A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Page 4

  "Good."

  "I'd imagine your sister has placed a daring wager or two in her life."

  "Mmm." Hart picked up the length of linen and began to wrap it around her calf. He let his fingers brush the silk skin at the back of her knee. Impossibly soft. "My sister," he went on, "tends to wager more important things than coin. But that is neither here nor there. I've patched you up as best I can."

  She flipped the skirt down before he'd even withdrawn his hands, but her modesty left Hart with the sight of his arms disappearing under her skirts. A far more intriguing image than the reality of her injured leg. He would have let his hands linger, but she kicked him.

  "Well then." He stood with a nod. "Was it worth the fifty pounds?"

  "Suffering your arrogance? Not really."

  He sighed, surprised that his pique was mostly feigned. "Then I'll take pity on you and leave you to exercise that razor wit on an empty room, shall I?"

  "Thank you, Your Grace."

  Hart wanted to stay, which was ridiculous really, so he spun around and let himself out the door. She was decidedly unpleasant, so why did he find her sharp tongue entertain­ing? Perhaps the boredom of winter had finally overwhelmed him. Or the undying boredom of having too much. Too much money, too much power, too much say over who came to his bed and when. And far too much time spent alone.

  Chapter 3

  "Bess!" Emma shut her front door behind her as she heard Matherton's carriage pull away. Her back protested when she crouched down to pop the latch of her traveling chest. She'd stayed up too late the night before, and the long carriage ride from Matherton's Wembley estate had left her spine aching, but she had work to do.

  Bess hurried in, wiping her hands on her dingy apron.

  "Help me carry these back. I'll be leaving for Moulter's in less than a week. The dye will hardly be dry."

  Emma scooped up as many dresses as she could hold. As she turned to move toward the kitchen, Bess held up a mid­night blue dress.

  "What of this one?"

  "Too dark. Anyway, if we dye it one more time it will likely fall apart. If we can't rework it I'll trade it for another."

  Bess nodded and followed behind with the rest of the dresses.

  "I think if we change the bodice on that gray one, it will do. It's a fairly unnoticeable skirt, and the color is even less memorable."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Do we have more indigo? That turned out nicely."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Emma hid a smile against the mound of silk and satin. Bess was hard-working, unassuming, and definitely not chatty. And she didn't care a whit that her employer was an impoverished fraud, she was simply glad to be away from her brute of a husband. She was the perfect housekeeper for a scoundrel.

  Emma dropped the pile of dresses on the spotless kitchen table and watched Bess do the same. Then her housekeeper hurried to the stove to stoke the coals and start a large pot of water boiling. Emma began examining each garment. "I've only worn this once," she murmured and shifted a dark green dress to the side. "But Osbourne has admired the lilac dress twice now. It will take the indigo dye well."

  "I'll take apart the gray one, ma'am, while we wait for the water."

  "Thank you, Bess. Give me a moment to change into something more serviceable and I'll help. I can rip out seams, at least."

  Bess was, thankfully, a serviceable seamstress, because Emma had never sewn a straight line in her life and couldn't afford to send the dresses out. It was all she could do to afford Bess, but this scheme would have been impossible without the woman's help. Emma felt selfishly thankful that Bess had finally decided to flee her husband just as the London coach passed by her tiny hamlet. As soon as the woman had boarded, eyes bruised black and mouth set in a determined line, Emma had started to plan. There is a woman who needs a new life even more than I, she'd thought. And so she had offered it, and Bess had quietly accepted.

  "Long as you're not staying in London long. I was plan­ning to pass through."

  "No," Emma had agreed. "Just long enough."

  They had only two months left before Emma lost her lease on the town house. She couldn't afford the jump in rent, and the Season didn't interest her anyway. Two more months to round out her coffers, then she'd leave forever.

  She finished her sorting just as a tap sounded at the kitchen door.

  "Let me," Emma said, as Bess began to set aside her work. She opened the door to find a scrawny boy waiting in the dank stairwell. "Yes?"

  The boy looked her up and down with hostile confusion. "Who're you?"

  "Pardon me? Can I help you with something?"

  "Ye're the housekeeper?"

  Emma rolled her eyes at his boldness. "What is it?"

  "I got some information might be valuable to you."

  "Really?" He didn't look particularly trustworthy. His layers of clothing were blackened with grime and his face had clearly not been washed in days.

  "A man is asking after your mistress. Wants information 'bout who lives here and how long."

  Emma tamped down her spark of alarm. This boy was likely as much a schemer as she, only he took his nonsense door to door. "Why should that concern me?"

  He shrugged. "P'raps it don't."

  Well, he was good. Not pushing too hard. His eyes sud­denly glinted with wile. "You don't believe me. A'right. But he asked if you'd come six weeks ago. And you did."

  Emma cocked her head. "True. But you'd know that, I suppose, if you lived nearby."

  "I do." His chin inched up. "That corner one street over is mine. But I don't know if you come from Cheshire. Do ye?"

  The blood fled her face and left her cheeks cool. The air flowing down the stairwell was suddenly too cold to bear.

  The boy's eyes brightened another notch. "That's what he said. 'Find out if they're from Cheshire way.'"

  Oh, God. Matthew. She'd worried he might try to follow. He would ruin everything, given the chance. Emma forced herself to focus. "And what did you say to this man?"

  "Well, I took his ha'pence. Told him I'd find out."

  "Is that why you're here? To find out?"

  "P'raps . . ." He smiled suddenly, revealing straight white teeth. "He didn't look entirely well-to-do. I thought I'd take my chances with your household. One ha'pence won't change my life, or the life o' me mum."

  Emma nodded. He was honest about his scheming, at least. More than she could say for herself. "What is your name?"

  "Stimp."

  "Stimp?"

  He shrugged away her question.

  "All right, Stimp. A penny now and another penny after you talk to him again."

  "A shilling. No charge for the return trip."

  "A shilling?" She looked him up and down again. He had shoes anyway. Shoes polished to a fine shine that spoke of a wage. A boot black perhaps. He wasn't a beggar. "Fine. A shilling, but it will wait until you come back."

  He grinned, revealing a plan to flee with her coin if she were dumb enough to hand it over. "Deal."

  "Now tell me more about this man."

  Emma smoothed a hand down her deep blue skirt. If there were ladies at this party who cared about such things, they likely thought her unfashionable, or at least too poor to afford more elaborate dresses. The truth was that she could not afford dresses at all, except to buy them secondhand, then alter and dye them until it seemed she owned a full wardrobe. It would not do to appear too desperate, after all, or her gambling would take on the taint of work instead of eccentricity.

  "The lovely Lady Denmore," a man purred from close behind her.

  Emma glanced over her shoulder to spy Lord Marsh leer­ing down. She fought the urge to sigh in disgust. "Lord Marsh," she answered.

  "I hoped you might make it to my little gathering."

  "I'm pleased to be here. I understand the play is excellent at your tables."

  "Indeed. I endeavor to please."

  "Mm." She pretended not to notice his flirtation. She couldn't stand the way he licked
his lips whenever he looked at her. He'd likely be terribly chapped by the end of the evening.

  "Let me show you my home."

  Unable to think of a polite way to extricate herself, Emma was forced to take his arm and follow him up to the first floor of his town house. Several gentlemen tipped their heads in her direction as they passed, but none stopped to introduce their companions. This party was less than re­spectable, and she'd never have been admitted if anyone knew the truth about her marital status. But widows could get away with more than virgins, and the presence of a few of the demimonde was hardly enough to shock her.

  Still, her muscles tensed as Lord Marsh led her to the first room and stopped just inside. "Piquet," he said simply, and indeed, that's all it was.

  It's just a gambling party. Nothing more. Nothing like her father's "gambling" parties, for instance, where you were as likely to see a man laying a woman on a table as you were to see him laying down cards.

  "But piquet is not your game, is it?" Marsh asked.

  "I play, but 'tis not my preference."

  "Too simple, I'd imagine. You enjoy more stimulation."

  Emma cut her eyes at him to let him know he'd gone too far, but he only smiled back unashamedly. "Come. The next room." And so they proceeded through six rooms, each one eliciting some barely veiled entendre from Lord Marsh until Emma didn't care if she offended him or not.

  "Thank you for the tour, Lord Marsh. You may leave now."

  Unfortunately the man remained unoffended. He waggled his fingers in farewell as she turned and headed for the second room she'd seen. A footman stood at attention with whisky and champagne. Emma chose a whisky and tossed it back as she observed the play.

  No women sat at the table, though a few had gathered around, leaning against the shoulders of the players. Emma had seen a woman downstairs whom she recognized, but the females in this room were likely demireps or even common whores. Good. They'd keep the men distracted as Emma di­vested them of their coin.

  "Lady Denmore?" a familiar voice growled as she took a step toward the nearest table.

  Emma spun around to glare at the Duke of Somerhart. His sudden, unexpected presence flashed heat through her blood.

  His blue eyes scorched her as they flicked down over her body. When he met her eyes again, he scowled. "What are you doing here?"

  "Why, gambling, of course. What else do I do?"

  "Nothing, as far as I can tell."

  "Just right, Your Grace. A pleasure to see you again. So charming."

  Except that he didn't need to be charming. When she started to turn away, Somerhart wrapped his hand around her elbow and sent more warmth gliding into her veins. Over­bearing bastard. He could be as rude as he wanted, because his hands were hot and strong. She could still feel his thumb exploring the most sensitive parts of her foot, her ankle . . .

  "Is there something wrong?" Emma snapped.

  "Yes. I'm shocked to find you at this party."

  "And yet you are here."

  "I am not a very young woman from the country."

  A laugh broke free from her irritation. Oh, yes, she was all bluebirds and innocence. "Somerhart, I am not a young miss, fresh off the estate. I'm a widow and free to do as I please. A fact I feel certain you've made note of."

  "Pardon?"

  "Widows. They are your companion of choice, are they not?"

  His scowl turned into a sneer as he dropped her arm. "I cannot believe I thought you subtle."

  "Subtle? Good God, Somerhart. How very misguided."

  His anger kept him from stopping her this time, and Emma made her way to a vacated seat at the brag table. She hoped the man would leave before she started play, but she did not turn around. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, nor the people in the room who were watching with happy interest.

  And she would not let him chase her from her work again. She threw herself into the game and quickly accumulated three hundred pounds. She just as quickly lost it all. One of the men at the table laughed.

  "Lady Denmore, you are reckless tonight."

  "Yes," she snapped and placed a new bet. She could feel him there, a few feet behind her, glaring a hole into her neck. She wished her hair weren't up. Wished she hadn't worn a dress with such a low back. Wished the thought of him look­ing wasn't quite so thrilling.

  Emma pushed the play harder, and the men happily obliged, sure that she was off her game. A collective groan went up as she turned her cards. "Reckless," she muttered, pulling the pile of coins toward her. Yes, she was reckless and unsubtle and a liar as well.

  Two more months.

  An hour later, she was up two hundred pounds and sick of looking at the wench across from her, the one whose ample bosom couldn't quite stay contained. "Good night, gentlemen."

  Unseen hands pulled her chair out, but she knew who it was. Somerhart hadn't budged since she'd begun play. She'd only been able to tolerate his presence by picturing him as one of the hangers on: forearm perched on the back of her chair, shirt unbuttoned to his breast bone, his fingertips trail­ing teasingly against her hairline as he awaited her pleasure. But he had done no such thing and looked as rigid and ele­gant as always when she turned to him. His eyes burned. Had he waited just to resume their argument?

  Emma ignored his hand and walked from the room. "What is it that you want, Somerhart?" she tossed over her shoulder.

  "To speak with you."

  "Why? I seem to annoy and offend you with very little effort on my part."

  "You do."

  "So why seek me out? To suffer? I hadn't heard you were the type to enjoy paddles and degradation. And one would expect that to get out."

  "Pardon?"

  "Then again . . ." She kept walking, heading for the stair­way. "You do insist on circumspect partners."

  "You are utterly outrageous," he growled, managing to sound quite ominous, but Emma smiled down at the balustrade. He could act horrified, but the truth was that she entertained him.

  "How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-one? And speaking to me of paddles!"

  "Yes. Paddles. Shocking, as you've pointed out before."

  He muttered something she couldn't make out, but it made her laugh all the same. From what she'd heard of the duke, he never muttered. Just as he never yelled. But in the three times she'd met him, he'd managed to do both.

  "You say things just to surprise me," he said, as she stepped into the grand entry of the town house.

  Emma rewarded him with a wide smile. "Why would I do that?"

  "Because it amuses you." "And you."

  Somerhart frowned down at her, eyes narrowed. He stared until Emma felt her face grow pink. Not with embarrass­ment, but with pleasure at being the focus of this man's at­tention. His face was masculine despite its beauty, angles drawn out in strong jaw and high cheekbone. Emma couldn't help focusing on his wide, indulgent mouth. She thought of touching his jaw to see if the skin was smooth, or if it was roughened by the dusky hint of his dark beard.

  "Where did you learn to play?" he asked, breaking the spell he'd woven.

  Emma blinked and pulled her thoughts into strict compli­ance. "Lord Denmore loved games of chance. Nothing to do with the coin, I mean. He would play with pennies, with beans even. We spent hours playing every night. He said I had a gift."

  "But you don't play because you have a gift. You don't play for beans. Or pennies."

  "Mm," she hummed and glanced around for the footman. "My cloak, please. And a hack."

  "I will drive you."

  "There's no need. People would talk."

  "People are talking already. The whole of London knows we are lovers."

  Emma couldn't help her sharp breath. His voice had dropped to an unexpected timbre with those words. The sound of pleasure. Nothing at all like his normal, clipped tone.

  "We are not lovers," she whispered. He took her plain cloak and settled it over her shoulders. The backs of his fingers brushed again and again over her throat as he slowly tied th
e ribbons. He looked suddenly softer, more sensual. Like a lib­ertine. She could see him as he must have been in his youth— hedonistic and hunting for pleasure in every dark corner. Shivers slid down her skin and squeezed her nipples into tightness.

  "I am neither subtle nor circumspect," she reminded him.

  "The talk has already started, Lady Denmore. It will con­tinue whether we indulge ourselves or not. I created quite a scene at Matherton's, you'll recall."

  "And here," Emma managed to say, though her lungs seemed to tremble.

  "Yes. And here."

  Emma was caught up in the moment, in him, and she could not afford to be. She could not take this man to her bed, despite what she wanted. And she definitely wanted. Him. Naked and aroused, letting her experiment with all her useless, unsavory knowledge. But perhaps he was too com­manding to let her play by her rules. Perhaps he would insist she follow his.

  She thrilled to the thought, and had to part her lips to draw enough air into her parched throat. Somerhart leaned closer.

  "I have shocked you for once, Lady Denmore."

  "You . . . you do not even like me."

  "You are . . . intriguing."

  "And I can suddenly see how such a rigid nobleman has managed to seduce half the women of the ton. I'll remind you that I do not wish to join their sordid ranks."

  The sensuality cleared from his face, gone in the blink of an eye as he drew himself to a straight line. "Ah, yes. I'd for­gotten your convenient modesty."

  Emma gritted her teeth against his arrogance. Life was so easy for rich men. She was relieved her anger so easily re­placed her arousal. "Yes," she spat. "I am quite picky. Often I like my seductions to consist of more than 'Hallo there. Care to spread your knees for a duke?' Silly miss that I am."

  Oh, she'd definitely caught him unawares again. A flush crept from under his cravat and stopped just under his ridiculously lovely cheekbones.

  "Reconsidering your offer of the carriage, Your Grace?" Emma cooed.

  "No," he snapped and tugged his coat sleeves into place as if they would dare to rise above his wrists. "Despite your vulgarity, the offer stands."