Page 44 of The Forbidden Lord
“I hope you don’t mind that I invited Lord Blackmore to join us,” Lord St. Clair said smoothly. “My carriage is much too small to accommodate three people comfortably, and Lord Blackmore gallantly offered his in exchange for the privilege of going along.”
Stop staring at him like a ninny,Emily chastised herself.That’s what he wants—to unnerve you.
She didn’t realize she still hesitated on the steps until Lord St. Clair said in a concerned tone, “Lady Emma, are you all right?”
Fighting to regain her composure, she forced a smile to her face. “Yes, of course. I … I just have a bit of a headache, that’s all, and coming out into the sun aggravated it.”
“If you have a headache, I’m sure St. Clair can postpone,” Lady Dundee put in.
“Indeed I can,” Lord St. Clair added, though he sounded disappointed. “Do you need to sit down?”
She wanted so badly to say yes, to flee into the house and claim that her headache would prevent her from going. But if she ran from him like a coward, Jordan would be even more convinced of her identity.
His mocking smile decided her. “No, I’m fine. It’s not that bad. I wouldn’t miss this outing for the world.”
As they reached the bottom of the steps, Lord St. Clair turned to hand Lady Dundee into the carriage, then followed her in, leaving Emily with Jordan. Their contact as he handed her in was brief, so brief no one would have remarked upon it, but Emily felt it clear to her toes. His fingers, supple but strong as they curled around her gloved hand … his thighs brushing her skirts … his other hand resting in the small of her back, warm and hard and shamefully familiar.
At least she didn’t have to sit beside him. Lord St. Clair had properly taken the seat facing backwards, leaving her to sit next to Lady Dundee.
Having Jordan facing her, however, proved no better. His carriage was roomy, to be sure, but not roomy enough to keep his booted feet from meeting her slippered ones. As the carriage set off, he stretched one leg out next to the door. Then Emilyfelt his calf brush against hers, the movement blocked from Lady Dundee’s view by her skirts.
She sucked in a breath as her gaze shot to him. Had he done it purposely?
His gaze met hers—knowing and sinful. Oh, yes, he’d done it purposely. When he smiled, letting his gaze trail meaningfully over her attire, she went all liquid inside.
It didn’t matter that she was wearing a perfectly respectable walking gown, with a pelisse layered over it and thick stockings beneath. It didn’t matter that gloves covered her hands, and a bonnet nearly all of her hair, leaving the oval of her face as the only bare skin showing.
She might as well have been naked. She felt his gaze over every inch of her skin beneath her clothes … like a forbidden caress. Then he stroked her leg with his foot, slowly, deliberately, making her blood pour hot through her veins, a fiery liquor warming every extremity.
She inched her leg away as unobtrusively as possible. The wretch merely inched his over in the same direction, and this time he laid it against hers with abject insolence. She couldn’t move any farther away without the others noticing. Curse him!
She tried to ignore the limb pressed so intimately against hers, tried to tell herself it meant nothing because he was wearing Hessians and she was wearing stockings.
But when he rubbed his calf against hers in another long, sensuous stroke, her breath stopped in her throat. She couldn’t look at him. All her attention was focused on that terrible, delightful contact between them. He stroked again and again, his leg making love to hers with an easy, subtle motion.
The carriage was suddenly far too small. When his next caress sparked a deep, sinful urge in her most private areas, she shuddered involuntarily.
“Are you cold, Lady Emma?” Jordan asked in a mocking tone.
She cast him a pleading look, but he smiled impudently and very deliberately ran the toe of his boot halfway up her calf, eliciting another shudder.
He grinned. “Would you like a blanket? I’m sure I have one somewhere.”
“I’m … I’m fine, Lord Blackmore,” she managed to stammer. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”
Lord St. Clair shot her a searching glance, and when Jordan traced the curve of her ankle with the toe of his boot, he scowled, making her wonder if he’d seen it.
“Let’s tell them about the marbles, shall we, Jordan?” the viscount suddenly remarked in a hard voice.
Jordan smiled at her, oblivious to his friend’s disapproval. “Certainly. You tell them.”
Lord St. Clair hesitated. Then with a calculating glance at Jordan, he said, “The marbles are beautiful, priceless sculptures from the Parthenon. Lord Elgin brought them back to England during his tenure as ambassador to Greece, and sold them to the British Museum two years ago. Now they’re on display.”
“Brought them back?” Jordan scowled, and his leg went still against hers. “He stole them, you mean, just as surely as if he’d crept into someone’s house at night and palmed their silver.”
This was obviously a subject that Jordan and his friend had discussed before.
Lord St. Clair glanced down at her skirts, then went on, a mischievous smile on his face. “But Jordan, Elgin had permission from the Ottoman government to take them.”
