she had never known him to have any desire to impress her.
Still, there was no mistaking that he didn’t seem quite himself today. There was that very odd look on his face when she’d mentioned peaches. A dazed, uncomprehending look, as if he’d just gone off into a world of his own. She couldn’t account for it.
And then there was the way he kept staring at her mouth.
He was doing it now.
Emma paused, a strawberry poised halfway to her lips. “Why do you do keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Staring at me. It is most disconcerting.”
“Is it?” He didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned back on his forearms and tilted his head to one side. He began to smile.
“It makes me feel as if I have something on my face,” she told him. “And why are you smiling like that? Did I say something amusing?”
He lifted his gaze from her mouth to her eyes. “You don’t have anything on your face, and I do not mean to stare. My apologies. I am simply trying to get to know you better by making a study of your person. In our new spirit of equality, you understand.”
Though he was still smiling, he sounded sincere. Gratified, she decided a show of conciliation on her part was in order. They did have to work together. “Despite what you may think, there are things about you I do admire.”
“Well, go on,” he prompted when she paused. “Do
n’t stop now, in heaven’s name. You must tell me what my admirable qualities are.”
“You have very shrewd business instincts, for one thing.”
He sat up, reached for a strawberry, and gave her a rueful look as he ate it. “Not so shrewd when it comes to a certain Mrs. Bartleby.”
“Anyone can make an error of judgment. Besides, I have come to accept that what I write is not your cup of tea, so to speak. And you were right that my popularity could be a transient thing. You, on the other hand, have a history of success, and I cannot help but admire that. I respect your business acumen.”
That said, she ate her strawberry and reached for another from the basket.
Marlowe, however, was looking at her askance. “Is that all?” he asked. “You respect my business acumen?”
Emma looked at him in bewilderment. “What were you expecting me to say?”
“Not that,” he said with emphasis. “As gratifying as it is to know I have your respect, that’s not a very flattering thing for a woman to say to a man.”
She looked at him with doubt as she ate her strawberry, uncertain if he was teasing. “So it’s flattery you want from me?”
He paused as if thinking it over, then gave a decided nod. “Yes, I do,” he said and grinned. “After your litany of my faults, my masculine pride is wounded. I am in serious need of buttering up.”
He could be so outrageous. “No,” she said, folding her arms and trying not to laugh. “Flattery will only make you conceited.”
“Not with you to keep me on the straight, narrow, humble path.” He stirred and edged closer to her on the grass. “I know you said you don’t like me, but I refuse to believe you think me wholly bad. There must be something besides my business acumen that you like about me, Emmaline.”
“I did not give you leave to use my Christian name! Besides,” she added, making a face, “I hate Emmaline. Calling me that won’t help you.”
“All right, then. Shall I call you Emma instead? Is that what your friends call you?”
“Yes, if you must know. But I don’t know why you keep referring to friendship. It is impossible for us to be friends.”
“Why?”
She sniffed. “A gentleman, so my Aunt Lydia always said, is never a trustworthy friend to a woman.”
He chuckled. “Shrewd woman, your aunt.” He stretched out his long legs parallel to hers, so close they were nearly touching. It went beyond the bounds of propriety. She opened her mouth to point that out, but then his knee brushed hers, and she could not seem to speak.
“You still haven’t told me what you like about me,” he murmured and leaned forward, coming so close that she caught the masculine scent of sandalwood soap, so close that she could see the dark blue ring around the irises of his eyes. He eased his hand between her leg and his, flattening his palm on the ground between them and resting his weight on his arm. His wrist brushed the side of her thigh.
“C’mon, Emma,” he coaxed. “Butter me up.”
Warmth flooded through her, a tide of it that made her sure she was blushing all over. She feared she was the one being buttered up, for the way he looked at her made her feel as soft as butter in the sun. She stirred, flustered, restless, and acutely aware of his wrist against the side of her leg.
For some reason, his smile widened. He must have been able to perceive her agitation, but he did not move away from her, and she knew he was not going to do so until she gave him what he was waiting for.
Oh, how she envied him his glib tongue at this moment. Emma swallowed hard, and looked straight into his brilliant blue eyes. Her breath caught at his heart-stopping smile. Her pulses began to race, and she understood for the first time just why women made such fools of themselves over him. “You are a very handsome man.”
He pulled back a bit and gave her a dubious look, then he glanced around as if uncertain she was speaking to him. Seeming to determine that he was, indeed, the recipient of this compliment, he returned his gaze to hers, yet his expression was still skeptical. “You think I’m handsome? You do?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “And very charming when you wish to be.”
He leaned forward again until his forehead was only inches from the brim of her hat. “I should very much like to kiss you.” His lashes lowered. “By God, if we were in a more secluded spot, I’d do it, too.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “What abominable conceit!” she said, ashamed that her voice came out breathless and rushed instead of properly remonstrative. “As if I would let you!”
He didn’t look the least bit chastened by that, the wretched man. His smile came back, and this time it was downright wicked. “Is that a challenge, Emma? Are you daring me to kiss you?”
She felt a shiver of excitement at those bold words, and it took her a moment to gather her poise. “What nonsense you talk,” she said, then picked up her dispatch case and rose to her feet. “Now that I’ve flattered you so lavishly, which cannot be a good thing for any man, we’d best be going back. I have writing to do for next week’s issue.”
She stepped away from him, putting a much more proper distance between them. But as she brushed bread crumbs from her skirt, she heard him murmur something under his breath. It sounded like, “Emma, I never refuse a dare.”
She knew she ought to impress upon him that she hadn’t dared him to kiss her, and that he was not, under any circumstances, permitted to do so. But as they left the Embankment, Emma didn’t say anything about it. Aunt Lydia, she feared, would have been greatly disappointed in her.
Chapter 10
Because she has no chaperone to watch over her, the girl-bachelor must apply the most exacting standards of propriety to her own behavior, lest gentlemen make inappropriate advances upon her person.
Mrs. Bartleby
Advice to Girl-Bachelors, 1893
Emma’s typewriting machine tapped out one word, then another, then two more. A vague feeling stirred within her that something was wrong, and she stopped typing. Staring at the sheet of paper before her, she read aloud the last few words she had written. “‘Therefore, when a lady is in need of kisses—’”
With a groan, she leaned forward in her chair and rested her forehead on the typewriting machine, grinding her teeth in frustration. Kid gloves, she’d meant to type, not kisses. This was the fifth time in a row she’d typed the wrong word. What on earth was the matter with her today?
Even as she asked herself that question, Emma knew the answer. She glanced sideways at the window, imagined again sitting on the grass in Victoria Embankment Gardens, looking into a pair of teasing blue eyes.
I should very much like to kiss you.
Thinking about that man had been distracting her from her work for two days. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was exasperating.
Reminding herself that she had a stringent deadline to meet and no time for daydreaming, she sat up, pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriting machine, and set it aside, along with several other error-filled pages. She started to reach for a fresh sheet of paper, then for no reason at all she plunked one elbow on the desk instead, rested her chin in her hand, and closed her eyes.
C’mon Emma. Butter me up.
That melting warmth washed over her again, as delicious today as it had been two days ago. In her mind’s eye, she saw him sitting there with that look of mock skepticism on his face, acting as if he didn’t believe her, acting as if her compliments were a complete surprise to him when he already knew full well the potent charm he possessed.
Really, how did he manage it? she wondered and once again straightened in her chair. How did he manage to make harmless words sound so iniquitous? It was a talent she suspected could be very dangerous to any woman’s notions of proper behavior. Especially hers.
Is that a challenge, Emma? Are you daring me to kiss you?
The man was so outrageous. Daring him to kiss her, indeed. She didn’t even like him. After she had sternly reminded hers
elf of all the reasons why, she pressed her fingers to her mouth and wondered how it would feel to have his mouth on hers.
The clock on her mantel chimed and Emma came out of her reverie with a guilty start. She glanced at the clock, dumbfounded by the fact that it was half-past two. Where had the day gone? She had to be at her appointment in half an hour’s time.
Emma jumped to her feet and ran for her bedroom, stumbling over poor Mr. Pigeon and earning herself an indignant howl from him. “Sorry, Pigeon,” she told him over her shoulder as she entered her room.
She hurriedly replaced her shirtwaist with a fresh one, but all her rushing proved wasted, for she had to rebutton the front twice to align it properly. After donning her green serge walking suit, she secured a simple straw boater on her head with a hat pin and stuffed her little notebook and pencil into her reticule. Hooking the reticule to her wrist by the braided handle, Emma ran for the door, pulling on her gloves as she went, buttoning them as she ran down the stairs.
Breathless, she emerged from her building and started down the sidewalk, moving at the quickest pace permissible to a lady. She hated being late.
“Emma?”
The sound of her name caused Emma to glance sideways toward the street. There, stepping down from his carriage with a newspaper in his hand, was the reason she was in such a rush, the very man who’d been tormenting her thoughts for two days. Knowing it was impossible to pretend she hadn’t seen him, Emma stopped and waited as he approached, but the moment he halted beside her, she spoke. “Good afternoon, my lord. Forgive me, but I cannot tarry. I have an appointment in just a few minutes.”
She resumed her rapid stride along the sidewalk.
“I brought you something.” He fell in step beside her, keeping to her rapid pace with ease. As they walked, he held up the newspaper in his hand. “Tomorrow’s edition.”
Emma came to a halt, her appointment forgotten. “Already?”
“Ink’s barely dry,” he told her, “but here it is. First copy off the press. Want a peek?”
And Then He Kissed Her Page 13