Jemima looked up at the imposing figure towering over her. “Don’t call her that. She is no mother to me. She’s nothing more than an embarrassment.”
Mr Wycliff slid his arm around Jemima’s slender waist. The girl pushed at his chest in an attempt to escape. “So embarrassing you want rid of her?”
“Remove yourself, sir.” Panic infused Jemima’s tone. “Before someone comes in and finds us in a clinch.”
“Admit it,” he persisted, his mouth dangerously close to Jemima’s quivering lips. “Admit you paid someone to spook her horse. Admit to the host of other accidents set to rid you from your association with the Scarlet Widow.”
“No!”
“The Widow’s shame follows you through the ballrooms. You live in her shadow. You cry at night when—”
“Please, say no more.” Jemima stopped struggling against Mr Wycliff’s hard body. As she surrendered to him, her hands settled on his chest.
“Men don’t want you, do they? They want the Widow.” His seductive voice was as smooth as the finest claret. “And yet you long to feel desired, loved.”
“Yes,” Jemima said, relaxing into his embrace.
“You must hate her.” His mouth moved to Jemima’s ear, his lips grazing against her lobe.
A shiver ran through Scarlett’s body. She knew the power of Mr Wycliff’s hot breath, had lain awake huddled next to him to keep out the cold, had felt each soft rhythmical sigh breeze over her neck. For the first time in three years, she longed to trade places with her insipid stepdaughter.
“I do,” Jemima breathed. “I despise her.”
“And you would do anything to get rid of her, to be free.”
“Anything.”
“Tell me your secrets. Who did you hire to stage the accidents?”
“Accidents?” Jemima’s dreamy voice was almost inaudible.
Scarlett had underestimated the rogue. A few more whispered words and the waif would be hiking up her skirts and perching her bare buttocks on the edge of the desk. Indeed, she suspected the scoundrel might even possess the wherewithal to crack the Scarlet Widow’s walnut shell.
A sudden commotion in the hall stole everyone’s attention.
Mr Wycliff’s dark gaze drifted to the door. The woman in his arms came quickly to her senses and tried to push out of his embrace.
“What’s the hurry?” he drawled, clearly unconcerned by the prospect of being caught in a compromising embrace. “We were getting on so well.”
Jemima shook her head vigorously, but with her hair scraped back in a severe knot, barely a wisp was out of place. “You were trying to trick me.”
The corners of his mouth curled into a wicked grin. “Trick you?”
“Like Satan, you cast your sinful spells.” She broke free and brushed her skirts.
“Ladies do say my fingers work the devil’s magic.”
“And I suspect your mouth is equally devious.”
Mr Wycliff’s tongue grazed his bottom lip. “What a shame you’ll never know.”
Two people conversed loudly in the corridor—Joshua Steele and Lady Rathbone. Hell’s bells! The matron was forever turning up in the most unlikely places and was not one to linger outside when there was gossiping to be had. But then another voice joined the tête-à-tête—the sophisticated tone of the Marquis of Blackbeck.
“Damnation!” Mr Wycliff glanced up to the balcony, to where Scarlett stood in the shadows with her back pressed to the row of cases. One jerk of the head was her summons to descend the spiral staircase and join the party.
“Quick,” Jemima said, suddenly panicked. “Lock the door before they all barge in here.”
“Have no fear.” Mr Wycliff sounded amused. “You’re not alone with me. Your stepmother is in the wings waiting to save your fall from grace.”