A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

Someone from Cheshire would spy her. Someone in town would ask the right questions. And her game would be done.

Instead of walking toward the card room, Emma found herself standing again at the window that overlooked the garden. She stared out at the calmness of the frozen yard and told herself to be glad that Somerhart had not recognized her, thankful that he was nobody's angel.

Her deception could continue until the start of the Season. Then she could retreat with her winnings and never set foot in this impolite world of polite society again.

And if the Duke of Somerhart was a heartless bastard just like her father, Emma was better off. She had only one dream left, one fantasy, and it had nothing to do with a man coming to her rescue.

Hart strolled toward the breakfast room with unusual an­ticipation. He did not particularly enjoy dining with crowds. In fact, he always took his morning meal in his room at these gatherings, but he found himself eager to search out one of his fellow guests. He had small chance of catching her though; she'd turned in at midnight, for God's sake, before supper had even been served. It was late morning now, nearly eleven, and surely she'd been up for hours.

He spared a quick glance for a tall bank of windows to his left. Sunlight streamed through, belying the ice that frosted the panes. He'd seen her there, last night, fingertips pressed to the glass like a yearning. The tableau had captured him, intrigued him, and Hart had watched instead of approach­ing. And when Lady Denmore had turned back to the party, when she'd swept past the group of people that hid him from her view, he hadn't reached out to stop her. Her eyes had stilled him, startling in their distance. He doubted she would have seen him if he'd stepped into her path.

She had floated up those stairs and not shown her face again. Perhaps she had only been drunk. Perhaps she hadn't been lonely and lost.

Hart shook his head at the memory. Fanciful nonsense. The scent of coffee invaded his thoughts and led him to the break­fast room, to a table populated by people he'd spoken mean­ingless words to for years. Men who admired or envied his title. Women who sneered at or were aroused by his reputa­tion. Prigs who would scorn his scandalous sister if she sat down among them. Strangers, acquaintances, false friends. And not an Emma among them.

"The snow's melting," a whiskered gentleman offered as Hart took a seat next to him.

"Admiral Hartford," he answered.

"The roads'll be muddy as all hell today. Are you shoving off?"

Shrugging, Hart considered. London was a mere half hour's ride away—perhaps an hour or two in this muck. Still, an easy escape from this unwanted company. Odd that he hadn't vaulted out the door at first light.

"The wife'll kick herself for not coming. My little Lizbeth is coming out this year, you know. Don't suppose you're finally looking for a bride?" The admiral nodded at Hart's flat look. "So I thought. Well, no harm trying."

"I suppose not. But I doubt I'd make an ideal husband for your little Lizbeth, Admiral."

The man nodded in answer, but his guilty squint made clear that a duke could be any kind of husband he wanted and still make a young woman's family happy. The girl her­self .. . not a concern.

Hart drained his coffee, glanced at his untouched plate, and pushed away from the table with a "Good morning," to the assembled guests as he fled.

He should go. Leave for the blessed solitude of the Somer­hart town house and be done with this foolish interest in a girl too young to be his kind of widow. The decision crystal­lized in his mind, prompting a quick turn toward the stairs. He'd leave; have his valet repack, and they'd be gone within the hour. Better yet, he'd borrow a horse from Matherton and the carriage could follow through the mud as best it could.

A raucous burst of laughter leaked through a back window and halted Hart on the third step. He frowned, narrowing his eyes at the alcove that had framed Lady Denmore last night. Laughter again, and shouts. Young bucks, no doubt, and no interest to him. But it sounded as if a crowd had gathered out­side. And he'd yet to spot Lady Denmore. Refusing to think why it mattered, Hart spun and stalked to the window, to angle his head so close that the cold flowed down from the glass to cool his skin.

The sun blinded him, sparkling off the melting brilliance of snow and ice. A moment passed before shadows began to coalesce, then solidify. He spotted the source of the laugh­ter just as another round of shouted glee erupted from the group.

Several women stood among the young men. Hart squinted, leaning closer to the glass, feeling more than foolish as he pressed his forehead to the shock of icy cold. The three women were bundled against the wind, hidden beneath layers of wool and fur. Still, one was obviously too short and he caught a glimpse of pale blond hair peeking from beneath another's blue cloak. But the third. . . ? It could be her.

The whole group stood angled away from him, facing a large pond at the edge of the soggy gardens. Across the frozen length, a smaller group had gathered, the men nudg­ing one another, occasionally stepping forward to test the ice with taps and stomps.

Even as Hart watched, that third woman turned her head to laugh and roll her eyes and Hart straightened with a start. It was Lady Denmore, her face bright against the hood of a simple black cloak.

"Hm." Hart pulled a watch from his pocket and measured his plan for escape against the impulse to say a pretty farewell to Emma. She'd thrown off her hood by the time he looked back to her, and the sun set her hair shining like an autumn leaf.

A quick farewell then . . . if he could catch her. She'd al­ready set off for the far side of the pond. The men on the other side looked pleased with her approach. Hart turned and headed toward the entry, hunting for the footman who'd taken his coat the evening before.

"Lady Denmore!"

Emma laughed at the severity of the handsome young man's posture. Mr. Jones nudged him, earning a hot look in return.

"Mr. Cantry, you really musn't regard me as a matron come to interrupt your play. I daresay you're my elder by two or three years, aren't you?"

"Oh, I suppose." His muddy green eyes dipped to sweep over her, as if he could see beyond the cloak to the blue dress beneath, and under that even, to her bare skin. His eyes brightened. "Yes, of course." The smile he offered this time held more than a hint of interest.

"Do you think this pond frozen enough to walk on?"

"I do." Cantry threw a scornful smirk over his shoulder. "These cowards here won't set foot on it."