“Was she like you?”
She gave him a wry look. “I wouldn’t say so. My mother was very stern and upright. She insisted Jane and I strive for perfection at every waking moment.” She sighed. “I could never please her. The day she died, she reprimanded me for a small tear in the lace of my sleeve. I was so busy being afraid, terrified, mourning her imminent death, I hadn’t even noticed.”
“How did she die?”
“Consumption.”
He released a heavy breath. “I am sorry.”
“I tried very hard to please her,” Emma continued, “but she always required more. There was a point at which I could only turn to myself to feel pride in my small accomplishments.”
“What about your sister?”
Her smile softened. “Yes. Thank God for Jane.”
“What of your father? Was he demanding as well?”
“No, not so much.” She took a last bite of apple and turned away to discard it. “He was less involved, I suppose you would say. He wanted sons, but he ended up with a pair of daughters. He was mostly indifferent to Jane and me.”
“And now that your mother is gone? Have things changed?”
“A little for the worse, a little for the better. He’s less indifferent, in any case. But he hates me a little now.”
Luke stiffened, sitting up straighter. “Why?”
“Because I am the reason for his poverty. I can’t blame him, can I? I am the reason.”
“For God’s sake, Em. You were innocent. You had no idea your husband could have been part of a scheme to ruin your family.”
“Yes. I know. But I shouldn’t have been so trusting.” She gave a heavy sigh, then her eyes slid toward him, their golden flecks glowing in the lamplight. It was already nearly dark outside. The days were growing shorter.
“Will you stay tonight?” she murmured.
He looked at her with hooded eyes. Then, still holding her hand, he rose, pulling her up with him. Slowly, savoring every touch, every slide of the muslin of her dress against the wool of his coat, he pulled her against him.
He held her trapped against his body, his arms wrapped around her, his right palm pressed to the indentation at the small of her back, just above the curve of her buttocks.
She looked up at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted.
He stared down at her. She stared up at him. Then, tentatively, her arms stroked his sides in an up-and-down motion.
Just a little taste. He’d take a small taste, then he’d go.
He dragged his fingertips up her spine, feeling the bumps of her cloth-covered buttons. He cupped the back of her head in his hand, then lowered his lips to hers.
Her taste erupted through him, a thousand times sweeter, more compelling, more delicious than he remembered. His cock swelled again. Desire swirled in his gut and circled his spine.
He pulled her tighter against him. His fingers twined in her thick, glorious hair, working the pins and dropping them to the floor one at a time.
Her lips were soft and wet, and this time, they responded to him. Her mouth opened, her mouth tentatively skimming his own. Lust surged through him.
He coaxed her lips to open, wanting to go deeper, wanting to taste her, wanting to claim her, to breathe her in.
She gasped lightly, fueling his desire more. The way her lips moved, the way they stroked him made him mad with wanting.
And then her tongue touched his lower lip, the most tentative of tastes.
His arms tightened. Her hair fell over his hand, a heavy, soft curtain. He grazed her lips with his teeth, swiped his tongue over them. He couldn’t get enough. He’d never get enough.
For him, lust was a greedy, demanding thing, but it was something he could usually control. With Emma, though, it was more greedy and more demanding than it had ever been before. And right now, it was demanding he push her to her knees, open his trousers, and feed her his cock.
Guilt at the coarse thought washed over him, as effective as a barrel of ice-cold water. He groaned as he dropped his hands and took a step back. Forcing himself away from her felt like he was tearing the skin from his flesh. It burned. It ached. It bloody hurt.
He was breathing hard. So was she—more beautiful than ever with that hair in waves around her heart-shaped face and gazing at him in glazed-eyed confusion.
“No,” he whispered harshly. “No.” As if he’d convince himself.
He couldn’t look at her anymore. He tore his gaze away.
“Bloody hell. Damn it,” he cursed. “Bugger it. To the devil—”
“Stop, Luke.” Her low, husky voice was surprisingly strong. At odds with the bewildered look that had resided on her face seconds ago. “It’s all right.”
He whipped around to face her again. Now she was calm, composed, but her eyes still glimmered with some emotion he couldn’t define.
All right? What about this was all right? What about any of this was all right?
Jesus Christ.
“I’m going,” he croaked out. “I have to go.”
He turned and left the room, grabbing his coat from the chair on his way out.
He stumbled downstairs and into the opulent dining room. They wouldn’t call the damned thing a pub or a tavern here.
The place was too snobbish. It reminded him of Ironwood Park, its patrons just like his brother looking down their noses at him.
He left that place and stepped out into the street. A blast of cold shot through his coat and arrowed straight into the marrow of his bones.
He strode along the street, the evening air burning his lungs.
He had made a fine hell of a mess of things today, first over their luncheon in the field and then just now. If she never forgave him, he wouldn’t blame her.
He pushed his hand through his hair and realized he’d forgotten his hat.
In Bristol, he’d been determined to seduce her, to bring her to the point of begging so that he could have his wicked way with her. A big part of him still wanted that, and wanted it with a thousand times more urgency than at the beginning.
But now…hell. He respected her too much. He admired her. Damn it, he actually liked her. She was the first human being he had genuinely admired in a very long time.
He’d taken advantage of women before. He’d played with them like pleasure toys and then discarded them when he was done. But he couldn’t do that with Emma.
There were so many reasons for her to stay away from him. But what it boiled down to was that he was no good for her—or for anyone for that matter—and he was too damned cowardly to show her the truth.
His steps slowed, and he paused, staring at one of the gaslights that glowed onto the street in a circular pool of gold, a color that would always remind him of Emma’s eyes.
Perhaps that was the answer. He wouldn’t have to tell her everything, but just somehow find the strength to tell her one thing. One thing that would certainly scare her away.
* * *
He didn’t return. Not until an early morning hour when Emma was so deep asleep that when she woke, she couldn’t recall whether the feel of him drawing her into his arms was a dream. But he slept beside her, smelling of whisky.
It had been whisky the previous night, too. She shouldn’t be surprised it would be his drink of choice now that they were in Scotland.
She slipped from under the covers, trying not to wake him. She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs dangling over the side, her back to him.
“Good morning, Emma.” His voice was deliciously rough with sleep.
She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Good morning.”
His arm slipped out from under the covers and his hand closed over hers. She stared down at it.
“Are you angry with me?”
Yes. No.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. His kiss yesterday had left her weak-kneed and light-headed. But then he’d left her alone in that state, and in the hours that passed after he’d walked out the door, she’d come to her sense
s.
This was Luke. Sensual, seductive, but changeable and confusing. Watching him walk away from her last night had broken something inside her.
She was trying to steel herself, to build impenetrable shields around herself so that he wouldn’t be able to hurt her. Because God knew, she’d been hurt enough by Henry to last a lifetime. The problem was, Luke could melt down those steely walls quicker than she could build them.
Behind her, Luke blew out a breath. She felt movement, then he was sitting beside her, his presence strong and masculine, and there it was. That melting. That feeling—no, the certain knowledge—that whatever he asked, she would want nothing more than to give it to him.
His hand was still on hers, engulfing her much-smaller fingers in his own.
“Emma—” He broke off, shaking his head. His fingertips played with the lace at the edge of the long sleeve of her nightgown.
She glanced at him. He was wearing his shirt as always—in fact, she had never seen him shirtless—and drawers. The bed linens were partially draped over his lap. With his dark blond hair curling to his shoulders, his blue eyes, his shirt open at the collar, showing a hint of pale flesh, he looked like he could be etched in marble. He was beautiful—a blond Adonis.
God, how she wanted him.
She looked away.
“I shouldn’t have done that last night,” he said.
She lifted her chin, gave him a defiant look. “Shouldn’t have done what? Kiss me or leave me afterward?”
“Kiss you.”
“You did notice that I didn’t complain?”
“Yes, I did notice that. But you should have.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “I refuse to listen to more of that nonsense about the incompatibility of angels and devils. I told you—I am no angel. You’ve seen that I am no angel. This is a silly excuse. There must be something more.”
“You have never begged,” he said softly. “I promised I wouldn’t touch you unless you begged for it.” His fingers tightened around hers.
“Another excuse,” she said. “If I were to beg, it wouldn’t matter. You’d still be afraid. You’d still run away and drown your fear in drink.”
He stiffened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?”
Silence for a long moment, then he turned to her, his fiery blue eyes capturing her gaze. “I meant it when I said I could offer you the heights of pleasure. I meant it when I told you I’d take you to that pinnacle if you begged for it. But now, and I swear I am not using this as an excuse, I know without a doubt that you’re too good for the likes of me. I didn’t understand that at the beginning, but I do now.”
“You’re going to drive me mad,” was all she could say. Because no one in the English-speaking world would say that Emma was too good for Lord Lukas Hawkins. The truth was, her social status was far below his. He was the son of one of the noblest families in England, both his feet firmly entrenched on the highest rung of society’s ladder.
By contrast, her family’s money—even when they’d had money—was new money earned from trade and looked down upon by society. Everything her family had—from the admission to the elite boarding school in Hampshire to the two Seasons she’d had in London—they’d had to fight for, to claw through upturned noses and haughty set-downs.
She pulled away from him and stood, moving toward her clothes. They needed to go. Today was an important day.
But he stopped her. He came up behind her and set his hands on her shoulders, turning her around. “Listen to me, Em. I’m trying to explain myself. Be patient with me. It isn’t easy.”
She stilled, staring up into his face, at his unshaven jaw, his straight, aristocratic nose, his burning blue eyes gazing down with an intensity that simmered through her bones.
She didn’t say anything. She waited, gazing at him. Probably, to him, she appeared completely still and calm, but her insides were roiling.
“You deserve gentleness,” he finally said.
She made a scoffing noise. Gentleness?
“You deserve tenderness and care.”
“Good God, Luke—”
He pressed a finger to her lips, cutting her short.
She’d been going to say that in the past week, he’d showed more tenderness and care toward her than anyone had in her life.
“I can’t give you any of that,” he said.
“Yes, you—”
Now his hand covered her mouth entirely, and his free arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her in place so she couldn’t have backed away even if she wanted to.
“Let. Me. Speak.”
She ground her teeth. But she allowed him to speak, even though it took several seconds before he began again.
“You are a beautiful lady, and you deserve someone who will offer all those things, and more. You’re intelligent and assertive, and you could get anything out of this life if you set your mind to it. You’re a woman who deserves permanence and consistency.” He shrugged. “But you’re also very naïve.”
She made a noise of disagreement, but his palm pressed harder over her mouth.
“You don’t understand what kind of a man I am.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. She knew more than he thought.
“I am not the sort of man who would ever offer permanence to a woman. I can’t give you any of those things you need. And”—he took a deep breath, his broad chest rising and falling behind the shirt—“my tastes in the bedchamber do not coincide with yours.”
How on earth would he know what her tastes in the bedchamber were? She hardly knew them herself.
Slowly, cautiously, he removed the hand covering her mouth. As soon as she could, she snapped out the question, “And what, exactly, are your tastes in the bedchamber, my lord?”
His eyes narrowed. The arm wrapped like a steel band behind her back didn’t budge.
“Would you like details?”
“Yes.” She narrowed her own eyes back at him.
He tilted his head, his gaze seeking hers, as if trying to pry under her skin and see what hid there.
Then he looked down. “God, Em. Are you really going to make me talk about this?”
“I need to know.” She pressed her hand against his chest, her palm flat and firm. “I need to know this big, jagged secret that you hold so close it cuts you inside.”
He gave a humorless chuckle. “A big, jagged secret? And you think I have just one?”
“Start with one,” she whispered.
He was quiet for a moment, then he nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. She’d never seen him so shifty-eyed before, and it made something twist inside her.
“I have done things to women that would horrify you.”
She stood firm. “What kinds of things?”
His eyelids sank down. His chin tucked into his chest. And yet his arm remained clasped in a solid curve around her waist.
“I’ve taken them two at a time. I’ve shared with other men. I’ve participated in orgies.”
She released a measured breath. This came as no great surprise. She knew as much, from their encounter with that awful Smallshaw man.
But Luke wasn’t finished.
“I have…I have been cruel to women.” His voice twisted with anguish. “I don’t want to be cruel to you.”
“You have never been cruel to me, Luke.”
“But”—he shook his head bleakly—“it is how I am.”
“Are you talking about the ruination of that girl you told me about before?”
“That is just one example. Her name was Mary.”
She gazed at him, waiting for him to continue.
“She was a servant at Ironwood Park. Eighteen years old. I was twenty and had just given up on Cambridge. I came home, argued with my brother, as usual, and was generally restless and ill-tempered. I was planning to return to London, when I discovered Mary.” He looked directly at Emma and said in a low voice, “She was all angelic sweetness and i
nnocence. Rather like you, Em.”
She frowned at him, feeling her brows pulling tightly together.
“I seduced her most thoroughly. I made it a game to have her in every room of Ironwood Park. That’s all it was to me. A droll game. Very soon, we were caught in flagrante delicto. If you’d asked me beforehand, I would have predicted it, and I wouldn’t have cared. I had no concern for the repercussions to her should we be caught. Of course Trent, being Trent, said I should do the gentlemanly thing and offer marriage. I refused.”
Emma took a measured breath, but her gaze didn’t leave his face.
“I turned my back on her and left Ironwood Park, leaving her to her fate.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was sent away. After that…I don’t know.”
Emma stared at him, wondering why none of this shocked her as much as it should. Jealousy and anger swirled through her. A part of her hated him on behalf of Mary. But she still wanted him just as much as ever.
What was wrong with her?
After a long silence, he said, “So do you see why you should run from the likes of me? I’ve done it before and I’m more than likely to do it again. There is an evil that resides inside me, Emma. You mustn’t take that risk.”
Slowly, Emma shook her head. “You have taken responsibility. You feel remorse for what you did to that girl. I hear it in your voice.”
He blew out a breath. “People who care about me always end up regretting it. Invariably, I will hurt them. And I am the worst to women.” He closed his eyes. “I seduce them. I take wicked pleasure from their bodies. Then I escape.”
Just like he did from her, every single night. It seemed Luke made a habit of escaping.
“Is that what you want, Luke? To seduce me? To take wicked pleasure from my body?”
He hesitated, then his expression darkened. “Yes.”
“Tell me how.”
He started to turn away, but in a move quicker than she’d ever have thought possible, especially with her emotions in this roiling state, she whipped her arms out, wrapped them around his waist, and clasped her wrists behind him, trapping him in the circle of her arms.
He looked down at her with stormy eyes. She pressed her body against him, feeling all his hard, masculine ridges pressed to her. Fire kindled under her skin, aching, needing…
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