Page 22 of The Forbidden Lord
Wine, not water, binds the lover:
At the table then be shining,
Gay coquette, and all designing.
— MARTHA SANSOM, “SONG”
Of all the wretched luck, Emily thought as Jordan waltzed her deftly through the throng of fashionably dressed lords and ladies. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Or recognize her. Or waltz with her.
She should have protested more strongly when he’d asked—no,commandedher to waltz with him. But Lord St. Clair’s sudden defection had confused her. Was it acceptable for one man to hand a woman off to another? She rather thought it wasn’t. Still, who knew what rules applied to men like the Earl of Blackmore and Viscount St. Clair?
Worse yet, Jordan was a fabulous dancer. In her practice sessions with the awkward Lord Nesfield, she’d fallen all over her feet. The marquess had blamed her and she’d woefullyaccepted the blame, but now she wished she hadn’t. With Jordan, she was as graceful as a swan. Somehow he lightened her feet until the steps of the waltz seemed as natural and easy as walking. She forgot to count the measure, didn’t evenneedto count the measure.
Curse him for that, and for holding her so intimately. If he held her any closer, she’d make a complete cake of herself. As it was, she was near enough to see his clean-shaven jaw and the Blackmore crest on his gold cravat pin, to feel his thighs brush hers in the turns.
As usual, he looked handsome and very male. None of those silly satin breeches for the Earl of Blackmore—oh, no. His coat and breeches of expensive black cashmere and his figured gray waistcoat and snowy cravat were more commanding in their simplicity than any of the extravagantly embroidered waistcoats worn by the other men in the room.
Did he know how dancing with him affected her? Of course he did. One broad hand rode her waist with shameful familiarity, and the other hand clasped hers possessively, reminding her of their night in the carriage. No wonder Papa thought the waltz too scandalous for decent people. No woman with an ounce of self-preservation would willingly put herself this near to an attractive, virile earl.
Especially after having shared intimate kisses with him. Memories plagued her … of his hands in her hair … his breath warming her skin … his mouth anointing her cheeks and neck with secret, thrilling kisses.
Goodness gracious, now she was turning red!Please, God,don’t let him notice.
She might as well have been howling at the moon. When she risked a peek at Jordan, she found him quite obviously aware of the heightened color in her cheeks. His dark eyes seemed to miss nothing, more was the pity.
“I like making you blush, Emily,” he whispered wickedly.
“Emily? Why do you persist in thinking I’m this Emily person?”
“You can lie to those others, but not to me,” Jordan said in that low, husky tone she remembered all too well. “Why are you here? Why are you pretending to be some deuced Scottish lady?”
She truly hated deceiving him, but she had no choice. “Lord Blackmore, your little joke has grown tedious. I don’t know why you persist in confusing me with this Emily Fairfax creature.”
“Fairchild! Her name …yourname is Fairchild, not Fairfax, as you well know, goddammit!”
“You needn’t curse at me,” she chided automatically.
The flickering light from the candles overhead played over his gloating expression. “Seems I’ve heard you say that before--one night in my carriage.”
Dear heavens, she’d slipped up already. “Your carriage? I have no idea what you mean.”
The music crescendoed, preventing him from answering at once, but his smug expression stayed firmly in place.
This was futile. How could she possibly succeed? All her life she’d been taught how not to lie, and now she was expected to lie like an expert. And to Jordan, who seemed to read her very thoughts.
Perhaps she should just reveal everything. It would be so much easier.
Then Lord Nesfield would have her hanged. If she could trust Jordan to keep her secret, there’d be no problem. But she doubted he’d keep quiet, especially with Lord St. Clair who seemed to be a close friend. Lord St. Clair had spent half the ball asking her about Sophie, and he was her most likely suspect. For all she knew, Jordan could have helped the man plan an elopement with Sophie.
“Come now, Emily, tell me what this is all about,” he demanded as soon as the music allowed him to speak again.
He wouldneverbelieve her. How could he? He saw through the ridiculous pose they’d forced on her. Deception wasn’t in her nature.
Suddenly, Lady Dundee’s words came to her—Lady Emma is your masquerade, merely an amusement. It doesn’t change Emily Fairchild.
This was a masquerade, not a deception. And why should it matter if she had to lie to him? That night in the carriage, he’d made it quite clear she was nothing but a fleeting diversion. He too had played a role with her—flattering her, saying sweet things when he knew all the time he never intended to see her again.
“I grow weary of this game, Lord Blackmore.” She cast him a frosty look. “Please find another.”
