“From my sister,” he explained before he could think better of it.
What the devil was he doing? He did not owe her any clarification. In fact, he owed her nothing. The less care he took in her comfort, and the less kindness he showed her, the better it would be for the both of them. That way, it would not come as a surprise when he enacted the final element of his plan.
“You have a sister?” She blinked, looking surprised by this new information.
“I’ve three,” he said, once more against his will. Caro, Persephone, and Lily were not a part of his need for vengeance and answers. Two of them had married and were living with their husbands, out of the shadow of The Sinner’s Palace. But Lily, the youngest, remained.
“Three sisters,” Lady Emma repeated. “I have two.”
He had been aware she was not the sole child of the earl, but he hadn’t bothered to concern himself with just how many siblings there were. It did not signify, anyway. Nothing about this woman mattered to him. The sooner the rest of him acknowledged that, the better.
“Lovely to know,” he bit out, struggling to contain the unwanted and unnecessary emotions rising within him where she was concerned.
He could not afford to soften. To feel anything other than the certainty she was the answer he had spent all this time looking and hoping for, a means by which he could at last bring Loge home, one way or another.
At the reminder that his brother may well be dead, a knot rose in his throat.
“You do not wish to get to know me before…before copulating?”
Floating hell.
Where had she heard that word? There was not a less attractive word for fucking in the English language. Hart was sure of it.
“Joining giblets,” he suggested, enjoying the sight of the color returning to her cheeks and then deepening. “The featherbed jig. Rutting. Basket-making.”
“Sir.”
He shrugged, relieved by the diversion. Heavy thoughts of Loge were always unwelcome, because he refused to believe his brother was anything other than alive, damn it.
“There are other words, you know, milady,” he offered lightly.
She stiffened. “Why do you call me that?”
Ah. Milady. He was not supposed to know her as anything other than her Christian name. He would play her little game for now. Until it no longer suited him.
“An endearment, love, nothing more,” he lied. “I call all the ladies I know milady. Would you prefer something else?”
Her soft, wide lips tightened into a grim line. “How many ladies do you know?”
He grinned. “How much time do you have?”
“Emma,” she said crisply, shrugging out of his coat at last and holding it out for him. “You may call me Emma, if you please.”
“I thought you were ashamed of your gown,” he could not resist teasing.
But then he made the mistake of taking in the sight she presented in that damned rum rigging of hers. Mayhap it was her presence in his room that heightened the sultry allure. Mayhap it was just her and the fact that he finally had her where he wanted her. She was no longer a novelty, and they were not facing each other with daggers drawn at The Garden of Flora. Instead, she was here, in his world. Steps from his bed.
The air of the room took on a new heaviness which had been previously absent. Her nipples were still stiff and hard, prodding the fine fabric of her bodice. Her breasts were full and high, rising above the low decolletage as firm, pale mounds he could not help but to think about touching, cupping, caressing. They were handfuls, he would wager. Her hips were on full display, thanks to the devious mind of the seamstress who had fashioned that mouthwatering slit in her skirts.
“It is your coat,” she said, breaking the moment and his hungry perusal with her explanation. “I have kept it far past my need. And if you should be kind enough to provide me a gown from one of your sisters, I would be most grateful.”
What would she do if he took her in his arms? If he pulled her lush form against him, molding her body to every part of his, and took her lips in a kiss?
It does not matter. You will not do it.
Of course he wouldn’t, but he was bloody well tempted. So damn tempted. She was lovely and haunting and ethereal. A delicate aristocrat, the daughter of an earl. And she was barefoot in his shabby apartments above a gaming hell. He could do whatever he wanted with her. To her.
Seven days.
The next seven days were going to be torture.
“I’ll fetch the gowns, then,” he bit out and then stalked from the room without bothering to await her response.
Seven days.
Seven days of utter sensual torture.
* * *