Page 106 of Once an Angel
He narrowed his eyes as Emily untangled herself from the last knot of her admirers and started across
the ballroom, her kid slippers whispering on the polished tile. Her silk roses might have wilted a bit under the strain, but she still looked as fresh as a spring rain in the desert.
She approached, smothering a yawn into her glove.
"Tired?" Justin gave his knee a pat of invitation and quirked a devilish eyebrow.
Her cheek dimpled in reproach. She brushed past him, leaned over, and kissed Penfeld's cheek.
"G'night, Penny."
"Penny?" he muttered. She was already turning away. "What about me?"
She stopped, the curve of her bare shoulders alabaster in the fading light. Justin crossed his arms over
his chest and stared straight ahead, regretting the childish challenge the instant it left his lips.
Emily turned in a swirl of silk. The scent of rosewater and vanilla jolted his senses. She bent to give his cheek a peck, but before he even realized he was going to do it, Justin turned his head, grazing her mouth with his own. The contact was brief, warm, and sweet. He knew it wasn't fair, but he was unable to deny himself a fleeting taste of her lips.
"Come, my dear." The duchess appeared at Emily's elbow. "Won't you escort an old lady to her room?"
As his mother drew her away, Emily looked over her shoulder at him. He leaned the back of his head against the wall, oddly sobered by the rebuke in her eyes.
* * *
The clock on the landing below chimed twice. Emily turned over in her bed as the hollow bongs rolled through the house. Why should sleep elude her now? The night had been a smashing success. She
ought to be savoring her triumph, dreaming of the hectic days to come as she accepted the invitations Penfeld had assured her would come pouring in tomorrow.
Instead, she lay staring wide-eyed into the shadows, unable to erase from her mind her last glimpse of Justin as he sat alone in the dimming gaslights, surrounded by a sea of limp confetti.
His own behavior at the ball had caused quite a stir. He had appeared the height of rakish splendor with his tie unknotted and his long legs sprawled before him in disreputable indolence. Whispers about his roguish past had flown through the staid crowd on wings of fascination. Oddly enough, while such innuendo would have been the ruin of a woman, it only enhanced his reputation and made him all the more desirable to the eligible girls and their mamas. Emily wondered what they would think if they could have seen him sweating in the fields like a common farmer or reading the Bible to a tribe of rapt natives.
His rakish pose did not fool her. She had seen the hollowness in his eyes as he watched her go. She touched her lower lip, remembering the jarring brush of his lips against her own.
She rolled over. Champagne glasses had littered the floor around Justin's chair. Had Penfeld remained to help him to bed? What if he stumbled over something in the dark and fell? Lord knew, there was plenty to stumble over in this cluttered museum. Her father had once lost a friend who, after imbibing too much gin, took a tumble down the stairs and cracked his head. Emily sat straight up, beset by a vivid image of Justin's body sprawled on the first-floor landing, his white shirt stained with blood.
She climbed out of bed and drew a robe of woolly cashmere over her nightdress. As the toys and fairy-tale books had disappeared from her room, other things had appeared—an olivewood stationery case lined in velvet, a delicate box of rose-leaf face powder, a handsome leather diary inscribed with her initials. Gifts not for a child, but for a woman, all placed by magical, unseen hands.
Leaving Pudding drowsing in front of the fire, she padded down the stairs. Silence enveloped her in its dark cloak, making her realize how badly she missed Justin's music.
She pushed open the door to the ballroom. A pale splinter of a moon shone through the oriel windows, bathing the long, empty room in a silver wash. She felt foolish. Of course, Penfeld would have rescued his master by now. She shivered as the chill of the marble tile crept into her bare feet.
She was turning to go when a voice came out of the shadows, as husky and intimate as a touch.
"You still owe me a dance, Emily Scarborough."
Chapter 24
I have hesitated to speak of things
that might trouble you. . . .
Justin stepped away from the dais into a shallow arc of moonlight. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his head inclined at a sheepish angle.
Emily's breath tightened in her throat. She smoothed back her curls and hugged the robe tighter around her. "How can we dance? There isn't any music."
His eyes searched the reaches of the vaulted ceiling. "Don't you hear it?" He lowered his gaze to her
