A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Page 6

  Emma nodded with real sympathy. "Yes. I hear you must take an heiress to wife."

  Lancaster blinked several times before his laughter boomed out to bounce off the houses around them. The horses twitched their ears in simultaneous irritation. "'Tis true, though I hadn't realized it so well known." When his laughter faded, true weariness showed on his face. "My father died last year. I hadn't known until then. . ."

  "I understand."

  His mouth curved up on one side. "Do you? Well, let's not ruin the day with somber talk."

  "It is a fine day."

  "My dear Lady Denmore, you must be a fan of the frigid cold. I am quite the gentleman, taking you out for a winter drive." He laughed again, a wonderful laugh, and Emma realized she was truly enjoying herself, was truly relaxed. If she were an heiress looking for a husband, she would be ec­static.

  "You are not laboring under the belief that I have money, I hope."

  "No." He shook his head and gave her the half smile again. "No. I daresay you haven't a cent. But I thought of taking you for a drive and the idea wouldn't leave my mind. I hope you don't mind my using your company for selfish enjoyment. I'm not free to court you and, frankly, I'm quite relieved that you exposed my problem so charmingly."

  This time Emma's laugh echoed off the brick walls of the surrounding homes. Lancaster did not inspire her to fits of lust, but he was dangerous in other ways. He could steal her heart, could likely steal any woman's heart with no effort at all. He would have no trouble getting his heiress.

  "You must have been quite young when you married," Lancaster commented. "You are twenty-one now?"

  "Yes," she lied without a twinge of guilt. "Lord Denmore was a wonderful man. I was not opposed to the marriage."

  "And you hope to marry again soon?"

  "I do not."

  He darted a surprised look in her direction, but whatever he wanted to ask he kept to himself. "Here," he murmured, and bent down to rummage beneath the seat. He straightened with a thick wool blanket, and when he laid it over her knees, Emma realized it had been resting atop a warming box.

  "Oh," she sighed. "Oh, that is so, so lovely. Thank you."

  "Hm. Well, I can't help but appreciate such a beautiful thank you." His eyes studied her, his gaze lingering on her mouth, and Emma felt warmth flood her cheeks. "I hope you won't mind my impertinence, but Somerhart is a very lucky man."

  She blushed harder, though it seemed ridiculous. There was no reason to blush.

  "You're quite sure your husband didn't leave you a secret inheritance? It'd be damned convenient."

  And just like that, Emma's embarrassment dissolved and she was laughing again. She might never again take a car­riage ride with such a handsome gentleman. She'd be wise to enjoy it.

  The booming knock on her door startled Emma into a strangled gasp. It wasn't a polite knock, and it wasn't at the back door. A constable, was her first thought, and the only logical one she managed in the minute that followed.

  Emma set aside her sewing and rubbed her cold hands against her skirts. The skirts themselves were dark brown and merely serviceable, and it occurred to her that she was dressed quite appropriately for a morning trip to jail.

  Just as she was pushing stiffly to her feet, the pounding started again and at the edges of her graying vision, she caught sight of Bess rushing down the stairs to the door. Emma edged toward the doorway of the parlor to watch her housekeeper open the front door and make a ponderous curtsy.

  "Is your mistress at home?" a familiar voice growled. Somerhart. Emma's knees nearly gave up their fight to hold her weight.

  Bess murmured something and began to close the door, but Somerhart's hand jumped suddenly into view. "It's barely noon," he explained, as he pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. His gaze traveled past the hall and caught her. "Ah, Lady Denmore. A moment of your time?"

  "Fine," she muttered, trying to be angry at his imperti­nence, but far too relieved to do more than pretend. She backed up to the settee and let her knees give way.

  When Somerhart entered, he made a show of glancing about as he strolled toward Emma. His study stopped with her brown wool dress. "I see no signs of hidden wealth, so I can only imagine that Lancaster doesn't have marriage on his mind."

  "What?" Emma finally felt the dumbness of her relief burn away.

  "Several people stopped me at my club last night, appar­ently hoping for a delicious reaction to the news that you've taken up riding with Lord Lancaster."

  "Oh? And did you deign to whet their appetites?"

  "Of course not. But they hardly needed it. You offer ample encouragement on your own."

  "Good reason to sever our fantastical relationship, Your Grace."

  "Mmm." He sat next to her without invitation and crossed his ankle over his knee. "You've insisted that you have no in­terest in taking a lover. So what are you about with Lan­caster?"

  "That's none of your concern."

  "None of my—"

  "What are you doing here? As you said, it's barely noon. This is completely inappropriate."

  "Ha!" The man's absolutely luscious mouth softened into amusement. He chuckled, then the deep rumble bloomed into a real laugh. "Inappropriate? This from a woman who participates in footraces?" He rubbed a hand over his eyes and laughed harder. "Inappropriate to visit before three. In my jealousy, I stormed over here before three. Good God, I've gone mad."

  He looked nothing like a duke in that moment. With no hat to protect him from the wet day, his black hair was damp and ruffled. His blue eyes blazed with anger and amuse­ment, shielding her from none of his emotions. Emma tried to cover her smile with a discreet hand, but in holding back a laugh, she gave a very indelicate snort.

  Somerhart pulled his chin in. "Are you laughing at me?"

  "I'm sure . . . I wouldn't. . . Yes! Did you say 'jealousy'?"

  "I did, so laugh away. I insist."

  So Emma laughed, half at Somerhart, and half with the remnants of her relief. When she stopped laughing, she found Somerhart regarding her with a secret kind of smile. It twisted her throat into knots and she found she couldn't manage a witty comment. Still, she opened her mouth and waited for her breath to come back, but she waited in vain. Before she was over that beautiful smile, Somerhart pressed it to her parted lips. His smile was warm and tender and silky soft. But his tongue, when it touched hers, was even better. .. hot and slow and rich as velvet.

  She didn't want this, she didn't. But his mouth worked magic. How could the cold, controlled duke taste so sweet? How could his lips brush such a gentle feeling into hers? And his tongue was the best kind of temptation, a fleeting glimpse of heaven that retreated just when she wanted more. Emma followed that hot pleasure and felt his hands grasp her shoulders. He eased her an inch away.

  "Completely inappropriate . .." He tasted her bottom lip, then her top one, and rewarded her sigh with a much deeper kiss than the first. This kiss pushed aside tender thoughts, and Emma felt pulled down, sinking into heat. My first kiss, she thought, which was ridiculous. She'd been kissed before, and not just once. But this . . . this was intimacy. An introduction to that other world. The world she'd watched and wondered about, the world of pleasure and secrets and wickedness.

  "You . . ." Somerhart whispered. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw. "It's you. Driving me mad." His teeth nipped the edge of her jaw before he tasted his way to the skin beneath her ear. He opened his lips over that spot and Emma shivered.

  "I left my house furious."

  "Why?" she managed.

  "You know why." He touched his tongue to her . . . Fire.

  Hating herself for doing it, Emma arched her neck.

  "But on the drive over. . ." He drew a fiery path up to her earlobe. "I realized. . ." Every word whispered a cool secret against wet skin. "I'd promised to be charming."

  She would have shaken her head, but he caught her ear-lobe between his teeth, trapping her.

  "Oh," Emma sighed, then mo
aned something less intel­ligible when he began to suck.

  Several parts of her body came to strict attention at the sensation. Nibbling, sucking . . . His tongue worked against the sensitive flesh, and Emma thought she could swoon given a few more minutes to enjoy.

  She dug her fingers into the shoulders of his coat just before he let her ear go with a tiny, wet pop. "Am I?" he asked.

  "Mm?"

  "Am I being charming, Lady Denmore?"

  "No." The word betrayed itself, all dusk and softness.

  His chuckle was so close she could feel it marching through her bones. "Little liar," he whispered and nipped her ear again.

  Her brain muttered a protest, but Emma's body glowed with joy and triumph. She wanted this, wanted more than this, because she knew. She knew what he meant by these kisses, knew that he could use these delicate skills on more important places. More needful places.

  Yes! Her body sang as he licked lower, down the column of her throat to the high collar of her gown where he gave one final, lingering kiss.

  "Now we will have something besides your ride with Lan­caster to think about."

  Emma was still blinking when he rose and tugged his coat into place.

  "I've used up all my charm for the morning. I'll see you in two days." His words thrummed with hot warning and seemed to echo through the room long after the man closed the door behind him.

  Hart didn't know what to think of himself anymore. Had no idea, in fact. He felt young again. Young and hot and reckless. And the feelings were memories, aching with plea­sure, but straining all over with a sense of doom.

  Heartache had followed these feelings last time. Heartache and humiliation and fury and shame. He'd thought he'd learned his lesson, but apparently his libertine's soul had only retreated. It had regrouped, reformed, and now loomed over him, too heavy and insistent to resist.

  Lady Denmore was a woman to be thoroughly enjoyed, and Hart meant to have her in every way she'd allow. He wanted to indulge again, live again.

  When he came to himself, he was standing at the bottom of her front steps, blinking. He found his driver very care­fully staring at a spot beyond his ducal head. Attentive, but not aware. Seeing, but not noticing. The perfect servant.

  "I'll walk a moment," Hart said, thinking of the thief he'd spotted. "Wait here." Her neighborhood was attractive by day, even a cloudy, cold day like this one, but the facades were simple, and the windows more likely to be curtained in bright, flowered fabrics than stately silk. The area felt solidly prosperous, but not genuinely rich. Still, Hart wasn't sure that Lady Denmore fell into either of these categories.

  Her entry and parlor had been shabby at best, and rather bare. After seeing them, Hart couldn't quite fathom why she wasn't trolling for a rich husband. Or perhaps she was. Perhaps she'd challenged him more purposefully than she'd let on.

  Scowling at the thought, Hart turned the corner the thief had snuck past. There was nothing and no one there, of course.

  The possibility of Lady Denmore being a scheming, decep­tive jezebel presented a problem, because Hart had suspected her of being scheming and deceptive from the moment he'd heard about her young marriage and unusual arrival in London. It hadn't affected his attraction in the least. In fact, he suspected it was part of the appeal.

  He knew from experience that scandalous women were just as daring in private as they were in public. Lady Den­more took risks, she thrived on danger, she enjoyed con­frontation. And the woman could turn a controlled duke into a sensualist with nothing more than a sigh. This was her gift. And Hart's weakness.

  But he dreamed of being transformed. Just for a few nights. Just enough decadent pleasure to see him through another ten years of responsibility. It would be worth it. . . if he could avoid a trap. God, it would be worth it.

  His role as duke was stifling, but he had taken it on with only a small amount of resentment. He'd had no choice after all, and he wasn't a child to whine and stomp his feet. As to any misgivings or rebellion . . . well, his father had shown him the value of discretion and respectability before he'd died, a lesson he'd imparted with his usual brutal efficiency. Easier to mold a man if you pounded him into mush first.

  And after his father had died, Hart had been left with duties to master, a sister to raise, social obligations to finesse, not to mention his commitments in the House of Lords and the constant, exhausting watch against mamas on the lucra­tive husband hunt.

  So his vague sense of misery had been easy to ignore, but something had changed. He'd grown older, or more miser­able, or maybe it was simple solitude. His sister was no longer a joyful child, waiting for his return from London. She wasn't even a worrisome adolescent, sure to cause him trouble. She was a woman, married now, and far away.

  Hart was alone, isolated by his elevation, and no one seemed to understand anything about him, no one except a very suspicious young widow from the wilds of Cheshire.

  He stepped toward the shadow of an alleyway, and glanced down the gray length. A boy stood at the other end. He watched Hart without fear and didn't move when Hart stepped onto the wet stones. Instead, he crossed his arms and raised his chin a little higher.

  He was too small to be the thief from the other night, but that didn't mean he wasn't some sort of criminal.

  "You need sumpin'?" a wary voice demanded when Hart continued to approach.

  "Maybe." He stopped about ten feet from the child. "Why?"

  "I don't hire myself out if that's what ye're after."

  "Good God, no." He was sure he'd never been accused of the like. Hart shook his head. "Who do you work for?"

  The chin rose again. "No one."

  Hart glanced behind to be sure no one was sneaking up to crack open his skull. "Well, you're clearly selling something. What is it then?"

  "You're clearly buying. What is it?"

  An involuntary laugh choked Hart for a moment. Perhaps this boy had been trained by Lady Denmore in obstinance. "I need information," he finally conceded. The stubborn face brightened.

  "Why, that's my specialty, guv."

  "Mm." Hart studied him, all bright eyes and scrawny limbs. His gloves were shiny with black grime and his coat was smeared with it. The local coal picker? The boot black she had spoken of?

  Well, he likely couldn't do much harm. "I saw a thief the other night, near Lady Denmore's door. Do you know who she is?"

  "Course."

  "Do you know who the thief was?" A quick shake of his head.

  "Well, I'd like to find out. I want to know if he comes back and what he's about. How much?"

  The bright eyes narrowed. "A quid."

  "A quid." Hart looked him up and down again before he dug into his pocket for two coins. "I may be fine and shiny, boy, but I'm no fool. A quid is far too much." The child's mouth fell open when Hart opened his hand. "Two quid, but that buys your dedication. I expect absolute loyalty, you un­derstand? Will two pounds buy that?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You're not to work for that thief or anyone else. If you see him again, you send a message. I want to encourage him to move on. At the least, find out who he is, who's working the area. Do you think you can do that?"

  "I can."

  "Well, then." Hart handed over the coins. "I'm Somerhart."

  "Stimp," the boy replied, either some sort of agreement or his name. Hard to say.

  "I'll be back tomorrow, but I'm on Grosvenor Street if you need me this evening."

  "Right. Best get to work then, sir." The boy was walking away, one coin caught tight between his teeth, before Hart could say a word.

  * * *

  The pungent fragrance of incense hung over Matthew Bromley's head, then it wound around him, offering a strange, exciting mix of comfort and guilt. He bowed his head and prayed along with the rest of the small congrega­tion, but long after they'd all risen and filed out, he stayed.

  God would bring her back to him. If he prayed hard enough, sacrificed enough, she would be returned. He di
d not want her for selfish reasons, after all. The woman had led him astray, and Matthew meant to see both their souls saved from eternal damnation. Marriage, piety, grace; what more noble wish for a man?

  There is a stain on your soul, Reverend Whittier had said, and Matthew had wept to hear the truth spoken aloud. He wanted to be clean again, clean of the lust and fornication she'd wrapped him in. He hadn't realized the danger at the time, had been blind to her deception. He'd thought it all to do with love, and hadn't once thought of the devil. Not until he'd confessed to Reverend Whittier and seen her for what she truly was.

  Even with her gone it wasn't better. Every night she came to him in shameful dreams. Every night she coaxed his body to lust. He woke each morning with the proof of his sin like a brand on his flesh.

  He could not simply forget her. In order to save himself, he had to save her. She would be his wife or they were both doomed. As soon as they married he would be redeemed, and he could begin his work for the Lord. He would start with her jezebel soul and temptress body.

  "God will lead me to her. Soon," he murmured as he rose from his aching knees. "And I will save her from herself."

  Emma arrived at Moulter's estate at six o'clock and was dressed and ready for the party by eight. By nine she was glowing from the effects of good cards and even better champagne. Everyone around her was beginning to glow, actually, though she doubted they were drinking for the same reasons she was. Probably not one of them was at­tempting to drown their anxiety over Somerhart's coming se­duction.

  Her stomach fluttered again, and Emma took another sip. Not too much more though. She'd had trouble stifling a groan at the sight of her first bad hand.

  He hadn't put in an appearance, might not even be here yet, but she knew where his room was because the maid had mentioned it quite casually as she'd unpacked Emma's clothes. Somerhart's door was directly across from Emma's, a careful arrangement undoubtedly arranged by an attentive and helpful host. A duke's mistress must be accommodated, after all.

  She had no idea how she would avoid the man if he was sleeping only a few feet away from her.