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Darting a glance at him and seeing the amused curve of his fine lips, she wondered if he meant to touch her in so intimate a manner. Immediately, she decided not. He was interested in Amy, not her. She had too many freckles and a spare figure that not even the high-waisted gowns in fashion flattered.
He could have his pick of the ladies of the ton or those not so high in the instep. He would never give her a second glance if he weren’t pursuing Amy for reasons Emma knew had to be far from honourable.
‘A tuppence for your thoughts, Miss Stockton.’
Warmth spread through Emma’s body at his use of her name and made her wonder if he had really meant her the first time. She chased that thought away. Everything about this situation was disconcerting.
‘I am wondering why everyone wants to be in London when the countryside is at its best at this time of year.’ She couldn’t help a wistful glance at the green trees and emerald grass. ‘There are days when I miss home very much.’
His eyes intent, he murmured, ‘How very interesting. I thought you enjoyed London.’
She met his gaze without thought. ‘I don’t know why you should think anything about me, Mr Hawthorne. You don’t know me.’
‘I know some things.’
‘Such as?’
He glanced at Amy and shrugged. ‘That you have been in London for the Season these past three years. That your family’s country estate is in Yorkshire. That until three years ago, you were in mourning. You did not come to Town until after that.’
She listened to him, thinking he must have heard everything from his older brother when she and George Hawthorne had been engaged for all of three months just two years before. It seemed a lifetime.
‘You are well-informed. I would have thought me too boring a subject to hold any interest for a man of your persuasions.’
As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. They sounded as though she were begging for a compliment, not as the insult they should have been. Why did this man—with nothing to recommend him that she valued—manage to make her feel disturbingly alive?
‘You don’t have a high opinion of me.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Em, how can you be so rude?’ Amy’s voice cut into what had seemed a small cocoon where only Emma and Charles Hawthorne existed. ‘If I said such a thing, you would threaten to put me to bed with only bread and milk.’
Emma shook herself, thankful to Amy for interrupting a discussion that was becoming too revealing. She angled to smile at her sister. ‘I might have done so several years ago, but you are too old for such measures now.’
‘Hah! And thank goodness for that.’ Amy laughed. ‘I have seen that glint in your eyes many times these last weeks. You always have it when you wish to discipline me.’
Bantering with her sister eased some of Emma’s uncanny awareness of the man sitting across from her. Even when his knee once more touched her own, she managed not to feel as though her stomach spiralled. She was more aware of him than she wished.
Charles Hawthorne raised his hand to wave and the carriage slowed. They paralleled a dark-haired, dark-eyed, vivacious woman who sat on a prime piece of horseflesh as though she had been born to the saddle.
Harriette Wilson, the famed courtesan, smiled at Charles Hawthorne.
Emma’s face paled and her fists clenched. This was not done and showed a tremendous lack of respect on the man’s part toward her and her sister. She glared at him.
‘Harriette,’ he said, his fine voice making the name sound like a caress, ‘how are you today? You look in fine mettle.’
The woman smiled back, her entire body seeming to light up. ‘Charles, you devil, I am in great spirits.’ Her teasing gaze turned challenging. ‘Do you intend to introduce me?’
His grin widened. ‘I would not have hailed you if I did not.’ He turned so his intensity held Emma like a vise, his countenance as serious as Emma had never seen it. ‘Miss Stockton, Miss Amy, I would like you to meet Miss Wilson. A friend of mine.’
Emma nodded her head. Good manners and an innate tendency not to hurt others kept her tone pleasant and kept her from looking away without acknowledging the introduction. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Wilson.’
Amy’s voice rose. ‘Miss Harriette Wilson? The Harriette—’
Emma cut ruthlessly across her sister’s excitement. ‘That is enough, Amy. I am sure Miss Wilson has no desire for her name to be shouted for all to hear.’
The mounted woman laughed and her attractive face turned beautiful. No wonder men thought her irresistible. Emma found her appealing.
‘I am not shouting,’ Amy said indignantly.
Emma scowled at her, hoping to quiet her.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance,’ Harriette said solemnly.
Tension Emma had not seen before eased from the courtesan’s stiffly held back. Harriette Wilson had expected to be snubbed. Emma felt sorry for the other woman who had much more freedom than any respectable female, but also suffered more slights and less security. Upon the realisation, Emma gave the other woman a slight smile, her only regret being that Amy was in the carriage and being introduced to Britain’s most well-known, sought after and successful courtesan. This would do Amy’s reputation as much damage as being pursued by Charles Hawthorne.
For her sister’s sake, Emma regretted her show of friendliness but she could not have done differently. It was not Harriette Wilson at fault here, but Charles Hawthorne for stopping, and she would tell him so at the first opportunity.
Chapter Three
N early an hour later, they swept through the gate and out of Hyde Park. Emma still fumed.
‘Did you enjoy your outing?’ Charles Hawthorne asked Amy, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
The young girl sparkled in the afternoon sun. ‘Very much so.’ She laughed with enjoyment. ‘And you are such a rogue to introduce us to Harriette Wilson. Although, I must admit to being fascinated by a woman who earns her living like that.’
Emma did nothing to disguise her groan. ‘Amy, if you please, that is more than enough. Ladies do not discuss women like Miss Wilson.’
‘Oh, pooh! Ladies don’t do anything that is interesting.’
Even as she silently agreed with Amy, Emma knew she had to stop Amy’s fascination with the other woman right now. ‘You seem to be doing quite a few things that are interesting to you.’
‘Sarcasm?’ Charles Hawthorne murmured. ‘It will accomplish nothing.’
Emma gave him a bland look. Right now was not the time to let him know what she thought of his actions. She was spared any further temptation to do so with Amy present by the carriage pulling up to their house.
Charles Hawthorne hopped out and turned immediately to help Amy down. She giggled. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ Her eyes flirted as she allowed him to guide her to the front steps.
‘My pleasure.’ He put his gloved hand over hers where it rested on his forearm.
His head bent to Amy’s and he said something Emma couldn’t hear as she followed behind, having been helped down by the groom. No doubt he was flirting as outrageously with Amy as she was with him. A tiny ball of frustration and another emotion Emma didn’t want to examine formed in her chest.
She reached them just as the front door opened. ‘Amy, please give me a few moments alone with Mr Hawthorne.’
Amy looked from one to the other. ‘So you can scold him?’
Emma ignored the challenge in her sister’s voice. ‘Please honour my request.’
‘Don’t let her box your ears, Mr Hawthorne. She has a predilection for that.’ Amy tossed her head.
‘I am more than capable of taking care of myself, Miss Amy.’ He took Amy’s gloved fingers and raised them to his lips.
A flush of pleasure made the already pretty girl beautiful. ‘You always know exactly what to do.’
Emma thought she would lose control and step between the two like a knife cutting through cloying syrup. She managed not to do so by a strong effort of will.
The door closed behind Amy before Emma turned to Mr Hawthorne, who looked at her with one black brow lifted as though daring her to do her worst. It was more provocation than she could resist.
‘How dare you flirt with her in such a way, kissing her hand! It is much too sophisticated for a girl like her. Save it for a more experienced woman. Isn’t it bad enough that Amy allows you to pursue her in a most unseemly manner when all and sundry know you have no intention of offering marriage?’
His blue eyes were nearly black and impossible to read. ‘Would my pursuit be acceptable if I intended marriage?’
She blinked. His answer was totally unexpected. ‘Do you?’
He grinned. ‘No, but you seem to put such emphasis on that being the reason my interest isn’t acceptable.’
‘You are twisting my words and you know it.’ She took a breath to try and ease the beating of her heart. ‘You are the most odious man.’
‘I try.’
His sardonic words sped her pulse in spite of herself. ‘You try very hard and always succeed. How dare you introduce us to Harriette Wilson.’
‘Not that woman? You surprise me.’
Now it was her turn to flush. ‘She is a person even though men consider her something to be bandied about. I do not fault her for doing what she must to survive.’
‘Neither do I.’ He met her gaze, his serious look brooking no argument. ‘I respect her as a woman who moves in a man’s world, and does so successfully. I will not be a hypocrite and ignore her when I meet her out—no matter who is with me.’
Unwilling respect blossomed in Emma. No other man of her acquaintance would have been so bold and flouted convention to introduce the infamous courtesan. None would even acknowledge her if they were with a woman of their own class.
‘Then you did not introduce us to irritate me or disgrace Amy?’
‘Contrary to what you think, I stopped for the reason I told you.’
Emma searched his face for the truth. She could not tell what he thought, but his mouth was not curled into the sardonic smile he seemed to have perfected. An unwelcome awareness of him penetrated her anger, which was already crumbling because of his reason for introducing the courtesan.
She realised he stood too close. She could see the fine lines around his eyes and the dark stubble that would soon need to be shaved. A hint of pine mingled with that of starch. His breath smelt of mint. Under it all was the richness of a man’s scent, musky and exciting. The day had turned unaccountably warm.
She stepped backwards and her half boot left the step. She tottered. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm. His fingers held her through the layers of material, seeming to sear into her flesh. A shiver coursed her spine, first like ice then like fire. The last thing she wanted was to react to him like this.
Anger at her own weakness made her voice harsh. ‘You can release me.’
His gaze hardened. ‘And let you fall off the step?’
She notched her chin up and set her back foot down onto the next level. ‘I won’t fall now.’
His hand fell away. ‘You are welcome.’
She felt a blush of embarrassment mount her cheeks. There had been no call to be rude no matter what his touch did to her. Her mama would be appalled if she had seen this. ‘Thank you.’
He stared at her, his gaze going from her eyes to her cheeks to her lips. Against her will, she felt the heat consuming her intensify. Heaven help her if he ever did anything more. She was a fool. An utter fool.
‘Good day, Miss Stockton.’
He turned on the heel of his mirror-polished Hessian and strode to the carriage, where he opened the door himself and leapt inside with the grace of a natural athlete. He did not glance back at her when the vehicle started forward. It was she who continued to stare.
The man was insufferable. He had to be for she could not allow him to be anything else. Becoming enamored of him would do her no more good than it did Amy. Less.
Charles stared straight ahead as he was conveyed to his brother’s town house to where he would return George’s carriage. His fingers still tingled from touching Emma, and the scent of sweet peas lingered in his mind. His stomach tightened. Obviously he had been too long without a woman if he was reacting to a spinster like Emma Stockton.
The drive had been as entertaining as he had expected when he chose to ignore Emma Stockton’s note ordering him to refrain from doing whatever her sister had requested. There was very little that gave him as much pleasure as provoking her. But the unsettling problem was that he responded to her physically as well as mentally.
He was jaded. Nothing more. Upon longer exposure to the woman’s tiresome meddling, she would lose her allure.
The carriage pulled up in front of George’s house and Charles shook his head to clear his thoughts. The last thing he wanted was to forget himself and mention the Misses Stockton. He and his sister, Juliet, had been down that path many a time and not to his good. Juliet was a strong woman who spoke her mind, and she didn’t like his dallying with Amy Stockton.
He exited the vehicle and went inside, nodding at the family butler. ‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon, Master Charles.’
‘Is anyone at home?’
‘Lord and Lady Hawthorne are in the salon with Master Robert. Lady and Sir Glenfinning are with them.’
Charles considered visiting his siblings, but decided against it. He would send a note of thanks to his brother instead of doing it in person. He was in no mood to watch Juliet with her new husband, a liaison he had been against. Adam Glenfinning reminded him too much of himself to make a good husband.
‘Please have my horse sent ’round.’
The butler nodded. ‘Will you be in the saloon?’
‘No, I will wait out front.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Charles watched the old retainer motion to a nearby footman, who was sent to the mews. Not many people could afford to house their horseflesh in the city. George could.
Charles quickly stepped outside. Clouds bunched up overhead and a breeze moved the tree branches. He sniffed, smelling moisture in the air. It would likely start raining before he got home.
A groom leading Charles’s horse came around the corner. Charles tossed him a coin and mounted the large bay gelding. If they hurried, they would beat the worst of the weather.
The rain started just as he turned the corner of the street where his house was situated. He settled the bay before running to the back door and into the kitchen.
The aroma of roast beef and potatoes hit him like a warm blanket. Alphonse, the French chef he employed, stood by the spit, supervising the basting of a large piece of meat. He was a tall man with a rotund middle that spoke of good eating. Grey hair stuck out from under the white hat he wore, giving him a wild look he did not deserve, and his bushy grey mustache was the envy of every young boy who worked for him.
The chef turned. ‘Monsieur.’
Charles grinned. ‘That smells like heaven, Alphonse.’
The Frenchman nodded his head regally, knowing the compliment was only his due.
