Teresa Medeiros (32 page)

Emily smoothed the stiff ruffles of her bodice, wondering if anyone would notice if she sawed them off with her knife. Compared to Cecille’s polished sophistication, she felt like an overgrown six-year-old. As Cecille draped her graceful fingers over Justin’s arm, Emily’s hand tightened around the ivory hilt of her spoon.

A test. She must simply think of this as her trial by fire. She had practically bitten off her tongue in the past week to maintain the image of the perfect young lady. If she survived tonight, Justin would be forced to see her as a woman, not a child.

“So nice of you to join us, Emily,” the duchess brayed. “I should like to introduce you to the Comtesse Guermond and her charming daughter—”

“We’ve met,” Emily mumbled into her chowder.

“I’m sure I don’t remember,” the countess said. She was a tiny creature swathed in lace who chirped rather than talked.

“Mama,” Cecille drawled in the French fashion, “Miss Scarborough is that poor dear creature they were discussing at Baroness Gutwild’s last week. The one who spent all of those dreary years working at Foxworth’s.”

Justin laid down his spoon and pushed back his chowder bowl.

Even Harold stopped slurping as she continued, her blue eyes sparkling with malice. “Quite an industrious little thing, too. You used to give my boots a good polish, didn’t you, darling?”

Emily swallowed, remembering Cecille’s shrieks at finding a dead mouse stuffed in the patent leather toe of her brand new jemimas.

She grinned sweetly. “Every chance I got.”

Cecille’s eyes narrowed, but she recovered by fixing Justin with an adoring gaze. Emily’s stomach churned.

“You must realize, Your Grace, that you are the gossip of every salon in London. It was so benevolent of you to open your heart and home to an unfortunate orphan in this Christmas season. There’s even talk of organizing a society in your name to help rescue other”—she cast Emily a sly glance—“urchins.”

Justin met Emily’s gaze, his eyes somber beneath the muted glow of the gasoliers. “It was the least I could do.”

“Yes, it was,” Emily replied, tilting her goblet to her lips. “The very least.”

She almost choked as the rich, sweet liquid flowed down her throat. Milk, she realized. Crystalline droplets of wine sparkled on Cecille’s pink lips. Emily wiped her upper lip
with her napkin, praying she didn’t have a foamy mustache to rival Herbert’s.

Justin had given her milk just like some babe. She set down the goblet with a deceptively mild thump and fixed Cecille with her most innocent gaze. “My guardian has been the very soul of benevolence.” She shifted her gaze to Justin. “Haven’t you,
Daddy?
”

Justin’s head snapped up. His eyes darkened in warning.

“So what do you all think about those pesky Zulus?” Herbert offered, obviously hoping to steer the conversation in a safer direction.

“Shut up, Herbert,” Millicent and Edith snapped in unison.

Emily dipped her spoon in her chowder. Justin’s gaze dropped to her lips. “His Grace likes it when I call him
daddy
” she announced.

Cecille’s smile waned. “Does he now?”

Emily swirled the spoon around her mouth, then slowly slid it out, licking away the stray drops of chowder with feline satisfaction. Herbert gaped, the pesky Zulus forgotten. Justin lifted his goblet and began to drink in long, convulsive swallows.

“Especially after dinner each night.” Emily lowered her voice to a sultry whisper. The little countess bobbed forward so far that her lacy fichu sank into her chowder. “That’s when he makes me sit on his lap for my bedtime story.”

Justin choked, spewing wine all over Harold. Cecille’s elegant mouth dropped open. Edith and Millicent gasped and Herbert went scarlet. As Justin disappeared behind his napkin, Harvey jumped up and began pounding him on the back.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Emily murmured. She slipped her knife up her sleeve as she rose, thankful for once for the voluminous ruffles.

When she returned, the second course had been served
and they were eating their shrimp in chill silence. The countess’s fichu drooped and Harold’s silk waistcoat was speckled with wine. Justin watched her take her seat, his golden eyes glittering with banked fury.

Cecille’s laugh sounded more inclined to shatter than tinkle. “I’m not surprised our Emily has ingratiated herself into your affections, Your Grace. She was the darling of every delivery boy and chimney sweep in our neighborhood. She was always so generous with her … person.”

Justin slammed down his fork. “I’ve had enough.” His voice was low but laced with warning. “My ward’s past is of no concern to anyone but me. I’ll not have her maligned at her own table. Anyone who cares to do so is not welcome in my house.”

As Emily met his possessive gaze, a strange warmth spread in the pit of her stomach.

Cecille threw down her napkin. “The other girls were right, Mama. The man is a beast. I won’t marry him! I simply won’t!”

“That’s a relief, since I never bloody asked you,” Justin shouted.

Cecille and her mama rose.

“Now, Comtesse,” the duchess said hastily, “I really must apologize for the behavior of my son. I’m sure he meant no—”

Before she could finish, Gracie trotted in from the kitchen, twisting her apron in her hands. Her normally ruddy cheeks had gone as pale as a wraith’s. She whispered something to her mistress. The duchess’s eyes widened. She cast a furtive glance at the floor. Emily casually tucked her feet up in her chair.

Cecille screamed.

Her shrill howls shook bits of plaster from the ceiling. They all gaped as she leaped onto the brocaded seat of her chair, then onto the table. As she lifted her skirts and shook them wildly, the cause of her distress became evident. Hanging off the thigh of her pantaloons was a live
lobster, his jagged claws entangled in her charming white ruffles.

Emily bit into a succulent shrimp and watched with mild interest as Cecille danced a merry reel among the rattling plates. The husbands groped beneath her skirts, trying to dislodge the stubborn creature. Lily and Millicent jumped into a chair, clutching each other while Edith and the duchess tried to soothe the hysterical countess. A bevy of servants rushed into the dining room, crawling around on hands and knees to capture the rest of the lobsters skittering around on the Brussels carpet.

It was Justin who finally disentangled the hapless fellow from Cecille’s underwear. He tossed the lobster to Gracie, who thrust it into her apron and raced for the kitchen. As the last of the lobsters were rounded up, Cecille collapsed sniveling into her mother’s arms.

The countess drew herself up to her full four feet eight inches. Her voice quavered in righteous indignation. “I must say, I’ve never seen such a scandalous display.”

Emily popped another shrimp into her mouth. “I concur heartily. Those little pink bows on Cecille’s drawers shocked the bloody hell out of me.”

Every eye turned to her. She stopped chewing. Perhaps now would be a good time to retire, she thought. She rose, slipping a bowl of shrimp under her arm, suddenly ravenous.

“Emily.” The single word was spoken in a tone of velvet command.

She paused, then kept walking. Only three more steps to the door. She counted them in her head. One. Two.

“Emily Claire Scarborough!”
Justin thundered.

The silver rattled. The crystal drops of the chandelier tinkled like tiny bells. No one even dared to breathe.

Emily pivoted slowly on her heel. “Yes, sir?”

He pointed a finger at her, his face livid. “You little …” He looked at Cecille, then back at her. His hand
started to shake. A furious snort escaped him, then another.

Suddenly he threw back his head and roared with laughter. They all gaped at him. One by one the maids came peeping around the dining room door frame, their white caps bobbing. Gracie stood aside so they could see what they’d never seen before—the brooding master of Grymwilde Mansion howling with laughter. Justin sank into his chair, clutching his stomach, then rolled from the chair to the floor, still guffawing.

As her only son disappeared beneath the tablecloth, the duchess rose. “Perhaps we should retire to the drawing room for dessert,” she announced as if it were the end of any flawless dinner party and the heir to the Winthrop title and fortune wasn’t a raving lunatic.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” the countess snapped, dragging Cecille toward the door in the wake of her icy wrath. “Come, darling. We’re going home. And we shan’t come back until we are offered a formal apology.”

The rest of the family filed out, Harold and Herbert grumbling over being deprived of their after-dinner brandy and cigars. The door to the kitchen swung shut. Emily set the bowl on the sideboard and crept toward the end of the table as if approaching a mad boar. Justin was snuffling rather like one.

She stood on tiptoe and peeped over the edge of the table. Justin was doubled up against his chair, shuddering with laughter. He wiped tears from his sparkling eyes and sucked in a wheezing breath. “Every time I think … dancing a jig on the table … those ridiculous pantaloons … I just can’t …” Wheezing for breath, he made pinching motions against her ankles with his long fingers. Emily giggled.

Soon her giggles deepened to chortles. Her knees folded and she dropped to the carpet beside him, hugging her own stomach as the dam of hilarity she’d stemmed all week burst with a vengeance.

Justin pounded his fist against the floor, struggling for control.

Emily gasped for breath. “I haven’t seen Cecille move that fast since I waxed the soles of her ballet shoes.”

He collapsed against her shoulder. “I shudder to think of it. God, you must have been awful.”

“Incorrigible,” she admitted modestly.

They relaxed against each other, knowing one would fall without the other. The stilted conversations and awkward silences of the past week melted in the warmth of their nearness. It seemed only natural that Emily would reach up and brush a strand of hair from his eyes. Only natural that he would capture her hand in his own and caress her palm with his eloquent thumb.

His smile softened. “Whatever am I to do with you?”

Suddenly their faces were very close. Close enough for her to see the spark that lit his eyes. Danger scented the air, as sharp and acrid as the smell of lightning on a summer day.

“Come here, you wicked girl,” he whispered. “Sit on my lap and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

Emily moaned softly as he drew her into his lap and touched his mouth to hers. It was like touching flame to hot wax. Her lips melted beneath his, deepening his tender kiss to the ravenous flick and thrust of his tongue against her own. A sweet, interminable ache licked through her. She tangled her hands in the hair at his nape, marveling at the silky fineness of the new growth against his starched collar. The heady scent of his bay rum intoxicated her. She wiggled against him in an artless attempt to press herself closer, to somehow absorb all his textures and scents, both new and remembered.

Justin groaned. “You’re going to be the death of me, woman,” he muttered against her lips. Then his tongue filled her mouth again, plunging deep in a blatant act of possession.

Justin wasn’t sure how she managed it, but Emily was
just as enticing in her silly garments as she had been naked on a moonlit beach. Each scrap of lace, pearl button, and hook and eyelet was a provocative challenge to his desire. She was dressed like a ruffled cake and he wanted nothing more than to lick off all her icing. Her untamed response to his touch shattered his inhibitions. He rained a delicate shower of kisses down her throat.

Not even the starched layers of her petticoats were enough to shield Emily from the rigid evidence of Justin’s desire. He nudged against her, his hard, hungry heat making her shudder.

With a hoarse oath Justin reached beneath her skirt and shoved aside the crinolines until only the sheer cotton of her pantaloons and the crisp linen of his trousers separated them. She gasped against his lips as he moved against her, coaxing, enticing, until she could feel every inch of him pressed to the damp valley between her legs. A helpless whimper, half fear, half need, caught in her throat.

“Sweet Christ, this is madness!” he exploded, dumping her out of his lap.

He rose and strode to the sideboard, raking a hand through his hair. As he sloshed wine into a glass, filling it to the rim, Emily could see his hand was shaking violently.

She climbed to her feet, smoothing her skirts with her own trembling hands. “Why?” she said softly. “Why must it be madness?”

He cocked the glass up and drained it. “Aside from the fact that we were writhing around on the dining room floor with a kitchen of gossiping servants only a careless moan away?”

She nodded, refusing to make this easy for him. “Aside from that.”

Justin slammed down the glass. He knew it wasn’t enough to put physical distance between them. She could bridge that with just one yearning look. He had to put
emotional distance between them as well. He had to build walls so high she could never tear them down. Even if they imprisoned his heart forever.

“You’re too young for me,” he said.

Emily flinched at Justin’s emotionless tone. “What of Cecille? Is she too young for you as well? Isn’t she just the sort of wife your mother would choose for you?”

He swung around to face her. “Cecille is neither my ward nor my responsibility. You are. If I had an ounce of brains, I’d have declared for her tonight.”

She tapped her pursed lips thoughtfully. “Now, would that make her my auntie or my stepmother?”

He caught her shoulders in a frantic grip, pulling her hard against him. “This isn’t a game. Do you think this is why David entrusted you to my care? So I could compromise you like some aging lech without a thought for your reputation or future? Is that what your father would have wanted?”

She met his gaze squarely. “My father is dead. You should know that better than anyone.”

His hands went limp. He laughed shakily. “Yes, I should, shouldn’t I?”

“Justin!” she called after him, frightened by the glimpse of hopeless despair she’d seen in his eyes.