To Wed a Rake(26)
He came to his knees beside her, but instead of throwing himself on her as she half expected, he cupped her face in his hands. “You’re to marry that worthy burgher of yours within a fortnight, do you hear?” he told her fiercely.
She nodded, eyes on his, wondering at the way that love could just rise up and grip you in the heart so fiercely it would never let you go. Those sloe-shaped eyes of his, that lock of hair on his forehead, those lean cheeks…“I shall,” she whispered. And, in her heart: I’m going to marry you within a fortnight.
“Good,” he said, as if they’d settled something. “In that case, I give up. I’ll pay you that favor. I’m sorry I ever forgot you, that I ever got drunk in Paris, that I ever—”
She wasn’t really listening. He had a hand on her bottom, and he slid her legs open, and then—and then he came to her.
It hurt, and it didn’t hurt.
Her blood sang and thundered at the same time.
Her eyes closed, and yet she felt she could see through every pore.
He slid in, a little way, and made that hoarse sound in his throat, exce
pt perhaps it was she who made it, and then he didn’t move again, so she went where her body wanted to go and arched up, against him, training him, teaching him, keeping him close and mindful and hers.
He was a good learner, for an Englishman.
Of course, she was French, and Frenchwomen are the fastest learners of all.
Chapter Twelve
They left through the front door. Gil left Jeremy’s unlit lantern where he could find it in the morning.
Neither one of them seemed to feel like talking. Emma’s throat was tight with something: tears? She rarely cried and only for a very good reason, so that couldn’t be it. Come to think of it, the last time she’d really cried had been at her mother’s funeral.
Her bejeweled Elizabethan dress felt frowsy now, and unbearably heavy. She couldn’t wait to enter her bedchamber in Grillon’s and collapse in a bed and try very hard not to think about the evening.
She’d won. Her father had Gil’s ring safely stowed away, and she had done her part of the business, and that was that.
Gil was sobriety itself, handing her into the carriage as if she were made of glass. He said good-bye to her there, a sweet little farewell buss on the lips. “I would hope,” he said, “you consider my debt repaid, Madame Emelie?”
What could she say? That the debt he had now incurred would take a lifetime to repay?
“Of course,” she said and gave him a little kiss of her own. “You’re free and clear, my lord.”
“Gil,” he said. But after that, they didn’t say anything to each other.
When she involuntarily winced, climbing down the carriage step, he insisted on scooping her up and carrying her right up the steps of Gillon’s. Emma thanked God for her mask; this story was going to be all over London before the morning gossip columns even appeared. It had to be three in the morning, and yet those who’d come to London expressly for the masquerade were just beginning to drift to their beds. They were gathered in small clusters amongst the exquisite pillars of the entryway.
The manager, Mr. Fredwell, saw them coming and hurried toward her. “Madame de Custine!” he cried, taking in the situation at a glance. “You must have injured your ankle.”
“Indeed she has,” Gil said coolly. “I believe it would be best for madame if you had two footmen carry her in a chair to her chambers.”
There was a little rustle of voices, as of wind passing through the poplars. Apparently the Earl of Kerr wasn’t going to sweep this mysterious Frenchwoman up to her chamber in his own arms, thereby guaranteeing that she would appear in every gossip column printed on the morrow.
Instead, and to everyone’s disappointment, he deposited her in a chair, nodded to Mr. Fredwell, and left without further ado, striding down the steps as if he hadn’t whisked her out of the ballroom, sparking a hundred rumors and a thousand delicious speculations.
Emma swallowed hard and didn’t let herself worry about the fact that her future husband was the type of man who bedded a beautiful Frenchwoman, told her to marry her fiancé promptly, and then left without a word of farewell. After all, Gil was what he was.
And she loved him, more’s the pity for her.
Her spirits rose a bit when the footmen left and her own maid came clucking toward her. “Oh, miss, what did happen to you? Twisted your ankle, did you?”
Emma fashioned herself a graceful limp and allowed herself to be placed in a steaming bath scented with rose, given a tisane, and put to bed in starched sheets, as if she were an invalid.
Her chamber looked over the great inner courtyard of Grillon’s. Sl {&#xput owly the sound of tinkling laughter and voices died away, and yet she lay wide awake in her beautifully ironed nightgown, tied at the neck with a blue ribbon, and stared at the stars. Her room opened to a small wrought-iron balcony, along the lines of that onto which Juliet wandered.