Chapter 15 #2
As if reading her mind, Hart declared, “The only remedy was a house with a garden, where Monte will not require an escort to relieve himself.”
“Of course,” she hastened to agree, suppressing laughter. “Where is this house?”
“Actually, we are nearby. It’s in Wigmore Street, next to Cavendish Square.”
“Not far from the British Museum! How lovely.” The air felt heavy between them for a long minute until Emeline spoke again. “I’ll own I am very curious to see this residence. Will you show it to me?”
He gave her a look that made her heart jump. “That would be even more improper than leaving your escort in the middle of Kew Gardens to return to London alone with me.”
Feeling very warm, Emeline met his gaze and nodded agreement. “Indeed.”
Hart made no further reply but altered his course slightly and drove them to Wigmore Street.
They drew up in front of a handsome three-story townhouse of red brick, its classical doorway framed by white stone pilasters and crowned by a fanlight.
Monte gave a yip of excitement and leaped, unbidden, from the phaeton.
“I think he wants you to go inside,” said Hart.
“I should like that very much!” Emeline gave him her hand to step down from the equipage. “How did you learn that this house was available?”
He looked a trifle discomposed. “A…friend, a widow, lived here. She has just wed a wealthy tradesman and no longer needs this house.”
“I see! How kind of her to tell you about it.” She felt a stab of jealousy, even though she knew very well that Hart had doubtless had more mistresses than he could count. “But how shall we enter? I mean, the house isn’t yours yet, is it?”
Hart instructed William to see to the horses and led her to the front door. His tone was offhand as he replied, “Oh, yes, it’s mine.”
“But you said you were considering it!”
“I did consider, and then I made the purchase.” His hand was on the doorknob. “Time was of the essence since I shall depart for Lisbon in only a few days.”
A shadow fell over her euphoric mood. “I see. Monte will stay here, then?”
His only reply was to sweep open the door, and Emeline found herself in a spacious entrance hall. Monte capered before them, leading the way into an equally large stair hall, where wide, shallow stone steps rose up to a landing.
As Emeline watched the clearly uninjured Monte, she could not resist laughing, “He was not hurt at all. How very naughty!”
“Indeed. Naughty is his byword, I believe.” As Monte dashed about, Hart added, “Excuse me while I put this ruffian out in the garden, where he can explore at will. Wait here.”
Emeline nodded, but no sooner did dog and master disappear down the wide corridor than she glimpsed a nearby doorway opening onto another room.
Uncertainly, she approached, then peeked inside.
Drapes were drawn, blocking any light from the windows at the front of the house.
Three walls were covered with bookshelves of burnished wood, further darkening the space.
A library! Emeline realized with a shiver of pleasure.
She took a few steps inside and made out the shapes of several wooden crates stacked near the empty shelves.
Impulsively, she parted one set of drapes, just enough to let in some light.
Then, approaching the crates, she saw that all of them bore labels announcing LORD JASPER HARTCLIFFE, Wigmore Street, London.
Nearby, a small red chest with a curved lid was marked “Woodcroft Priory”—the very place where Hart had discovered the ancient sword and other artifacts.
The chest’s latch was secured with an iron lock.
One crate was already open, Emeline realized, and she yearned to look at the books inside, to glean some insight into Hart’s mind. Extending her hand, she had just touched an enticing, gold-embossed volume when a voice spoke.
“You are incorrigible, my girl.”
“Oh!” Emeline quickly straightened and saw his tall, powerful frame silhouetted in the doorway.
“You startled me. I trust you don’t mind that I was drawn to your library.
Won’t you show me your books? And what is in that little chest from Woodcroft Priory?
” Smiling, she gestured toward the locked chest. “I have been so eager to know what other relics you discovered on your property.”
Crossing the room, Hart positioned himself in front of the crates and stared down at her. “I don’t recall inviting you to enter this room.”
She gave a nervous laugh and touched his clenched hand. “Can it be that your books are a secret?”
“Not a secret, but my private property.” His voice was harsh. “You should not be here.”
“I don’t understand,” she protested.
“No, of course you don’t.”
Emeline became aware of the air between them, charged not with anger but potent, sensual hunger.
For someone like her, pursued in the past by men until she had come to avoid them, these feelings were both exciting and disturbing.
Just as she thought he would reach for her, catch her up in his arms and kiss her, Hart turned away.
“I am damned thirsty,” he muttered as he went to a low bookshelf and removed a bottle.
Pouring caramel-hued liquid into a small crystal glass, he drank it down, then looked at Emeline.
“My apologies, the other glasses are still packed.” Without asking, he poured another small portion, returned to her side, and extended the glass. “Brandy.”
Strong spirits were almost as foreign to her as lust for a man, but she boldly took the brandy and put her mouth where his had been. The first sip burned, but then heat spread through her body, heightening her arousal.
“You should not be in this dark room, alone with me,” Hart said in a rough voice.
“There are so many things I shouldn’t do,” Emeline whispered, feeling like a wild horse finally set free. “And yet, why not?”
She looked up at him in silent invitation.
“Why not?” he repeated hoarsely. “There are a dozen reasons.”
“But in this moment, do any of them matter?”
“Emeline.” He caught her elbows and drew her almost roughly into his arms. “You are a bit mad.”
“Like you,” she whispered.
He lifted her easily off her feet and brought his mouth down over hers, searing, searching.
His tongue found its way between her lips, and Emeline responded hungrily.
How good he tasted! The heat of his male body against hers made her want to caress his bare skin, the contours of his hard muscles, the wild, intimate parts of him.
Instinctively, she pressed closer, her breasts tingling, and he obliged by bringing one strong hand to mold itself to her bodice until her nipple strained and ached.
“Please,” she gasped, longing to simply rip her gown open. Between her legs, she was wet, swollen…and thrillingly, she sensed that he was well aware of this.
Hart pressed her back against the empty bookshelves and rucked up her skirts with one deft hand. “Sorceress,” he muttered.
Recklessly, Emeline opened her legs as his questing hand found its way up her stockinged thigh.
As if from a distance, she heard herself making soft animal sounds.
When his fingertips parted the slit in her drawers and finally touched her, she felt an abrupt, delicious tremor of release that only made her want more.
Hart was kissing her again, his tongue moving in her mouth in a way that Emeline knew mimicked the sexual act.
Helplessly, she moved her hips against his fingers, kissing him back, her breathing hot and quick.
Nothing mattered except this blinding pleasure and the need that pulsed inside her.
Suddenly, through the wall, Emeline heard the front door open and close heavily, followed by footsteps crossing the entrance hall. A loud voice called, “Lord Jasper!”
For an instant, Hart seemed to go dead white. He stepped back, her skirts tumbled back into place, and Emeline sagged against the bookshelves. Tears stung her eyes. Quickly, Hart crossed to the doorway and stepped into the brightly lit stair hall.
“What is it?” he demanded.
William’s urgent voice carried clearly to the library as he replied, “It is His Grace—your brother! He recognized the phaeton outside and desires to enter and speak with you.”