Page 33 of A Touch Wicked
“Don’t be daft.” Alexandra curled her lip. “Why is it that men feel violence solves all the world’s problems? I’m going to eviscerate him in my literature. I’m going to write something better than anything he’s ever penned, so the next time he tries to publish a work, I can credibly tear it apart myself.”
Emma and James gave each other a look. Emma spoke first, gently. “My dear, don’t you think you ought to ignore—“
“No,” Alexandra snapped. “No longer. I’ve ignored him for years, and each time he’s written about me has been a challenge. He’s going to regreteverything.” She rose and snatched up her hat. “If you’ll excuse me. I have work to do.”
Alexandra strode back toward the house, her heels snapping down the path.
“The Spencers used to live near our country estate,” James mused, “And she loathed him for years before he wrote his first criticism. I’ve often wondered why.”
“He must have insulted her before that. I think he speaks to a level of insecurity she already has about her work.” Emma tilted her head. “Would you really have challenged him to a duel?”
“Of course not. No one duels these days. And I prefer not to shoot anyone over a literature review.”
Emma laughed as she rose from her chair, intending to return to the house and assist Alexandra. “Well, perhaps this will encourage her to write something better. If Alexandra receives a challenge, she usually succeeds. I ought to see if she needs anything.”
James stepped in front of her. “Before you leave, have a brief walk with me.” His voice was teasing as he added, “I’m not through with you yet, Miss Dumont.”
I’m not through with you yet.
God, didn’t he know not to say such things? How easily those words could be misinterpreted? Emma had kissed his palm. And though he may not know it, they had shared a bed. He had beeninside her. Every moment they were alone was but another instance in which she might make a mistake — or worse,tellhim.
She ought to. None of this was fair to him, this deceitfulness. If only she knew how to phrase it. If only she knew the words in French or English to explain that what she felt for him might have begun as lust, but became something more.
She loved him.
Shelovedhim. And that scared the bloody hell out of her. Servants did not fall in love with their employers.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Emma said.
“Maybe not, but I would enjoy your company all the same.”
Emma nodded once, and the pair began down the path in the garden.
A breeze had picked up now, cooling Emma’s skin as she thought of James back at the Masquerade. She’d kissed the length of his body, explored every contour with her hands. Though the shape of him had been imprinted in her mind, she wondered how long it would take for those memories to fade.
Perhaps they never would.
“I read the book,” James told her. “Fantomina.”
Emma’s heart slammed against her ribcage. Why had she told him about that book? What had possessed her?
“And what did you think?”
“Whether he deserved her did not enter into my interpretation,” James said. “Only that he believed he slept with several different women, and only ever viewed them as a source for his pleasure.”
Emma brushed her fingers across a rose petal as they passed the bushes. “Many men behave similarly, do they not?”
“Of course,” he replied. “But the lady of the book revels in their casual intimacy, too; anonymity affords her the same freedom as a man. Knowing that, I understood why she was tempted.”
Emma’s smile was small, if a touch sad. “Careful, my lord. If you keep speaking like that, you’ll be considered a radical like Alexandra.”
James was quiet as the path lead them beneath the swaying branches of a willow tree. “Have you ever been tempted, Miss Dumont?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, avoiding his gaze. She was certain he would see everything.
“That night in the library?” His voice was low now, so quiet and hesitant. There was a boundary between them, unseen, dependent upon her answer. Upon his.
Emma swallowed. “Yes.”
