Luck Is No Lady(40)
Alarm made her stomach clench and her cheeks feel warm.
She forced a slow breath to calm herself. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she replied coolly.
The subtle curve of his lips deepened, as if he was fully aware of her reticence in discussing herself and didn’t care.
“Does Mr. Adams approve of you taking this position?”
“My family understands certain circumstances require certain actions,” she answered in an even tone. It was mostly true.
“How long have you been married?”
She gave him a hard look. “Mr. Bentley, your line of questioning is hardly relevant to my employment here.”
“Of course it isn’t, but I want to know anyway.”
“My private life is none of your business.”
He arched one dark brow. “Is Mrs. Adams your real name?”
His persistence was extremely frustrating. But Emma had experience with such dogged determination and was not about to reveal anything she didn’t want to. One did not live with Portia’s relentless tenacity without learning a few things.
“Does it matter?” she asked in turn.
He shrugged. “Not really, though I would hazard a guess you are not married at all.”
Emma did not reply.
For one thing, he had uttered a statement rather than a question. But there was something else as well. Something that swiftly put her back on the alert.
His tone, so casual before, took on a deeper and more complex quality. The blue of his eyes darkened. It was as though he could see past the stiff formality of her demeanor to what lay beneath.
Emma felt an instant twinge of discomfort. She lowered her gaze, only to have her attention snagged again by the sight of his bare torso. The vision of such perfect masculine strength and beauty when she was already so hyperaware of him sent her senses spinning as heat flooded her system.
Quickly lifting her gaze away from his nude chest, she nearly groaned in dismay to find his focus locked upon her as he watched her intently.
And then he smiled, a slow and deliberate curving of his well-formed lips. The memory of how smooth and firm those lips had felt when they had brushed hers flew through her mind. No matter how hard she tried to restrain her reaction, a blush warmed her cheeks.
“Definitely not married,” he murmured. His voice was low and weighted with intimacy.
Emma hardened her features even as her pulse fluttered in response to the suggestion in his gaze.
She replied in as stern a tone as she could manage. “This conversation is terribly inappropriate.”
The smile he flashed was quite wicked. “I am not always known for being appropriate.”
“Well, I am,” she countered.
“That fact is as obvious as your innocence.” His stare was bold and unsettling.
“I should go.”
“Yet here you remain.”
His challenging words echoed a similar observation he had made at their first meeting, when she had insisted she needed to return to the ball, yet hadn’t been able to dredge up the necessary motivation to leave the darkened sanctuary.
But this time, unlike then, Emma was fully cognizant of what was at stake. She was not about to stick around on even the slightest chance he might kiss her again. She was already far too aware of the seed of desperation that had taken root within her regarding this man. She could not risk allowing anything to happen that might cause it to flourish and grow.
Something in his gaze, his manner, his devilish grin had her thinking it was not such an irrational possibility.
Emma bent to retrieve the bowl and cloths. “If you will excuse me, I have to get back to my work.”
Then she stepped past him, holding her breath against a whiff of his scent as her movement stirred the air around him, and strode toward the door.
Roderick watched her retreat.
It was an attractive retreat. Her head was held high and her spine straight. There was only the slightest sway of her hips with each step, but Roderick watched with some interest. There was a unique grace in the modest efficiency of her movements. From the way she walked to the way she sat in a chair to the way she economically used her hands to emphasize her speech.
Once he was confident she was out of earshot, he chuckled and craned his neck to get a glimpse of her handiwork. The bandage was neat and clean and perfectly tied off with a small knot. He had expected nothing less.
Holding a grin, he sauntered from the room, keeping a watchful eye for his bookkeeper. He suspected she would not delight in running into him so soon after her effective little exit.
He bounded up the stairs to his private quarters to fetch a clean change of clothes and thought of what he had discovered.
He believed her when she had said she needed funds. Many members of high society subsisted on the power of their names and ancestry more so than wealth. But why had she been forced into employment? Was there no father, brother, uncle to see to her welfare?