Page 29 of The Forbidden Lord
“If I may caution you,” Mr. Pollock offered, “Lady Astramont is terribly unfashionable. Only the most tedious people attend her affairs. I fear you’ll be bored to tears.”
“Probably,” Lady Dundee said with an impatient wave of her bejeweled fingers. “But she’s an old friend of mine. We came out at the same time. I can’t slight her by not attending her breakfast on the one occasion when I am in town.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Lord St. Clair said smoothly. “And may I express my hope that Lady Sophie will be well enough to attend also.”
“I’m afraid that’s unlikely. But she’ll be fine at home while Randolph and I take Emma to the breakfast.” She tugged on Emily’s arm. “Come, girl, you need your rest. We don’t want you falling ill like Sophie.”
Flashing Lord St. Clair and Mr. Pollock a helpless look, Emily handed each of them a glass, then went off with her “mother.” As soon as they left the men’s hearing, she whispered, “Do you think Lord St. Clair is the one?”
“Quite possibly, but we’ll find out soon enough. Now that he knows Sophie is at home alone tomorrow, he may attempt to visit her in private. That would be a certain sign of his guilt.”
“How will you keep him from discovering she’s not there?”
“Don’t you worry about that, my dear. The servants know what to say. Besides, Randolph will contrive to be home. He’ll thwart Lord St. Clair if he attempts anything drastic.” She glanced back to where the two men were still standing. “What about Mr. Pollock? Do you suspect him as well?”
“I’m not sure. He did say something odd, however, about Uncle Ran— I-I mean, Lord Nesfield’s warning him away from Sophie.”
Lady Dundee grinned at her. “I see you’re falling into your role very well.”
Emily blushed. “I suppose. But sometimes I hate her.”
“Her?”
“Lady Emma.” They entered the foyer, and Emily glanced around to see who might be listening, but the place was presently empty. “I hate her for being rich and a flirt and making all the men like her.” She thought of Jordan’s change in behavior toward her tonight and added fervently, “They wouldn’t act that way around Emily Fairchild. They wouldn’t give her a second thought.”
“Don’t be silly—theyareacting that way around Emily Fairchild. This is a masquerade, not a spirit possession. Both women are you. Why, you couldn’t be Lady Emma so convincingly if her personality weren’t latent in you.” She brushed back one of Emily’s wayward curls in another of those motherly gestures Emily had come to like. “Now tell me honestly, did you hate your masquerade so very much?”
She ducked her head, almost too ashamed to answer. “No. But that’s what’s so awful. Ishouldhave hated it.”
“‘Should have.’ ‘Ought to have.’ Those are words for people without minds of their own. Thankfully, you’re not one.” The countess smiled and added, “There’s no shame in enjoying oneself, you know. Life is meant to be fun.”
Life is meant to be fun,Emily thought as Lady Dundee went off to request their wraps and order their carriage. No one had ever saidthatto her before. Her parents had spoken of fulfilling one’s duties without complaint or of giving something useful to the world. They’d even spoken of the importance of finding love. But no one had ever mentioned fun.
What a novel concept.
“Leaving already, Lady Emma?” said a smooth voice behind her.
Emily froze. Why must Jordan continue to plague her? Was God punishing her for enjoying her masquerade?
Pasting a cool smile to her lips, she faced him. “Yes. The evening has grown tedious, I’m afraid.”
“I was hoping we could have another dance.” He lowered his voice. “Or perhaps another walk in the garden.”
His gaze caught hers, fathomless, intense … tempting. Her heart did a quick somersault. Curse him! He shouldn’t affect her like this! “Surely you have better things to do than dance with me--ladybirds to seduce, young girls to ignore, matrons to shock.”
He raised one eyebrow. “I see someone’s spreading nasty rumors about me. I wonder who it might be. Pollock? Or those pups gamboling about you all night, making fools of themselves?”
“If I didn’t know better,” she said sweetly, “I’d think you were jealous.”
A thunderous scowl darkened his face. “Not jealous--curious. Are you hiding behind those popinjays because you can’t handle more challenging company?”
“Like yours, you mean?” She fought down the butterflies that his all-seeing glances scared up. “I’m perfectly capable of handling the likes of you. I think I made that clear earlier in the garden.”
She regretted the words the instant she said them, for his body went hard, his lips curved upward in a smile, and the look on his face would have tempted a saint.
His gaze was a whisper of seduction, so clear she could swear everyone in the room could hear it. When he stepped closeenough for her to smell the male scent of him, she had to stiffen every muscle to keep from backing away.
He spoke softly, huskily. “The only thing you made clear in the garden is that you and I should dance your particular variation on the waltz more often.”
