Page 107 of Once an Angel
face. "The angels sing every time you walk into a room."
She laughed nervously. "It's more likely a chorus of demons."
Justin's laugh never came. He walked toward her, his steps measured, his eyes glowing with an odd light. Emily resisted the urge to fly back up the stairs to the safe cocoon of her bed.
He stopped in front of her and bowed with no trace of a drunken falter. "May I have this dance, Miss Scarborough?"
He opened his arms to her, and just as she had in New Zealand, Emily stepped into them, powerless to
do otherwise. Justin held her with perfect propriety, sweeping her around the floor in eerie silence. Emily didn't dare look at his face, so she looked at his chest instead, painfully aware of the shift of his powerful muscles, his flawless rhythm, the off-key cadence of his breathing.
Each faint brush of their bodies in the darkness made her feel as if she were suspended over a dangerous chasm, too high to drop without shattering. The peaks of her breasts ached against the soft cotton of her nightdress.
His breath touched her ear, warm and tart with the scent of champagne. "Can you hear it now?" he whispered. "The thundering chords? The sigh of the harp? The moan of the oboe?"
"All I can hear are drums."
"Drums?"
"My heart."
Laughing softly, he gave her a gentle squeeze. His steps slowed, and he released her reluctantly, as if hearing the music come to an end. Emily could still hear its bittersweet echo lingering on the air.
She took a step away from him. "I'd best go. I wanted to make sure you were all right, but I should be getting back upstairs now. It's late."
"Too late." She might have imagined his whispered words. As she turned to go, he called her name.
She stopped. Their eyes met across the polished expanse of moonlight and marble.
"You were magnificent tonight. I wish David could have seen you. You made me"—he balled his hands and shoved them back in his pockets—"proud."
Swallowing around the knot in her throat, Emily fled the ballroom, leaving Justin as she had found him. Alone.
* * *
When Emily slipped into her chair at breakfast the next morning, Justin greeted her with a polite nod.
He and Harold were engaged in a heated debate pitting the efficiency of clipper ships against steamers. She stole a look at him over het milk glass. His black coat was impeccable, his gray tie knotted in sleek folds. He bore no resemblance to the rumpled roue who had swept her around a deserted ballroom.
She glanced up at the gasolier, but heard no choir of angels announcing her entrance. This Justin did not look the sort of man inclined to such romantic folly. Although he bore no visible scars from last night's debauchery, she wondered if he had been too drunk to even remember their stolen interlude.
A serving maid leaned over his shoulder with a silver platter. "Kippers, Your Grace?"
Emily might have imagined the faint paling around his mouth as he replied, "No, thank you, Libby."
He stared as his mother took the fork the maid offered and heaped kippers on her own plate, filling the dining room with the pungent aroma of herring. Justin pushed away his plate and Emily thrust a hot
scone into her mouth to hide her smile.
"Will you be going out today, Emily?"
His question caught her off guard, and she swallowed quickly, licking away the stray crumbs. "Lily and
I might go shopping this afternoon." She held her breath, waiting for him to forbid her her freedom as
he had done on the island.
He pulled his napkin out of his lap and dabbed his lips. "You may take the brougham if you like. I'll tell the coachman to make it ready. If you wish to purchase anything, charge it to my name."
