Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

It came out oddly. His comment had been random, seeking no reassurance, and her denial had been unnecessary. She really had to get away from him.

“I believe I might return to my room after all,” she added. “I can’t imagine anyone would be pleased if they returned to the house and found us together, particularly your fiancée.” Another unwise choice of words, she thought.

“I don’t care.”

Before she could respond the door was pushed open, and Richmond appeared in all his august glory, a maid following behind him with a heavy-laden tray. “Your refreshments, Mrs. Cadbury.”

“But I didn’t request any. . .” she had begun when Brandon spoke.

“I did.”

She was not going to stay and pour tea for the both of them, she was absolutely not. “I’m not in the mood for tea,” she said, torn between not offending Richmond and a desire to stop Brandon.

“Neither am I. Would you prefer coffee or hot chocolate?”

It had taken her that long to recognize the two seductive scents, and her stalwart soul let out a helpless wail. Tea she could have easily turned her back on. Her twin weaknesses were another matter.

She sighed in surrender. “Just one cup,” she said, moving quickly to the sofa by the window. At least the possibility of an audience would keep him from kissing her again, assuming he had any intention of doing so.

The two small silver pots sat nestled in snowy linen, and she cast an inquiring glance at him. “Coffee,” he said in response, taking a seat that was just far enough away, and then moving it closer. “Black like the devil.”

It was an unnerving comment, when she’d just been thinking of him in terms of his Satanic Majesty, but her gestures were smooth and practiced as she poured him a cup and handed it to him before turning for her own. She almost never had the supreme indulgence that lay before her, and there was no way she could resist the rare temptation, filling the delicate Limoges cup with half a cup of thick, creamy chocolate, then filling the rest with coffee and stirring it with one of the tiny spoons. She took the first sip and closed her eyes in quiet ecstasy. And opened them again at the sound of a soft, strangled moan.

Brandon had never been so damned uncomfortable in his life, and his inadvertent sound betrayed it. Her soft, orgasmic expression had turn his awakening cock into a full erection, and his breeches, although loose enough for working in the field, were still too tight for such doings. He leaned forward, folding his hands over his lap as casually as he could manage. “What the hell are you drinking?” he demanded, hoping his voice didn’t sound as raw as he felt.

“I believe it’s called mocha,” she said, still looking at him oddly. “It’s quite sinful.”

“You don’t look like you know much about sin, Emma,” he said. He meant it, but he hasn’t thought it through.

Her mouth hardened, and he wanted to kiss it back to softness. He wanted to taste that wicked concoction on her skin. “I’m a professional at it, Lord Brandon.”

There she went with the damned “Lord” bit again, showing her displeasure.

“In actuality, you’ve changed professions. You’re a surgeon, Emma, which makes you more likely a professional at pain.”

Her mouth curved in an unhappy smile. “Who’s to say that wasn’t part of my previous profession?”

And that set off all sorts of thought. Sweet Emma with a whip and shackles, taking her anger out on the flesh of willing supplicants. It was only marginally potent—he’d played with every sexual variant that could be thought of during his time with the Heavenly Host, and after the first time he hadn’t found the whole punishment game that interesting. But every thought of Emma and sex made his current situation more difficult.

He shrugged, managing to look unimpressed. “Well, at least you received some recompense for the assaults you suffered.”

He’d surprised her. But then, that was a central part of their relationship—a battle between them to prove whom could shock the other.

Her smile then was real. “True enough,” she allowed, taking a healthy drink of her concoction. Ladies sipped their drinks, they poked at their food, they had no bodily functions. Thank God Emma wasn’t a lady, though he thought far more highly of her than the very peak of society.

“Why did you kiss me?”

He jumped. That was the very last thing he expected—he’d assumed she’d ignore the incident, skittish as she was, and he wasn’t prepared for her flat question.

He knew he hadn’t shown it though—he was an even better master of his reactions than she was. “That’s an inordinately silly question. I wanted to. There’s something about your mouth, I think. Why? You didn’t seem to mind.”

Her face had whitened, which he found extremely odd “You didn’t give me a chance to mind,” she mumbled, taking another hasty drink. He was going to have to tell Noonan about it. In the north they usually got by on gallons of hot, strong tea, but given that he allowed himself no other liquids, Emma’s drink might be a worthy addition to Noonan’s limited cooking repertoire.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Should I have kissed you longer? Harder? Deeper?”

She squirmed. He’d been about to call himself an ass for his suggestive talk, but her squirm made his self-respect die a quick death. For all her seeming disinterest in the male sex, she reacted to him. In the far too quick brush of his mouth against hers he’d felt it, the spark of response that she was too startled to hide.

“Hardly.” She was trying for asperity, but her choice of word was unfortunate. She looked flustered, and she didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who flustered easily. She rose suddenly, setting down her empty cup, and there was just the faintest bit of chocolate on the corner of her lip. “I really need to go back upstairs,” she said hurriedly. “I feel unwell. That is, if I’m to leave tomorrow I should probably rest. . .”