A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

She lifted her chin and put on her haughtiest face. "You may return tomorrow between the hours of three and six if you wish to call on me, Matthew Bromley."

"I am not calling on you," he hissed. "I am here to take you home before you destroy your family's name and our entire future together."

"We will speak of it tomorrow during civilized hours."

His mouth twisted into the violent sneer she'd seen only once before. Emma stepped back, out of his reach. She was next to the table now and the lamp. She could hit him with it if he attacked her.

Matthew didn't move closer, but his hands clenched into fists. "You must think me an idiot. You will slip away like a rat scurrying from danger, but I am not blind to your decep­tive nature any longer, Emily. It is something we will work on during our marriage. I've already spoken to the Reverend Whittier about it."

"I have an entire household here; I could not possibly gather everything up in a few hours time. This is my home, and I will not leave it. I will be here tomorrow during receiv­ing hours. You may return then."

His eyes glimmered with anger as he studied her. He swept his gaze down her gown. "You are dressed li

ke a harlot," he muttered, but even he could not put much force behind it. It simply wasn't true. Her meager budget re­stricted her to nondescript dresses that could be taken apart and remade into more nondescript dresses. Still, Emma managed to look outraged.

"You, a man who thinks to be my husband . . . You feel free to call me a harlot? Get out of my home."

His face spasmed into tortured lines before smoothing out to appeasement. "My apologies. I did not mean that. I have simply been so worried."

"I am not going to 'scurry away like a rat.' And even if you did think me so cowardly, the banks are not open tomor­row. I do not keep my inheritance tucked away beneath the floorboards, Matthew."

"Of course not. I. . ." He clearly could think of no further arguments. Anxiety had never been his friend.

"Tomorrow, Matthew."

He opened his mouth, closed it. Finally, he gave one short nod of his head. "Fine. Tomorrow. But you may begin pack­ing. We will leave within the week and pray to God no one ever finds you out."

"Matthew," she started, deciding to take one last chance on reason. "Please understand. I enjoy London. If my father hadn't died I would have had my Season, time to—"

"Your father did die, and his death brought you to me, and that is where you were meant to stay. I will hear no more of it. How you could even propose that I leave you here to live a life of utter falsehood . .. You insult me."

She nodded, having known what he would say before he'd opened his mouth. She'd heard something similar many times before. "Then I will see you tomorrow."

"Good evening," he offered with a polite bow, as if he hadn't been hiding in the dark for her like a spider. "And if you try any of your tricks, do not forget that my father is a magistrate."

Emma waited until he had descended the stairs before she followed and locked the door behind him. She'd have to walk the whole house, figure out how he'd gotten in.

Bess, she thought with a rush of panic, and ran down to the basement and the little room off the kitchen that Bess used as her own. She flung open the door, but Bess was there, snor­ing, undisturbed even by Emma's loud entrance. She was fine. Emma eased the door shut and stood there in the dark kitchen.

She could hardly see and realized she must have run through the hallway and kitchen on blind memory. But now she felt completely helpless. Lost. The faint smell of bread and thyme expanded through the vast emptiness.

Hart had betrayed her. It must've been him. She really had managed to lose Matthew during her trip to London. He wouldn't have found her but for that damned letter. But now what to do? Run?

She should run. She should. She had made a decent amount, could live something close to her dream. She could have secu­rity, if not absolute comfort.

But her victory in sending Matthew away had kindled her natural willfulness. Determination burned inside her, a tiny ember that glowed brighter with each breath. Yes, she was alone here in the dark, in her empty kitchen in her shabby house. She was alone as she had always been, and that would not stop her.

Emma nodded and stepped into shadow. She had found her way through the dark a few minutes ago. She could do it again.

Chapter 13

Over the course of an hour, Emma found that every full circuit of her ground floor hall took fifteen seconds. The south end of her path brought her face-to-face with the wall clock. Four turns saw one minute tick by. Emma clutched her hands together and continued pacing.

Doubt writhed in her chest, and she wished that she could physically beat it down. She did not want to ask for help, but she would do whatever it took. Yes, it was a risk, but if she knew anything in this world, it was the value of risk.

She needed Matthew gone. She needed him powerless to harm her. If she had descended into the depths of blackness she knew ran through her veins, it would have been simple enough. Even a lonely stranger to London could find some­one willing to kill a man for a few pounds. But she had not gone to the gutters yet. She wouldn't see Matthew harmed. The man was a threat to her, and his mind took turns that she couldn't comprehend, but she wouldn't see him hurt.

There was one person she could turn to. She did not trust him completely, but she trusted him enough.