Chapter Eight
James stared out across the ballroom floor and immediately caught sight of Emma. She was standing at the wall, just as she did at almost every ball or party she attended, but tonight she was not alone. Tonight a few gentlemen stood at her side, talking to her and Meg.
And while he should have been pleased with that—after all, it proved his point that his attention brought eyes and interest to her—instead it made his blood boil. Two of the men were idiots, couldn’t rise to her intellect in any way. The other, Sir Archibald, was twenty years her senior, with two dead wives in his wake and eight truly rotten children.
“Why do you keep shifting around?” Simon asked, elbowing his side.
James blinked and broke his gaze away to refocus on Simon, Graham and another of their club, Robert, the Duke of Roseford. They were all staring at him, expectant and rather smug, if he read their expressions correctly.
“It’s nothing,” he grunted, turning his attention away from them.
Graham laughed. “Or is it Miss Emma Liston, who we all saw you talking with quite closely at supper?”
“Yes, and then the idiot goes for a walk alone with her in the garden,” Roseford said, batting his eyelashes. “Careful, you’ll have the lass in love with you and then what a pickle you’ll be in.”
James pressed his lips together at the teasing and ignored the flash of pleasure at the idea of Emma wanting him. “I’m not worried about that. I’m just shocked that she hasn’t responded to my offer.”
Graham lunged forward a step. “Your offer? Christ, James, don’t tell me you went forward with that ridiculous idea you were telling me about in London.”
“What idea?” Simon asked, looking between the two of them. “What is he talking about?”
James shifted in discomfort. He wanted his friends’ advice, but not their taunting when the truth came out. “I thought Northfield would have told you all about it already,” he said. “He had such a chuckle about it at my expense.”
“Well, I thought you were in jest,” Graham explained. “So I didn’t say anything to anyone.”
“What are they talking about?” Roseford asked, looking at Simon.
“Something I’m not privy to. Do either of you care to explain?”
Graham turned to them. “Before we left London, James came to me with this ridiculous notion that he would pretend to court Emma Liston to help her garner attention in the marriage mart—and to keep attention off himself.” He glared at James. “Did you really approach her with this ridiculous plan?”
James folded his arms. “It isn’t that ridiculous. I paid her the barest of attention tonight and look, she has men flocking to her side.” He scowled as Emma smiled at something Sir Archibald was saying. “Though I do not approve the quality.”
Roseford leaned forward, his dark eyes flashing with true emotion. “Have you lost your bloody mind? This is exactly how men get trapped into marriage with women.”
Simon’s expression was less harsh than Robert’s, as was his tone. “So you actually talked to her about this?”
“In the garden before the ball,” James admitted, his treacherous mind dragging him back to their kiss before he pushed the thought away. “She said she had to think about it. What is there to think about? I’m offering her something mutually beneficial. Why would she resist?”
Graham tilted his head back and began to laugh. “Great God, this is about her refusing you. You’ve never had a woman have the gall to say no to you.”
James opened his mouth to refute that charge, but found he couldn’t. He had always had ladies falling at his feet. They always danced with him, cooed over him, and if they were of a certain type, fell into bed with him.
Emma was different. In more ways than one. She’d kissed him back in the garden, yes. But there’d been no simpering and playing and flirting afterward. She’d hardly even acknowledged it happened. And here he was, still tasting her on his lips and feeling her in his arms.
It was madness.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven’t you declared multiple times before that marrying is not something you’re interested in at all?” Roseford pressed.
James shifted. “Yes. And this ruse could very well help me further that goal. If I’m unavailable in the eyes of the mamas, they’ll refocus their attention on others. And when Emma finds someone else, I will have a perfect excuse as to why I am not interested this Season or next or even the next after that.”
Graham stared at him for far too long and the concern on his friend’s face was clear. “If you don’t want to marry, you could simply not marry. This convoluted plan isn’t the best way to ensure it.”
Simon was nodding, his own expression tight with worry. “And if you are truly concerned about Miss Liston, there are also easier ways to help her. There are a few in our group alone who are open to the idea of brides.”
“You think I should arrange she meet with someone in our group?” James asked, his body going cold at the thought.
Roseford nodded. “Idlewood comes to mind. Christopher hasn’t inherited his dukedom yet, but he’s financially stable as Earl, so her position might not be of difficulty to him.”
A great wave of irritation swept through James as he looked at Emma and pictured her with their handsome friend. With any of his eligible friends.
“No,” he said. “This is best.”
Roseford let out a chuckle and said, “Well, if you insist. Now I see my mother signaling, so I shall be off.”
Graham let out a long sigh. “I’ll go with you. I should dance with Margaret.”
James felt Simon stiffen at his side and shot his friend a look, but his face was unmoved. They said their goodbyes to their friends and were left alone. James continued to look out over the crowd at Emma.
As if she felt his gaze on her, she turned. Her face lost some of its color, then she whispered something to her companions, took a deep breath and began to move toward him. His heart stuttered as he watched her move through the sea of people.
Simon turned to him. “Looks like your answer is coming after all, James.” He looked at Emma, then his attention moved off into the crowd. He shook his head slowly. “I’m not like Graham and Roseford. I don’t know if what you’re planning is right or wrong or just plain crazy. But I do know from bitter experience that if one doesn’t take his opportunities, regret is a poor bedfellow. So do whatever you feel is right.”
James glanced at him, troubled by Simon’s long frown. But his friend didn’t allow him to press on the issue. He merely patted James’s forearm and then slipped away just before Emma reached him. Then all other thought emptied from his mind, leaving only her.
Emma could hardly breathe as she finished what felt like a very long walk from across the room. James was staring at her the entire way, which didn’t help, for it was a very intense expression on his handsome, angular face. One that put her to mind of the garden and his unexpected and highly pleasurable kiss.
She stopped before him, shoving her shaking hands behind her back. “Your—Your Grace,” she said softly.
He tilted his head, examining her closely before he said, “Would you like to dance, Emma?”
She jolted at the suggestion. Somehow she hadn’t been expecting it. But there was no avoiding it, so she nodded. He held out a hand and she took it, electricity racing up her arm that she tried hard to ignore. She felt every eye in the ballroom turn toward her as he guided her to the dancefloor. As the music began, she held back a groan.
A waltz. Of course it would be a waltz. Anything to force her to remain in his arms like she belonged there, when she most certainly did not.
He placed a hand on her hip and spun her into the first steps. She found herself staring up into his face, perfectly guided by him. He was everything a man should be when he danced. He was lithe and graceful, but he led with a firm hand, turning her exactly where he wanted her to go.
He smiled down at her. “It would probably help if you looked slightly less terrified, Emma. People will think I’m holding you hostage.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at his light tone. It drained some of the tension from her body and made her steps easier. She drew in a long breath. “If I look nervous, it is because I’ve been thinking about what you suggested in the garden.”
His fingers tightened against her back, drawing her just the tiniest fraction closer. “Have you? And what did you determine your answer to my plan to be?”
“It is madness to participate in such a deception,” she said, watching a flash of emotion cross his face before he went back to calm and unreadable. “But…”
“But?” he pressed.
“I have almost nothing to lose with the effort,” she admitted. “So if your offer still stands, I will agree to the terms.”
He smiled, an expression that lit up his face and made her stumble in her steps. Great Lord, but he was beautiful. Truly beautiful, like some kind of wicked angel.
He steadied her as he said, “My dear, we have not yet come to terms.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Haven’t we? I’m agreeing to your ruse.”
He spun her deftly as he said, “But there are details. And details are incredibly important, especially in an arrangement like this. But here on the dancefloor with the world watching is not the place to hash those out.”
She glanced around and drew in a sharp breath. Indeed, the world did seem to be watching. Women were glaring at her over their fans, gentlemen were talking and sizing her up. She shifted with discomfort, for she had never been the center of such attention before.
“Where then?” she asked, her voice catching.
He pondered the question a moment. “My sister says she has provided you with a room to yourself?”
Her lips parted. “You cannot mean to come to my room, Your Grace.”
There was a dark flare of heat in his eyes, but then he shook his head. “No. I think that would not be a wise idea, considering.”
“Considering what?” she asked on the barest of breaths.
He shrugged, but once again his fingers slid along her spine with an intimacy that made her shiver. “Just considering. I only mentioned it because if you are alone, it will make it easier for you to sneak out. Will you join me in the library in a few hours?”
She considered the question a moment. Sneaking out of her chamber in the middle of the night to rendezvous with a scandalous, highly sought after and incredibly attractive man did not seem like the most proper thing to do. But then again, she had been behaving properly her entire life and what had it gotten her?
Impropriety was beginning to look like it had its perks.
She nodded. “I will.”
He smiled at her again as the music ended. “I look forward to it, Miss Liston,” he said with a formal bow.
She executed her own curtsey. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He took her hand and led her from the dancefloor. But before he released her, he bent and pressed a kiss to her gloved hand. The warmth of his breath pierced the thin fabric, swirling around her skin until her thighs clenched together.
He nodded and let her go, trailing off into the crowd as if he had no care in the world. And perhaps he didn’t. After all, this little ruse of his likely meant nothing to him, just as their kiss earlier meant nothing to him.
And she had to make sure she was just as cool about it or else she would put herself in a world of trouble.
Emma came down the long staircase hours later, peering around through the now-shadowy halls for fear of being caught. She had hatched an elaborate explanation while she waited for the proper time to come downstairs. One that involved an inability to sleep, a love of libraries and a need for a boring book.
She could only hope she’d never be asked to recite it, for she wasn’t very good at lying.
She huffed out a breath as she muttered, “Exactly why you’re entering into a ruse of a courtship with a…a…”
She pushed open the library door and caught her breath. James was already there, standing by the fire. He had shed his jacket and his cravat, and his shirt was open two buttons, revealing a smooth line of chest that made her blush. As she stumbled into the room, he looked up at her, heat swirling in his dark eyes as he looked her up and down.
“…scoundrel,” she finished.
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
She shook her head. “Oh—I—nothing. I was just…nothing.”
“Close the door, will you?” he asked.
She looked behind her at the door. Her only remaining bastion against whatever might happen once they were alone. She turned back and found he had taken a step toward her.
“If we’re going to have a private conversation, it would be best,” he said, his tone soothing. Hypnotic, almost. She found herself reaching back and doing as he’d asked.
When the door clicked behind her, she leaned against it. “I-I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, searching for normalcy. For calm. “I had to redress myself and it took longer than I thought it would.”
He moved closer and suddenly she felt his heat. In the dim library, in the quiet, in the private where no one knew they were together, everything felt close and intimate. She swallowed hard as she looked up into his face.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, his voice rough.
She felt off kilter so close to him, so she stepped around him into the room and looked around. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she breathed as she peered up at the high bookshelves lined with books in spines of rainbow colors. They seemed to stretch forever.
“I agree,” he said, his presence right at her back again. “I have always loved this room.”
“Have you read all the books?” she teased as she looked at him over her shoulder.
She expected him to wave off the idea of sitting to read for hours, but he instead looked up at the shelves. “Almost,” he said. “There are still some tomes on minute farming techniques that are slow reading, indeed.”
She spun around to face him. “You must be joking. You really read all these books? You?”
He arched a brow. “Did you believe I couldn’t read? My professors would be very cross.”
She shook her head. “Of course I thought you could read. I just never pictured a man like you as wanting to beyond a daily paper and perhaps a pamphlet on horse races.”
“A man like me,” he repeated. “What sort of ideas do you have about me, Emma Liston?”
She pressed her lips together. Now that she’d bumbled out such foolishness out loud, she didn’t want to say more. Not with him standing so close.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Yes you do. Go on, tell me.” He folded his arms, eyebrows lifted, waiting.
She huffed out her breath. “I suppose I have always seen you as a…golden child. You can do no wrong, everyone loves you, you’ve never had to work for anything. Obviously you are a decent sort or you wouldn’t have such leeway, but I admit you never struck me as a…studious person.”
“A golden child who never had to work for anything,” he repeated. “You almost couldn’t have gotten it more wrong.” He smiled, but it wasn’t like his earlier expressions at the ball. This was tight and humorless. Pained.
“I’m…sorry,” she said softly. “I do not like to be judged by others and I see that I did just that to you. It wasn’t fair.”
His expression softened a fraction and he reached out to take her hand. Neither of them wore gloves, so just like in the garden his skin brushed hers, and she barely held back a shuddering sigh of pleasure at the sensation.
“Apology accepted,” he said softly. “And I hope you’ll find I’m full of surprises the longer we know each other.”
He was leaning closer now and her heart began to pound. She felt hot and cold all at once. This was out of control.
She jerked back a step and stammered, “T-terms. We were meant to discuss terms of our agreement. What were they?”
He watched her for a beat and then nodded. “Quite right. Straight to business.” He motioned toward two chairs set toward the fire. She took one, smoothing her skirts around her reflexively as she watched him take his own.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
He glanced at her. “We’ll have to be careful, of course. Our courtship cannot seem too serious or else it will serve neither of us. But we will chat in front of others, flirtation is the name of the game.”
She shifted. “I’m afraid I’m not very well versed in flirtation.”
He leaned in. “No? Why is that?”
“I-I’ve never had need for it, I suppose. No one ever…wanted me.”
“I very much doubt that,” he said, a gravelly tone to his voice that made her toes curl in her slippers. “But flirtation is not difficult. You smile, you laugh, perhaps you make an effort to touch me.”
“Touch you?” she repeated, her errant mind flying back to their earlier kiss.
“Not intimately,” he said slowly. “I meant a touch on the arm. On the hand. While we’re talking.”
She shivered. “I can…try.”
“Touching me makes you nervous?” he asked.
She felt blood rushing to her cheeks and reached up to cover them with her cool hands. “Yes,” she admitted when it was clear he expected an answer. “Yes, it makes me nervous.”
“Why?” he asked.
She bent her head. So many inappropriate answers swirled through her mind. None of them were something she could say out loud. Not to him. God, not to anyone.
He slid forward on his chair and reached out. He touched her chin and forced her to look at him. “Are you nervous because we kissed?”
She nodded. “No one has ever…done that before. And I…I just…”
His lips pressed together and he looked displeased. Her heart leapt. Probably she had entirely mucked this up. He would think her an idiot now and walk away. That was probably for the best, despite how he believed he could help her. But for the best or not, she found she didn’t want him to reject her.
“You are so innocent,” he said softly. “So sheltered.”
She blinked as he slowly dropped to his knees on the fancy rug before the fire and inched over to her. He was so tall that even up on his knees he was even with her face as she sat in the chair. He moved in, placing one hand on either armrest, and lifted up.
Their lips were now a hair apart and she began to shake. “What are you doing?”
“Perhaps you need help in more than just garnering attention,” he whispered. “Fear is a killer, Emma. It will destroy what you want faster than any other thing. I don’t want you to be afraid of me. Of the unknown. Of…this…”
He braced up, and his lips brushed hers for the second time in just a few hours. It was less surprising to her now. She found her arms folding around his neck and her mouth opening to him. He leaned in, and she met him halfway, tangling her tongue with his as he pressed her back in the chair and kissed her like he was a starving man and she was all the food in the world.
“You’re a natural,” he groaned against her mouth. “Made for pleasure.”
She didn’t really understand what he meant, but she shivered at his words nonetheless. Pleasure—oh, there was so much of that. She ached for more in the most outrageous places. Like in her hard nipples, low in her stomach, between her legs.
He drew back and met her stare. His was wide and a bit wild. Like he was battling a beast within himself. One that wanted something she didn’t truly understand, but she found herself leaning toward him. Toward it.
She caught the back of his neck and drew him to her, brushing her lips to his. He made a harsh sound in his throat and then he devoured her, pinning her to the chair as he crushed her hard against him and spiraled her into surrender once more.