Page 270 of Once an Angel
With a flick of his elegant fingers he held up one of her calling cards. "Miss Scarborough, I presume?"
She could not help staring at his hand. His nails were trimmed to precise points, their beds as pink and smooth as a baby's. He cleared his throat and Emily realized she was behaving like a churl.
"Why, thank you. I'll just take that." She reached for the card, but he slipped it into his breast pocket
with the deftness of a magician.
"Allow me." He handed her the purse and straightened, looming over her in the growing darkness. An opera cloak rippled in ebony folds from his narrow shoulders.
"Have you come calling today, Miss Scarborough?" His voice held the faintest trace of a continental accent.
"Not quite. I'm afraid I'm lost," she said lamely.
He tapped the ash from his long, slender cigarette. "A condition my soul is quite familiar with."
The dark humor in his voice was irresistible. Emily laughed, then wished she hadn't.
He flicked the cigarette from the holder. The polished heel of his boot ground it to pulp. "Will you allow me to escort you to a safer haven?"
He smiled, his canine teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Whoever filed his nails ought to take a crack at
his teeth, Emily thought uncharitably. She hesitated, feeling a bit like Red Riding Hood being invited to picnic with the wolf.
He read her mind with eerie accuracy. "I fear you're safe with me. I've already gobbled up three lost young ladies this evening. I'm quite sated at the moment."
She flushed. Mayfair was a genteel neighborhood. He was probably some nice gent, whose wife didn't allow him to smoke in the house, eager to get home to his cozy fire and three chubby babes.
Feeling sheepish, she tucked her hand in the curve of his arm. "I'd be honored."
The new moon shone through the naked branches, casting a silver latticework across their path.
"I couldn't help but hear your charming little song," he said. "Was it Swahili?"
"No. Maori."
"Ah, the Maori. Natives of"—he hesitated as if searching his brain—"New Guinea?"
"New Zealand."
"My goodness, you are lost, aren't you? Did your boat capsize?"
Emily thought of the tangled chain of events that had returned her to London. "In a manner of speaking, yes."
They emerged from the trees onto the gaslit street to find the brougham silhouetted against the darkening sky. An unbidden sigh of relief escaped Emily. In this light the whiteness of the stranger's shirtfront was dazzling. She was tempted to shield her eyes from its brilliance.
She bobbed an awkward curtsy. "I can find my way from here."
His response was interrupted by Lily, who came running up, her bustle listing to starboard. "There you are! My head is positively spinning from circling this block. Harvey is going to slay me for coming home after dark. If he forbids me the opera next week, I'll die a thousand gruesome deaths. Oh."
Her rebuke died as she realized they had an audience. Her hazel eyes widened to mesmerized splendor
as she gazed up at the stranger's compelling face.
He inclined his head and brought Lily's gloved fingers to his lips. "Good evening, madam."
He turned to Emily. "Perhaps another time, Miss Scarborough." He lifted her hand to his lips, but instead of kissing her fingers, he brought his moist lips to bear against the naked flesh of her inner wrist. Emily would have sworn his teeth grazed her skin.
"Thank you for your kindness," she said, withdrawing her hand.
