A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

"Don't be ridiculous," he muttered, trying to sound cruel, but Emma stood too and reached for his hand. Her fingers looked small and perfect against his.

"We flirt," she said, the words sounding strained and rushed. "We flirt and we argue and we occasionally engage in a seduction. We entertain each other, Hart."

"Yes," he said, not meaning it at all.

"But we are not kind, neither of us. Are we?"

"Surely not," he sneered.

"Please," she whispered. Her eyes glowed again, but not with laughter. They were luminous with tears. "Don't be kind to me."

"Emma, for God's sake." The pain in his chest had spread to his arms, and he knew how to make it fade. He eased his arms around her and pulled her body to his. Her hands pressed against his chest, succeeding only in becoming trapped be­tween their bodies. She hid her face against his shoulder.

"You are so stubborn." He rubbed his mouth over her hair, mussing it further. He wanted to free it from its pins, let it fall over his hands, let it sweep across his arm, his chest. He wanted to kiss her, seduce her, work the buttons free on that ugly dress. Sex was something they could both understand. It wasn't kind or caring or painful.

And afterward she would smirk at him and comment on his successful attempt at charm. She would comfort herself with the knowledge that he was not kind, that they were not friends. And he could tell himself the same thing.

Hart let her go, stepped away from her warmth and vul­nerability. "Stay out of trouble," he grumbled, and then he fled from both their fears.

Chapter 12

Emma paid the hack and hurried up her front steps. It was well after midnight, probably after one, but the night was eerily bright. Moonlight illuminated the thick fog and cast strange, shifting shadows over everything. The cold made her shiver, but an irrational fear pushed her to shove her front door open and scramble through it. She slammed it behind her and shot the lock with a satisfying click.

The whole day had conspired to make her anxious. First, Hart had lain in wait for her, armed with gentleness and caring. That had shaken her to her core, the glimpse into the secret man the duke kept well hidden from the world. She'd wanted to explore him, his soul as well as his body. She'd wanted to belong to him, to love him, and wasn't that utterly ridiculous? To love Winterhart himself?

That frightening possibility had followed her like a ghost throughout the rest of the day and night. A relentless spirit that brushed up against her with every movement, every thought. She could love him. Oh, Lord, she could. And he would never forgive her. Another woman who'd deceived him at every turn.

So she hadn't been able to think clearly, and it had been her first invitation to Chestershire's home to play against his deep-pocketed friends. But she did not have deep pockets, and luckily there had been only a few tables open for her participation. She'd only lost ninety-two quid. It could have gone much worse.

The parlor was cold, but Emma stopped there and made her way to the small door at the back. The tiny, hidden room served as Emma's office and she felt an overwhelming need to work out her numbers before she retired for the evening. She needed to see them in black and white, remind herself of what she was doing here in London.

Lifting a corner of a cheap rug, she crouched down next to the desk. She'd hidden a small safe beneath the floor­boards, and it was growing increasingly full. Emma keyed the iron door and carefully counted out the coin she'd man­aged to hang onto throughout her disastrous play. When she was done, she sat at the desk in cloak and gloves and opened her ledger. Two thousand and sixty-seven pounds. She added another line, documenting the amount she'd just redeposited. Two thousand one hundred and twenty-two pounds.

Not bad. She'd arrived in London with just under six hun­dred quid, and even after the expense of renting this shabby home and outfitting herself in a closet full of secondhand dresses, she'd managed to make quite a profit.

Three thousand. That was the magic number, though she wouldn't mind reaching four. Still, with three

thousand to invest in bonds, she would have an income of one hundred fifty a year. More than enough to lease her own cottage on the coast, though she would dearly love to buy one outright. Enough to provide Bess a position as long as she wanted it. A hundred and fifty a year would buy food and furniture and clothing and even books. It would see to her independence, her comfort. She could provide for herself and live however she saw fit.

Emma stared hard at the numbers, jotted a few more down, checked her figures. Yes, another month and she would be there, even with conservative play. And whatever was blooming between her and Hart, whatever that was in his eyes, it would have to be smothered. She couldn't en­courage it, for her own sake as well as his. But the idea of discouraging him was a heavy yoke on her shoulders as she closed the ledger book and took the lamp in hand. She sighed with nearly every step as she made her way up the stairs to the second floor.

Even before she reached her door, Emma felt the warmth radiating from the darkness. Bess had stoked the coals before she'd gone to bed, bless her. Emma was able to swing her cloak off her shoulders without the least bit of regret. She slipped off her gloves and tossed them onto an empty chair, then reached for the small buttons that ran down the front of her dress.

She'd purchased as many front-fastening dresses as she'd been able. Bess had to be up early in the morning to start fires and begin breakfast. The woman could not stay up until two or three in the morning just to help Emma undress.

The backs of her knuckles brushed the skin of her chest, and she grimaced at the cold. The bed would be icy too, but it would warm quickly enough and Emma found herself jerking at the stubborn top button of her gown, eager to climb beneath the thick layers of linens and quilts. When she moved into her own cottage, she would be sure to buy a shiny new bed warmer. What a pleasure that would—

"Emily."

"Oh!" she screamed and whipped around toward the male voice. Hart, was her first thought, before she registered that he could not know that name she hated. Unless . . .

"Emily."

The room was small but the corners were deep in shadow. She backed away from the voice, searching the dark corners farthest from the door. It took an endless moment to finally separate the man's figure from the blackness. Her heart beat so hard that it seemed to do nothing more than shake until her body trembled from the force of it.

"Hart?" She pushed herself along the edge of the bed, trying to reach the little table where she'd set the lamp. "I did not mean to frighten you."

No, no, not Hart. It wasn't him. And, oh, God, he'd said Emily. Only one person called her that. "I. . . I—"