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‘Are you sure?’
‘I am no fool.’ But she began to fear she was. She wanted this dance he had maneuvered her into. Wanted it badly. ‘But you have forced me to accept.’
He stood and extended his gloved hand. She dropped her gaze, unwilling to see him study her as she put her fingers into his.
Gloves separated their flesh, yet Emma felt like his warm skin touched hers. This was crazy, she thought, sucking in a deep breath and looking up at him, determined to act as though this dance was the last thing she wanted.
His dark eyes held hers. Was there a question in his? Did he wonder what she thought?
She notched her chin higher and turned to the floor. He led her out. She turned to face him, his strong jaw at eye level for her. He had a dark shadow on his cheeks that gave him a reckless air he didn’t need. He was already overpoweringly attractive.
The scents of musk and male wafted over her, mingling with the smell of burning wax from the hundreds of candles. Dimly she sensed other people moving around. The sound of the orchestra was muted. It was as though she stood in a room with only this man. Everything else might be in her imagination.
His right arm circled her waist and held her firmly in place a foot from him. The regulation distance. Anything closer would be considered scandalous.
Her mind told her they were adequately separated. Her senses told her he pressed her to his chest. It seemed she felt his heart beating against hers and his warmth enveloping her.
He moved and his hand guided her to move with him. She felt melded to him, as though they had danced like this before. Blood pounded through her body.
‘Are you feeling well?’
His deep voice flowed over her and twined around her. All her aversion to him seemed to have gone up in smoke the instant he touched her. No wonder Amy made a scandal of herself for this man. And how could she blame her when she, an older woman who had once been engaged to this man’s brother, was now following him in a dance that mimicked things done between a man and a woman in dark places?
Emma shook her head. ‘Well? I am as well as can be expected when coerced into a dance I did not want.’
‘Are you so sure of that?’ He gave her a knowing look that seemed to see through to her racing heart.
‘You gave me no choice.’
He swung her in a circle, forcing the breath from her lungs. If not for the firm hold he had of her waist, she would have stumbled.
‘Liar.’
She dragged in air. ‘I am not. You threatened to ask Amy if I did not agree.’
‘I gave you a choice.’
‘A very poor one.’
They moved rapidly around the room, circling and circling, skirting other couples. His arms never faltered, supporting her strongly and her body felt safe to follow his lead—wherever that might go.
‘But a choice.’ He finished the discussion, his tone brooking no more argument.
Her hackles rose. ‘A poor choice is no choice at all. I know that too well.’
His mouth thinned and she thought he would say something, but the music stopped. They stopped with it. She stepped from his embrace and tried to pull her hand free from his. He held tight.
‘Let me go.’
His mouth curved into a smile that held no humour as he brought her fingers to his lips. Even through the gloves she felt the firm softness of his kiss. An arc of fire coursed its way up her arm. Her determination floundered.
He released her and bowed. ‘Thank you, Miss Stockton, for a very informative dance.’
She stared at him, the heat still coursing through her. ‘Informative?’
He turned away as though he didn’t hear her. She stepped toward him, wanting to twirl him around and demand what he thought he was doing, toying with her as though she was a plaything. Instead she pivoted on her heel and moved in the opposite direction from him.
Somewhere in this room was the settee she had taken refuge on earlier. She reached it seconds before Amy descended on her.
‘What do you think you were doing?’ Amy said, her voice a whispered screech. ‘I thought he was a disreputable rake that no respectable woman should associate with. Yet, you waltzed with him.’
Emma’s fingers still tingled from his touch. Now they shook with irritation. ‘He is everything I always say he is, but he gave me no option.’ She steeled her voice. ‘And I am old enough to do as I please.’
‘So, you like him.’ Amy’s blue eyes were grey with anger. ‘That is why you tell me to stay away from him. Because you want him.’
Emma’s raw nerves snapped. ‘Don’t be a ninnyhammer, Amy. It is bad enough that you are flighty.’
Amy’s rosebud red mouth formed a perfect O. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘How could you, Em? First you dance with the man I am attracted to, and then you insult me so.’
Emma’s head began to pound. This was getting out of hand. She rose. ‘I think it is time we left.’
Amy stepped back. ‘No. I have promised Mr Kennilworth a dance. I shan’t shirk my duty.’
Sharp words about Amy’s frequent failure to honour her word hung on Emma’s tongue but she bit them back. Things were so bad she did not want to make them worse. ‘When you are done, we are leaving.’
Amy sniffed and turned away, her shoulders stiff. Emma watched her young sister and wondered what mischief Amy would get up to now. Likely she would manage to dance a waltz with Charles Hawthorne even after Emma’s sacrifice to prevent it.
She longed for a hot drink and a warm bed. What should have been a pleasurable outing in the home of one of the ton’s most powerful women had turned into a nightmare thanks to Charles Hawthorne. The man should be ousted from Society.
Emma rubbed her temples, hoping to ease some of the tension pounding through her head. Perhaps a breath of fresh air would help. She made her way to the open windows, watching for Amy as she went.
Amy was where she said she would be. Emma knew her sister didn’t care much for Mr Kennilworth, but she had used him as an excuse to remain.
Emma stepped into the cool night air with a sense of relief. Nothing would happen during the country dance.
The music filtered to a murmur that failed to muffle the sound of female voices. Several feet away, their backs to her, two women laughed. Emma retreated, not wanting to interrupt them. She heard her name and froze.
‘Did you see Emma Stockton in Charles Hawthorne’s arms? She looked absolutely besotted. No wonder she chides her sister for chasing the man. She wants him herself.’
The second woman giggled. ‘As though he would be interested. He is playing with both of them.’
‘So true.’
Emma felt the blood leave her face before raging back as mortification claimed her. The cool night was suddenly unbearably warm.
She twisted on her heel and sped back into the hot, crowded ballroom. The dance was only half done. What would she do? She felt like the fool she had chided herself for being. Surely she hadn’t looked besotted. She couldn’t stand the man, no matter what her body did. Her mind found him despicable and…and…
How could she have reacted to him so much that others noticed? She had thought she had more self-control.
She paused inside the doors, out of view of the two women, and scanned the room. Amy curtseyed to Mr Kennilworth as the dance ended.
Emma’s nemesis laughed at something Princess Lieven said before she swatted his arm with her closed fan. Very much as Lady Jersey had done. Were all of them susceptible to him?
She looked away.
What was happening to her? She had never felt this way about George Hawthorne. Truth be told, she had felt nothing for him. That was why it had been easy for her to break their engagement. Her only regret was that her action had necessitated Amy marrying for money regardless of anything the girl might feel.
‘Are you feeling all right, Miss Stockton?’
Emma jerked as his rich voice came from just behind her. Her fingers trembled as she twisted around. ‘I am fine. Please go away.’
‘Touchy.’ He stood his ground, his eyes darkening.
Her headache returned with a vengeance. ‘Mr Hawthorne, I am merely watching my wayward sister flirt with the latest object of her attention.’ She tried to keep her unease out of her voice and realised she sounded tired and petulant.
‘She is a handful.’
‘Quite.’
He chuckled. ‘George would sympathise with you.’
She stiffened at the name of her former fiancé. ‘Are you referring to your peccadilloes?’
He wore a rueful expression. ‘What else? I’m sure my past isn’t a secret.’
In spite of her distrust, growing attraction and overall sense of being out of her depth, she replied, ‘I only know what I have seen this Season. You dabble in trade to great profit and do as you please without regard to others. The last is very like Amy.’
‘Yes, Miss Amy and I share a dislike for being dictated to and for wanting our own way. Perhaps the youngest child is like that.’
‘Spoilt.’
He smiled. ‘Exactly. But sometimes we go too far.’
She sensed he spoke about something besides their shared willful disregard for propriety. ‘Such as?’
‘Here you are, Emma,’ Amy’s hard-edged voice intruded, ‘entertaining Mr Hawthorne. Again.’
For the first time in many years, Emma felt as though she was in deeper water than she could navigate. Charles Hawthorne seemed ready to confide something intensely private, a trust she was not sure she wanted. And now Amy’s biting words showed again how hurt she was by the situation between Emma and Mr Hawthorne. There was only one thing to do.
Emma took a deep breath. ‘Amy, dear, it is time we left.’ She took Amy’s arm and started moving even as she said, ‘Good evening, Mr Hawthorne.’
He did nothing to stop them, and Emma found herself ridiculously grateful for his restraint. She knew that if he had tried to delay them, Amy would have allowed it. She propelled her sister to the entry, hoping no one else would intercept them and that Amy would not dig in her heels.
Neither happened.
They reached the front door where a footman retrieved their wraps. Emma released Amy. Already she felt as though she had overreacted.
Things were falling apart. Amy’s headstrong rush into adventure, Charles Hawthorne’s pursuit, Bertram in London and, worse than all of the others combined, her own reaction to Charles Hawthorne.
Amy stepped outside and Emma belatedly followed. Their hired carriage was nowhere. It wasn’t scheduled to pick them up for another two hours.
Amy, blond brows furrowed, turned on Emma. ‘Now what will we do?’
Two women alone, the last thing they could do was walk. Hoping to see a hackney coach, Emma moved to the kerb so the flickering light from the gas lamps lit beside the imposing door cast her shadow onto the cobbles. The crush of coaches filled with guests still arriving filled the street. Carriages would arrive until the morning sun lit the eastern sky as members of the ton moved from one party to another.
‘Let me help,’ Charles Hawthorne’s voice intruded on Emma’s simmering nerves.
‘Did you follow us?’
‘And if I did?’
She glared at him. He was the last thing she needed. He was the source of all her problems, or so it seemed. ‘I have had quite enough of your help to last me a lifetime, thank you.’
His face inscrutable, he looked from one to the other. ‘Is Bertram coming for you?’
Amy’s laugh was brittle. ‘I should think not. He is in some gambling hell losing what little we have left.’
Emma gasped. ‘Amy!’
Amy’s mouth turned mulish. ‘It’s the truth.’
Everything was unravelling. ‘It is none of Mr Hawthorne’s concern.’ She rounded on him. ‘Just as our situation is none of your concern.’
‘Then how will we get home?’ Amy’s pale blond hair was coming undone from the spray of white roses that was her only adornment.
Emma wanted to shout at her, but there was nothing to say. They had no way home unless a hackney carriage appeared out of thin air or their hired coach miraculously materialised.
She darted a glance at the man responsible for this awful situation. He stood watching her, his face unreadable. If he had only left them alone.
She was sure the freckles stood in stark relief on her nose and her cheeks shone like ripe apples. Not an attractive picture—and just the thought of that made her angrier. She ground her teeth, even as she realised this fury was not like her.
Emma took deep calming breaths, refusing to meet his gaze. People milled around them, some looking, others careful not to.
‘We are presenting the polite world with fuel for its wagging tongues,’ he said dryly.
He was right.
‘Emma, we should accept Mr Hawthorne’s offer of help.’
Emma scowled at him. ‘Are you in your brother’s barouche or must we all squeeze into your phaeton?’
He had the grace to look mildly embarrassed, nothing more. ‘I hadn’t anticipated this situation, Miss Stockton.’
‘I imagine you didn’t.’ The tart words were out in a trice. He brought out the absolute worst in her.
‘I am in my phaeton.’
‘Well, that solves it.’ She wondered where her vaunted self-control had gone as she noted the acid in her tone. She should be speaking calmly and rationally, not like a fishwife. ‘We cannot all cram into that vehicle. It would not be at all respectable.’
