Chapter Six
The next morning, Emmeline complained of a severe headache so she would be free of the attentions of her mother and brother.
It hadn’t been a complete lie; she’d lain awake most of the night and felt quite poorly for it.
She’d alternated between disbelief at the situation in which she’d landed herself and utter awe over what had transpired.
Never would she have believed herself to be a woman who allowed herself a moonlit garden tryst with a masked stranger, yet that was precisely what she had done.
Only…
He hadn’t been a stranger, had he?
She groaned and dropped her head into her palms.
How could she not have recognized Stanhope? She’d seen him so often over the years and interacted with him on nearly every one of those occasions. How could she possibly not have known it was the duke beneath the mask?
Because she’d been too blinded by the veil of animosity between their families to appreciate him—at least, that was the conclusion she’d come to as the first rosy rays of dawn graced the sky.
She hadn’t seen the charming smile with his dimples or the mirth in his fathomless eyes. She’d been too busy throwing barbs and planning her next move to appreciate the man behind the name—to see him for who he really was. What a crime that was for a man like Stanhope to go unnoticed.
No. He hadn’t been unnoticed. She’d noticed him every single time he’d been near; her every sense had been attuned to his presence to the point that her very skin tingled with his proximity. She’d noticed him quite thoroughly, but now she was seeing him for the sum of all that he was.
Emmeline froze the pacing of her chamber when a bit of movement around the garden gate caught her eye; the dark swath of fabric was incongruous with the brightness of the spring blooms. Stepping closer to the window, she narrowed her eyes and attempted to locate it once more.
There.
From her vantage point three storeys up, she could see there was a man standing just beyond the brick wall of the garden separating the flowers from the cobblestone alleyway and mews.
But it was not just any man. Even as far away as she was, Emmeline knew the breadth of those shoulders, the sturdy build, the angle of the jaw as he stared up at her as if he knew from which window she watched him.
Stanhope.
Emmeline’s heart stuttered.
What was he doing at her home? In broad daylight, no less!
He was lucky her mother was out paying calls, and her brother was off doing whatever it was that dukes did, or else there would undoubtedly have been hell to pay if he were spotted.
Still, Stanhope needed to leave before a servant reported a man lurking about the back gate, because then there certainly would be no hiding his presence from her family.
Without bothering to don a shawl or anything sturdier than the slippers she wore at home, Emmeline traversed the stairs as quickly as she dared.
She prayed all the while that she didn’t draw any unwanted attention and make the situation worse.
At least she’d changed into a pale blue morning dress of sprigged muslin, and she wasn’t forced to appear outside the house in her nightrail and wrapper.
“You’re going to pick flowers,” she muttered to herself.
“If anyone asks, you’re simply going to enjoy the garden and pick some flowers for a bouquet for your bedchamber.
” She hoped, if she repeated it to herself enough, she would automatically regurgitate it if she were questioned about her behavior.
Now, she had to remember to come back with flowers, and she hadn’t brought gloves, snippers, or a basket.
Blast. Why was everything so much more complicated than it should be?
She was out of breath as much from nerves as she was from her hasty steps by the time she exited the house to the crushed granite rectangle that served as the heart of Lowin House’s gardens.
Wrought iron tables and chairs had been strategically placed for her family’s use and enjoyment.
More than half a century of horticulture and landscaping had gone into selecting and curating the oasis that existed in their little slice of Mayfair.
A small pond off to one side was stocked with colorful fish and lily pads; waves of flowers in every conceivable color bloomed nearly year-round, from the crocuses and hyacinths in the spring, summer’s rainbow of foxgloves, roses, and peonies, to the bright yellow winter jasmine and snowdrops in the colder months.
Shrubs and artfully pruned trees provided shade and privacy from the surrounding Townhouses, giving the illusion of a miniature London green in the heart of the city.
Emmeline stomped over to the carved wooden gate set in the center of the brick wall.
She paused with her hand on the latch, listening for the sound of voices or clip of hooves that might signal someone entering or leaving the mews, but she heard nothing.
She wrenched the heavy door open with a grunt of effort and stuck her head out into the alley.
“What do you think you are doing?” she whisper-shouted at Stanhope.
To his credit, he seemed only slightly surprised to see her.
The brief widening of his eyes gave way to a slow lifting of the corners of his mouth.
He was so unreasonably handsome—how had she not melted to a puddle at his feet before?
“Why are you here?” she demanded, attempting to disguise the fluttering of her stomach as he strode toward her.
“I needed to speak to you, but I couldn’t very well walk up to your front door and hand your butler my card.”
“So, you thought lurking in the alley was the better option?” Emmeline’s eyes darted up and down the alley.
Grooms and stable hands were calling to one another in the mews.
Not wanting to chance being discovered, she grabbed Stanhope’s wrist and dragged him into the garden.
Well, to say she dragged him was an exaggeration—she sincerely doubted she could physically move the man anywhere he did not wish to go—he followed her and, when he saw her struggle to close the door, did so for her.
“I wasn’t lurking,” he said indignantly. “Dukes do not lurk.”
“Then how would you describe what you were doing, hm?” Realizing they were too visible from the house’s windows, Emmeline gave the duke a shove in the center of his muscular back, attempting to usher him into the shadows of the arbor swathed in clematis. It was like trying to move a mountain.
Stanhope snorted in amusement, but she was unclear as to whether it was from her pathetic attempts at moving him or her criticism of his behavior.
Suddenly, he spun. Emmeline yelped and would have landed on her face had he not moved so quickly and caught her about the waist. Before she could process what had happened, Grey tugged her with him beneath the dappled shade of the arbor and pressed her back against the wall of green leaves and star-shaped royal purple flowers.
“I would call it insanity,” Grey growled, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear as the length of his body fitted to hers as if they’d been made for one another.
“Even though I was unable to get you out of my head, I did not leave my house with the intention of seeking you out. Still, my feet carried me here despite my common sense. I did not intend to watch your house like a stray dog, yet I somehow know both your mother and your brother have gone out. I did not want to seek out your attention, but I wound up pacing my way around the perimeter, slipping through the alley like a criminal and staring up at the windows to see if I might glimpse you.”
Emmeline’s breaths were tremulous, half-choked by her pounding heart.
She was nearly overwhelmed by him—his nearness, his deliciously heady scent, the heat rolling off his body.
She was instantly transported back to the masquerade ball, waltzing in his arms, and shattering into a thousand brilliant stars beneath his ministrations.
“Why?” was all she could think to whisper.
Hellfire flashed in Stanhope’s eyes. “Damned if I know,” he snarled just before his mouth crashed over hers.
Emmeline was drowning beneath the crushing waves of his desire; she was helpless in the face of his storm.
A self-preservative part of her clung desperately to the safety that was reality, but a larger, more reckless part of her ached to give in.
She was exhausted from fighting what she truly wanted.
Why should she be forced to hold him at arm’s length when all it did was injure the two of them?
They were both adults. They knew their minds, their hearts, their bodies.
Why should they continue to be at the mercy of a decades-old feud that had nothing to do with them?
Because you’re betraying your family… Emmeline’s conscience pricked her like a dull embroidery needle.
Was she, though?
She’d never even met the grandfather who had participated in the duel that had resulted in the death of the Duke of Stanhope.
An offense had occurred, and, exhibiting the usual Lowin temper, her grandfather had chosen to aim true in the duel rather than fire into the air for satisfaction.
She knew nothing above the rumors passed down through generations and the lingering salacious whispers occasionally echoing through Society.
Did she owe loyalty to an ancestor whom she’d never met over this man who made her body sing?
Who, despite years of animosity, had become her favorite mental and verbal sparring partner?
Who wasn’t afraid to challenge her, humble her, and make her weak with desire all at the same time?
She had to believe such a combination was rare, indeed, for she’d never heard it mentioned that a man such as the current Duke of Stanhope existed.
And he’d existed right beneath her nose all this time.