A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

Emma couldn't help her sharp breath. His voice had dropped to an unexpected timbre with those words. The sound of pleasure. Nothing at all like his normal, clipped tone.

"We are not lovers," she whispered. He took her plain cloak and settled it over her shoulders. The backs of his fingers brushed again and again over her throat as he slowly tied th

e ribbons. He looked suddenly softer, more sensual. Like a lib­ertine. She could see him as he must have been in his youth— hedonistic and hunting for pleasure in every dark corner. Shivers slid down her skin and squeezed her nipples into tightness.

"I am neither subtle nor circumspect," she reminded him.

"The talk has already started, Lady Denmore. It will con­tinue whether we indulge ourselves or not. I created quite a scene at Matherton's, you'll recall."

"And here," Emma managed to say, though her lungs seemed to tremble.

"Yes. And here."

Emma was caught up in the moment, in him, and she could not afford to be. She could not take this man to her bed, despite what she wanted. And she definitely wanted. Him. Naked and aroused, letting her experiment with all her useless, unsavory knowledge. But perhaps he was too com­manding to let her play by her rules. Perhaps he would insist she follow his.

She thrilled to the thought, and had to part her lips to draw enough air into her parched throat. Somerhart leaned closer.

"I have shocked you for once, Lady Denmore."

"You . . . you do not even like me."

"You are . . . intriguing."

"And I can suddenly see how such a rigid nobleman has managed to seduce half the women of the ton. I'll remind you that I do not wish to join their sordid ranks."

The sensuality cleared from his face, gone in the blink of an eye as he drew himself to a straight line. "Ah, yes. I'd for­gotten your convenient modesty."

Emma gritted her teeth against his arrogance. Life was so easy for rich men. She was relieved her anger so easily re­placed her arousal. "Yes," she spat. "I am quite picky. Often I like my seductions to consist of more than 'Hallo there. Care to spread your knees for a duke?' Silly miss that I am."

Oh, she'd definitely caught him unawares again. A flush crept from under his cravat and stopped just under his ridiculously lovely cheekbones.

"Reconsidering your offer of the carriage, Your Grace?" Emma cooed.

"No," he snapped and tugged his coat sleeves into place as if they would dare to rise above his wrists. "Despite your vulgarity, the offer stands."

"How very tolerant of you."

Somerhart crossed the entry in three strides and jerked the door open before the footman could reach it. The poor ser­vant looked as if he might drop into paroxysms of dismay. "Come," Somerhart ordered.

"I haven't accepted your offer," she replied. "My reputa­tion is not something to be so lightly ruined."

"Oh, for God's sake. You are notorious, Lady Denmore. Already. A woman heralded for rampant gambling and undignified behavior, and you've only been in town for a month."

"True, but I have never taken a lover, Somerhart, and no one has ever accused me of such."

The tic in his jaw stilled, and his eyes slid slowly down her body, warming to that seductive glint she'd seen mo­ments ago. Never, he was thinking, and she knew it. She was thinking the same thing. That if she agreed to this, he would be her first lover. This man, famous for his prowess. He knew things, she could see that in those glinting eyes. Things about women's bodies and their needs. Her body. Her needs.

His eyes passed from warmth to heat.

"You may escort me home," she said quickly, to try and quell the need rising up in her blood. "And that is all you may do."

"You sound very sure," he murmured, drawing even closer. Emma could smell the starch of his linens, the subtle tang of soap. She slid her fingertips up his chest and let them rest against the muscles there, just for a moment. She felt his heart beating, sending blood to all that vital muscle, warming his skin. . . then she pushed him away with a shove that nearly toppled him.

"Really, Your Grace. Crooking your little finger again? At least buy me a bauble before you try to tup me in the car­riage."

Somerhart looked as if he'd like to throw up his hands, but he was simply too dignified. He only jerked at his coat cuffs again and shot a glance toward the footman who was most assuredly looking elsewhere.

"Get in the damned coach." He jabbed a finger at the waiting carriage, and Emma obeyed, hiding a smile as she passed. "You are intolerable," he growled and followed her down the front steps. "A minx," he added for good measure.