Chapter 15
Emma needed to get away from the emotions breaching her chest in two. She couldn’t understand the urge to be near him, to feel the sensuality of his kiss… while knowing the despicable thing he did to her and her family.
She staggered away, desperate to get on shore and put some distance between him and her when—her foot lost purchase on the deck of Highminster’s boat—
Splash!
Freezing cold water surged into her nose and throat, enveloping her in a wall of ice, shocking her into immobility.
Panic suddenly seized her chest as she began to flail, struggling to breathe, disoriented, fighting to survive.
She couldn’t swim, and fear tightened around her chest, and she thrashed wildly, desperate to reach the surface.
Her coat was heavy, her boots heavier, and both were dragging her down, no matter how hard she fought to get to air. Her legs felt useless, her arms trapped in the tight confines of her coat, and her lungs were swiftly depleting of air, as was her energy.
I will die here…
Strong arms suddenly encircled her waist, and she felt her descent grow into an ascent, the dark, cold water turning lighter, the heavy pressure lessening, and then—she gasped in a lungful of air.
Grateful for the air, she felt a firm arm just under her breasts anchoring her to a solid chest while her rescuer towed them backwards.
She was heaved onto a flat surface and a mouth sealed over hers, warm and firm, forcing air into her. Breath billowed through her lungs again and again, until she jerked to the side and hacked up water, her chest burning, eyes stinging with pain.
“Open those pretty eyes of yours, pet,” Vincent whispered breathlessly above her.
Peeling her eyes open, she met his stormy gaze, water dripping from the chiseled contours of his face. “There you are,” he smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “You just love getting yourself into scrapes, don’t you?”
She pushed the wet tendrils of hair from her face, blinking through the droplets, only to find the duke’s furrowed brow inches away. Beads of water trickled down his face, gathering at his lips.
Her gaze followed the slow, mesmerizing path. When he licked his lips, the simple, unthinking gesture made her forget that she had been fighting for her life just moments ago.
“Let me get you up,” he said as he got to his feet.
Still shaken, Emma leaned into his hold, but her knees gave out from under her. Swooping her into a bridal carry, she leaned into his warmth, trying not to let her chattering teeth chomp down on her lips.
The sodden clothes were not helping, and she suddenly wished she had not run from Vincent. She just wanted to go home and forget this disaster of a day. Surely it could not get any worse.
Vincent rounded a corner and suddenly jerked to a stop, and Emma dimly heard horrified gasps and a few sharp giggles.
“What in heavens is going on here?” a lady’s voice screeched from behind her, and Emma felt her heart simply stop beating.
Surely—surely—this could not be happening. Not this—lord above, not this! Emma made the mistake of pulling her face from the crook of Vincent’s neck to look around and made the mistake of meeting the eyes of Lady Featherstone, a thirty-something spinster, her sharp eyes landing on hers.
The lady lifted the brim of her ostentatious, feather-laden hat while there was a sea of ladies, matrons, and lords behind her. Emma felt her head spin.
Even with the plausible explanation ready at hand, she knew no one would accept it.
The lords gaped openly while a whirlwind of air was being produced by the sea of fans. Lady Featherstone clutched her pearls. “My goodness, is that Lady Emma Haverleigh?”
“Lady Featherstone,” Vincent addressed the most notorious gossip in the Ton.
“Is she conscious?” the lady pressed. “How are you both drenched?”
“There was an unfortunate mishap,” Vincent grated. “She fell into the water.”
“And you went after her?” Lady Featherstone gasped in horror.
Pressed so tightly against him, Emma felt Vincent bristle.
“Was I supposed to let her drown?”
“No, of course not, Your Grace,” the lady kowtowed. “But we know about the financial scandal her father was in. Perhaps it was a calculated move to entrap y—”
“That’s quite enough,” Vincent’s tone went icy. “To insinuate such a thing is utterly insulting to the lady.”
“You are both in a state of scandal,” Lady Featherstone pointed out matter-of-factly. “And I say this with the best of intentions, there have been some rumors about yourself—”
“And what rumors are those, exactly?” Vincent dared her. When the busybody went red, he pressed, “She fell into the water, and I could not let her drown on the face of propriety.”
Emma buried her face in his shoulder, trembling. “Oh god… oh god… this is my worst nightmare…”
Vincent’s arms tightened around her, a silent gesture of comfort.
“I am only trying to say—”
“I know what you are trying to say,” Vincent bit out, his voice so cold and hard, the entire company stilled. “So do you care to speak plainly? Please offer your unfettered wisdom on what I should do next.”
His quelling tone had the lady crumpling in on herself. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn.”
Turning to Emma, he gave her a look. “I’m sorry for this.”
“For what?” she could only mouth.
“Keep your head where it is.” Clearing his throat, Vincent strode forward. “I anticipate many of you have prejudiced notions of Lady Emma’s family and financial circumstances, but I will not have any of you slander my future wife.”
Gripping his wet waistcoat, Emma’s voice grew strangled. “What are you doing?”
“Saving your reputation,” he muttered as he split the stunned crowd and strode to the dock where his yacht was waiting offshore.
Waiting for them with a rowing boat was one of his liveried men, and with a little help, he took the seat, all while keeping Emma in his embrace.
“I suppose the request to be my companion is moot now,” he said.
Finally catching her bearings, Emma glared up at him, “Do you find this amusing?”
He looked down. “No, but one does see the irony.”
“You did ruin me, whether you like it or not,” Emma accused while pulling away.
“Emma,” he admonished firmly, and his steely gaze had her shifting.
“And stop wriggling, or we will be back in the water. What is done is done, I suppose. I’ll be applying for a special license tomorrow morning, but do not fret.
I will make it so you can petition for an annulment or a divorce whenever you fancy. ”
“Women cannot petition for divorce,” Emma slanted him a look.
“My duchess can,” he said with finality.
“The lady is right,” she said softly. “My—my family does come with a great deal of scandal.”
“And I am sorry for my part in it. When all this blows over, you will be better for it. You may even marry your sorry Marquess if you still care to. I will explain it all to him on your behalf. All you need do is ask.”
She didn’t reply to that. They arrived at the yacht, and the footmen laid out a rope ladder for them to embark. Holding the boat steady, Vincent offered to climb up after her, and Emma grabbed the rope, clambering up, the heft of her sodden clothes slapping thickly on the back of her thighs.
When she finally reached the deck, Vincent ordered his men, “Back to port, as quick as you can.”
“Yes, sir,” the footmen bowed.
Vincent steered her back to the cabin and rifled through the cupboard. “You cannot possibly be comfortable in those soaking clothes—” He retrieved a thick towel from the shelf, a pair of black breeches, and a button-up shirt. “Here, dress in these.”
Aghast, Emma asked, “Men’s clothes?”
His brow ticked up. “Would you prefer if I were the type of man who stowed women’s clothing in my private cabins?”
Her shoulders dropped. “Point made. T-thank you.”
“You can dress here,” he grunted while plucking out another suit for himself, oddly, a rather worn set of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt that looked like an ancient Scottish Liene. Nodding to the room beyond, he said, “I’ll change there.”
Looking down at the clothes on her lap, Emma rubbed the cloth; as old as it was, it was soft and smooth, premium linen from India or the Americas.
A heavy wet splat had her head snapping up to see that Vincent had discarded his shirt and was ruffling his wet hair with his towel.
The muted sunlight seeping through the thick drapes caressed his bared torso, highlighting the hills and valleys of the smooth muscles of his chest and arms. When he pivoted, the muscles rippled with his movement.
It was like staring at a Greek god from an ancient myth.
Her eyes trailed over the swath of hair across his chest and the thin line that bisected his lower abdomen, disappearing into his damp trousers. With how wet they were, the inky material was plastered to every inch of him, hugged every dip and curved over the bulge in his—
“Oh god…” Emma dragged her eyes away. “I thought you were changing in the other room!”
He looked almost contrite. “My apologies. Old habit of mine.”
“You disrobe willy nilly in front of everyone?” she asked, her face flaming.
He threw a glance over his shoulder, a smirk heavy on his lips. “Never say this is your first time seeing a man?”
She stood. “What sort of lady do you think I am?!”
He chuckled, “I knew you were an innocent, but not this virginal.”
“You insult my honor, sir,” she rasped furiously. “If I were a man, I would tell you to meet me at dawn.”
“Are you any good of a shot?” He laughed, flashing perfect, white pearls. “And it was a compliment, Emma, not an insult.”
Even with the damp clothes chafing her skin, Emma stood her ground. “You do not fool me; you are not as innocuous as you let on. You are just as much of a rakehell as most of the ton lords.”