Eve Silver (9 page)

They stared at each other, she into the handsome face of a man who both frightened and beguiled, a man of mystery and shadow. She wanted to touch him, to explore the chiseled edge of his jaw, the lovely curve of his lip, the straight line of his nose. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and her body tingled in most unladylike places.

Only with him had she ever felt anything quite like this. Attraction. The feeling was so complex, so simple.

He blew out a short huff of air. Rolled his shoulders. And even that stimulated her senses. Enticement, over nothing more than simple movement. He looked away, and she thought he wrestled with some secret demon, struggled with some inner tumult, and then, finally, mastered whatever private fiend gnawed at him.

“Thank you for your report. I am well pleased with Nicky’s progress.” He paused, and then finished softly. “My son is everything to me.”

At that stark admission, Emma forgave him much. She was painfully aware that she
liked
this inscrutable man, and that liking was more dangerous than anything else, for it enhanced his seductive appeal. Attraction was one matter, something she could wrest into submission. But
liking
him was another beast entirely.

She wet her lips and looked up to find him watching her once more. So close. He was so close, perched there on the edge of his desk, she had only to rise and lean forward and brush her lips across his. Kiss him as she so longed to do.

A fantasy. Only a fantasy, for to do so in truth would be sheer folly.

With a small moan she bolted to her feet, intent on escape. Lord Anthony rose in the same instant, and they stood chest to chest in the small space between the desk and Emma's newly abandoned brocade chair. The shallow pull of air, in, out, made the tips of her breasts brush his shirtfront. He wore no coat, perverse man, and disdained to button his white lawn shirt. She could see the hollow of his throat, the hint of muscled chest and golden skin.

A day’s growth of beard shadowed his jaw. He looked unkempt, tousled, untamed. Wickedly, darkly handsome.

She made a sound, half moan, half gasp, as she stood poised to flee, darkest desire pooling inside her like a living, writhing thing. And this from a mere look. Dear heaven, one touch and she would surely be lost.

Raising his left hand, he moved as if to stroke the backs of his fingers along her cheek. Emma stared at his hand, and he froze mid-movement, his gaze following hers.

The tip of his index finger was missing, cut off at the farthest joint. How had she failed to notice that before?

She was drawn back to the stormy night of her arrival when she had first seen Grigg’s scarred face, first discerned Mrs. Bolifer’s empty sleeve, and she had wondered if all the inhabitants of Manorbrier were marked in some terrible way.

“Does it offend you?” He hesitated at the word “offend”, and Emma suspected that he had intended to use some other, harsher word.

“I never noticed it before. Your hand, I mean, your finger.” Frowning, she looked straight ahead at the crisp white shirt that covered his chest, her heart fluttering wildly, confusion coursing through her. She wanted to tell him that her heart wept for his suffering, that she would heal him if she could, not only the scar she could see, but those hidden from view, deep inside, the ones she sensed marked his soul. Instead, she said, “I just never noticed it before.”

“Delia hated it. She thought me mutilated. Repugnant.” The words sounded curt, as though pulled from him against his will. He lifted his maimed hand, turning it palm up, then palm down, before resting it again on the smooth surface of the desk. “She never wanted me to touch her with my left hand. As if the loss of a tiny bit of finger made me less than whole.”

As he spoke, Emma heard something in his tone. Bitterness? Regret? Or something darker still, some live, twisting thing that ate away at his soul? Did he love her still, his Delia?

Or was it hatred that tinged his words? Hatred enough to lure him to do murder?

“Did you…suffer an accident after you met her?” she asked softly, thrusting her wild conjectures aside. He had given her no cause to spin such suppositions, only spoken a handful of words in a tone bleak and raw. It was her overly sensitized emotions that made her think such things. She saw her own folly.

Her confusion swelled and she wondered how her sparking attraction had descended to this suspicion. He had given her no cause, no grounds for such. Perhaps, then, it was her own defense against the sensual lure of him, the forbidden fascination.

If she feared him she would not want him. There was both safety and a touch of the absurd in that thought.

A moment of silence drew out long and taut. Emma finally lifted her gaze, searching his face. His expression was shuttered, his jaw tense.

“I suffered much after I met her.” His voice was harsh. “And there was nothing accidental about it. Delia knew well what torture she was about.”

The words seared her, for they painted a cheerless picture. She wanted to touch him, to calm the pain of his memories. If she dared to lean forward, just the barest inch, she would be pressed against the width of his chest, her mouth a breath from his. The thought was wildly appealing. And equally frightening.

There was her answer. It seemed she wanted him no matter what. Or perhaps it was that she could not find it in herself to truly fear him. Only herself, and her terrible wanton need.

Emma felt a stirring of panic. He could consume her, this intense and enigmatic man. There would be nothing left of her, of her principles, of her good and pure intentions. Her secret imaginings would come to fruition, her mouth pressed wetly to his, his body hard against hers, and while she treasured the fantasy, she was horribly afraid of the reality and where it must lead. No good end could come of such folly. Only heartbreak and loss.

With a soft cry, she whirled and fled to the door. She thought only of escape. Not so much from Lord Anthony, but from her own unspeakable, and quite irrational, longing for him.

“Miss Parrish,” his tone was crisp, controlled, stopping her short. Her fingers clasped about the cold metal door handle. “I shall see you at supper tomorrow. Promptly at eight, if you please.”

She knew well the danger he posed, and so she definitely did not please. But she hardly thought it mattered.

CHAPTER FIVE

“...and King Arthur called that magical place Camelot,” Emma whispered as she smoothed Nicky's hair. The boy stirred but did not open his eyes. How sweet he looked, his dark hair rumpled, his cupid’s-bow lips soft with sleep.

With a smile, she left the nursery and set off for her room on the third floor to prepare for her meal with Lord Anthony. She would tidy herself and pin her mother's cameo brooch to her bodice. The brooch was the only piece of jewelry that her mother had owned, a treasure of little monetary value, but immeasurable sentimental worth to Emma. The simple decoration would have to suffice, for she had nothing finer than her ragged and faded day dress to wear to supper.

Unbidden, a childhood memory of sitting on the landing hidden from view, watching the fine lords and ladies dance at a midnight ball sprang to mind. Her mother had come to find her, warned her not to set her sights for one of those well-dressed young men. Just look where such girlish dreams had led
her
. Then she had taken her daughter’s hand and escorted her away, but Emma had been unable to resist the temptation to look over her shoulder one last time and watch as a gilded couple swirled about the floor. To her innocent eyes, they had seemed touched by the fairy magic she read about in her books.

The memory shifted and blurred, and suddenly it was Lord Anthony—dressed in elegant evening attire—who spun the woman in a heady dance. And the beautifully gowned woman was...herself. She was held in his embrace, her lips a mere hair's breadth from his.

Clapping her palms against her flushed cheeks, Emma hurried down the corridor. Though she acknowledged her fantasy as stuff and nonsense, she could not push aside the wish that she had such a gown to wear this evening, some delightful confection to make her feel beautiful.

When had her feeling of resentment at Lord Anthony’s invitation—or rather, his command—turned to anticipation?

“Emma Parrish,” she muttered. “You are a woman grown. Far too old for a silly schoolgirl fantasy.” She didn't dare voice aloud the thought that Lord Anthony Craven was less the stuff of schoolgirl dreams, and more the sort of man who made chaperones a necessity. Too masculine, too bold. Too hauntingly appealing.

Anthony Craven was no sweet prince.

She pushed open the door to her chamber, and nearly stumbled at the sight that greeted her. For a moment, Emma thought that the gown she had woven in her fantasy had taken flight and landed with stunning accuracy right in the center of her bed. There, laid carefully across the coverlet, was a magnificent dinner dress of shimmering blue silk. Perfect for her meal with Lord Anthony. Had he brought the dress and laid it here for her to find? How strange.

Taking a step forward, Emma hesitantly reached out and stroked the rich silk. The fabric was smooth to her touch. She thought the gown lovely, though the idea that Lord Anthony had secretly entered her chamber and laid the dress across her bed was somewhat unsettling. It did not behoove a gentleman to enter a lady's chamber, especially when that lady was in his employ.

And, pray, what made you think I am a gentleman?
He had been quite clear on that point.

And though she was scrupulously careful of her actions, Emma was no lady. The circumstances of her birth made it so.

She frowned as she considered her options. She could simply tidy her hair and attend dinner as she was, garbed in her well-worn day dress. Pin on her cameo brooch as she had planned. But Lord Anthony had troubled himself to provide her attire. Surely it would be churlish to refuse the dress.

Conversely, she could argue that it would be inappropriate to accept such an obviously costly gift from her employer. Pressing the backs of her fingers to her lips, she narrowed her eyes, contemplating her decision.

“The aunts would have apoplexy!” The words popped out, and Emma smiled. The idea of her aunts falling to the ground, insensate, simply because she donned a blue silk dress gifted to her by the man they named monster was enough to make her decide in favor of the gown. Though they would never see it, she would know, and that would have to be enough. Not terribly grown-up of her, but reasonably satisfying nonetheless.

She quickly divested herself of her day dress, lifted the shimmering gown from the bed and slipped it on. The skirt billowed around her ankles, the yards of material draping as only truly expensive cloth could. With gentle hands, Emma pressed at the creases that marred the bodice and one side of the skirt. She wondered if the gown had been folded away somewhere. The wrinkles suggested it might be so.

Twisting, she tried to see herself in the tiny looking glass above the washstand but could catch only fractured glimpses of her appearance. The sleeves came off her shoulders, bowing gently about her upper arms before ending in a gentle pouf just above her elbow. Brussels lace trimmed the neckline then looped cleverly about itself in a pretty rosette before falling in a rich cascade down the front.

 The gown could have been measured for her frame, save that the hem was a trifle long. But Emma was glad for the length, which hid her plain, serviceable shoes from view.

 Frowning at her naked hands, Emma wished that she could solve the problem of her lack of evening gloves as easily as the hem had solved the problem of her footwear. Suddenly, she recalled her mother’s gloves, a remnant of her genteel youth, a memento she had kept until her death, and Emma had kept since. She leaned over, pulled her portmanteau out from under the bed and withdrew the gloves from the side pocket. The soft kid leather was only slightly yellowed with age, the seams a little frayed, and there was a smudge of black on the tip of the right index finger.

She thought that even their faded glory would be better than no gloves at all, and so she slipped them on. The fingers were a trifle overlong, but the gloves reached to her elbows. Emma felt they completed her ensemble quite nicely. At least, she hoped they did. Just as she hoped the gown looked as fine as it felt.

Freeing her long hair from the pins that confined it, Emma picked up her mother's ivory inlaid brush and ran the bristles through her unbound tresses. Then she twisted the whole into a simple knot at the base of her neck in a looser, softer style than the one she customarily wore.

She had no diamond pins to sparkle in her hair, no necklace to grace her throat. Nonetheless, she felt the fairy princess of her fantasy, for this was the finest gown she had ever worn. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves she stepped from the room, raised her hands, and pinching her cheeks for color. She had seen the eldest daughter of her mother’s employer do that once. It had made the girl look vibrant, fresh. Emma hoped it would do the same for her.

Although, she supposed it might simply make her look like she had eaten something that gave her a rash.

The servant's staircase brought her close to the kitchen. Emma paused, considering a quick visit to show Cookie her finery, but she could well imagine Mrs. Bolifer's face screwing up in that pinched frown, the one that screamed disapproval. No, she would not let the housekeeper ruin one moment of her evening. Even sensible girls had a right to their dreams, no matter how frivolous or unlikely they might be.

Emma continued on her way then paused outside the doorway of the dining room. She smoothed her gloved hands over her skirt as her stomach somersaulted with nerves. Never in her life had she attended a dinner party. Or walked through the park with a handsome man. But tonight, she had been given the opportunity to pretend, and she intended to enjoy it to the fullest.

Tomorrow, she could go back to being Miss Emma Parrish, poor relation, spinster, governess, daughter of pitiable Elizabeth Parrish who had made a terrible, unforgivable blunder and paid for it the rest of her life. Tonight, she was Miss Emma Parrish, the loveliest lady in the room. She bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. She would be the only lady in the room, but that did not signify.