A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

Emma folded the note into a tight square and snuck around the corner and up the main stairs. Mr. Jones would collect her money and hold it for her until she could retrieve it. She trusted him, though youth and kindness aside, she wouldn't trust him more than that. If he found out the truth about her, he'd react with as much viciousness as any of them. Outrage at being tricked. Anger. Punishment. They'd want to put her in her place. She had no intention of being near when the truth came out.

Packing would take no more than an hour. Then she'd get as much sleep as she could manage before dawn.

Chapter 8

Never before had Emma realized how variable time could be. How a minute could vanish in a blink. How one night could drag on for an impossible eternity.

Anxiety and fear sank their twin jaws into her belly over and over again as the night's hours stood still. She felt shaky and exhausted and wide awake. She wasn't sure if she should be relieved that dawn was only a few hours off or upset that she couldn't even hope for more than four hours of sleep now.

She just wanted the fear to stop. The fear fed doubt, and doubt was a gambler's worst foe.

Trapped in the solitude of her room, Emma alternated be­tween tossing and turning in her twisted sheets, and pacing from one corner of the chamber to another, doubt dogging her every step.

She should not have left London. She should never have come to London in the first place. What if she lost every­thing, including her freedom? So many doubts . ..

Emma paced faster, wishing she could take action, dc something.

So many regrets . . .

Perhaps she should have stayed in Cheshire and made the best of it. But Matthew had refused to accept rejection. He'd grown more aggressive, more obnoxious. And even months after her uncle's death, she'd still been racked with guilt every time she'd passed the ashes of his home. If she hadn't snuck out that night, if she'd been there to save him when the fire had started .. .

When she rubbed a hand over her face, Emma wasn't sur­prised to find tears. Because her uncle's death wasn't her greatest regret. Not by far. She'd failed her brother in the same way. Worse, she'd known of the danger, known her father was drunk, and still she'd let him take Will riding. She could live with the mistakes she'd made with her own life, but not those she'd made with others'. Will. His body so cold. Stiff with death.

"Oh, God. Please," she prayed, or tried to. "Please." The pressure in her chest failed to ease. Guilt wound through her like a snake tightening its hold. Emma stumbled to the window and pried open the sash.

Freezing air burst in, swimming over her exposed skin. The wind pressed her nightgown to her body and coated her in damp cold. Emma gulped at the sharp, fresh air as if she'd been drowning. She drank it deep in desperate gasps. Within seconds she was shivering, but she could feel the serpent loosen its hold on her soul.

She slowed her breath and leaned her weight against the windowsill.

She needed a distraction, that was all. Something to con­sume her thoughts. If she could get through this night, she could fix things in London or at least plot her quiet escape from the city. She just needed to get through this one night. Just as she'd gotten through others.

Emma leaned forward until even her shoulders passed the edge of the glass. She hung her head and let the night air caress the nape of her neck. She didn't know why the cold soothed her, didn't know why she found winter so fascina

ting and tempting. She only knew that the rest of her life was smothering her, squeezing all the blood and air from her body. But out here she could breathe.

And, strange as it was, she could breathe with Hart. Even though they were constantly sparring, even though he pushed her toward what she couldn't have.

Order me to my knees.

Emma sighed out a long, long breath, then drew air into her lungs as slowly as she could.

She couldn't risk it. The situation was too precarious. She couldn't go to his room and let him touch her. Her will was gossamer thin, worn down by desperation and vulnerability. But Hart was exactly the magnitude of distraction she needed. Totally overwhelming. All encompassing. Her solu­tion and her problem.

Hart.

It would be madness to let him near tonight. Utter mad­ness.

His room was silent and too dark. The cooler air of the hallway drew a warm, spicy scent from his chambers and swept it over Emma's face. She shivered and slid one bare foot from the hall rug onto the wood floor at the threshold of his room.

As she stepped farther in, her eyes began to adjust to the faint light of the night candle left burning on his bedside table. His short hair smudged black against the pillowcase. One bare arm was flung wide and, as she followed the curve of muscle up, her eyes found a bare shoulder that curved to an angle of naked chest.

The bedclothes cut across that delicious view and made her want to strip him bare for her basest pleasures.

Her skin tightened and tingled with the thrill of her risk and daring. She was sneaking into a man's room, a man she'd fantasized about for years. His skin glowed richly in the candlelight, and though his face was turned away, Emma could see the perfect edge of his jaw and the corner of that succulent mouth.

By God, she wanted to touch him so badly, wanted to ex­plore the texture of every part of him, but that wasn't what she'd come for. Her will simply couldn't withstand such overwhelming temptation. If she felt him under her hands, she'd want to feel him above her, around her, inside her.

Breath shuddered past her lips at the thought. Emma closed the door behind her and leaned her liquid body against it.