“Do you tell me, sir,” she said, in the most ravishing lisp, “that you Englishmen are not all as unmannerly as Lord Kerr? For I do believe that he has quite forgotten our acquaintance.”
Gil was torn between amusement, disbelief, and just the faintest—faintest—hint of embarrassment. Could he truly have forgotten such an exquisite bit of womanhood? “You must help my decrepit English memory,” he said. “When was that encounter, mademoiselle?”
She pouted. “That shows the worst of your memory,” she said, “for I am no mademoiselle, but Madame de Custine. And you, sir, were so kind as to—” She stopped and gave him a smile that told the entire room just how kind he had been. Damn that French brandy, Gil thought to himself. There was nothing to do for it but accept the scandal: his godmother would hear of this within five minutes. “I gather I was kind enough on that forgotten occasion that you remember me, my dear Madame de Custine,” he said, kissing her hand again. “I consider that quite generous.”
Her eyes were glinting at him above her mask. The very curl of her mouth surprised Gil. How did he ever drink enough brandy to forget her? “Consider it a tribute to your skills, my lord,” she said, and the innuendo in her voice was unmistakable. Lockwood stepped back and picked up his cards. The man next to Lockwood turned and whispered to a friend.
Gil sighed inwardly and threw down his cards. An ace and a king fell onto the table. Actually, his godmother would know within three minutes.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I must beg your leave to make my apologies to this lady.”
Chapter Eight
“Would you say,” Gil asked, staring down at the glorious bit of womanhood who had sought him out, “that you might have embroidered a bit on our acquaintance?”
“Pas de tout.”
“I just thought that you might have taken poetic license,” he said, steering her toward the windows leading to the garden. “Cast a romantic tone over an encounter of the most pedestrian nature…Did I help you into a carriage, perhaps?”
Emma gave a little gurgle of laughter. The pleasure of being French had gone to her head. She felt tipsy with a sense of power, exuberant with her own lies. She pitched her voice to a purring reproach. “How can you say such a thing, Lord Kerr? I vow that you came close to breaking my heart!”
They passed through the doorway, Emma’s wide, brocade skirts sweeping the door panels. Why on earth hadn’t she come to London before? Why hadn’t she known how much pure fun it was to hunt for a man, to cut him from the pack, just like one of Farm V smp> to Loer Ben’s sheepdogs might do with a prize ram?
“But I don’t mean to scold you,” she said, breaking off a sprig of jasmine. It smelled dizzily sweet.
He didn’t answer, simply walked at her side, the lightest touch on her elbow leading her farther into the gardens.
He wouldn’t try to take her virginity in the gardens, would he? Well, of course, he had no idea that she was a virgin, and Emma had the distinct impression that he would never know, if he were sufficiently drunk.
The garden was alive with shadowy figures, laughing and stepping in and out of patches of moonlight: Harlequin in his spangled costume brushed by a fairy whose right wing trailed to the ground. There was Homer or perhaps Zeus: at any rate, a man who thought to ape the gods or Greeks.
They settled primly onto a bench, and Emma put away thoughts of intimacies in the garden. Of course Kerr had no such idea in mind. He would take her to his house before something of that nature happened. She felt an inner tremble of excitement at the very thought.
“So, madame…I am sorry,” he said, turning to her. “I have quite forgotten your name again.”
“You may call me Emelie.” Somehow her smiles didn’t seem quite as potent when thrown in his direction. The young lord she’d collared inside looked faint at each movement of her lips, but Kerr’s face didn’t change an iota.
“Ah,” he said sleekly, “Emelie.”
“It was my grandmother’s. A charming name,” Emma said.
“Moi, j’y avais penser toujours la meme chose,” he said. “Comment pourrais-je oublier votre nom, quand votre visage si comme une fleur y apparaitre ensemble?”
For a second Emma panicked. But she spoke French like a native. She only needed to keep her head. He was talking flummery, asking how he could have forgotten her name since she had the face of a flower. “Le mystère du recollection d’un homme: qui peut savoir pourquoi ils oublient les choses les plus importantes?” she said. That was good: men did seem to forget what they should most remember. And then, as quickly as she possibly could: “Se souvenir d’une femme, c’est à moi: je trouve que ce soit impossible d’oublier meme les details de notre rendezvous nocturnale.” That was good, too: if she had spent a night with Kerr, she definitely wouldn’t forget the smallest detail.
There was a liquid promise in his smile that made her feel light-headed. “You’re speaking too rapidly for my poor skills, Mademoiselle Emelie—”
“Madame de Custine,” she said, “if you don’t wish to address me as Emelie.” If he had the faintest idea that she was not a widow, her whole masquerade would be for naught.
“I do feel I should apologize for the dastardly event of forgetting our original meeting,” he said silkily. “Where did you say that we met?”
“It’s inconsequential,” she said softly. “I know you likely forgot, as it was years ago…but I could never erase you from my mind. Never.” She leaned forward so that he could look into her cleavage, except he seemed fascinated by her eyes instead.
“You couldn’t?” he asked.
“Now I’m to marry a worthy burgher—a merchant, as you call them here in England.” Oops, she had almost let her accent slip there. It was something about the spicy smell of his skin. She drew back a little.
& [widoublier me#x201C;I wish you the very best in your forthcoming matrimony,” he said.
“Of course,” she purred. “But marriage is such a serious endeavor…pleasant, altogether necessary, and yet stifling. I know, since I was married to my beloved Pierre until his much lamented death.”
“Ah,” he said.
Emma rushed on before he could ask any questions she might not be able to answer. “At any rate, it’s been years since we—since we—but it was in Paris, monsieur.”
“Paris,” he said, and his tone hardened. A crease suddenly appeared between his brows, and Emma relaxed. There was something different in the air between them now: a smell of possibility. Bethany had been right about his dissolute behavior, then.
“Paris,” she said, the words soft in her mouth. “You probably don’t remember, my lord. I’m afraid you had sampled a bit too much brandy that evening.”
“Undoubtedly,” he said, his voice hard.
“But I could never forget…” Emma couldn’t believe how much husky longing she poured into her own voice. Perhaps she should have run away and joined a traveling theater troupe! “When I saw you across the room this evening, it seemed a gift from the gods.”
“Well,” he said, “I suppose that I should be grateful that I apparently behaved in an acceptable manner, even while a drunken sot.”
“I am to marry my wealthy burgher in a week,” Emma said. “I am only in London to choose my wedding clothes. ‘Twas a mere accident that I happened to be at the masquerade.”
“Ah.”
She bent over and ran a finger down his cheek. Small prickles tingled her finger. “I wish you to do me a favor, my lord.”
“Of course.” But his voice was courteous, detached. The mention of Paris had convinced him that they had once met, but it had also iced him over somehow.
“You see, my lord, I do believe you owe me a favor.”
“Indeed?” his voice was positively chilly.
“Certainly.” Her finger slipped to his lips. His bottom lip was plump, sullen, beautiful. “I am to make the good marriage. My mother, bless her sainted memory, would be joyous. And yet I would like one more experience…just one…befo
re I lapse into a life of rectitude.”
His eyes narrowed. “Could you possibly mean what I think you
mean?”
Emma kept her voice low and sultry. “I certainly hope so.”
And then she held her breath.
Chapter Nine
Self-loathing is an ugly thing to display before a beautiful woman. Gil forced himself to drain every bit of that emotion from his voice before he spoke. “I’m afraid that I was not myself during my stay in Paris,” he said carefully.
Her eyes met his. “I understand that you were having difficulties,” she said. “I believe that you were mourning the loss of your brother.”
Damn. He couldn’t believe that he had babbled of Walter, spoken of Walter’s death to this woman. How could he? And since he had spoken to her on such an intimate subject, how could he not remember their encounter?
Her eyes were sympathetic. He made himself ga ^widousuch ther the shreds of his self-esteem and bury the pain that was Walter down deep in his heart, where he tried not to look anymore. There was no point to that pain, and no end to it. He understood little, but he did understand that.
“I must have bored you to tears,” he said lightly.
“Pas de tout,” she said. Her hand touched his and sent small shivers of sensation across his hand. “Never that.” Her eyes caught his, and she looked away.
For the first time, he took a hard look at her. He’d been amused and faintly bored by her arrival in the card room; the only reason he accompanied her to the garden was because he held another winning hand, and cards had lost their interest. Slim, winged eyebrows rose above her jeweled mask. Her hair was thick, like rumpled silk, and the dark red of a garnet, with the same hints of mysterious depths. A man could hide his face there and not miss the light of the sun. Her eyes were sultry, curious, intelligent…looking at him in a way that made him feel unsettled. Had it been so long since a woman looked at him with genuine desire rather than calculated interest?
Since his stay in Paris, he had brought no woman to his house, nor did he accompany them to their abode. He visited Madame Bridget, but only for the pleasure of chattering in French. He played with fire, but dropped the women at their doors, untouched. Sometimes, he wondered if he’d been eunuched by that orgy of grief.
Her forehead was high, an aristocrat’s delicate white brow. It was a pity that she was marrying a wealthy burgher. Not a pity, he corrected himself. A joy. She’ll have five children and forget the extravagances of her youth.
For she was young, he could see that. Another wave of self-loathing almost caught him on the hip: apparently he had been so sotted on a Parisian night that he ravished a young lady.
Then he caught her eyes again. Well, perhaps she wasn’t that much a lady. Ladies rarely had such a fascinated gleam in their eyes, at least not Englishwomen. Leave that to a Frenchwoman.
Her fingers were playing on his wrist, as if she couldn’t stop touching him. One thing he’d learned in his misbegotten life was that you have to forgive yourself. For being the only one in your family left standing. For not being there to catch Walter as he fell from the carriage.
For ravishing a young woman. Because, apparently, he had conducted himself so well that she wanted a repeat.
And he, as he sometimes had to remind himself, was a gentlemen.
Gentlemen never disappoint ladies.
One moment Emma was sitting on the bench, gazing with some satisfaction into her future husband’s eyes, and the next she was on her feet, heading back into the ballroom. Something had changed between them.
He was so much bigger than she, although she was a tall woman. His hand was on her shoulder, and though it was gentle, it made her quake inside. One could only suppose that he had made up his mind to grant her request.
There had been a flash of such pain in his eyes when she mentioned his brother that her stomach clenched at the sight of it. And yet when she glanced sideways at him now, all she could see on his face was a kind of raffish enjoyment.
He slowed as they neared the open doors of the ballroom, looked down at her, and there wasn’t a trace of grief in those eyes. They looked wicked, like a promise in the moonlight, like the end of all the great love stories rolled up in one. And that smile on his lips ought to be outlawed. For the first t