The Harlow Hoyden (20 page)

“Since I am in no mood to go barreling down a rural road at breakneck speed,” he said, leaning toward her with an intent look on his face, “perhaps we should channel your energies elsewhere.”

Emma knew that he was going to kiss her, and she raised herself up to meet him halfway. She had been disturbingly aware of him from the moment she’d entered the carriage. Now that they were
out of danger she had time to reflect on that strength of his, that caged strength that was so out of place in polite drawing rooms and that was only unleashed in the ring at Gentleman Jackson’s. Instantly she knew that she wanted to feel that strength, to have those arms crushing her to him so tightly that it was impossible to tell where she ended and he began.

“Oh, Trent,” she sighed, as his
heated lips moved across her neck.

“Alex,” he corrected, his voice low and husky. “When you’re in my arms, you will call me Alex.”

Emma thought that Alex was a very nice name and said it over and over again as she unbuttoned his shirt in the dark. She kissed his chest and ran her fingers over his arms. What lovely, lovely muscles he had. “You are magnificent, Alex.”

Her observation further
ignited his fire, and he moved with admirable speed. Before she knew it, she was lying with her back against the carriage seat and he was revealing her breasts. Since she was wearing her men’s clothes, this was an unexpectedly easy feat, and he gave thanks that her hot flesh wasn’t buried under layers and layers of corsets. He raised her chin with a gentle finger and looked at her through the stygian
darkness. “It’s you who are magnificent.”

Emma nodded and pulled his head down to hers, delighting in the feel of skin against skin, delighting in the feel of everything he did. Trent freed her lips and began blazing a trail down her neck and along her shoulders. When his lips made contact with her breast, she gasped in shock and pleasure. She did not know that this was what men and women did
alone together, but it came as a wonderful surprise. She ran her hands through his hair.

“Oh, Alex,” she sighed as his tongue darted across her nipple. Lying beneath him, she could feel the strength of his desire, and she wondered just how far this madness would go. She certainly didn’t have the presence of mind—or the will—to stop it. Indeed, if she had her way, they’d never leave the confines
of this carriage.

Trent lavished attention on her other breast, and she shuddered as he brushed her stomach with gentle fingers. Then his hand moved lower. Emma tensed for a moment—how could he touch her there?—but relaxed instantly when these new sensations proved just as delightful as the others.

Emma was on the verge of something, just what she didn’t know but she felt certain that it was
something magnificent, when the carriage came to a stop. It took a moment for understanding to penetrate her passion-filled mind, but the duke responded instantly. With disconcertingly deft fingers, he rebuttoned her shirt swiftly. He did the same with his own.

Emma didn’t know what to say, so while she gathered her wits, she pretended to be focused on the listening device she brought with her.
When her breathing had returned somewhat to normal, she said, “I shall be leaving now. Thank you for your help, your grace.”

She would have opened the door, but the duke’s arms restrained her. “Miss Harlow…Emma, we must talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said in an extraordinarily calm voice.

“You’ll not dismiss my embrace so easily,” he said, the anger evident.

Emma
did not have the strength for this. With the absence of real, damning evidence against Windbourne in her hand, her only hope now was Trent. Emma would do nothing to disrupt plan A. “Really, I’m just saving you the trouble,” she said, pulling herself free. It wasn’t the whole truth, of course, but then again neither was it completely a lie. She knew enough about the Duke of Trent than to think that
he’d be faithful to a woman like her—or indeed any woman. She would not go down that route. She simply would not. “Thank you again,” she said, opening the door and stepping out into the cool night air.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It wasn’t until a
week later at the Earl of Northrup’s ball that the duke managed to achieve a private moment with Emma. This finally, after a frustrating six days of trying his damnedest to talk to her and being thwarted on all fronts.

During their theater excursion the day after the break-in, she avoided his presence with single-minded perseverance, preferring to sit by
Sarah’s side and make dull conversation about the actors’ costumes. Whenever he addressed a word to her, she either asked his opinion on the cut of Petruchio’s jacket or tossed out a compliment about Lavinia. By the time the evening was through, he had agreed that Lavinia looked very lovely, that amaranth was a particularly becoming color on her, that her brow was very noble indeed, that she had the
best posture of any lady of their acquaintance, that her love of the theater was inspiring to behold and that her conversation was particularly sparkling tonight.

The duke left, convinced that the Harlow Hoyden was up to her old tricks, only this time she was taking it a step further. No longer content to have her sister fall for him, she was determined to have
him
fall for her sister. This
was the only conclusion to be logically drawn from that night’s exercise. Having reconsidered the situation in light of Windbourne’s suitability, she had decided that the only solution was for the Duke of Trent to marry her sister. Trent couldn’t fault her. In many ways, it was an ideal solution—what woman would chose a windbag like the baron over an erudite lord such as he?—but he couldn’t help but
be repulse by the very idea. To marry one sister while desiring the other! He could think of no circumstance less appealing or a marriage more doomed to failure. Clearly Emma had not thought it through, or she would have realized the impossibility of the arrangement. She was no more able to resist him than he was her, and if they were tossed together endlessly in family situations, their attraction
would one day overcome them. The end result would be a disastrous betrayal.

Two days after the theater, the duke called at Grosvenor Square, hoping to have a private word with Emma. He wanted to dissuade her from this course, and perhaps talk about what happened in the carriage. A man of his consequence did not go around seducing innocents in his carriage—and seduction it was, for he did not
know how far it would have gone had the hackney not stopped when it did. A woman with Emma’s breeding should know better than to let him get away with it. There should be a price for such behavior, and although marriage to a notorious young woman too wild to recognize proper behavior had never been part of his plan, he was willing to make the sacrifice for the sake of duty. They had much to talk
about, and he would not be denied.

However, it was not Emma who greeted him in the drawing room but Lavinia. “Your grace,” she said, taking a seat, “I’m afraid Emma is not feeling quite the thing at the moment and she requested that I see you in her stead. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

The duke smiled wryly. He should have anticipated this maneuver. “Miss Harlow, it’s a pleasure as always.”

Lavinia laughed. “Pooh, Trent, you are too polite for your own good. Let us speak plainly with each other. It is not a pleasure at all, though I do appreciate your saying so. You had hoped to see Emma, and I am a sad substitute.”

“Not quite a
sad
substitute, I assure you.”

“Very good. Now you’re getting the hang of it,” she said, happy to see he could overcome his innate good manners to be
honest for a moment. “We must do something about my sister, for she is trying with renewed vigor to bring us together. Just a few days ago it had seemed to me that she had lost interest in her scheme, but I’m afraid Sir Waldo must have said the wrong thing to her and angered her. It was Sarah who pointed out to me just this morning that Emma’s reinvigorated efforts coincided with my unfortunate
fiancé’s return.”

The duke nodded. Miss Harlow’s speculation was correct, although she could not know the whole truth. For the first time, the duke regretted the gentleman’s code of honor that forbid him from talking ill of a woman’s fiancé. Despite his initial reservations, he was now in complete agreement with the Harlow Hoyden: Vinnie deserved much better than Sir Windbag. No man expected
his wife to be accomplished in anything other than the genteel arts—sewing, painting, singing, speaking French—but Trent couldn’t help but believe that he himself would’ve been much gratified by an authoress-wife.

“I’m at a loss as to how to proceed,” said Lavinia, “and am thinking of making a clean breast of it. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not adept at games of deception and should like
to bring this sham courtship to an end.” She closely watched the duke, trying to gauge his reaction. Did he think it was time to bring this whole matter to a close, as well? “You have been abused enough by the Harlow sisters and must be glad to be free of your ill-advised commitment.” Now, thought Vinnie, he’ll either run for the hills like a sane man or come up with some reason to continue the
farce like a besotted suitor.

The duke considered her words carefully. What she said was true: His commitment had been ill-advised. When he made it, he had only a small inkling of what he was agreeing to. A sham courtship, certainly, but he had no idea he’d be called upon to commit thievery—or that he’d be unable to resist the scheming imp who tempted him. The latter was an unusual circumstance
for him; there had never been a woman before whom he couldn’t resist.

Trent realized that he wasn’t ready to let the farce end just yet. His first consideration, of course, was Emma. He relished any scheme that brought him into her company, and if she knew that her plan to throw Vinnie and him together was unsuccessful, she might have nothing more to do with him. But his second consideration
was Vinnie herself. He had grown to like her very much over the past few weeks, and he respected her thoughts and opinions too much to comfortably watch her throw herself away on a wastrel like Windbourne. What he had in mind was a modified version of Emma’s original plan: He would find some peer perfectly suited to Vinnie and toss them together. In order to implement his plan, he would need more
time. If he agreed right then to end the sham, he’d have little opportunity to spend time with Lavinia.

“I will, of course, abide by your final decision, Miss Harlow,” he said, after an extended moment of thought, “but I fear you might be giving up too easily. Your original intention to teach Miss Harlow a lesson was wise, if a little underhanded, and I think you should stay the course. I do
not regret my involvement. Indeed, I wouldn’t mind seeing Miss Harlow learn something, as she twisted my arm quite mercilessly to get my compliance.”

This was exactly what Lavinia wanted to hear, indeed, had expected to hear. Although Emma’s recent behavior indicated the opposite, Lavinia was convinced that her sister was head over heels in love with Trent. She wasn’t as confident about the
duke’s feelings, but all evidence indicated he wasn’t indifferent to Emma’s charms. “Very well. If you are sure.”

“Perfectly. To be honest, Miss Harlow, I haven’t been so amused in years.”

“I’m sure you’re only being polite again, but I’ll not take exception. You put my mind to ease.”

“That’s my intention.” The duke stood up to take his leave. “In the interest of our plan, perhaps you should
take a drive with me tomorrow afternoon, assuming, of course, that you do not already have plans. With the return of Sir Windbourne, I expect you’re very busy.”

Trent’s expectation was off the mark. Lavinia had seen very little of her fiancé since his return. “Tomorrow will be lovely,” she said. “I have no pressing engagements in the afternoon.”

“Shall we say three then? And do make sure that
Emma knows where you are going and in whose company.”

“I will be sure to inform her,” she said, escorting him to the door.

“Ah, one last thing, Miss Harlow,” he said, “before I forget. I’ve been talking over your drainage ideas with Mr. Berry, the president of the horticultural society, and he was very interested. He asked me if I thought you’d be inclined to draw up a helpful pamphlet to
be distributed at the next meeting and perhaps give a lecture. I told him you probably wouldn’t have time with your wedding fast approaching”—fast approaching? thought the duke; her wedding was seven months away—“but it’s something to think about,” he said offhandedly, well satisfied with her reaction. Her face had lit up at the mere suggestion, and it was clear to the duke that she was already thinking
about it. Trent left and told the coach to take him to Mr. Berry’s apartments in the East End. Although Mr. Berry did not yet know it, they had drainage systems to discuss.

Trent arrived at the Northrup ball determined to speak with Emma. She had successfully evaded him the whole week through, but that was about to change. He would not be put off any longer.

“I say, Trent, you look as though
someone spit on your Hessians and you’re planning your revenge. I know women are rumored to prefer the forceful type, but you’re doing it a bit brown,” said Pearson by way of greeting.

“Good evening, Pearson,” said the duke, barely sparing a glance in his search for Miss Harlow.

“It will do you no good,” said Pearson.

The duke looked at him quizzically.

Pearson fought a smile. “Staring
at the dance floor will do you no good. She isn’t here yet. You’ll want to turn your attention to the door.”