Page 26 of The Forbidden Lord
“Judging from your murderous expression, however,” Ian went on with decided amusement in his tone, “I’d best not try it. I’m not the sort to fight over a woman.”
Devil take the man. Ian had merely been gauging his reaction. “I don’t care if you court the chit,” Jordan grumbled, trying futilely to regain lost ground. “But don’t expect me to pick up the pieces when I prove to be right.”
Ian laughed. “Now that I think about it, I don’t believe Lady Emma will suit me after all. Two dances with her told me that. Lady Sophie meets my requirements better. I want an easy wife, not some flirtatious, unruly Scot. I have no tolerance for breaking in wild fillies.”
Breaking in wild fillies. Jordan wouldn’t mind having a go at breaking in this particular filly. Judging from that kiss in the garden, Lady Emma could make the most devout monk forswear his vows of celibacy. And Jordan was no monk.
But even if she were Emily, he needn’t refrain from seducing her—for it would mean she was a designing, lying wench and not the innocent he’d thought. For some reason, that possibility infuriated him. He’d liked Emily Fairchild exactly as she was.
“Look at her,” Jordan bit out. She’d taken a new partner, that idiot Wilkins. “She’s an incomparable actress. Well, I will expose her little game, whatever it is.”
“Why? What does it have to do with you?”
Ian wouldn’t understand. It was like discovering that the unicorn you revered for its magical powers was really a horse with a horn attached. It made you want to tear off the horn and kick the horse. “If she’s an impostor, people ought to know,” he grumbled.
“What rot! You’re not doing this for the good of society. You want that girl, and you want her badly. You’re besotted with the very sort of woman you’ve always avoided.” Ian’s smug smile broadened. “What a sweet revenge for all those women who’ve tumbled head over heels for you and received nothing for it but a cool glance.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’m not besotted. I’m never besotted.”
“Then it should be a singular experience for you. Beware, my friend; they say it isn’t easy to dismiss love.” He added, only half-facetiously, “Protect your heart if you can.”
“No need, I assure you,” Jordan retorted. “As Pollock is so fond of saying, my heart is made of granite. No one, and certainly not some pretty chit up to no good, shall change that.”
Chapter Six
In men this blunder still you find?—
All think their little set mankind.
— HANNAH MORE,FLORIO
An hour later, Emily still couldn’t decide what bothered her most. That she’d fooled Jordan by giving him precisely what he wanted—a reckless interlude with an experienced woman—or that she’d played the wanton with such ease. What sort of wicked person could do that, could lie to a man and tease him so … so scandalously?
“You’re awfully quiet, Lady Emma,” said a voice at her side. “Are you bored?”
She glanced at Mr. Pollock and, as she’d been doing all evening, said what she thought Lady Emma might say. “Of course I’m bored. You city folk are so sedate. In Scotland, we’d have been dancing jigs until dawn, but already this ball seems to be ending. I’m quite put out over it.”
The two coxcombs who flanked Mr. Pollock laughed. He smirked at her, his eyes brightened by too much punch. “Yes, and those Scottish lads are wild, aren’t they? Walking about withnothing under their kilts. I imagine their jigs are … enlightening for a young lady, shall we say?”
It was a shocking thing to say to a girl at her coming out, and he probably knew it. Tamping down her urge to chastise him, Emily tapped him playfully with her closed fan. “I see you take my meaning exactly. You English should try wearing kilts sometime. It would certain liven up these affairs.”
The three men laughed raucously, and Mr. Pollock the loudest. Then he leaned toward her, his voice lowering. “Name the time and place, Lady Emma, and I shall be happy to wear a kilt for you.”
She ignored the decidedly naughty implication behind the comment. “I wouldn’t dream of dressing you in a kilt when you already have such splendid attire.”
That seemed to please him enormously, which didn’t surprise her. Mr. Pollock, for all his blond good looks and devil-may-care manner, was what Lady Dundee would surely term a dandy. His head was perched above the largest number of folds she’d ever seen in a cravat, and from the unnatural way he moved, she guessed that the starched material chafed his neck. She could suggest a soothing ointment for it, but doubted he would appreciate it. Besides, Lady Emma wouldn’t know about such matters, would she?
“I wonder what your mother would think of your interest in kilts,” Mr. Pollock murmured.
“Oh, Mama doesn’t understand me at all,” she said in a conspiratorial voice. “These days she lets herself be guided by my Uncle Randolph, and he’s a sour old fart.”
Papa would have a nervous collapse to hear her use such language, but she secretly enjoyed shocking these pompous nobles—especially since she’d never have to suffer the long term consequences of her outrageous behavior.
Oh, she was truly becoming wicked.
Mr. Pollock seemed to like it, however. He arched one finely plucked eyebrow. “Having had my share of set-tos with your uncle, I’d have to agree.”
Her heartbeat accelerated. Could he be the one? “Really? Has he insulted you, too?”
