Page 37 of A Touch Wicked
“Emma.” He grasped her wrist as she reached for her suitcase. “Goddamn it, wait. You don’t have to leave.”
“Why?”
Her cheeks burned with a mix of emotions she struggled to keep under control. Anger, yes. Embarrassment, yes. And the heat of arousal that had yet to wane.
Her body was such a simple thing. He touched, she responded. It cared not for her mind, that she was falling into the same trap as all the Dumont women. It simply desiredhim, and damn the consequences. But she would not listen to it, not now.
“Why?” She repeated. “Shall I stay under this roof and conduct an affair that will surely attract gossip from the servants? They hate me enough as it is for my education, for not being fully one of them. So why not take it a step further and be the master’s whore?”
James flinched. “You’re not—”
“No,” Emma said. “I’m not. Whores are paid, and I’m giving you my notice.”
She jerked away from him and started for the door, but he stepped in front of her.
“I have a flat in the City,” he told her. “My sister can keep writing with you, and you can pay me rent if you wish, but don’t disappear.”
Emma set her jaw. “Your flat would no doubt be unaffordable on an author’s salary. Particularly when that author is a woman.”
“Then don’t pay me rent. I’ve no need of it.”
“You’re dancing around a question, James. You want me to be your mistress.” At his silence, she let out a brittle laugh. “And once you marry, what then? Will you break your vow not to keep one, or throw me out? Because you know as well as I that if we keep seeing each other, this won’t stop.”
James looked away. “We’ll figure it out then. I would never throw you out.”
“No. I’m giving you my answer now, and it’s no.” She was trembling now that the anger had worn off. “I’ve seen what happens when a woman like me becomes a gentleman’s mistress and he decides one day that he no longer has need of her. If she becomes ill. My father always swore he’d be there for my mother, but he abandoned her when she needed him most. He abandoned us both.”
“I’mnotlike your father. You’re not a bauble to me, Emma. Not a conquest. I would never abandon you, nor any children we’d have.”
“No, I don’t think you would,” Emma said bitterly. “But everyone in this country is taught from birth who is their equal and who is inferior, are they not? I was good enough to marry before you saw my face and knew my name, as long as I was nobility. A writer, however? Your servant? A bastard daughter of a duke? I suppose I’m meant to be flattered you’re offering to make me your mistress.”
She saw the dawning realization in his features, the stricken knowledge that her words rang true. How could she blame him for it?
Women like her did not marry men like him. They were kept by them. Their mistresses could be the women they loved most and still never be worthy. They were always considered inferior.
Love did not change birth.
“Emma.” His voice was hoarse as he reached for her, but Emma pulled away.
“Don’t.” She choked out the word. “Please don’t. Did you not understand why I hid my identity from you? It wasn’t only the freedom and equality of anonymity. InFantomina, once her identity is revealed, who suffers most?Shedoes. Her urges are the same as his, but she is the one forced to bear the consequences for being tempted. You can walk away from this so easily, James. And that’s why I’ll never be any man’s mistress. I love you — god help me — but I will not do that.”
His head snapped up. “You love me?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “I love you. But I’m not yours.”
She walked past him out the door, her suitcase weighing heavily by her side.
James’s quick footsteps behind her only made her walk faster, tears blurring her vision. She almost smacked into the butler, Jeffries, when she rounded into the foyer.
“Miss,” Jeffries said stiffly. The old man had always loathed her. His expression changed to bland politeness when he saw James behind her. “Lord Kent, I was coming to find you. Your brother—”
“Has decided to grace you with his marvelous presence,” Mr. Grey interrupted, coming in from the hall. When he saw Emma, he smiled, flashing a roguish dimple in his cheek. “And who is this?”
“We’ve met,” Emma said shortly. “Some time ago. It’s Miss Dumont, and I was just leaving.”
“No you’re not.” James glanced at his butler. “Tell Alexandra that Miss Dumont has taken ill and she is not to be disturbed.”
Jeffries bowed and left before Emma could call him back — not that he would listen to her. He’d eyed her with distaste when he’d noticed James trailing after her, which meant word of the master’s tryst spread downstairs.
