A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

Emma pressed her fingers to her eyes as if the pressure would counter the aching tension behind them.

It wasn't the pretense of being his lover that proved so dis­tressing, it was the struggle with herself. The struggle against what she wanted so badly. Something lush and fiery. Thrust­ing and secret and sacred. Something wrong and unbearably beautiful.

And suddenly Emma could see the impossible: Hart whis­pering words that could never, never have passed his lips.

But hadn't he already done impossible things? They'd lit his eyes with joy. Ordering her to lift her skirts and spread her legs. Kissing, sucking, risking everything to chance. Oh, he'd enjoyed that, reveled in it nearly as much as she had. He was wicked and cold. Debauched and impenetra­ble. Sensual and utterly removed. Like opposite halves of two different men.

Lost in thought, Emma breathed deeply of the brightly scented trees and th

e heavy weight of fragrant blooms. Only a scattering of the sconces were lit, and heavy curtains shielded the room from the cold night. The space felt veiled and protected. A magical solitude. The air shifted like warm liquid against her skin every time she moved and she felt protected even by that. The world was removed from her, not part of her, and for once she was glad to be isolated from every other soul.

This place felt like summer, like a still, sweltering night, and Emma wanted to curl up on a bed of grass and stay here forever. If she couldn't have secret thrusting, she could have some damned peace.

Someone new must have sat down to the piano, because the music swelled to richness, and the last of the tension fell from Emma's shoulders in a great wave. When she closed her eyes, she was gone. Elsewhere. Beside the pond in her uncle's yard, curled into the long grass with a book. Or per­haps farther away, at that oceanside cottage with her mother, safe and happy as they were whenever they went away. But that comforting scene—snug next to her mother, the gentle touch stroking her hair—was fraught with foreboding, a fog of horrid knowledge of what lay ahead, so Emma scrambled back from it.

Her eyes popped open and he was standing there, arms crossed, watching her. "Hart," she whispered, not knowing if she was happy to see him.

His elegant head tilted slightly to the side. "Emma," he answered. Her name must have felt right to his tongue, be­cause his mouth eased into a half smile. But the smile flit­ted away, to be replaced by a vague frown. "Are you well?"

Emma let her head fall back to rest against the wall and nodded.

His hard, cold eyes studied her, a close perusal that seemed not to satisfy his thoughts. "I'm intruding?"

Was he? "No, I—" The music ended on a series of faint notes that reminded Emma of her original purpose. She reached over and eased the French door closed before some­one overheard them. When she looked back to Hart, his blue eyes glinted with amusement.

"Eavesdropping, Lady Denmore?"

She shrugged and pushed away from the wall, let her eyes fall to the sturdy glass in his right hand. "That's for me, I hope."

He finally gave her a real smile. "You are shameless." "Mm. And thirsty."

He handed over the snifter of brandy and Emma saw to its quick demise. Hart plucked the empty glass from her fingers and set it on a low table. "What are you hiding from, Emma?"

"I played badly tonight." She wandered past him, trailing her fingers over glossy leaves.

"I don't mean tonight. I mean every night."

Despite the shock that hit her at his words, Emma smiled. "Don't be dramatic, Somerhart. I'm not hiding any more than you are." She shot him a pointed look, and he arched an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

"All right then. What are you hiding from tonight? Or did you sneak in here only to spy on the other guests?"

"Possibly."

"Because I assume if you wanted to enjoy the music, you could simply retire to the appropriately named room."

"Perhaps." She was unable to contain her smile, though she tried to keep her head angled toward the plants instead of the insufferable man.

"Did you hear anything interesting?"

"Mm. Some passable Haydn, a touch of Bach."

"And?"

Emma sighed and sat heavily on a stone bench. "I had no idea you enjoyed gossip so much."

He didn't relent. "I had no idea that you did, Emma."

She couldn't help but look up at her name, such an inti­macy, and he had every right to use it now.