His hands slipped to her shoulders and her waist and then, all of a sudden, he gathered her up, and a moment later she was seated on his lap.
“I gather you grew up in England.”
“Actually, we have pony carts in France,” she said, hastening to put her French accent back in place.
His face was so close to hers. Perhaps he would kiss her. Emma felt a wave of excitement so acute that she felt almost faint.
“What made you stop trying to fall out of carriages?” she asked quickly, just as his mouth was moving toward hers. He didn’t stop though, just brushed her lips with his. Involuntarily, one of her hands came up and curled around his neck. It was a strong neck, muscled and firm.
“I couldn’t do it.” He said it almost into her mouth. “I could never let the reins go and simply fly into space. Walter had an exuberance that I never had. He drank with enthusiasm and rode with abandon. I’m conservative. I tried to teach him to be less reckless—” He shrugged.
Emma was hoping that he couldn’t feel her heart beating against her ribs. He had a beautiful mouth: curved, a little sad, delicious, firm. . . . Holding her breath, she took a finger and rubbed it over his lips.
“Will you take off your mask now?” he asked, his voice velvet dark in her ear.
She reached up to untie it and instantly realized the advantage of having her arms at the back of her head. The motion pushed her breasts against his chest. It felt delicious, dangerous. She stilled, untying the laces of her mask slowly, hardly breathing. She could just see his eyes, shadow pools of black in the darkness, sliding over her skin like a hot lick of brandy.
A second later, his hand slid down her throat to the curve of her breast. She gasped. She’d noticed his fingers were calloused but hadn’t imagined that they would weave a spell on her skin. They swept over the top of her bosom and slipped beneath the ornate gold cloth of her bodice.
His eyes held hers, not letting her look down and see what he was doing, where he was rubbing with his thumb, because he—he—
“What costume are you wearing?” he asked silkily.
“What?” she gasped.
“Are you Cleopatra, all in gold?” he asked. “But no, this is no Roman tunic.” Her eyes widened. His hand was clasping her breast now, pushing her bodice down, almost—almost touching—
“Perhaps you were Venus?” he whispered, his lips tracing a line down her cheek.
Emma couldn’t answer; she was simply, absolutely silenced for the first time in her life.
“I believe you must have been Queen Elizabeth.” His lips were on hers now. He asked silently, and she parted her lips, having heard of such a thing but never imagined having the inclination herself. Besides, hadn’t her governess said that husbands don’t kiss in such a manner? Of course! He thought she was a French hussy, and so he dared to kiss her in this fashion.
Emma opened her mouth a little wider, and he came to her. Something like that should have been disgusting, but it just—wasn’t. He tasted like . . . like . . . She didn’t know. Like a man, one could only think. He was tasting her, too, now, and then his hand stilled on her breast.
Her heart was thudding against her ribs. She felt as if she were a bird, caught between the warmth of his hands and the seduction of his mouth, unable to move or to speak. Gil had a hand behind her head now, angling her so that he could ravage her mouth, take her as he would, and all she could do was—
Her mind was racing. She should do something, or he might get bored and stop. And she didn’t want him to stop, did she?
He pulled away. His hand left an unwelcome coolness in its wake, and a small sound broke from her lips. Disappointment? Passion?
“I cannot fulfill your request,” he said.
“What?” Emma said, scarcely hearing him through the pounding of her heart in her ears.
He picked her up and, with gentle precision, put her back on the opposite seat. “I cannot make love to you in this carriage, or elsewhere, madame. You must forgive me.”
Chapter Ten
Emma opened her mouth, but no words emerged.
“Your request,” he said, watching her. “Your one request before you marry the wealthy burgher.”
For a moment she stared at him blankly and then the truth—or lack of it—seeped back into her mind. “Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be right,” he said.
Emma felt a shot of pure rage. This man, who by all accounts had slept with so many Frenchwomen that he likely murmured je t’aime in his sleep, was daring to become moralistic at this late date?