Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (2 page)

"Still, I should have been watching."

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stopped like that." She finally glanced to her collider. "Admiral Hartford, that man looks familiar—the one with
Matherton
—but I can't place him."

"Oh." The admiral's eyes widened, then slid back to her with a sympathetic smile. "That, my dear, is the Duke of
Somerhart
. A committed bachelor, I'm afraid."

"
Somerhart
," she murmured, feeling the name on her lips. "Oh, yes, of course.
Somerhart
. Thank you, Admiral."

Emma spun on her heel and retreated, hurrying back to the front hall, then around a corner to the ladies' retiring room. She darted into a corner that had been curtained off and sat down hard on the padded chair.
 
A
duke!
She would never have believed it.

Had he seen her? And if he had, would he know her?

"Of course not," Emma breathed. It was ridiculous to think so. She'd only met the man once and that had been.. . what? A decade before? Yes, she'd been nine at the time. He couldn't know her. He'd probably forgotten her that very evening.

Still, the whole of her plan rested on this charade, this lie of being the widow of the tenth Baron
Denmore
, and if Duke
Somerhart
did remember her then the game would be up, for she could not have been married to her own great-uncle.

She'd planned on at least another two months before doubts began to surface. There were few fashionable members of society from their county, and none who'd arrive before the Season. She needed just a few more weeks . . .

Emma sat up straight and looked into the wall mirror. No, the duke would not know her. Her brown hair had been dark blond then, and she had certainly filled out in important places. Also, she was not wearing a white nightgown and braids. She was unrecognizable.

He, on the other hand, had been etched into her mind the first moment she'd seen him, stepping from his shadowed space on the wall.

"Hello, pet," he'd called, as she snuck down the wide hallway, trying desperately to get a peek at one of her father's strange new parties.

By God, he'd scared the devil out of her, his voice like a ghost's, floating from the dark. Then he'd come into the light and Emma had gasped.

"What are you about so late?" he asked, voice soft and low. Emma thought he might be an angel. He was far prettier than any of her father's other friends. But did angels wear red waistcoats and smoke cigarillos? "You should be in bed, kitten."

"I. . . I wanted to see the dancing. I can hear the music from my bed."

His eyes, pale sky blue, swept over her, from her braided hair to her bare toes, and his beautiful face turned sad. "This is no place for you. You shouldn't come down to your papa's parties, all right? Best to stay in your room."

"Oh," she breathed, amazed at the kindness of that voice. He was an angel, the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. Emma eased one foot back, meaning to turn toward the servants' stairs, but his eyes stopped her, blue warmth closing her throat with something hopeful.

She drew a breath. "But. . ." When she leaned forward a little, his mouth quirked up into a smile, but the smile blurred when her eyes pricked with tears. "But someone has come to my room."

"What?" She'd thought him enormously tall, but he drew himself up taller. His pretty mouth hardened and thinned. "What do you mean?"

Emma took that step back. "I don't. . . My, my room. Someone came in last night. While I was sleeping. I don't want to stay there." Her cheeks flushed hot at the burn in his gaze. "He kissed me."

Something hard and terrible stole over his face. Emma cringed and meant to spin around, but his mouth gentled with a twitch and he reached out one hand to curl her fingers into his.

"I'm sorry." He crouched down and offered a small smile. "You are certainly pretty enough to want to kiss, but only a husband should do that, you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And no one has hurt you?" Emma shook her head.

"All right. Is there a lock on your door? Yes? You go back to your room then, and lock the door. Then put a chair under the handle. Do you know what I mean?"

A nod this time.

"Do that whenever your papa has a party. And do not try to spy again, pet, all right?"

"Yes." And she had fled. And though she hadn't ceased her spying, she'd nursed an infatuation for that nameless man for nigh on four years. Then she'd forgotten him. Until now.

A duke. A rather notorious duke at that. Not known for his kindness. And still the handsomest man she'd ever seen.

Well, there was no choice; she could not accomplish her goal by sneaking nervously about for the next few weeks. If her plans were in danger, she needed to know now. So Emma forced herself to her feet and went to meet her old protector.

"Ah, the traitorous Lady
Denmore
!" Lord
Matherton
boomed, eliciting a husky laugh from a woman somewhere behind Hart's back.

Hart turned toward her and let his eyebrows rise in surprise as he looked her over. It wasn't often one met new women at a ton gathering, and certainly not lovely young matrons.

"I can't think what you mean, sir," she laughed, her hazel eyes sparkling. She glanced at Hart, then away just as quickly.

"How could you do it, Lady
Denmore
? Put money on another man?"

She reached a gloved hand out and touched
Matherton's
sleeve. "I am deeply wounded, my lord. Surely you can see that I had complete confidence in you. I thought only to salvage
Osbourne's
pride, fully expecting you to trounce him."

Matherton
snorted. "You, madam, would do the country a great service if you were to offer yourself as a diplomat. Words flow so prettily from your mouth that it matters not in the least if they are true."

She laughed again, and Hart took in the sound with pleasure. What a bedroom voice she had, soft and rich. It didn't quite match the rest of her. She was pretty in a mild way, certainly not exotic.

"Lady
Denmore
, may I present the Duke of
Somerhart
? Your Grace, this lovely woman is Baroness
Denmore
."

He watched her curtsy, her dark lilac skirts crumpling a bit. Those hazel eyes crinkled in a smile as he took her hand.

"Lady
Denmore
. A pleasure. And no 'Your Graces' if you please. Just
Somerhart
."

"You do not employ your title, sir?" she teased.

"Oh, I make full use of it. To the extent that I command how others may address me."

"Ah. A man heady with his own power."

Hart smiled, watched her full lips curve in answer, and wondered quickly if her husband were in attendance. If not. . .

"Madam,"
Matherton
interrupted, eyes darting toward the open doorway to his left. "I believe my table awaits me. May I leave you in
Somerhart's
care?"

"Certainly. I will, however, be in to take your money soon."

Hart smiled at
Matherton's
sigh, happy to be left alone with this appealing woman. "Shall I escort you to your husband?" he drawled.

"Ah. I am a widow,
Somerhart
. The
Dowager
Baroness
Denmore
."

Hart blinked, surprised by both the information and his faux pas. "My apologies." This girl was a
widow!
She looked no older than his baby sister. "And my condolences for your loss." His mind began to tick through the history of the
Denmore
line.

Baron
Denmore
. He had known the ninth Baron
Denmore
, that lecherous, perverted drunk, but he'd died years ago. Hart had no idea who'd inherited the title. No one of his circle, certainly. A servant passed, and he plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray.

"Have you been in London long?"

Her pink mouth smiled at the glass he urged into her hand. "No. Not long."

"And will you be staying with us through the Season?"

She glanced up at the word "us," a flash of surprise lighting her eyes. She recognized his flirtation. Good. He did not like obvious women. He was a man of subtle tastes and subtle actions, or he was now at any rate.

"For a little while, certainly," she murmured before raising the glass to her lips.

Hart's eyes widened as he watched her, this modest young woman, drain a full glass of champagne and pop it back into his hand.

"Thank you. A pleasure."

And then she spun away and disappeared into the card room, leaving behind the faint scent of citrus and one startled duke.

Chapter 2

Crystals glinted in her hair, caught by the flickering gaslight as she glanced at her cards. Hart glanced too. "Split," she murmured, and placed another bet.

She was good at the game,
Vingt
-et-un, had been winning steadily since she'd sat down a quarter hour before, but she seemed distracted now. . . bored, glancing toward the players at the
loo
table even as she played her hand.

"What do you know about this Lady
Denmore
?" Hart asked of the man next to him.

Lord Marsh chuckled. "Ah, she's a tempting bit, isn't she? Married to an old man for a year and now she's free to pursue more interesting interests."

"An old man?"

"Yes, Baron
Denmore
must have been seventy at least, a recluse, and she no more than nineteen when they married. She'd never even been presented."

Hart's mind turned over the possibilities. "And who introduced her to London?"

"Ha! No one. She arrived in
October,
of all times, and still in mourning. The
Mathertons
were practically the only people left in town. And the
Osbournes
, of course. She's rather become their pet."

Hart watched her collect her winnings and rise. She made her way immediately to the
loo
table, inviting several of the men already playing to wince.

"She's an accomplished player, I gather?"

"Mm. That coward Brasher is already fleeing the table. See the men tremble at her feet."

Hart allowed himself a small smile. The men were, indeed, unhappy to see her. Lady
Denmore
, on the other hand, was all gracious good humor. "She seems a woman who enjoys taking risks."

"Indeed." Marsh grinned. "And I am hoping that will translate to other habits as well. Did you get a good look at that mouth?"

Hart pressed his lips together. He knew his own reputation with women, but it was just as well known that he preferred privacy above all else. He disdained to speak of women like whores on the bartering block, just as he expected not to be evaluated like a stallion on parade.

"Well, old man," Marsh continued, oblivious to Hart's anger, "I do believe I'll join the play. Perhaps I can divest her of her coin and move on to other trade."

Lord Marsh approached the table, and when Lady
Denmore
looked up, her eyes slid to meet Hart's. They widened as if the sight of him surprised her. Odd, considering he'd followed her into the room. She blinked, a strange flutter of her lashes, and turned away from him to glare at the cards she'd been dealt.

She reacted to him almost as if she knew him. Perhaps it was only his reputation that made her so nervous. She was a country miss, after all, despite that her voice gave one visions of tumbled sheets and sweat-damp hair.

A seventy-year-old husband. Hart shook his head and pushed away from the bookcase he'd leaned against. She stiffened when he passed her table on his way to the door, her awareness of him tempting him to stop and stand over her shoulder. . . but he walked on.