Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (10 page)

"No." The word betrayed itself, all dusk and softness.

His chuckle was so close she could feel it marching through her bones. "Little liar," he whispered and nipped her ear again.

Her brain muttered a protest, but Emma's body glowed with joy and triumph. She wanted this, wanted more than this, because she
knew.
She knew what he meant by these kisses, knew that he could use these delicate skills on more important places. More
needful
places.

Yes!
Her body sang as he licked lower, down the column of her throat to the high collar of her gown where he gave one final, lingering kiss.

"Now we will have something besides your ride with Lancaster to think about."

Emma was still blinking when he rose and tugged his coat into place.

"I've used up all my charm for the morning. I'll see you in two days." His words thrummed with hot warning and seemed to echo through the room long after the man closed the door behind him.

Hart didn't know what to think of himself anymore. Had no idea, in fact. He felt young again. Young and hot and reckless. And the feelings were memories, aching with pleasure, but straining all over with a sense of doom.

Heartache had followed these feelings last time. Heartache and humiliation and fury and shame. He'd thought he'd learned his lesson, but apparently his libertine's soul had only retreated. It had regrouped, reformed, and now loomed over him, too heavy and insistent to resist.

Lady
Denmore
was a woman to be thoroughly enjoyed, and Hart meant to have her in every way she'd allow. He wanted to indulge again,
live
 
again.

When he came to himself, he was standing at the bottom of her front steps, blinking. He found his driver very carefully staring at a spot beyond his ducal head. Attentive, but not aware. Seeing, but not noticing. The perfect servant.

"I'll walk a moment," Hart said, thinking of the thief he'd spotted. "Wait here." Her neighborhood was attractive by day, even a cloudy, cold day like this one, but the facades were simple, and the windows more likely to be curtained in bright, flowered fabrics than stately silk. The area felt solidly prosperous, but not genuinely rich. Still, Hart wasn't sure that Lady
Denmore
fell into either of these categories.

Her entry and parlor had been shabby at best, and rather bare. After seeing them, Hart couldn't quite fathom why she wasn't trolling for a rich husband. Or perhaps she was. Perhaps she'd challenged him more purposefully than she'd let on.

Scowling at the thought, Hart turned the corner the thief had snuck past. There was nothing and no one there, of course.

The possibility of Lady
Denmore
being a scheming, deceptive jezebel presented a problem, because Hart had suspected her of being scheming and deceptive from the moment he'd heard about her young marriage and unusual arrival in London. It hadn't affected his attraction in the least. In fact, he suspected it was part of the appeal.

He knew from experience that scandalous women were just as daring in private as they were in public. Lady
Denmore
took risks, she thrived on danger, she enjoyed confrontation. And the woman could turn a controlled duke into a sensualist with nothing more than a sigh. This was her gift. And Hart's weakness.

But he dreamed of being transformed. Just for a few nights. Just enough decadent pleasure to see him through another ten years of responsibility. It would be worth it. . . if he could avoid a trap. God, it would be worth it.

His role as duke was stifling, but he had taken it on with only a small amount of resentment. He'd had no choice after all, and he wasn't a child to whine and stomp his feet. As to any misgivings or rebellion . . . well, his father had shown him the value of discretion and respectability before he'd died, a lesson he'd imparted with his usual brutal efficiency. Easier to mold a man if you pounded him into mush first.

And after his father had died, Hart had been left with duties to master, a sister to raise, social obligations to finesse, not to mention his commitments in the House of Lords and the constant, exhausting watch against mamas on the lucrative husband hunt.

So his vague sense of misery had been easy to ignore, but something had changed. He'd grown older, or more miserable, or maybe it was simple solitude. His sister was no longer a joyful child, waiting for his return from London. She wasn't even a worrisome adolescent, sure to cause him trouble. She was a woman, married now, and far away.

Hart was alone, isolated by his elevation, and no one seemed to understand anything about him, no one except a very suspicious young widow from the wilds of Cheshire.

He stepped toward the shadow of an alleyway, and glanced down the gray length. A boy stood at the other end. He watched Hart without fear and didn't move when Hart stepped onto the wet stones. Instead, he crossed his arms and raised his chin a little higher.

He was too small to be the thief from the other night, but that didn't mean he wasn't some sort of criminal.

"You need
sumpin
'?" a wary voice demanded when Hart continued to approach.

"Maybe." He stopped about ten feet from the child. "Why?"

"I don't hire myself out if that's what
ye're
after."

"Good God, no." He was sure he'd never been accused of the like. Hart shook his head. "Who do you work for?"

The chin rose again. "No one."

Hart glanced behind to be sure no one was sneaking up to crack open his skull. "Well, you're clearly selling something. What is it then?"

"You're clearly buying. What is it?"

An involuntary laugh choked Hart for a moment. Perhaps this boy had been trained by Lady
Denmore
in
obstinance
. "I need information," he finally conceded. The stubborn face brightened.

"Why, that's my specialty,
guv
."

"Mm." Hart studied him, all bright eyes and scrawny limbs. His gloves were shiny with black grime and his coat was smeared with it. The local coal picker? The boot black she had spoken of?

Well, he likely couldn't do much harm. "I saw a thief the other night, near Lady
Denmore's
door. Do you know who she is?"

"Course."

"Do you know who the thief was?" A quick shake of his head.

"Well, I'd like to find out. I want to know if he comes back and what he's about. How much?"

The bright eyes narrowed. "A quid."

"A quid." Hart looked him up and down again before he dug into his pocket for two coins. "I may be fine and shiny, boy, but I'm no fool. A quid is far too much." The child's mouth fell open when Hart opened his hand. "Two quid, but that buys your dedication. I expect absolute loyalty, you understand? Will two pounds buy that?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're not to work for that thief or anyone else. If you see him again, you send a message. I want to encourage him to move on. At the least, find out who he is, who's working the area. Do you think you can do that?"

"I can."

"Well, then." Hart handed over the coins. "I'm
Somerhart
."

"
Stimp
," the boy replied, either some sort of agreement or his name. Hard to say.

"I'll be back tomorrow, but I'm on Grosvenor Street if you need me this evening."

"Right. Best get to work then, sir." The boy was walking away, one coin caught tight between his teeth, before Hart could say a word.

* * *

The pungent fragrance of incense hung over Matthew Bromley's head, then it wound around him, offering a strange, exciting mix of comfort and guilt. He bowed his head and prayed along with the rest of the small congregation, but long after they'd all risen and filed out, he stayed.

God would bring her back to him. If he prayed hard enough, sacrificed enough, she would be returned. He did not want her for selfish reasons, after all. The woman had led him astray, and Matthew meant to see both their souls saved from eternal damnation. Marriage, piety, grace; what more noble wish for a man?

There is a stain on your soul,
Reverend Whittier had said, and Matthew had wept to hear the truth spoken aloud. He wanted to be clean again, clean of the lust and fornication she'd wrapped him in. He hadn't realized the danger at the time, had been blind to her deception. He'd thought it all to do with love, and hadn't once thought of the devil. Not until he'd confessed to Reverend Whittier and seen her for what she truly was.

Even with her gone it wasn't better. Every night she came to him in shameful dreams. Every night she coaxed his body to lust. He woke each morning with the proof of his sin like a brand on his flesh.

He could not simply forget her. In order to save himself, he had to save her. She would be his wife or they were both doomed. As soon as they married he would be redeemed, and he could begin his work for the Lord. He would start with her jezebel soul and temptress body.

"God will lead me to her. Soon," he murmured as he rose from his aching knees. "And I will save her from herself."

Emma arrived at
Moulter's
estate at six o'clock and was dressed and ready for the party by eight. By nine she was glowing from the effects of good cards and even better champagne. Everyone around her was beginning to glow, actually, though she doubted they were drinking for the same reasons she was. Probably not one of them was attempting to drown their anxiety over
Somerhart's
coming seduction.

Her stomach fluttered again, and Emma took another sip. Not too much more though. She'd had trouble stifling a groan at the sight of her first bad hand.

He hadn't put in an appearance, might not even be here yet, but she knew where his room was because the maid had mentioned it quite casually as she'd unpacked Emma's clothes.
Somerhart's
door was directly across from Emma's, a careful arrangement undoubtedly arranged by an attentive and helpful host. A duke's mistress must be accommodated, after all.

She had no idea how she would avoid the man if he was sleeping only a few feet away from her.

Emma shook her head and placed a few coins in the pile. His presence wasn't the true problem; her own temptation was the danger. The
knowledge
that he was near would be far more vexing than his physical proximity.

A murmur of surprise took the whole table when Emma laid down her hand. They hadn't expected her to win, and she couldn't blame them. Her worry over
Somerhart
had translated as displeasure with her cards. But she couldn't rely on that kind of luck for long. She needed to concentrate. The duke was a distraction she could not afford.

Emma cleared her mind and raised her stake in the game, which was all the incentive fate needed to intervene. The next three hands went to a young lord she'd never met before, and nearly flattened her pile of coins. But Emma persevered. By the time she looked up an hour later, she was flush with coin again, and not thinking about the Duke of
Somerhart
.

Which was, of course, when he chose to invade her world. Her little jump of surprise at seeing him standing at the table made the other players laugh. Knowing, indulgent smiles were exchanged among the men. Even the great duke arched an eyebrow in amusement.

"Lady
Denmore
," he said, with a dignified nod.

"Your Grace," she growled in answer.

The laughter swelled again, though it stopped in an instant when
Somerhart
aimed a frown at the nearest gentlemen.
Puppets,
Emma thought. No wonder he was bored.

"I'm sure these gentlemen would appreciate if I offered to escort you to the dining room. They look quite pale with impoverishment, yet none will risk disgrace by calling a retreat."

"You flatter me," Emma said, though she made quick work of sneaking her feet back into her heeled slippers.

"Enjoy your refreshment," one of the men said, and the rest collapsed into renewed laughter. "Yes, do," another called.

Emma offered each man a smile as she gathered up her winnings.
Somerhart
circled to her chair and she was sure she could feel his body heat as he stood behind her. A flush overcame her, adding credence to everything the other guests assumed.