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 time she really believed Bethany. This man had cut a swath through Paris. It seemed likely that not a Frenchwoman in Paris resisted him.
“I gather,” he said, ignoring the curious faces that turned toward them, “that you wish me to do you a favor.”
“If you would be so kind,” she replied, keeping her eyes on his so that they didn’t drift to his lips. Was this her, wondering how he would taste? She’d never thought of such a thing before. For a moment she felt a sense of vertigo, as if the old Emma who painted bees in her studio had been replaced by a lascivious Frenchwoman, licking her lips at the sight of Kerr.
Well, he was her husband.
Almost.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
She blinked, confused. Wasn’t he going to sweep her into his carriage and have his way with her? Frankly, she wouldn’t even mind the carriage. True, Bethany had said that carriages were not appropriate, but—
“Yes, of course,” she managed and took his arm. But she had forgotten that new dances had come into fashion since the days when she and Bethany had a dancing master, and she hesitated at the edge of the floor.
“A waltz,” he said to her. “New, German, and quite fast. Allow me.” He put a hand around her waist and pulled her close.
She gasped.
“It’s a three-step rhythm,” he said to her, laughing at her confusion.
Around them was the swish of satin and silk as milk-maids and queens turned in the arms of kings and clowns. She put her hand on his shoulder, and they stepped into the gaily colored throng.
His hand guided her, and after a moment she learned the pace.
“That’s it,” he whispered into her ear. “Frenchwomen are always fast learners.”
Suddenly daring raced through her again, turning her veins to fire. The mask on her face hid the normal Emma, turning her into another woman, a bolder, more courageous version of herself. “I believe that you must be beginning to remember me, my lord. Those were your very words on an earlier occasion.”
Wonder of wonders, he didn’t freeze but smiled back at her. His hand strengthened at her back and pulled her closer. Shivers crept up Emma’s legs and made her feel weak in the knees. She licked her lips and felt even weaker when she saw his slow smile.
“Would you like to t
ake a short drive, Madame de Custine?”
“Emelie,” she said. “And yes, that would be quite pleasant.” Pleasant wasn’t quite the word, not for the sense she had that the pounding of her heart could be heard by the whole room.
They began to make their way through the crowded floor, Kerr brushing off the greetings of his friends. From the glances that followed them, Emma could say without hesitation that she would receive at least four letters tomorrow detailing her fiancé’s contemptible behavior.
From the corner of her eye she saw her cousin Mary and quickly turned her head the other way. Her mask may have served as an adequate guard against Kerr’s recognition of her, but one good look from her cousin, and the masquerade would be ruined.
He was steering her with a mere touch of her elbow. One jerk of his head, and a footman appeared with her pelisse, and Kerr threw it over her shoulders. His fingers lingered for a moment, and a potent whiff of her own perfume drifted to her nose. That’s why women wear perfume, she thought suddenly. For their own pleasure.
“Have you always had a fondness for Englishmen?” Kerr asked.