“But I don’t mean to scold you,” she said, breaking off a sprig of jasmine. It smelled dizzily sweet.
He didn’t answer, simply walked at her side, the lightest touch on her elbow leading her farther into the gardens.
He wouldn’t try to take her virginity in the gardens, would he? Well, of course, he had no idea that she was a virgin, and Emma had the distinct impression that he would never know, if he were sufficiently drunk.
The garden was alive with shadowy figures, laughing and stepping in and out of patches of moonlight: Harlequin in his spangled costume brushed by a fairy whose right wing trailed to the ground. There was Homer or perhaps Zeus: at any rate, a man who thought to ape the gods or Greeks.
They settled primly onto a bench, and Emma put away thoughts of intimacies in the garden. Of course Kerr had no such idea in mind. He would take her to his house before something of that nature happened. She felt an inner tremble of excitement at the very thought.
“So, madame…I am sorry,” he said, turning to her. “I have quite forgotten your name again.”
“You may call me Emelie.” Somehow her smiles didn’t seem quite as potent when thrown in his direction. The young lord she’d collared inside looked faint at each movement of her lips, but Kerr’s face didn’t change an iota.
“Ah,” he said sleekly, “Emelie.”
“It was my grandmother’s. A charming name,” Emma said.
“Moi, j’y avais penser toujours la meme chose,” he said. “Comment pourrais-je oublier votre nom, quand votre visage si comme une fleur y apparaitre ensemble?”
For a second Emma panicked. But she spoke French like a native. She only needed to keep her head. He was talking flummery, asking how he could have forgotten her name since she had the face of a flower. “Le mystère du recollection d’un homme: qui peut savoir pourquoi ils oublient les choses les plus importantes?” she said. That was good: men did seem to forget what they should most remember. And then, as quickly as she possibly could: “Se souvenir d’une femme, c’est à moi: je trouve que ce soit impossible d’oublier meme les details de notre rendezvous nocturnale.” That was good, too: if she had spent a night with Kerr, she definitely wouldn’t forget the smallest detail.
There was a liquid promise in his smile that made her feel light-headed. “You’re speaking too rapidly for my poor skills, Mademoiselle Emelie—”
“Madame de Custine,” she said, “if you don’t wish to address me as Emelie.” If he had the faintest idea that she was not a widow, her whole masquerade would be for naught.
“I do feel I should apologize for the dastardly event of forgetting our original meeting,” he said silkily. “Where did you say that we met?”
“It’s inconsequential,” she said softly. “I know you likely forgot, as it was years ago…but I could never erase you from my mind. Never.” She leaned forward so that he could look into her cleavage, except he seemed fascinated by her eyes instead.
“You couldn’t?” he asked.
“Now I’m to marry a worthy burgher—a merchant, as you call them here in England.” Oops, she had almost let her accent slip there. It was something about the spicy smell of his skin. She drew back a little.
& [widoublier me#x201C;I wish you the very best in your forthcoming matrimony,” he said.
“Of course,” she purred. “But marriage is such a serious endeavor…pleasant, altogether necessary, and yet stifling. I know, since I was married to my beloved Pierre until his much lamented death.”
“Ah,” he said.
Emma rushed on before he could ask any questions she might not be able to answer. “At any rate, it’s been years since we—since we—but it was in Paris, monsieur.”
“Paris,” he said, and his tone hardened. A crease suddenly appeared between his brows, and Emma relaxed. There was something different in the air between them now: a smell of possibility. Bethany had been right about his dissolute behavior, then.
“Paris,” she said, the words soft in her mouth. “You probably don’t remember, my lord. I’m afraid you had sampled a bit too much brandy that evening.”
“Undoubtedly,” he said, his voice hard.
“But I could never forget…” Emma couldn’t believe how much husky longing she poured into her own voice. Perhaps she should have run away and joined a traveling theater troupe! “When I saw you across the room this evening, it seemed a gift from the gods.”
“Well,” he said, “I suppose that I should be grateful that I apparently behaved in an acceptable manner, even while a drunken sot.”