Page 59 of Dukes Do It Better
Well, that was clear as mud. But better she didn’t know than he lied to her.
And no, the irony of demanding honesty wasn’t lost on Emma. If her secrets and lies were bricks, she could build her own damn house.
Instead of delving into that, she took advantage of his closeness and nibbled his bottom lip until his length nudged insistently against her belly. A glance at the clock beside the bed showed it to be later than she’d thought. Every minute here was one less minute she could sleep in her own bed. It was also another minute her servants weren’t in their beds. She sighed.
“Don’t make that noise. That sound means you’re leaving soon,” Mal grumbled, nibbling at the corner of her mouth and coaxing another kiss from her.
“The hour grows late. I need to get home.” Emma ignored the way his hands flexed against her back, as if to clutch her to him as she slipped out from under the covers. She padded to the privacy screen and took care of herself, then crossed to the mirror to assess how much intervention her hair needed.
Behind her in the looking glass, Mal sat up, openly admiring her nakedness as she tried to style her hair into some sort of fashion that didn’t make her look freshly tumbled. Even though she was. Wonderfully so. She shot him a grin in the mirror and he smiled back. “Can I borrow your hairbrush?”
“Top right drawer of the dressing table,” he said, crossing his arms over his raised knees and looking his fill.
The brush was exactly where he said it was, resting inside the drawer atop a book.
A familiar book. The breath in her lungs stalled, and Emma went cold.
What the hell was Malachi Harlow doing with her journal? She glanced in the mirror and cleared her expression. Mal tossed the covers aside and rose, stretching his arms overhead. Showing off on purpose, and part of her wanted to enjoy the view.
Except he had her journal. She waited until he turned to the bedside table to remove the French letter before she used a finger to flip open the cover. Sure enough, there was her handwriting. A slip of paper tucked in like a bookmark caught her eye and breath left her lungs. Familiar script she’d recognize anywhere covered the page with one word—Consequences.
A shaking began with the hand gripping the soft, pliable cover, and she deliberately released her fingers. Dragging the brush through her hair, Emma kept one eye on Mal.
That handwriting had been on the blackmail note Lottie and Ethan had received, as well as the message Phee had gotten the day they went to the museum. No, it wasn’t Mal’s handwriting—but how difficult would it be to alter your pen strokes for anonymity’s sake?
Her gaze flew to the drawer. Had she mentioned Phee’s identity as Adam? Or the death of Phee’s uncle Milton? Goodness, had she confessed to murder in those pages?
How much did he know?
Mal walked toward her, all distracting muscles, tattoos, and tangled hair.
Was he blackmailing her family? There was that business from a few years ago with Lottie’s unwelcome suitor, but what did he have to gain from such a thing? Especially when he’d been involved.
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears as she tried to organize her thoughts. There were two problems here: Mal had her private journal and the note.
Damned if she knew what to do with either piece of information.
He dropped a kiss on her shoulder as he passed, and Emma forced a stiff smile. Inside her chest, anxiety made breathing quietly nearly impossible.
As soon as he stepped behind the screen and turned his back, she grabbed the journal from the drawer and darted to her pile of clothes. Damn, her reticule was far too small to hold it. The book disappeared into the folds of her hooded cape.
Emma scurried back to the dressing table and went through the motions, dragging the brush through her hair a few more times before setting it aside. With distracted movements, she jabbed pins into her curls and hoped the mass stayed put long enough to get her to the carriage.
She’d slipped into her chemise and was tightening her stays when Mal came out from the screen, cinching the belt of a banyan around his trim waist.
“You’re in a hurry all of a sudden,” he commented.
“I need to get home, and my poor footmen should find their beds soon.” Emma tossed her gown over her head and hastily fastened the ties, to mask her shaking hands.
When she glanced up at Mal, he appeared slightly concerned, and so damned handsome, it threatened to break her heart. However, he didn’t seem suspicious. Emma dropped a kiss on his cheek. “This was lovely. I’ll see you later.”
Emma closed his bedroom door behind her, then donned her cape and tucked the journal under her arm. She was several steps down the staircase when the door opened and Mal stepped through with a quizzical smile on his lips.
“At least let me walk you to the door and wait with you while the carriage is brought around.”
Because he was a gentleman.
Who had somehow stolen her journal months ago.
