Page 133 of Once an Angel
broke away from Justin's arms and waved cheerily before kneeling to bury her face in Pudding's brindle coat.
Penfeld tilted his nose in the air and sniffed. "Heartwarming, is it not, to see a man taking such an active interest in his responsibilities?"
The duchess eyed the portly valet through narrowed eyes. "Oh, deeply affecting. Deeply."
The game was on. Justin and Emily played it with relish. By day they appeared the very model of propriety with no one the wiser if her foot climbed up his calf beneath the shelter of the tablecloth, or if he slipped her an extra card beneath the loo table. The interminable moments ticked away, measured not by the swing of the pendulum in the long-case clock, but by longing looks and stolen kisses until finally the hour came when Emily might politely smother a yawn into her handkerchief and climb the long, curving stairs to bed.
She would lie trembling on tenterhooks of anticipation until the house fell silent. Then the telltale creak
of the unlocked door would come and Justin would slip into her bed and arms.
With the pleasure of Emily's company by day and the delight of her lithe young body by night, Justin felt he had died and gone to heaven. He was in thrall to her tender possession of his heart and body. He had never in his life imagined such sweetness and passion at his fingertips. She was a miracle, a marvel who brought the same enthusiasm and adventurous spirit to her lovemaking as she had brought to his life.
Late one night the drowsing peace of the house was fractured by the crash of heavy furniture and breaking glass. A herd of feet stampeded to Emily's door.
Harold's fist rattled the mahogany panels. "Hullo there, gel. Open up! What's going on in there? Are
you all right?"
Emily swung open the door, her cheeks burning, to face a nightcapped mob that included Penfeld,
Justin's entire family, and a few of the bolder servants.
She brushed back her tousled curls, laughing nervously. "I'm my clumsy old self, I fear. I must have
been having a nightmare. I seem to have fallen out of bed and overturned the nightstand." She reached
up to smooth the ribbons of her nightdress, then realized in horror they were trailing down her back because her nightdress was on backward.
One of the wide-eyed housemaids tried to peer around her at the carnage. "I'll fetch a broom, miss, straightaway, and clean up the mess."
"Oh, no," said Emily hastily, narrowing the crack between door and wall. "That won't be necessary.
I'm really quite exhausted. You may clean up in the morning."
Justin's mother rested her fists on her ample hips.
With her iron-gray ringlets wrapped in rags, she resembled a matronly Medusa. Emily lowered her eyes, fearing the duchess's accusing gaze might turn her to something worse than stone.
"Where's my son?" she demanded. "I would have thought a crash like that would have brought the dead running."
Penfeld quickly piped up with "My master is a very sound sleeper."
They all stared at him. Emily couldn't stop her own mouth from falling open at that preposterous falsehood. But even in his tasseled nightcap and long nightshirt, Penfeld's dignity was so profound that
no one dared challenge him.
"Harrumph," pronounced the duchess skeptically.
She charted a course for her chambers, the skirts of her brocaded dressing gown frothing in her wake. One by one the others trailed away.
Penfeld was the last to go. He gallantly tipped his nightcap to Emily and gave her a knowing wink.
She closed her door and twisted the key. "Why, that pompous little scoundrel. He's known all along."
She clapped a hand over her mouth to smother her giggle.
The door of her wardrobe swung open and Justin emerged, her satin dressing gown wrapped around his waist. He plucked a stray ostrich feather out of his hair.
