Page 7 of The Spy Who Loved Her
Another subtle stab and twist of the knife within a wound that had never healed. There would be no children, legitimate or otherwise. In all three years of her marriage, she had never conceived. Even before she had been widowed, she had come to understand the increasing likelihood that she never would. Not that her heart had wanted to accept it, as such, but that she had had to face certain facts, as unpleasant as they were. As devastating as they were.
But to trulyembark upon an affair…
She swallowed down her disquiet with a sip of brandy, stilling the trembling of her fingers with the smoothing of her skirts. She hadn’t known what she was meant to wear, and so she had decided on a simple lilac gown. Really, all of her gowns were simple these days, and all in such unforgiving, mournful shades. Black to purple to lavender—perhaps her early predilection for bombazine and crepe had been left in the past, but the meaning of the gowns hadnot.
Was it poor form to enter the arms of a potential lover whilst still clad in mourning attire for one’s deceased husband? Pity there wasn’t advice on this sort of thing to be found in any of the etiquette books upon which theTonraised its ladies.
There. The hands of the clock had at last reached midnight. Whomever it was that Kit had sent to her, clearly he wasn’t a punctualsort—
“My lady?”
Emma felt her shoulders pin themselves back, tension leaping up and down every muscle at the unexpected intrusion of Neil’s voice, which by all rights she ought to have expected.
Neil cleared his throat. “Your caller has arrived. Mr.—”
“Rafe.” And then, there he was. The man that Kit had sent to her. He was tall, with dark, close-cropped hair. A strong jaw, angular, clean-shaven—or at least as near enough to it as a man could be expected to be at this hour of the night. Dark eyes, a deep, rich brown and thickly-lashed, and a nose that looked as if it might have been broken at some point. He was well-favored, she supposed, in a bland, ordinary sort of way.
He was also a stranger. One who had been summoned to her home for the express purpose of bedding her.
She squeaked out, “Thank you, Neil. That will be all for the evening. I have everything I require.”
To his credit, Neil hesitated. “You’re certain?”
“I am, thank you.” It came out a little steadier. Not by much, but enough that she had almost—almost—convinced herself of it.
With a little bow, Neil turned and left, and then…
And then they were alone.
A burst of chill bumps slid across the back of her neck, and Emma snatched for her glass of brandy once again, hoping the burn of the liquor would warm her. She’d meant to sip, not glug, but her own anxiety had gotten the better of her, and she muffled a cough in the palm of her hand. “I do beg your pardon, Mr.—”
“JustRafe,” he said again, as he stepped fully into the room, and closed the door behind him.
∞∞∞
“Rafe.” She spoke his name with an odd sort of hesitation, as though the very sound of it was unfamiliar. Which he supposed it might well be. Probably Diana had mentioned him a time or two, but she had never had a face to put to the name, so it would have held little meaning to her. She managed a small smile, as if she were unsure of herself. Of him. “It’s—a pleasure to meet you.”
Probably she was experiencing a second thought or two. Or several. “And you, Lady Emmeline,” Rafe said. It wasn’t a lie. It was just that he had never been quite so close to her. Had never expected to be. Had never permittedhimself to be. Had, in fact, taken every precaution necessary not to taint her life with his presence. He had owed her that much.
Until now. Now, it seemed, he owed her more still.
“Emma,” she said, when she had sufficiently recovered from another large sip of liquor. “That is, nobody calls me Emmeline.” A light tinge of pink suffused her cheeks, contrasting sharply with the few cinnamon freckles dusted across them that Rafe could see even from the distance he had maintained. And still she was so beautiful—with large, luminous eyes of a fathomless blue and a wealth of strawberry blond hair which she had bound at the nape of her neck in a simple silk ribbon.
Easy enough to remove. Much like her gown, simple as it was.
“And you are…justRafe,” she said, her long, elegant fingers curling around her glass. “I suppose surnames aren’t necessary?”
He didn’t wish to lie to her directly if it wasn’t utterly necessary. Lies tended to compound over time, tangling upon more and more of the same until one could never be certain which lie had been told, and to whom. Better, always, to dodge a question or redirect attention lest one be caught out by a lie, trapped within one’s own web of falsehoods. “Not for this,” he said, taking note of the sharp angles her shoulders made, of her white-knuckled grip upon her glass. “If you would like me to leave…” He would find another way to get his hands on the journal. It would be less convenient, perhaps, but still he could do it.
“I wouldn’t.” She forced the words out past a long, hard swallow. “It’s only—I’m quite—” A queer little sound eked from her throat; nearly a growl of frustration. “May I be frank?”
“I’d prefer it.”
“I’m ten years a widow as of two days past. I’ve no clothing that is not fit for, at best, half-mourning attire, and I’ve money enough to make methe catch of the Season despite my age, did I dare attend any more than the veryoccasional society event. I’ve no desire to marry again, but—widowhood is often quite lonely.” Abashed, she directed her gaze to the glass in her hand. “Loneliness wears upon a person.”
For someone like her, he could imagine it must indeed. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, risking a few steps nearer. “It must have been difficult for you.” The phantom of that terrible wail of sorrow echoed in his ears even now, as if the very walls of her home had swallowed it up, parceling it back out in tiny, chilling reminders of all that he had done, the pain and the torment that he had inflicted upon her.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Yes, it wasdifficult.”
