Chapter 29 #2
And…she liked him. Well and truly liked him.
“All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll do it. It appears to be the only way to keep you out of trouble.”
She nearly collapsed with relief, but since she was already sitting down, there was no need.
Still, this was no time to grin like a debutante who’d just secured her first dance with a marquess.
“Then it’s settled,” she said, clasping her hands loosely in her lap as if this were all perfectly ordinary.
“We shall appear together—just often enough to silence tongues, and never so often that anyone suspects the truth. I will, of course, set the terms.”
One dark brow lifted in another unmistakable challenge.
She hurried on before he could voice the objection already clouding his eyes.
“You will, of course, escort me to a handful of events, speak to me as though you enjoy my company, and most importantly”—she speared him with a scowl—“refrain from glowering at every gentleman who ventures within six feet of me.”
“I don’t glower,” he said.
“Actually, you do,” she returned, quick as a rapier. “It’s…impressive, in its way. But not conducive to convincing Society that you are the perfect choice to have at my side. The fact that you are untitled will raise enough eyebrows.”
His jaw flexed. “And just what do I get in return for all this smiling and gallantry?”
She allowed herself the faintest smile. “Why, unimpeded access to any drawing room in the upper crest homes of London, Mr. Whitmore, without a single raised eyebrow. Precisely what you said you need.”
In an unexpected move, he leaned forward, bracing an arm on the settee beside her hip. The sudden closeness sent something inexplicable swirling up her spine. Her breath hitched, and she prayed he hadn’t noticed.
His voice dropped, low and certain. “Make no mistake, my lady. You may set your terms, but know this: I am the one who decides how things play out. And if you choose to tether yourself to me, you’d best prepare yourself for the consequences.”
His fingers brushed a stray curl from her temple, stopping any reply she was certain would have come out in a stuttering jumble of words.
The touch, lighter than that of a feather, ignited more treachery under her skin, ignited sparks that raced straight to her pulse and between her legs. She shifted to ease the discomfort of sheer need.
His hardened, shadowed jaw tempted her, and she raised her palm.
The roughened texture scraped, and her skin prickled with sensation.
Stanford had never been able to grow a beard when it was fashionable.
The faintest ghost of a smile tugged at Emerson’s mouth, as though he’d just won a point in this hazardous byplay that rent the air.
He leaned closer. “Lady Stanford,” he said softly, dangerously, “are you attempting to compromise me?”
Rose swallowed. Hard. Her other hand crept to the back of his neck, seemingly of its own accord. “I do believe I am, Mr. Whitmore.” She couldn’t get her voice above a whisper.
He drew closer, hovering over her until she was flat on her back and bracing his arms on either side of her. His lips brushed hers. “Is this what you desire, my lady?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Whitmore.”
His lips molded hers, coaxing them apart, then brushing his tongue against hers. All velvet and warmth.
She clutched his shoulders with both hands, terrified of falling into nothingness should she let go. Her heart did the stuttering her voice didn’t do. Capturing her breath was an impossible deed.
Slowly, he lifted away. “Is this a condition of your terms, Lady Stanford?”
Rose blinked, his words barely penetrating. “W-what?” Then they did, and she shoved him off her.
The move caught him by surprise, and he flipped to the floor, hauling her with him. She landed with a thud atop his large body. Solid body. Hard-as-stone body. She reared up, her hands on his huge, capable shoulders, fury shaking her. “You…you bastard.”
~~~
Pinned to the carpet with her delectable body atop his, Emerson ought to have apologized, or at the very least rolled her off him before all propriety deserted him entirely. He wasn’t that good. Instead, he held fast to her waist, looked up into her furious eyes, and did the devil’s work.
He smiled.
“A bastard, aye. ’Tis a label I cannot deny. Literally or figuratively. But if you mean to play at compromising men, Rose, you would do better in choosing a different opponent. Because I play to win.”
Shock had her breath coming out, quick and uneven, her palms still braced against his shoulders as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to push free. God help him, he could feel the heat of her even through her stays. His better judgment roared for restraint, but his body…his body was a traitor.
She scrambled up at last, a slippered foot on either side of his hips, and shook out her tangling skirts.
Unable to resist, his hands slid to her stockinged ankles, and he closed his hands around the slimmest legs and slid up.
A strangled noise rippled the air. “Sir!” In her attempt to escape, she nearly toppled with the low table that hindered their movements. “You w-will not m-make a game of me.” Emotion sputtered from her, trembling and furious.
He truly was a bastard, figuratively. With quick reflexes, he steadied her then dragged himself to his feet. Frowning, he straightened his waistcoat and brushed at his breeches with deliberate calm, though his pulse hadn’t slowed. “Game? Forgive me, Rose.”
The glare she leveled at him might have felled a lesser man.
He planted his hands on her shoulders to prevent her from storming away. They would have this out. Now. Do or die. “Why do you kiss as if you’ve never been kissed before?” he asked softly.
Her eyes widened, her face flushed, bright scarlet. From the heat of the fire? No, it wasn’t that. She tried shoving from his grip in an attempt to step back, but he held fast, too curious for her answer.
Instead, he was met with a stubborn silence. It saturated the air.
“I suspect your late husband failed in appreciating exactly whom he’d married,” he said, lifting her chin.
An instant shimmer glistened, and she blinked it away, her lips firming.
He leaned in slowly and brushed them softly with his own.
“The man was an absolute fool,” he told her, feathering her skin with his words and his breath, feeling her tremble beneath him.
The sense that she’d been horribly abused—perhaps not physically—her brother would have crushed Stanford had that been the case. No, it was more insidious.
Neglect.
Humiliation.
Not control. She was too strong for that, but there were other ways men used to assert what they considered their…virility.
Emerson’s chest tightened. He wanted to seize time itself and throttle it for what it had stolen from her.
The thought of her shrinking in silence under another man’s roof clawed at him, made his blood burn.
She deserved laughter, light, the kind of fire she kept hidden under all that starch and propriety she allowed Society to put upon her.
With a deep inhale that took in her subtle orange blossom scent, he spoke in a low growl. “Did he ever hurt you? Your person, I mean.”
Her eyes dropped from his, and she shook her head as if words deserted her. After a long moment, she sucked in a deep breath. “No.” Her voice held a crack, and she tried again. “No. I suspect he saved that for his actresses and opera dancers.”
He removed his hands from her shoulders, allowing her to take what solace she needed through herself. Forgiving herself was a key to her healing. He wanted her to heal more than he wanted his next breath.
Her arms wrapped her body, her chin lowered as though she might fold into her own shadow.
“He had no use for me, not beyond my name and dowry. Oh, he appreciated my dressing to perfection, smiling at his side, nodding when the matrons praised his choice, and most of all, his connection to Ryleigh. But once we were encased within Stanford house where no one could see? I failed to exist.” Her knuckles turned white with her tightened fingers.
“Eventually, even that ceased to matter.”
Missing their appointment took on a new, heartbreaking significance, as if he wielded a knife into her already wounded heart.
Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Stanford preferred his women younger. Much younger. Girls who had no defenses, who mistook his attention for affection. And when he grew bored, he discarded them as one does a glass of wine gone sour. The last young woman escaped him only to die mere steps from the front doors of Hope House.” Her voice wavered.
“Men will never understand. My husband’s sins were vast, but no, he left no visible scars.
No one considered me a victim. I smiled.
Played my part. I gave Society what it expected—a dutiful wife, a baroness who did not weep in public, who held her chin aloft while they whispered behind their painted fans.
It was the only way to survive the shame of tying myself to such a fool. ”
She looked up then, eyes burning. “That is precisely why I went after Miss Lockhart tonight.”
Emerson’s breath caught. Fierce, foolish, unyielding woman—she was fire itself, forged out of neglect and humiliation, burning now for every girl who might be broken as she once had been. And God help him, he wanted nothing more than to stand in that fierce blaze of hers.
He moved to her once more and pulled her tightly into his chest, wrapping her within an embrace he prayed didn’t suffocate her. He bent nearer and willed his thoughts to her. Never again will you be treated as such. Not while I draw breath.
To his absurd relief, her arms wrapped his waist, and she hung on to him as if her very life depended on it. On him.
He leaned away and lifted her chin. “You are a wonder, my lady.” He dipped his head and kissed her.
The dependency shifted. Right then, he knew that it would be he who died if he didn’t protect her.