A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

"Now, Morton."

"Of course, Your Grace. But the footman informs me you have a visitor."

Hart blinked, and even he could tell that his eyelids were moving slowly. "Stimp?"

"No, sir, a Lady Denmore. Shall I see her in?"

He blinked even more slowly this time as he tried to think past the bourbon and nod at the same time. Was there some other Lady Denmore? It could not be Emma. She wouldn't be so foolish. He felt a sudden fear for what he might do to her if she walked through those doors, and then she walked through and Hart's lethargy vanishe

d.

The liquor burned off in the heat of his rage. He pushed to his feet with no trouble at all and no hint of unsteadi­ness. Emma stared at him, unafraid, and Hart felt a smile twist his lips. She should be afraid. She should be terrified.

"What have we here?" He looked her over, taking in the lovely amber-gold dress that made her skin glow like cream pearl. Her breasts were pushed high, her waist cinched tight He'd never seen her look more beautiful. "A foolish lamb."

"You are the lion, I assume?"

"Oh, I am."

Morton had closed the door behind her and she still stood only a few feet from it. She seemed surrounded by a soft gold aura against the dark wood of his library. Her hair picked up the color of her dress in streaks of lighter brown.

She took a deep breath. Her breasts rose, straining against the bodice. "I was told you sought me out, Your Grace."

"And you obliged by coming to me?"

"I did."

"Emma," he sighed in mock empathy. "Tut-tut. That was an incredibly stupid thing to do."

She crossed her arms over her stomach. "How so? I assume that you wish to chastise me for my behavior."

Hart cocked his head and strolled across the wide room, drawing closer in slow increments that inched his blood toward a boil. "Is that what you assumed?" Her arms tight­ened. "That I wished to chastise you? How very naive, Emma. I am not your guardian to offer wisdom and guidance. I am not your father. I don't wish to chastise you, Emma."

He drew within a foot of her, and watched her breathing grow fast and shallow. "I wish . . ." Her eyes followed his hand as he raised it to drag one finger along her collarbone. "I wish to punish you."

She inhaled. The tops of her breasts brushed his knuckles. "I've done nothing .. . You have no right."

"Oh, my sweet." He traced a path along the edge of the straining fabric. "If I did not have the right, you wouldn't have come here."

She shook her head and took one step back, throwing up her hands to hold him off. "You are drunk."

"Why did you do it?"

That shocked her into dropping her hands. "What?"

"Why did you play the whore for him?"

"I—" She shook her head again, and all the defiance leached from her eyes. "I knew I could win."

"No. Your hand wasn't that good. Any thrice would have beaten your running flush. Oh, yes, I was given all the de­tails of your transgression. So why did you risk it?"

"I don't know. It was a stupid impulse. A mistake."

"A mistake. A mistake like taking the wrong turn on your way to the park, or perhaps leaving a glove behind after a visit?"

"A more dire mistake than—"

"A mistake. Like telling one man you will never take a lover, and telling another that you will spread your legs for a few hundred quid?"