A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

"No, but something just as impulsive."

"Maiming?"

"Hmm. No, not that. One more guess."

"You." She spun about and speared him with a glare. "You needn't be so ridiculously jolly. Not only is it completely absurd on your ducal countenance, but your happiness is premature. I will not be your lover. Your work was in vain."

"Well, not for you, I hope. It seemed quite fruitful."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "What is the matter with you? You're positively . . ." She waved a hand in a tight circle. "This isn't amusing."

"No." Hart shook his head and finally bothered with pushing up to his feet. "It's not amusing. It's delightful." He pulled her into his arms before she could shout whatever she meant to shout. The sound died against his lips. He kissed her soundly, and when he let her go, she blinked hard and touched her fingers to her lips.

"I won't be your lover," she whispered.

Hart inclined his head. "I believe that you could resist me, Emma, but I don't believe you can resist your own nature."

Her pink cheeks paled considerably at that.

"I assume you haven't dined this morning. May I escort you to the breakfast room?"

Emma shook her head. She turned purposefully away to see to her winnings, then brushed past him without a word. He followed her toward the door, but as her hand reached for the knob, the door opened on a silent rush of air.

"Oh!" a startled maid gasped and dropped into a curtsy so quickly that she almost fell. "Your pardon, ma'am! Sir!"

"For God's sake," Emma muttered, and the girl backed away. But Emma wasn't glaring at the maid, she was glaring at the doorknob and then at Hart. "Do not ever accuse me of indiscretion again, Somerhart. You've surpassed me."

"So I have," he chuckled, feeling lighter than he had in years.

The thi

ck carpet muffled any satisfaction Emma could have taken from stomping back and forth across the floor of her room. Her pacing sounded peaceful instead of agitated, and she longed to smash something against the wall just for the racket it would make. And every frustrating step was a reminder of the new sensitivity between her legs, the aching satisfaction that had turned her insides to liquid.

Good God, she wanted more. More, more, more, which was exactly what she'd always feared. He'd awakened the wickedness lurking just beneath the surface of her skin. She wanted to have him again, now. Then stay in his bed, languid and nude, awaiting his return from dinner. Give him any­thing he demanded. Sleep with him, wake with him. She wanted to luxuriate in her body with his.

Emma pressed a hand to her hot forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to regain her control, what little there had been of it. But she'd never dreamed that his touch could be so much more magical than her own. And his mouth . . .

"Oh, God, his mouth," she groaned.

She should leave. She should. Run away before sunset and fly back to her cold little town house in London. But gentle­men were losing money at this party as quickly as she'd lost her willpower. She'd won nearly three hundred pounds in two days. She couldn't walk away from that kind of profit. It was only one more day. Surely she could persevere.

But she'd thought herself hardened against him this morn­ing, and arrogance had gotten the better of her. The enjoy­ment of driving him mad, flirting with those men, needling him with her insolence. And, oh, he'd been so angry, and she'd loved that too, his blazing eyes and rough demands.

She'd never responded so to other men's more gentle se­ductions. How could Hart know that? What other lady would melt with lust when ordered to raise her skirts? Emma shud­dered to think what she would have done if he'd pushed her further. Thrown her careful plans to the wind, at the least, and that only the start of her descent.

If she'd ever doubted that her father's tainted blood flowed in her veins, she had her proof.

Her only consolation was the very stricture of the lies she'd told. Her deception would force her to leave London before a life of sin became normal. As long as she could keep from his bed until the ton returned to the city for par­liament, she'd have no choice but to leave, to disappear, before anyone from Cheshire appeared to question her story. But maybe . . . in the meantime . . . if she could just get him to touch her a little more.

Madness, her mind hissed and she knew it was true. Mad­ness, not to mention idiocy. And she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't.

But that happy lust in his smile as they'd quit the gaming room . . . it would haunt her every waking moment, and likely every sleeping moment as well. Because if he looked like that after giving her pleasure, she couldn't imagine his happiness when he found his as well.

She could not afford to find out.

Chapter 7

Her opponent, Lord Chestershire, aimed his small eyes in her direction and sneered with triumph. Marsh was there as well, licking his lips at her. Emma wished that Somerhart would make himself useful and lurk behind her chair again, but he had wandered off an hour before.