Page 11 of The Forbidden Lord
Still, she’d defended him without even knowing him. No woman except his stepsister Sara had ever defended him. Raged at him, yes. Gossiped about him and lusted after his money and title, most definitely. But not taken his side.
“Lord Blackmore, may I ask you one question?”
Ah, so they were back to formalities, were they? Hard to believe that scant minutes ago, she’d whispered his name with something like affection. But then, this entire evening had been like a dream, and it was time for it to end. “Ask whatever you wish.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands, clasped demurely in her lap. “You ... said you prefer indecent women to decent women. Yet you danced with Lady Sophie.”
She was too polite to call him insincere, but he knew what she thought. “Lady Dryden asked me to dance with your friend, so I did. I’m not so rude as to ignore my hostess’s wishes. But that’s all it was, I assure you, no matter what Lord Nesfield made of it.” He smiled. “Why? Are you jealous?”
That got her dander up. “Of course not. I’m not that foolish. I know I am ... I know this was ... merely a fleeting flirtation for you. We move in entirely different circles. If I do manage to reach the house without being noticed, I doubt I’ll ever see you again.”
Her bald description of what he’d already been thinking irritated him. “I’ll be here for a week more. We could?—”
“Have more scandalous tête-à-têtes in your carriage? I think not.” She glanced away, the fluid light catching the porcelain stillness of her face, a stillness betrayed by eyes that showed every emotion. “I don’t think I could survive any more such meetings.”
Nor could he. Good God, if he had another chance at it, he’d probably make a complete fool of himself. He refused to lose his head over any woman, especially an upstanding young gentlewoman.
But the carriage was rapidly approaching the gardens again, and as the horses clopped nearer, his heart dropped into his stomach. He wished he could know her better. What a shame that was impossible.
All too soon, the carriage was slowing, and she was staring out the window. “Thank God, they’re gone,” she said, her relief evident.
Did she find the idea of being forced to marry him so distasteful? Of course she did. She thought he was the kind of scoundrel who could have a “flirtation” with a young woman, kiss her senseless, then send her off without a thought.
Very well. Let her think it. It was better that way.
He knocked on the carriage ceiling and ordered Watkins to halt. Then he sat back in his seat. “I’ll go in first. If anyone asks me about you, I’ll declare I have no idea what they’re talking about. You wait a while, then stroll in from the gardens as if you’d been out there all along. With any luck, you won’t have to tell any lies.”
“Thank you,” she said primly, then turned the handle, opened the door, and descended from the carriage.
“Emily—” he began as he followed her out, wanting to stop her, yet knowing it was pointless.
She faced him with a look of expectation. He didn’t know what to say. What could he offer her? What did she want from him? Did she want him to throw caution to the winds, ask her if he could call or announce his intentions to her father? If she did, she wouldn’t get it. As she’d said, this was an interlude. And he wouldn’t change the outcome.
When he remained silent, she flashed him a wan smile. “Thank you for a very enlightening evening, Lord Blackmore. I shall never forget it.”
Nor shall I.He watched as she hurried into the gardens, a quiet grace in her movements even when she raced to be away from him. There she went, his charming rector’s daughter, disappearing into the night like Cinderella after the ball.
Except for one awful difference. She’d left him without even a glass slipper to remember her by. And there would be no future between them. None at all.
Chapter Three
WILLOW CROSSING, MAY 1819
Fetters of gold are still fetters, and the softest lining can never make them so easy as liberty.
— MARY ASTELL, ENGLISH POET AND FEMINIST,AN ESSAY IN DEFENCE OF THE FEMALE SEX
Since it was the servants’ day off, the rectory was still and the kitchen deserted in the wee hours after dawn. Emily stood at the stove heating watered-down brandy, glad for the solitude on this spring morning as she prepared her father’s breath-sweetening tincture.
She touched her finger lightly to the glassy surface of the liquid. Good. It was finally warm enough. Turning to the table, she poured the hot brandy water over the cloves, wild sage, and marsh rosemary she’d crumbled in the bottom of a china bowl. As a crisp, festive herbal scent wafted through the kitchen, it roused memories of mulled wine and wassail ... and feasts served at elaborate masquerade balls given by wealthy nobility.
Sticking her tongue out at the bowl, she dropped into a chair. Oh, why couldn’t she banish that wretched night from her mind? Two months had passed since the ball, for pity’s sake. Her period of mourning was over, and she’d been invited to countless dinners and parties since. A young man or two had even paid her some attention. By now she should have forgotten the entire incident.
Lord Blackmore had surely put it out of his mind the very next morning. Although she’d foolishly hoped he might pay her a visit in the days that followed, he hadn’t taken any more notice of her.
Of course he hadn’t. He’d made it quite clear that it had meant little to him. He’d even thrust her away from him as if she were some troll. Obviously her lack of experience had disgusted him. She was the only one foolish enough to dwell on their kisses and savor the memory of his mouth locked to hers, his hands pressing her down on the seat of the carriage...
Oh, wretched, wretched imagination! Why was she so tormented with embarrassing memories?
