Page 19 of A Touch Wicked
“Am I?” Emma asked him. “Yours to protect?”
James stared at her strangely, as if he hadn’t realized what he’d said. Then he winced. “I worded that poorly. I meant while we’re together. Of course you are.”
Surely he recognized how much those words had meant. They were too much for this dream. Too real. Their masks had to mean something. Without them, they were no longer James and Selene. They were the James Grey, the Earl of Kent and Emma Dumont, commoner, secretary, author. Everything was different.
“Of course.” She only said this to reconstruct their boundary. Put those crumbling bricks back into place, knowing one day they would fall. “In answer to your question, he never hurt me. He simply never cared that I existed, either. Yours?”
James let out a brittle laugh. “He was a cad. Once he had his heir and his spare, I barely saw him."
"Not even when your mother had your sister?"
"No. I suspect my sister was unintended; Father loathed her for reasons I’ve never understood. He wouldn't even see her on his deathbed.”
Emma flinched. Alexandra had never spoken much about her father; if she did, it was in short, terse responses. She never wished to discuss their relationship. Emma understood the complication of wanting a father's love while at the same time loathing him.
“She must have been glad to have you, at least,” Emma said.
“Perhaps. I played father to both my siblings in his absence, but I was only a boy.” James let out a breath. “I fear I’ve become too impatient with them over time. With . . .” He seemed to be grasping for words. “With feeling as if I’ve lost years performing a duty that wasn’t mine. Is that selfish of me?”
“No,” Emma said. “I’m sure your siblings would understand, too. You’re their brother, not their father. I’m sorry he forced you into that role.”
“And I’m sorry for yours not caring.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Selene?”
“Hmm?”
He slid an arm around her in a solid embrace. “I, for one, am glad you exist.”
Emma wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She shut her eyes and pressed her lips to his.
* * *
The mysterious Madamehad thought of everything, every comfort one needed during intimacy.
Each bedchamber linked to its own water closet, with a bathtub big enough to fit two. Servants brought up warm water, receiving and carrying out instructions quietly. The Madame had no doubt hired them for both their discretion and attentiveness. They came quickly after each bell pull, bringing Emma and James meals, which they received in bedclothes provided in the wardrobe.
Each night between them grew more intimate, more personal. Emma found herself staring into his eyes when he slid into her, losing herself in their depths. When James entwined their fingers and pressed his forehead to hers, he’d murmur sweet sentiments that belonged in dreams.
Though the wordlovewas never uttered, they played at the boundary, too close for comfort.
Emma couldn’t sleep at night outside of the Masquerade, not without him beside her. There, in that bed that didn’t belong to them, she felt more safe and comforted than she ever had in her life. James kissed her eyelids as she dozed off.
When she woke, she found him looking at her, stroking her hair. “You smile when you sleep,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you?”
“No. Never.”
James slid his bare leg against hers, bringing her closer. “What do you dream about?”
“I dream about this. About you.” She rested her head on his chest. “Nothing before would have brought me as much joy.”
He was quiet then. Emma knew he must be turning her words over in his mind, wondering what to say. She found she did this more and more, risked small reveals that might lead to bigger questions.
It became so difficult to hide herself from him now, after all these weeks together. Her deception grew unbearable; the mask began to chafe.
She felt as if she were stealing time from him. He ought to have been meeting debutantes, not staying here with her in this shared dream that wasn't real.
“What is your life like? That this is its sole bright spot?”
“It’s not an unhappy life, James. At times I grow discontent and I long for things I can’t have.”You. I long for you.“I use dishonest means to get them,” she added quietly.
