by Anna Bradley
Yes, he’d heard her speak before, a whisper in the darkness.
The dainty wraith, her pale hair limned in moonlight.
And that voice.
It had been her he’d seen last night at the Pink Pearl, that extraordinary face hidden under her hood, that distracting figure concealed under a bulky cloak.
But there was no mistaking that voice, no disguising it.
Samuel stared at her in astonishment. What had Lady Crosby’s pure, sweet granddaughter been doing sneaking into a notorious brothel after dark? What sort of sheltered young innocent who’d never before set foot in London had a secret meeting with an infamous courtesan?
Lovell cleared his throat. “Lady Emma was just about to grant me the favor of—”
“Will you dance, Lady Emma?” Samuel didn’t dare look at Lovell as he held out his hand to her. It was inexcusably rude to cut another gentleman out, and God knew he’d done it clumsily enough, but he didn’t have any intention of turning his vulnerable cousin over to a lady who roamed London’s brothels at night.
“For God’s sake, Lymington,” Lovell sputtered, outraged. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Inviting Lady Emma to dance.” If he didn’t dance with her, his cousin would, and by the time Lovell returned her to her grandmother, he’d have persuaded himself he was besotted with her.
“You know very well I was about to—”
“It’s quite all right, Lord Lovell.” Lady Emma’s curious gaze rested on Samuel’s face. “I’m perfectly happy to dance with Lord Lymington.”
Lovell was still fuming. “Nonsense, Lady Emma. You don’t have to—”
“Oh, but I think I must, my lord. Lord Lymington didn’t so much invite me to dance as command me. Did it not sound like a command to you?”
“Every word out of Lymington’s mouth sounds like a command.” Lovell glared at Samuel before returning Lady Emma’s smile. “It’s gracious of you to indulge him, my lady.”
Lady Emma curtsied to Lovell, then with a dazzling smile Samuel deemed far too sophisticated for an innocent debutante, she accepted his hand, and let him escort her to the floor.
Once Samuel had Lady Emma alone, however, he hadn’t the faintest idea what to say to her. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, biting back an impatient grunt.
He’d have liked nothing more than to deliver Lady Emma a blunt warning to stay away from his cousin, and advise her to avoid London’s brothels while she was at it, but a gentleman couldn’t speak plainly to a lady. No, he must tiptoe his way around it, come at it from the side, hide it under flowery compliments and charming chatter, all of which he was hopeless at—
“I’m afraid you’re uncomfortable, Lord Lymington. Would you prefer not to talk?”
“I would prefer it,” Samuel snapped, before he could think better of it. “But we can’t remain silent for an entire cotillion. It might have been all right, if it were a shorter dance.”
It wasn’t at all the thing to say, but Lady Emma’s smile never faltered. “Very well, if you like. Tell me, Lord Lymington. Have you any particular plans for your stay in London?”
“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. Drury Lane, the Royal Academy, Rotten Row, and whatever card parties and suppers I’m unable to avoid.” He waved an impatient hand, as if it was all very tedious.
Which, of course, it was.
“I’m afraid I’m rather hopeless at cards.” Lady Emma peeked up at him from under thick, dark eyelashes. “I do long to visit the Royal Academy, however. My grandmother and I plan to go tomorrow, to see the Reynolds exhibit. Do you admire Reynolds, Lord Lymington?”
“Only his military portraits.”
“Indeed. His portrait of Augustus, First Viscount Keppel, is, I believe, considered particularly fine.”
Viscount Keppel? Samuel stared down at her in amazement. He didn’t know of many young ladies with an interest in military portraiture. All at once, Samuel was tempted to bring up frontal assaults, just to see what she’d say.
No, he’d better not. Lovell would be horrified if he knew Samuel was even considering it. “Er, Lord Dunn tells me this is your first visit to Almack’s, Lady Emma. What are your impressions?”
Yes, that was better. A man couldn’t go wrong with Almack’s.
He braced himself for the gushing praise and sighs of delight Almack’s so often inspired in young ladies, but they didn’t come. Instead, Lady Emma glanced about her as if just now noticing her surroundings.
“It’s well enough, I suppose, though I confess I imagined something grander.”
Samuel blinked down at her. “Grander than Almack’s?”
A flush rose to Lady Emma’s cheeks, as if she realized she’d said the wrong thing. “Er, perhaps that’s not quite the right word. It’s just, well…young ladies hear so much about Almack’s, you see. It takes on a mythical significance in one’s mind. In the end, it’s just a ballroom, isn’t it?”
Dear God, was the girl disparaging Almack’s? Samuel couldn’t say whether he was amused or shocked. “Best not let any of the patronesses hear you say so, Lady Emma. They’ll take back your voucher.”
Such a threat would have reduced most young ladies to a flood of tears, but Lady Emma only smiled. “If they choose to do so, they’re welcome to it.”
“Without a voucher to Almack’s, you’ll find it difficult to make a suitable match. I assume that is why you’re in London for the season, Lady Emma. To make a suitable match? Or did you come to London for some other reason?”
A tour of London’s bawdy houses, perhaps?
No, he couldn’t say that. It was altogether too blunt, but the girl’s complacency made him want to startle a reaction out of her. Her calm manner, her utter self-possession struck him as simply wrong.
Lady Emma’s red lips pursed in a prim line. “It’s kind of you to concern yourself with my matrimonial prospects, Lord Lymington. I do hope you’ll forgive me if I decline to discuss them with you.”
Despite himself, Samuel felt a reluctant tug of admiration. As setdowns went, it was a good one. Direct, but politely delivered, and he appreciated the succinctness of it. “Your matrimonial prospects don’t interest me, Lady Emma, beyond your leaving my cousin out of them.”
There. That was plain enough.
Her eyes went wide. Ah, good. He’d intended to startle her.
But the horrified expression he expected never appeared on her face. Instead, Lady Emma bit her lip, as if she were trying to smother a grin. “I beg your pardon, Lord Lymington, but I believe you misunderstood your cousin’s intentions this evening. Lord Lovell proposed a dance, not a betrothal.”
Good Lord, was the girl laughing at him? She certainly looked as if she were enjoying herself. “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, shall we, Lady Emma?”
“Was this you being pleasant, Lord Lymington? Forgive me. I didn’t realize. I believe one generally does rely on pleasantries in these situations. What shall we talk about, if not the sights in London and the weakness of Almack’s tea?”
He gazed into blue eyes sparkling with humor and reminded himself he was meant to be frightening her away from Lovell. “You have a distinctive voice, Lady Emma. Has anyone ever told you that before?”
“No, I don’t believe they have. I find it curious you’d say so, Lord Lymington. I doubt I’ve said more than three dozen words to you tonight.”
“No, but I’ve heard your voice before. Even if I hadn’t, a single word would be sufficient. Yours is not a voice a man easily forgets.” Samuel studied her face, but there wasn’t a flicker of consciousness there, not even a hint of a blush. If Lady Emma had any inkling he knew about her secret visit to the Pink Pearl, she hid it well.
“Indeed? Well, er…thank you, Lord Lymington.” She looked faintly puzzled, but there wasn’t so much as a tremor in her voice, and she met his ga
ze without flinching.
Such big, innocent blue eyes…
Was it possible he’d made a mistake, and it hadn’t been her voice he’d heard? Voices were easily mistaken for each other, even distinctive ones. He’d only heard her speak a few words aloud—the rest had been in whispers.
But the effect that voice had on him, the prickling of awareness over every inch of his skin, the deep tug in his belly—he’d never been so aroused by a lady’s voice in his life. Samuel had known that voice as soon as the first word of greeting left her lips this evening.
Lady Emma was lying to him right now. Boldly, without a blush, while looking him directly in the eyes.
It had been her at the Pink Pearl last night. He was certain of it.
Samuel didn’t know what sort of mischief she was engaged in, and he didn’t care. She might visit every brothel and befriend every courtesan in London, with his blessing, as long as she stayed away from Lovell. “I advise you to deploy your charms on someone other than my cousin, Lady Emma.”
“Deploy my charms? I don’t—”
“You’ll get nowhere with Lovell. His affections are already engaged, but I shouldn’t worry, if I were you.”
Her blue eyes went wide. “Worry?”
She truly did have extraordinary eyes. They were a darker blue than he’d thought at first, nearly cobalt. Not summer skies at all, but a midnight blue. Remarkable, even if she was staring at him as if he’d just escaped from Bedlam. “There are plenty of gentlemen in London who will be thrilled to be on the receiving end of flirtatious glances from your blue eyes.”
She choked back what sounded, amazingly, like a laugh. “It’s, ah, kind of you to say so, Lord Lymington. I’ll endeavor not to despair of my matrimonial prospects quite yet, then.”
The music ended, and he released her hand. He expected her to flee, as any other young lady should do after such a disastrous dance, but before she could stir a step, Samuel did something he hadn’t intended to do.
He raised her hand to his mouth and touched his lips to her glove.
“Thank you for the dance, Lord Lymington. I believe I’ll return to my grandmother now.” Lady Emma sank into a perfect curtsey, and without another word she turned and strode away.
Samuel might have chased her, insisted on escorting her back to her grandmother, as was proper, but instead he remained where he was, watching her go, and wondering…
But Lady Emma’s secrets were just that—hers. Let her keep them.
He’d made himself perfectly clear to her tonight.
Lady Emma Crosby wouldn’t dare encourage Lovell’s misguided attentions now.
* * * *
Emma didn’t return to Lady Crosby, but instead slipped from the ballroom and made her way to the ladies’ retiring room. She plopped down onto a settee, not sure if she should laugh, or fall into a temper, or burst into a flood of tears.
That was, without a doubt, the strangest half hour she’d ever passed. Lord Lymington wasn’t like any other lord she’d ever known, and until tonight, she would have sworn she’d known them all.
It hadn’t been a spontaneous decision, refusing Lord Lovell in favor of a dance with Lord Lymington. She hadn’t fancied a scene in the middle of Almack’s, but it hadn’t been only that. That glare he’d cast her way when he’d first caught sight of her, then his strange insistence on a dance, had aroused her suspicions.
Very few people in London would recognize her as one of Madame Marchand’s former courtesans. She’d never been one of the ladies who entertained whatever gentlemen happened to stroll through the front door of an evening. No, she’d been special, reserved for a single gentleman who’d paid Madame dearly for the privilege of being the first and only gentleman to enjoy her favors.
Given how that liaison had ended, Madame Marchand wasn’t likely to tell Emma’s secrets, either, as much as she might wish to. Madame bore her a bitter grudge, but she was as eager to hide Emma’s past as Emma was.
Not many bawds wanted to lay claim to a murderous courtesan.
But when Emma saw Lord Lymington’s baleful glare, she’d thought, in an instant of blind panic, that she’d come face to face with someone who knew who she was.
Or who she’d been.
Whether her suspicions were justified or not remained a mystery. She couldn’t make heads or tails of Lord Lymington, or decide whether she was amused by him, or frightened of him, or if she simply despised him, as she did so many noblemen.
Loathing made the most sense, certainly.
He was grim, arrogant, suspicious, and far too large for a proper lord. He rivaled even Daniel Brixton for sheer muscular immensity.
He was dreadfully high-handed, too. Why, the cheek of the man, to cut his cousin out so shamelessly. No gentleman wanted a cotillion as badly as that. Then again, no gentleman wanted his cousin to dance a cotillion at Almack’s with a courtesan, either.
Former courtesan.
Oh, blast Lord Lymington, anyway. The man had thrown everything into disarray tonight. Poor Lord Lovell, to be cursed with such an overbearing cousin. Emma had no sympathy for rakes, but Lord Lymington was enough to drive any man into rakishness.
Well then, it seemed as if she did despise him, after all. That should be reason enough to banish him from her mind at once. And so she would, only…
He’d startled her with that droll remark about their being silent for an entire cotillion, though she doubted he’d intended to amuse her. Then there’d been that ludicrous conversation about her matrimonial prospects. Charm seemed to wither and die in Lord Lymington’s presence, but he’d been…honest.
He hadn’t been the least charmed by her, that much was certain. She’d given him her widest eyes, her best smiles, and he’d scowled back at her as if he’d caught her picking his pocket.
That was unexpected, and…disarming, somehow.
Emma braced her elbows on the dressing table and pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to recall what he’d said. Something about deploying her charms on Lord Lovell. He’d actually used the word deploy, of all absurd things. Then he’d made that inexplicable observation about her voice, or flirtatious glances, or some such nonsense, and then he’d warned her to keep away from his cousin.
Emma sat up, her gaze meeting her own reflection in the glass. Lord Lymington had actually warned her away from Lord Lovell.
But why? What objection could he possibly have to Lady Emma Crosby? She was the daughter of an earl, for pity’s sake, and possessed of an impressive fortune.
It didn’t make any sense. Emma hadn’t even had a chance to single Lord Lovell out for any particular attention this evening—
“Oh, dear. You don’t look pleased, Lady Emma. Was your dance with Lord Lymington really as unpleasant as that?”
Emma’s head jerked up, and she found Lady Flora Silvester hovering in the doorway to the lady’s retiring room. “It wasn’t unpleasant, precisely, but, well…not precisely pleasant, either. I’ve just been sitting here wondering whether I should have danced with him at all.”
“He can be rather terrifying. That is, I don’t mean one has a reason be terrified of him,” Lady Flora hastened to correct herself. “Only that, well…one is, isn’t one?”
Emma hadn’t been at all terrified of Lord Lymington, but Lady Emma Crosby likely would have been, so she nodded in agreement. “A bit, yes.”
Lady Flora ventured closer, a hesitant smile on her lips. “He’s not nearly so bad as he seems upon first acquaintance. He rather grows on one, you see.”
“Indeed? I’ll keep that in mind.” Not that she anticipated sharing another dance with Lord Lymington. Emma patted the empty space beside her on the settee. “Will you sit with me?”
“Oh, I don’t wish to bother you. My grandmother and Lady Crosby sent me in search of you, and bid me bring you to supper. Have you ever had Almack’
s supper, Lady Emma?”
“No. Is it dreadfully elegant?”
“No, just dreadful.”
Emma laughed. “Truly?”
“I’m afraid so. I rather despise Almack’s, on the whole. Everyone smirking and staring, and gossiping behind your back.” Lady Flora shuddered. “They all complain about the dry cake and sour lemonade, but the ton is much more distasteful than any cake I’ve ever tasted.”
Emma laughed again, the comparison striking her fancy. “How are you so familiar with Almack’s, Lady Flora? Didn’t your grandmother say this is your first season?”
“Oh, it is, but I daresay it won’t be my last.”
“I’m certain that’s not true.” Lady Flora was the daughter of an earl, and such a pretty, engaging young lady, with her sweet smile. Were London’s aristocratic gentlemen so foolish they couldn’t see that?
“I’m afraid it is.” Lady Flora sighed. “I have no money, you see. My father was a devotee of the hazard tables, and my elder brother followed in his footsteps. Now they’re both dead, and my grandmother and I are left as poor as church mice.”
“But that’s awful!” Emma had heard such stories before, and they never failed to make her furious.
“Yes, isn’t it? But I didn’t come here to bemoan my fate. I only came to assure you Lord Lymington isn’t as awful as he appears, in case he asks you to dance again.” Lady Flora wandered across the room and perched on the settee at Emma’s side. “He’s really a kind gentleman, if a trifle blunt.”
“Do you know the family well, then?” Emma leaned closer, half-ashamed of herself for attempting to pry secrets from Lady Flora’s innocent lips, but not ashamed enough to keep her from doing it.
“Very well, yes. My father’s estate in Kent is in the same neighborhood as Lymington House. My grandmother is friends with Lady Lymington, and I grew up with Lancelot—that is, Lord Lovell.”
“But not with Lord Lymington?” Emma did her best to hide how interested she was in Lady Flora’s answer.
“No. Lord Lovell is eight years his cousin’s junior.” Lady Flora smiled, her dark eyes lighting up. “Lancelot used to follow Samuel about like a devoted, adoring shadow when they were boys. They were like brothers then, but Lord Lymington’s been gone these past eight years. He was a captain in the Royal Navy, on board the HMS Nymphe.”