To Wed a Rake(13)
“I am to marry my wealthy burgher in a week,” Emma said. “I am only in London to choose my wedding clothes. ‘Twas a mere accident that I happened to be at the masquerade.”
“Ah.”
She bent over and ran a finger down his cheek. Small prickles tingled her finger. “I wish you to do me a favor, my lord.”
“Of course.” But his voice was courteous, detached. The mention of Paris had convinced him that they had once met, but it had also iced him over somehow.
“You see, my lord, I do believe you owe me a favor.”
“Indeed?” his voice was positively chilly.
“Certainly.” Her finger slipped to his lips. His bottom lip was plump, sullen, beautiful. “I am to make the good marriage. My mother, bless her sainted memory, would be joyous. And yet I would like one more experience…just one…before I lapse into a life of rectitude.”
His eyes narrowed. “Could you possibly mean what I think you
mean?”
Emma kept her voice low and sultry. “I certainly hope so.”
And then she held her breath.
Chapter Nine
Self-loathing is an ugly thing to display before a beautiful woman. Gil forced himself to drain every bit of that emotion from his voice before he spoke. “I’m afraid that I was not myself during my stay in Paris,” he said carefully.
Her eyes met his. “I understand that you were having difficulties,” she said. “I believe that you were mourning the loss of your brother.”
Damn. He couldn’t believe that he had babbled of Walter, spoken of Walter’s death to this woman. How could he? And since he had spoken to her on such an intimate subject, how could he not remember their encounter?
Her eyes were sympathetic. He made himself ga ^widousuch ther the shreds of his self-esteem and bury the pain that was Walter down deep in his heart, where he tried not to look anymore. There was no point to that pain, and no end to it. He understood little, but he did understand that.
“I must have bored you to tears,” he said lightly.
“Pas de tout,” she said. Her hand touched his and sent small shivers of sensation across his hand. “Never that.” Her eyes caught his, and she looked away.
For the first time, he took a hard look at her. He’d been amused and faintly bored by her arrival in the card room; the only reason he accompanied her to the garden was because he held another winning hand, and cards had lost their interest. Slim, winged eyebrows rose above her jeweled mask. Her hair was thick, like rumpled silk, and the dark red of a garnet, with the same hints of mysterious depths. A man could hide his face there and not miss the light of the sun. Her eyes were sultry, curious, intelligent…looking at him in a way that made him feel unsettled. Had it been so long since a woman looked at him with genuine desire rather than calculated interest?
Since his stay in Paris, he had brought no woman to his house, nor did he accompany them to their abode. He visited Madame Bridget, but only for the pleasure of chattering in French. He played with fire, but dropped the women at their doors, untouched. Sometimes, he wondered if he’d been eunuched by that orgy of grief.
Her forehead was high, an aristocrat’s delicate white brow. It was a pity that she was marrying a wealthy burgher. Not a pity, he corrected himself. A joy. She’ll have five children and forget the extravagances of her youth.
For she was young, he could see that. Another wave of self-loathing almost caught him on the hip: apparently he had been so sotted on a Parisian night that he ravished a young lady.
Then he caught her eyes again. Well, perhaps she wasn’t that much a lady. Ladies rarely had such a fascinated gleam in their eyes, at least not Englishwomen. Leave that to a Frenchwoman.
Her fingers were playing on his wrist, as if she couldn’t stop touching him. One thing he’d learned in his misbegotten life was that you have to forgive yourself. For being the only one in your family left standing. For not being there to catch Walter as he fell from the carriage.
For ravishing a young woman. Because, apparently, he had conducted himself so well that she wanted a repeat.
And he, as he sometimes had to remind himself, was a gentlemen.
Gentlemen never disappoint ladies.
One moment Emma was sitting on the bench, gazing with some satisfaction into her future husband’s eyes, and the next she was on her feet, heading back into the ballroom. Something had changed between them.
He was so much bigger than she, although she was a tall woman. His hand was on her shoulder, and though it was gentle, it made her quake inside. One could only suppose that he had made up his mind to grant her request.
There had been a flash of such pain in his eyes when she mentioned his brother that her stomach clenched at the sight of it. And yet when she glanced sideways at him now, all she could see on his face was a kind of raffish enjoyment.