When he lifted his head, he was gratified that Emma no longer flinched from him. Her eyes were huge and blue, her mouth reddened from his kiss. He glided his fingertip down the charming slope of her nose. He knew now that her skin was even more creamy-soft elsewhere on her body, and the prospect of further exploration tantalized him.
It was too soon, though. Regrettably, he must resist her for now.
Bending close to her ear, he murmured, “Until next time.”
Until next time.
Emma could still hear the echo of Lucas’s parting words the following afternoon as she strolled with Sir Woodrow along the Serpentine in Hyde Park. Jenny skipped ahead on the earthen path, scuffing through fallen leaves in her eagerness to feed a family of swans gliding near the shoreline of the water.
It was annoying to think of her husband instead of the early autumn splendor of the park, Emma reflected. Wasn’t it enough that he had spoiled her evening? Long after he had disappeared through the connecting door to his own suite, she had lain awake in the darkness, remembering how sleek and hard his back muscles had felt, how broad and imposing his shoulders were, how firm and narrow his waist. If she closed her eyes, she could smell the aroma of exotic oil blended with the musky scent of male.
An uneasy warmth lurked in the pit of her stomach. Never had she imagined herself touching a man so intimately. And of her own free will.
No, not free. Lucas had given her an impossible choice: prison … or procreation. She subdued an ironic chuckle. What a comedic farce she was playing! A marionette show—and Lucas was the puppet master.
“My dear, you are frowning quite fiercely,” Sir Woodrow said. “Are you certain it’s wise for us to walk together? If Wortham were to find out …”
She looked up into his steadfast gray eyes. “My husband does not govern my actions. Nor does he choose my companions.”
“Yet I worry he might mistreat you. I fail to understand why he insists upon you and Jenny living there with him.”
She took a deep breath. Woodrow deserved to know the truth. “That’s what I needed to talk to you about today. You see …” A flush heated her cheeks, but she forced out the words. “He wants me to bear him an heir.”
Woodrow stopped dead. His cheeks paled to ghostly gray. “What? That’s outrageous! He abandoned you for seven years. He cannot demand your affections now.”
“He doesn’t care about my affections,” Emma admitted. “He merely wants a son. As soon as I give him one, he’s promised to seek a divorce.”
Woodrow drew her beneath the spreading limbs of a chestnut tree, out of Jenny’s earshot. “And what if you bear him a girl?” he asked. “You might have a dozen daughters.”
The possibility worried Emma. How could she stay with Lucas for years? And how could she leave her children behind when she left?
Desolation washed over her, and she blinked to clear the hot dryness that stung her eyes. She mustn’t think of that wrenching moment now, lest she go mad. “Yes, I might have to bear him more than one child. And so …” She paused, swallowing hard. “So I wanted to offer you the chance to end our association. I cannot ask you to wait years for me.”
“You most certainly can,” Woodrow asserted. He pressed her gloved hands chastely. “Don’t you know? I would wait forever for you, my dear.”
“But you deserve a wife, children of your own.”
“No other lady will do. Nor any other child but Jenny.” Glancing at the girl, who stood among the reeds, tossing breadcrusts to the swans, Woodrow scowled. “Blast Wortham! It’s barbaric of him to demand you bear his son. Let the cad divorce you now, and he can marry someone else.”
Emma shook her head. “He won’t. He claims to love only his mistress. A foreign woman he met in his travels.” To counter the rise of resentment, she strove for a droll tone. “At least I come from excellent breeding stock.”
Woodrow shook his fist with rare vehemence. “Breeding stock, bah. You’re a lady who deserves to be honored.”
His unflinching support gratified her. Yet Emma couldn’t bring herself to tell him that Lucas held the threat of jail like a guillotine blade over her neck. Woodrow didn’t know about her masquerade as the Burglar.
“Lucas wants his own son to carry on the family name,” she said resolutely. “And I owe him a debt beyond measure. Without him, Jenny would have been born a bastard.”
“Yet considering the way Wortham has ignored her, the dear child might as well have been born out of wedlock.”
An agonizing remorse pierced Emma. “Do you think I did wrong by her? At the time, I had no other recourse.”
Woodrow’s frown lessened. “Oh, my dear, I’ve upset you now. Please forgive me. I’m angry at Wortham, not you. And of course you did right. It’s only—”
“Only?”
“Had I only known sooner, had I already resigned my commission, I would have been proud to marry you. And even prouder to be a father to Jenny.” He shifted his moody gaze toward the girl.
An aching love filled Emma as she watched Jenny, so intent on her mission to divide the crumbs equally among the birds. Never, not for all the jewels in the world, would she let her daughter come to harm.
She turned back to Woodrow. “We can marry … afterward. He’ll set me free, then. He’s given me his word.”
“His word. Will you trust a man who knows so little of gentlemanlike behavior?”
“I have to,” Emma said in a low voice. “It’s the only way to win my liberty.”
Woodrow grasped her hands with sudden fierceness. “If you wish to defy him, Emma, you’ll have my staunch support. We can depart England together—live on the Continent. I’ll take care of you and Jenny. And treat the two of you with all due respect.”
His fervent offer took Emma aback. She withdrew her hands. “No. I—I couldn’t do that. As I said, I feel an obligation to Lucas.”
“So to suit his selfish purposes, he’ll keep me from you and Jenny.” The bitterness of pain etching his face, Woodrow gazed at the girl, who had doled out her supply of breadcrusts and now collected leaves on the pathway.
The soughing of the wind through the willows sounded sad and lonely to Emma. How frustrated Woodrow must be, for he had waited patiently to marry her, only to have his hopes dashed. Seven years ago, he had returned from the battlefields of Portugal to find her pregnant and alone, abandoned by her bridegroom, and under the dubious guardianship of her prodigal grandfather. Woodrow had lent a sympathetic ear during the difficult weeks of late pregnancy and then had helped her through the trials of motherhood, treating little Jenny as if she were his own daughter. Never had he chastised Emma for conceiving a child out of wedlock, nor had he probed for the name of Jenny’s father. Yet Emma sometimes wondered why he didn’t … .
A gust of wind snatched off Jenny’s bonnet and sent it tumbling down the path. Laughing, she chased after it, and Woodrow dashed in pursuit. He caught the bonnet and held it aloft like a prize of war. The two of them fought a mock battle. Then he placed the bonnet over her chestnut braids and bent down to tie the green ribbons beneath her chin.
Watching them, Emma bit down hard on her lip. She felt safe with him, protected from harm. On more than one occasion, when a gentleman had attempted to procure her seervices as whore, Woodrow had defended her honor. Never had he treated her as less than a lady. And never had he pressed his physical attentions upon her. He was content with a fond peck on her cheek.
Unlike Lucas.
Emma shivered from more than the cold wind. With Lucas, she had the disquieting sense of being stalked by a tiger. It was in his eyes, the hunger, the relentlessness, the pitiless pursuit of the predator. He would come to her night after night until he had claimed what he wanted: her body, his for the taking. Her stomach fluttered with a troubling mixture of dread and anticipation. She despised his manhandling of her. That must be why she could not banish the memory of his heated hands on her breasts.
Until next time.
“A rath
er paltry gathering, to be sure,” Olivia commented, scanning the half-empty ballroom, where a group of muscians tuned their instruments in an alcove. “Those people with sense enjoy the autumn months at their estates in the country.”
“And here, there are only those too dissipated to stay away from the gaming tables of the city,” Emma whispered back. “And those too dull to know the difference.”
Olivia’s mouth twitched. Her eyes took on a merry sparkle. “And I wonder where that leaves us—” Abruptly, she clamped her lips into a tight line and swung her attention back toward the dance floor.
Unwilling to let her disappointment show, Emma restrained a sigh. Perhaps Olivia would never let down her guard. It shouldn’t matter, since Emma had no intention of remaining a part of Lucas’s family.
Yet it did matter. To be here at a ball with Olivia reminded Emma of happier times. No, not happier, for now she had Jenny and a deeper, richer meaning to her life. So what was the right word to describe herself at eighteen? Carefree … whimsical … naive. It was a time when she had been innocent of the realities of life.
The light from hundreds of candles in the crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the glittering scene. Emma controlled her queasiness about this, her first evening back in society. She and Olivia had walked on ahead of Lucas and Olivia’s husband, Hugh. Phoebe had stayed home since one of her children was ill, and Lucas’s mother had also pleaded an indisposition. Aware of an awkward silence now, Emma was about to suggest to Olivia that they take a stroll around the room when their host and hostess swooped down on them like twin birds of prey.
Emma’s skin crawled. She was not unnerved by an encounter with the snooty Lady Jasper. It was her stout husband who caused the tension in Emma. She had last seen Lord Jasper Putney over the smoking barrel of his pistol.
“Ah, my dear Olivia,” Lady Jasper Putney said, blinking her brown bug-eyes. “So pleased you could attend, considering your happy circumstances.” She glanced at Olivia’s gently rounded belly.
“I’m pleased to be here, though I believe I will sit out the dancing,” Olivia said with a smile. “Wortham has returned, you will have heard. Otherwise, Hugh and I would be rusticating in the country.”
“Then we have his long-absent lordship to thank. And this must be Lady Wortham.” One large eye magnified further by her quizzing glass, Lady Jasper subjected Emma to a keen scrutiny as if she were a specimen in a museum. A rather nasty specimen. “I recollect your wedding, madam. You were rather pale that day. Too pale even for a bride.”
The innuendo hurt even though Emma had braced herself for sly comments. “How kind of you to remember me,” she said with studied cheer. “I’ve kept my dancing shoes polished, ready for another foray into your house.”
“But I don’t believe you’ve been here before.” Lady Jasper shook her wispy brown ringlets. “In truth, since we only just let the place two years ago, I’m certain you haven’t.”
Not to your knowledge at least, Emma thought with silent mirth. Smiling was so much easier when she was privy to a private joke.
Olivia briefly slipped her arm through Emma’s. “My sister is looking the very height of fashion. Do you not think she is as pretty as ever?”
“Well, I …” Lady Jasper sputtered.
“I most certainly do,” rumbled Lord Jasper.
Baffled by Olivia’s defense of her, Emma reluctantly turned her gaze to her host. He was the picture of dissipation. His protruding belly strained the gold buttons of his maroon waistcoat. Spidery red veins webbed his cheeks and nose. He clutched a nearly empty glass in his beefy hand.
He thrust the glass at a passing servant. Then he bowed over Emma’s hand, and she controlled a shudder, glad for the shield of her long white gloves. Even so, she felt a bubble of laughter rise to her throat. By his idiot grin, he clearly had no clue as to her secret identity.
She couldn’t resist asking, “Are you not the hero who shot the infamous Bond Street Burglar?”
“’Deed so. He was a fierce villain, the stuff of nightmares. But I kept a clear head. I got out my pistol, took steady aim”—Putney sighted down the barrel of an imaginary gun—“and pow! Winged the fearsome blackguard.”
Emma resisted the urge to rub her shoulder. “What a pity he got away, then.”
“Luck of the devil,” Putney grumbled.
“Unfortunately for us,” Olivia said darkly. “He stole into my brother’s house a few nights ago. Dressed all in black like a demon. He frightened us out of our wits.”
“Boo,” said Lucas, coming up from behind them.
Emma jumped as her husband’s warm and heavy hand settled at the back of her waist. His presence coincided with a sudden weakness in her knees. She had the irritating impulse to lean against him for support. Instead, she stood ramrod straight, looking anywhere but at him.
Olivia’s husband chuckled. Slender and even-featured, Hugh gazed fondly at his wife. “If you’d awakened me, I would have been glad to defend you,” he said. “However, all’s well that ends well.”
“But the cunning criminal is still at large,” Lady Jasper said with a refined shiver. “One cannot feel safe these days, not even in one’s own home. Where will the Burglar strike next?”
While their hostess spoke, Lucas slid his hand up Emma’s spine to her shoulderblades. Starbursts of sensation marked the path of his touch. She felt her limbs dissolving as they had the night before. The cad. With the large potted plant behind them, she was certain no one could see him kneading the place where the bullet had exited.
“I’d venture to guess the Burglar has lost his nerve,” he told their hostess. “Getting caught in his last two robberies has surely taken a toll on his confidence.”
“And I helped put him out of commission,” boasted Lord Jasper. “Come along, Wortham, Hugh. We’ll have us a round or two of cards in the drawing room.”
“As you like. Unless my wife desires me”—Lucas paused a bare instant—“to dance.”
Emma looked sharply up at him, and her heart stumbled over a beat. Those golden eyes gleamed a dark promise in the candlelight. How dare he tease her in public—and question her confidence as the Burglar.
Playing the demure miss, she curtsied. “Do not let me keep you from your amusements, my lord.”
He lightly tapped the end of her nose. “Save a waltz for me.”
Lucas strolled away with the other two men as they headed into the drawing room. Emma’s skin burned where he had touched her. She didn’t like the sensation. No, she did not.
Lady Jasper and Olivia stood together, trading stories about the Burglar, but Emma had lost her taste for baiting them. It was just as well Lucas had left her. She had a mission tonight, a reason for coming here that no one else must guess. This was precisely the sort of event Lord Gerald Mannering might attend.
She excused herself from the ladies and struck off on her own. As she made her way through the throng of guests, she ignored the shocked glances, the whispers behind fluttering fans. Emma knew she looked stunning in her gown of clarence-blue silk with scalloped embroidery along the hem and sleeves, and her mother’s pearls gleaming at her throat. She had dressed soberly for so long, she had nearly forgotten how a fine appearance could lend power to a woman. She needed the extra edge. Suffering the arch looks of the ladies and the lusty leers of the gentlemen, she smiled coolly, nodding like a queen to those subjects she recognized.
It had been important to her at one time to have men fawning over her like so many butterflies around a bloom. But no more. Now she must concentrate on keeping Grandpapa out of debtor’s prison.
Where was Lord Gerald Mannering? Perhaps he had left town in the few days since milking her grandfather of five hundred pounds.
Emma tempered that hope with reason. Surely he would not depart without collecting on his markers. And if she remembered him well enough, he wouldn’t miss a soiree like this one.
There was only one place left to look, the most logical place—and the
most dangerous one. Keeping a smile firmly fixed on her face, she strolled through the crowded foyer and peeked into the drawing room.
The long chamber was elegantly appointed in mint-green with gilt cherubs grinning down from the ceiling. A number of guests, men and ladies alike, sat at the small tables that had been set up for card playing. As she looked for Lord Gerald’s distinctive copper curls, she spied the dark hair of her husband instead. Her heart lurched. He sat with Hugh and Lord Jasper. At the moment Lucas was studying his cards, and she prayed he wouldn’t look up and wonder at her purpose.
“It must be my lucky night,” drawled a male voice in her ear. “To see my dearest Emma again.”
She whirled around and blinked at the object of her search. While she stood stupefied, Lord Gerald Mannering reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. In full view of the assembly of guests, he planted a lingering kiss in her gloved palm. His action jolted Emma to her senses.
She quickly drew him to the side of the doorway. Smiling brilliantly, she said, “I am Lady Wortham now.”
“To the wounded hearts of a score of gentlemen. I myself have been pining these past seven years.” He paused, a lusty slyness brightening his brown eyes. “Would you care for a stroll in the garden? The moon is lovely tonight.”
With an arrogance he wouldn’t have displayed before her fall from grace, he hauled Emma by the arm down the corridor leading toward the back of the house. Alarmed and incensed, she stopped by a large brass urn on a pedestal. They were still within sight of the other guests, and Lord Gerald scowled, apparently reluctant to drag her and cause a scene.
She mustered a flirtatious smile. “Oh, la, my lord. My husband is present. Pray keep in mind he is a very jealous man.”
“And your grandfather is a very indebted man,” Lord Gerald countered, while ogling her breasts. “I merely thought to suggest there are ways other than money to repay a debt.”
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