"I. . . No, I'm afraid I won't be back for the ball. In fact, I will have to miss the Season entirely. You must—" Emma paused to think how much to say. "I'm afraid I created quite a scandal earlier. You may wish to disavow my presence here this evening."

Lord Osbourne huffed. "We will disavow you entirely if it suits us, but it will not. Now what is this nonsense about quitting town for the whole Season?"

"Oh, it is your wardrobe, isn't it?" his wife cried. "Every­thing is so dreadfully expensive. You must stay with us, dear girl. There is no need to waste money on your own apart­ments; we have fifteen empty chambers here! Stay with us and we will see to your dresses."

Emma held up both hands. "No, no. I cannot. It is not my lack of funds, or not entirely. And it's not even my dis­grace, though that would be enough. It's clear that my nerves cannot take the gaiety and energy of the Season. Why, even the winter rounds have me tired beyond belief. No, I will retire to the country for the summer. I'm afraid that Den­more passed his passion for gardening on to me."

Lady Osbourne did not give up. "But we have gardens here!"

Emma shook her head, and Lord Osbourne exchanged a meaningful look with his wife before he reached for Emma's hand.

"We will miss you. You have become as a daughter to us. You must promise to return in the fall to stay here. We are old enough to del

ight in scandal as we no longer create any of our own."

Lady Osbourne slapped his arm and giggled like a young girl.

"Nothing public at any rate," he said with a raised brow.

Emma smiled past her tightening throat. "Thank you so much. Your friendship has meant everything to me. Every­thing. Please remember that."

She rose to her feet and was enveloped in the plump arms of Lady Osbourne. After long hugs and several motherly kisses, Emma was free to go, but her feet felt heavy as she descended to the drive.

She'd arrived in London already anticipating her tri­umphant exit, and now that it was time to leave she couldn't quite imagine it. She would be an impostor in her next life too, though she'd be pretending at respectability instead of worldliness. But the effect would be the same. She would be lonely, without real friends. But everything would be better soon. It must be.

"Where to, ma'am?" her driver asked as he handed her up. Emma tripped over her skirt and fell hard into the seat.

"I don't. . ." Where was she going? Home, she supposed, but she remembered Hart's carriage. He'd arrived at the Tun­witty's in the full force of the drama she'd created. He would have been furious. More than furious. Enraged. And he might very well have gone straight to her home, might be there still. Waiting.

"Ma'am?"

But she had nowhere to go. She could not damage Lan­caster's chances of finding a wife by driving up to his front step like a whore making her rounds.

"Drive to my street, but not to my door. Turn 'round the corner and stop there."

"Ma'am." He tipped his hat and betrayed not an ounce of incredulity as he closed the door and shut her up in darkness.

Her weary body urged her to lie down on her seat, to lay her head on her arms and curl her legs beneath warm skirts. But if she gave in now, she was sure she would dissolve into a useless mass of jelly, weak and unsure of herself. So she kept her spine rigid and did not let it touch the seatback as they passed from the hulking luxury of the mansions of Regent's Park to the beautiful rows of Mayfair. Somerhart lived here, in the heart of the fashionable district. She won­dered idly how many properties he owned, and which one he would bury her on, given the chance.

They turned a corner, and the bright lights of Mayfair fell behind them. St. James now, then Belgrave. And finally her street.

Her shoulders grew tighter, froze to rock when the coach leaned around a corner before rocking to a stop. Emma eased toward the window, squinting into the night. A light drizzle began to patter against the glass, obscuring her view. She could just make out her door and there was no fuming duke standing before it.

But he could be inside, he could be in his carriage watch­ing for her, he could be careening through the streets right this moment, racing toward her home. Shivers raced from her belly outward.

It hadn't been Hart who'd betrayed her. She could no longer pretend to ease her guilt with his transgressions. He'd been unfailingly honest with her, and she had lied at every turn. But he was a rich, powerful, degenerate duke, so why should she care?

Her lonely door shone wet in the faint light of the corner lamp. How sad it looked, and censuring. She would walk out that door tomorrow and disappear. Hart would never know anything about her but her lies. She would leave him with nothing but humiliation. She wanted to leave him with more, wanted more for herself.

If he was in there, waiting, she owed him this confrontation at least. The chance to call her every foul name he could. The chance to vent his hurt. And he would be hurt.

She should go in. She should.

There was nowhere else to go.

Her hand moved toward the handle, then the carriage dipped to one side and she heard the driver yell, "Hey!"

Emma's heart stopped as the far door swung open. She cringed into the corner, not certain what Hart would do, but fearing it all the same.

Tags: Victoria Dahl Somerhart Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net