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 Farmer 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.
“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.”