by Anna Bradley
Samuel was determined to discover how one of London’s most notorious courtesans could possibly be acquainted with Lady Emma Crosby.
Samuel led her down a quiet pathway to a nook hidden behind a rose arbor, and shaded by a cascade of heavy roses. “Tell me about Helena Reeves, Lady Emma.”
Tears, denials, loud recriminations, even a swoon—Samuel was prepared for one or all of these reactions, but Lady Emma merely stroked a gentle fingertip over one of the rose blossoms. A few of the petals dropped into her palm, their pink color deeper against the soft white of her glove. “How pretty.”
“I saw Helena Reeves nod to you at Hyde Park yesterday.” Samuel took a step closer, but resisted the urge to touch her. “It makes no sense an innocent young lady—the naïve, virtuous daughter of an earl—should be acquainted with an infamous Cyprian, Lady Emma.”
Lady Emma was clever, but even she couldn’t invent a plausible explanation for that.
She didn’t turn to face him, but instead rose to her tiptoes to inhale the scent of the climbing rose just above her head. “I’d heard Lady Tremaine’s gardens were lovely.”
Samuel looked around them with a frown. Lovely, yes, and extravagantly romantic. This little nook was the sort of place a gentleman took a young lady to steal a kiss, not accuse her of…what was he accusing her of? Cavorting with courtesans?
But Lady Emma wasn’t just any young lady. She never had been.
He’d known that since he’d watched her float from a windswept terrace through a pair of glass doors,—since he’d first heard that sweet, sultry voice in the deserted library of the Pink Pearl.
Lady Emma sighed. “I did hope Lady Tremaine’s picnic would be more enjoyable.”
Samuel had the strangest urge to take her hand, but he said only, “I beg your pardon for ruining your afternoon.”
“Ah, well. It can’t be helped, I suppose,” she murmured, turning to face him at last. She was smiling, but Samuel sensed a sadness in her, a sort of held breath, and all at once he wanted nothing more than to let this thing go—to send her back to her grandmother with the carefree smile every lovely young lady at an afternoon picnic should wear on her lips.
“Please do sit down, Lady Emma.” Samuel led her to a stone bench in the center of the tiny, circular rose garden awash in pale pink roses. “I did promise Lady Flora I’d take care of you.”
“You did, yes.” Lady Emma sank down onto the bench as he’d bid her. “It’s a promise you make often, I think.”
Her voice was so soft, Samuel wondered if her words were for herself rather than for him, but he heard her. “Forgive me, Lady Emma, but I don’t see how you can know anything about the promises I’ve made.”
Or those I’ve broken.
“Not much, no, but perhaps more than you think. Lady Flora told me you’ve gone to great lengths to help Lord Lovell secure her hand. I confess I was surprised, my lord. I wouldn’t have guessed you were such a romantic.”
Romantic? Samuel gaped at her, his lips moving silently until at last he managed to say, “I assure you, Lady Emma, that is the last word that can be applied to me.”
“Not the very last, I don’t think. I’d rather say subtle, or perhaps accommodating are the very last. I can’t make up my mind which I’d choose.”
Her gentle teasing startled a laugh out of Samuel. “Charming is the very last.”
Lady Emma’s red lips quirked in a wry smile. “But I can’t think of anything more romantic than your conviction Lord Lovell can never be truly happy without Lady Flora.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like—”
“I don’t know why you’d wish to deny it. It’s one of the loveliest things I’ve heard in a long time. You told me yesterday you only wanted Lord Lovell’s happiness. It seems you were telling the truth.”
A dozen protests rose to Samuel’s lips, but he bit them back, and said only, “My cousin has always been good to me, and I haven’t always…appreciated it as I ought to have done.”
The truth was, he had gone to extraordinary lengths to restore Lady Flora to Lovell’s arms, and for the very reason Lady Emma thought he had. Because Lovell would never be happy without Lady Flora, and Samuel couldn’t bear to see his cousin unhappy.
It had been Lovell who’d seen Samuel through those long, lonely years after his father’s death. His mother had done her best, but her timid protests hadn’t done much to protect him from his uncle’s cruelty.
But Lovell’s sincere affection, his steadfast devotion to Samuel had never wavered. As bad as it had been after his father died, it would have been a great deal worse without Lovell there.
Samuel had no excuse for abandoning Lovell as he’d done. It was mere chance only that he hadn’t returned to England to find his cousin a corpse.
“Lady Flora told me about their betrothal. Their betrothal, and her jilting him.” For the first time since she’d sat down, Emma turned to face him. “You didn’t follow Lady Flora to London to coerce her into honoring their betrothal, I hope.”
Samuel stared at her, incredulous. Did she truly believe he was the sort of man who’d attempt to force a young lady to marry against her will? He wasn’t accustomed to explaining himself to anyone, least of all to a lady who crept about brothels under cover of darkness, but he found himself doing just that. “I would never do anything to hurt Lady Flora. I’ve only ever wanted her happiness, and Lovell is her happiness.”
“Presumption indeed, Lord Lymington,” Lady Emma murmured, but a smile took the bite out of her words. “I suppose it’s not entirely out of your character to suppose yourself much wiser than your cousin, and thus better able than he is to choose his wife.”
“If I am presumptuous, it’s because I wish to protect my cousin. If there’s trouble about, Lovell will find it.”
Samuel expected her to scoff—to remind him, as she’d done once before—that Lovell was an adult, and might make his own decisions, but Lady Emma remained quiet, an expression Samuel couldn’t read on her face.
They both fell silent, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Samuel’s chest had tightened when he recalled the state in which he’d found Lovell when he returned to England, and Lady Emma was still toying with the petals of the rose, as if mesmerized by the drift of them between her fingertips.
Finally, Samuel cleared his throat. “Lord Lovell is…impetuous when it comes to matters of the heart. Passionate, even reckless.”
“Indeed? How foolish of him. What has passion to do with matters of the heart, after all?”
An ill-tempered retort threatened, but then Samuel noticed the spark of humor in her eyes, and the hard, tight thing in his chest loosened. “I only mean that Lovell’s apt to leap first and regret it later, and I don’t wish to see him endure a lifetime of suffering because of one foolish choice.”
“It is far better to approach love practically, isn’t it? I’m certain some romantic poet or other has written verses lauding the rationality of lovers.”
A reluctant grin tugged at Samuel’s lips. “Are you laughing at me, my lady?”
Lady Emma’s lips quirked. “Certainly not, Lord Lymington. I wouldn’t dare.”
No other lady in London had a smile like hers. It was as if it had some magical quality to loosen his tongue, because the words kept pouring from Samuel’s lips. “If Lovell had kept on the way he was going, it was only a matter of time before he paid for his scandals with a pistol ball to the head.”
Lady Emma went strangely still, but all she said was, “That would have been a very great tragedy, Lord Lymington.”
Greater than she could ever imagine, and so close—so very close—to being a reality. All at once, Samuel’s throat was too dry to speak.
Lady Emma seemed to realize it, and hurried to fill the silence. “It’s fashionable for handsome young gentlemen to affect romantic sensibilities, but Lord Lovell
truly is a romantic, isn’t he?”
Despite the ache in his chest, Samuel smiled. “He’s a genuine fool for love, yes.”
“Rather like Lady Flora. I can’t say I approve of your high-handed tactics, my lord, but there’s no denying you chose well for Lord Lovell. He and Flora are enchanting together.”
“I didn’t choose for him. He chose for himself, years ago, just as Flora did. They chose each other.”
Lady Emma’s brow creased, and she shook her head. “But…I don’t understand. How did they know?”
Samuel gazed at her, so still, sitting amidst a wild profusion of pink roses. “Know what?” he asked, crossing the tiny courtyard to seat himself beside her on the bench.
“How did they know they were in love with each other?” She swallowed. “I don’t…it doesn’t make sense.”
Samuel frowned. “What doesn’t make sense? Love at first sight?”
“No, just…” She gave a helpless shrug. “Just love.”
He’d spent more time than he should have gazing at Lady Emma’s face, but he’d never before seen her look as lost as she did now, her blue eyes dark with shadows, her mouth soft and vulnerable, and all at once, he realized he was seeing her.
Not just a fleeting glimpse this time, but all of her—the whole of who she was.
The lady beside him wasn’t the dazzling, beautiful Lady Emma, with her flirtatious smile and flashing blue eyes, but who she was underneath the masque. He’d thought her beautiful before, but no glittering masque could ever compare to the truth of her face.
His gaze lingered on those plump, rosy lips, and he imagined how they would feel beneath his—how it would feel to hold her so close against him every one of her breaths felt like his own.
She gazed at him, puzzled. “My lord? You look…are you unwell?”
Samuel gazed at her, at her deep blue eyes dark with secrets, at that sweet, red mouth, and he knew he wasn’t well.
There was no way he could see the truths she hid under her masque, and in the next moment forget he’d ever seen them. He wanted to crawl inside her, see everything, all she hid, and all she was—to touch every part of her with his hands and his mouth until she couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been there.
He wasn’t well, and he didn’t give a damn.
“Haven’t you ever been in love, Lady Emma?”
“No.” She laughed, but it was a broken, forlorn sound, without joy. “The devotion Lord Lovell and Lady Flora feel, their happiness in each other seems…very far away from me.”
“How can it be that a lady with a face like yours, a lady of such charm and allure, has never stolen a gentleman’s heart?”
“How? It’s the easiest thing in the world, Lord Lymington.” Lady Emma’s gaze had returned to the loose rose petals in her hand, but when she looked up at him, they slipped through her fingers and fluttered to the ground. “Desire isn’t love.”
Something swelled inside Samuel’s chest then—confusion, yes, and desire, too, but there was something else, something deeper and wild, an uncontrollable longing he was helpless to resist. There was no explanation for it, no reason why it should be she who moved him, when others had failed.
It just was.
Samuel hadn’t brought her here to kiss her, but he didn’t think of that—he didn’t think of anything at all. He simply brushed his fingers across the soft skin of her cheek, turning her toward him. When she didn’t move away, he cradled her face in his hands, leaned toward her, and here, in this place with fragrant roses dripping in lush petals from the arbor above them, he brought his lips down on hers.
His mouth was as soft as a whisper, the touch of his lips careful at first, as gentle and tentative as his fingers against her skin. It wasn’t until she parted her lips for him and the sweet taste of her flooded through him that Samuel understood the enormity of the risk he was taking.
By then, it was already too late.
By then her taste—vanilla, smooth and smoky at once, like the finest whiskey—was rushing through his veins with wild abandon. Then he was taking her mouth over and over again, his gentle kisses growing desperate.
He’d known she’d be delicious, addictive, but this…he’d never known a kiss could steal your reason, could make you dizzy with want. He traced his tongue over her bottom lip. She gasped, and the soft, surprised sound went straight to his cock, shattering his control.
“Emma.” Samuel sank his hands into her hair, groaning as one pale, silky lock came loose from its pins and tickled the back of his hand, a shockingly sweet caress. “Touch me.”
He caught her hands in shaking fingers and twined them around his neck, and a tiny sigh fell from her lips as she sifted through the hair at the back of his neck with her fingers.
“So soft,” she whispered, as if stunned.
Dear God. He’d never felt anything as tempting as her kiss, never tasted anything sweeter than her mouth. He traced her bottom lip, his tongue eager, and a soft, choked whimper caught in her throat. He thought she’d pull away from him then—hoped she would—that one of them would put an end to this madness—but instead she urged him closer, her fingers tightening in his hair.
“Emma, let me…” Let me touch you.
Samuel dragged his palm down her neck, over that impossibly soft skin, his lips following the trail of goosebumps left in the wake of his stroking hand.
Emma’s breath caught, and her head fell back as she bared her neck to him. Samuel touched his fingertip to the hollow of her throat, and felt her pulse fluttering madly there. Her scent was stronger here, over her pulse point, and Samuel found himself inhaling, hungry for more of that vanilla-scented skin. “So sweet, Emma.”
Her fingers closed around his wrist, and she raised his hand to her lips and kissed his fingertip.
Samuel gazed down at their hands, mesmerized by the sight of her gloved fingers holding his wrist, her hand so small next to his, and a wave of tenderness swept over him, leaving him shaking in its wake.
It was right, somehow, kissing her, perfect, in a way it never had been before, and Samuel couldn’t resist the pull between them—didn’t want to resist it.
“Emma.” He cupped her face gently in his palms, and then he was kissing her everywhere, her lips and her neck, the secret place behind her ear, so impossibly soft, her pulse quickening under his tongue, the arch of her cheekbone, flushed with passion, and her full, red lips, now swollen from his ardent kisses.
Her warm breath drifted over his lips, and dear God, her soft sighs, the scent of her all over him, drowning him, drove him mad. He gathered the loose locks of her hair into his hands and pressed them to his lips. He nuzzled her temple, trailed a chain of kisses from her throat to the delicious arch of her neck.
I have to stop, have to—
But she was panting for him, her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t make himself release her. “Samuel, please.”
Samuel’s hands flexed, his fingers itching to loosen her gown until inches of bare, creamy skin were revealed, to pluck the rest of the pins from her hair so the heavy locks tumbled over her shoulders and he might sink his hands into it, stilling her for his mouth. He burned to slide his fingers under her skirts and up the outside of her thigh, and his cock thickened, pressing insistently against the tight confines of his falls.
“My lord.” Her small, gloved hand landed on his chest. “Samuel.”
Samuel allowed himself one final kiss, just the briefest brush of his lips over hers before he pulled away with a low groan, setting her away from him before he could kiss her again, before he couldn’t stop. Releasing her was torture, a severing, as if he’d lost a piece of himself once she was no longer in his arms.
“I…I beg your pardon.” Samuel shot to his feet, desperate to put some distance between them before he snatched her into his arms again. �
��I shouldn’t have…”
I shouldn’t have kissed you, touched you.
But he couldn’t make himself say it, couldn’t breathe those words into being, because they were lies. He turned away from her, dragging one long, deep breath after another into his lungs until he’d calmed the demands of his body, and could face her again.
“Lady Emma, I—”
She hadn’t moved. She was sitting on the stone bench where he’d left her, the long locks of hair he’d loosened in disheveled curls on her shoulders, her fingertips pressed to her reddened lips, the usual spark of mischief in her blue eyes gone, and in its place…
Confusion. Distress.
Dear God, what had he done?
A dull, throbbing ache lodged under his breastbone. He wasn’t aware of moving, but the next thing he knew he was seated on the bench beside her again, her slender hand caught in his. “You’re very pale, my lady.”
“Am I?” A shaky smile crossed her lips, but she looked lost, all her usual playful confidence vanished.
“You’re unwell. Please permit me to take you to your grandmother.”
She nodded. “I…yes. Perhaps that would be best.” Samuel waited while she tidied her hair and straightened her skirts. They didn’t speak as he led her from the private rose garden back toward the terrace. The picknickers were frolicking on the lawn beyond it, seated on cushions with white cloths spread before them.
Samuel wasn’t certain how long they’d been gone, but long enough so Lady Crosby was waiting for them. When she saw Lady Emma’s face she shot to her feet, her own cheeks going pale. “Emma? My dear child, what’s the matter?”
Samuel released Emma’s arm, and turned her over to her grandmother. “Too much sun, perhaps.”
Too much of something, certainly.
“Come, dearest. Some lemonade will set you to rights again, or perhaps a rest in Lady Tremaine’s drawing room.” Lady Crosby led her granddaughter away, still fussing and fretting over her.