Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

And then Emma threw away the idea of winning the challenge. If Gil would just kiss her for another moment, kiss her for another five minutes, let her hand rest on top of that part of him that pushed into her palm, demanding something that she knew little of, but was all too eager to discover . . .

It was the first time that she had entirely dismissed the thought of winning the challenge. Who cared about the challenge? The only thing that mattered was that he was rocking up against her, pushing her legs apart, his knees going where—his hands touching . . .

Then he growled something at her.

He said it again. “I give up.”

She closed her eyes, but she heard him all right. In an instant, she began wrestling with the two little rows of buttons on his pantaloons. But a gentleman’s tight evening pantaloons don’t slide off his legs without help.

He gave a bark of laughter and rolled to his feet. She lay there, looking up at him, knowing she was all white skin and a spread of red hair. He was watching, so she did exactly what she wanted to do, which was move her thighs apart, just a little. Just enough so that her cheeks flooded red at the same time the burning heat in her belly flared.

He tossed his trousers to the side, followed by his smalls. His legs were golden dark in the dim light from Jeremy’s lantern, ridged with muscle and dusted with hair. And then, higher—the color grew in her cheeks but she didn’t look away.

She was pretending to be a widow, but she wasn’t going to pretend to be less interested than she was.

He came to his knees beside her, but instead of throwing himself on her as she half expected, he cupped her face in his hands. “You’re to marry that worthy burgher of yours within a fortnight, do you hear?” he told her fiercely.

She nodded, eyes on his, wondering at the way that love could just rise up and grip you in the heart so fiercely it would never let you go. Those sloe-shaped eyes of his, that lock of hair on his forehead, those lean cheeks . . . “I shall,” she whispered. And, in her heart: I’m going to marry you within a fortnight.

“Good,” he said, as if they’d settled something. “In that case, I give up. I’ll pay you that favor. I’m sorry I ever forgot you, that I ever got drunk in Paris, that I ever—”

She wasn’t really listening. He had a hand on her bottom, and he slid her legs open, and then—and then he came to her.

It hurt, and it didn’t hurt.

Her blood sang and thundered at the same time.

Her eyes closed, and yet she felt she could see through every pore.

He slid in, a little way, and made that hoarse sound in his throat, except perhaps it was she who made it, and then he didn’t move again, so she went where her body wanted to go and arched up, against him, training him, teaching him, keeping him close and mindful and hers.

He was a good learner, for an Englishman.

Of course, she was French, and Frenchwomen are the fastest learners of all.

Chapter Twelve

They left through the front door. Gil left Jeremy’s unlit lantern where he could find it in the morning.

Neither one of them seemed to feel like talking. Emma’s throat was tight with something: tears? She rarely cried and only for a very good reason, so that couldn’t be it. Come to think of it, the last time she’d really cried had been at her mother’s funeral.

Her bejeweled Elizabethan dress felt frowsy now, and unbearably heavy. She couldn’t wait to enter her bedchamber in Grillon’s and collapse in a bed and try very hard not to think about the evening.

She’d won. Her father had Gil’s ring safely stowed away, and she had done her part of the business, and that was that.

Gil was sobriety itself, handing her into the carriage as if she were made of glass. He said good-bye to her there, a sweet little farewell buss on the lips. “I would hope,” he said, “you consider my debt repaid, Madame Emelie?”

What could she say? That the debt he had now incurred would take a lifetime to repay?

“Of course,” she said and gave him a little kiss of her own. “You’re free and clear, my lord.”

“Gil,” he said. But after that, they didn’t say anything to each other.

When she involuntarily winced, climbing down the carriage step, he insisted on scooping her up and carrying her right up the steps of Gillon’s. Emma thanked God for her mask; this story was going to be all over London before the morning gossip columns even appeared. It had to be three in the morning, and yet those who’d come to London expressly for the masquerade were just beginning to drift to their beds. They were gathered in small clusters amongst the exquisite pillars of the entryway.

The manager, Mr. Fredwell, saw them coming and hurried toward her. “Madame de Custine!” he cried, taking in the situation at a glance. “You must have injured your ankle.”

“Indeed she has,” Gil said coolly. “I believe it would be best for madame if you had two footmen carry her in a chair to her chambers.”