Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

“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 sof

t 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 . . . before 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 gather 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.