The Forbidden Lord by Sabrina Jeffries (10)

Excellent, Jordan thought as the door clicked shut. As usual, his plan had worked perfectly. Thanks to Lady Dundee and her inexplicable help, it had worked more than perfectly, saving him the trouble of using an elaborate story to get Emily in here. She’d followed him without a protest.

Her acquiescence wouldn’t last, however. Already, she’d whirled toward the door. When she heard the guard lock it, her lovely eyes went big as saucers, and she rounded on him in a fury. “What do you think you’re doing! Are you insane? Tell him to unlock the door! Tell him at once!”

“Calm down. It’s not what you think. This room isn’t open to the regular museum visitors, so the door must remain locked as long as we’re in here. He’ll open it when we’re ready to leave. All we have to do is knock on it.”

“I’m ready to leave now!”

She darted for the door, but he caught her before she reached it. “You can’t go before you see this.” He gestured behind her, and with a scowl, she pivoted in that direction.

Then she froze, her mouth dropping open. “Goodness gracious.” Awe filled her face as she fixed her wide eyes on the great stone sitting atop the scarred wooden worktable before her and propped against the wall. “Why, it’s…it’s—”

“A centaur,” he finished for her. “It’s carved in what is called a metope.”

She stepped forward, and he let her go, watching as she approached the sculpture. The single panel of marble was about four feet by four feet. Its left half was covered with a dusty length of muslin, but the headless centaur on the right half was carved in such high relief that he appeared to be attempting his escape from the marble.

“It was taken from the Parthenon’s south side,” he said softly. “Incredible, isn’t it? I thought you would like it.”

“Oh, I do! It’s the best I’ve seen so far.”

Her obvious delight made him smile. Although this had merely been a ruse to lower her defenses against him, he was pleased that she appreciated the artistry that had so captivated him the first time he’d seen this piece.

“It’s from a depiction of a battle between the centaurs and the Lapith men,” he said.

“May I touch it?”

“Of course.”

She stretched her hand out over the table to press it against the centaur’s marble flanks. “So real. You can see the ribs beneath the skin, as if he were an actual creature.”

“Yes, the craftsmanship on this piece is very fine.” He went to stand beside her. “That’s why I wanted you to see it.”

While she examined the metope, he drank in the sight of her. Talk about fine craftsmanship—she was about as fine a piece of work as a man could want. Her skin rivaled the marble for smooth creaminess, and the curves apparent beneath her gown made his mouth water and his fingers itch to touch her.

Why did women always dress in those gauzy, thin materials that made one think of delicate fruit pastries with light, feathery crusts? Didn’t they know how it made a man want to tear the damned layers away to taste the silky, hot center?

And all that lace, like powdery sugar. There was white lace everywhere…dripping from the ends of her sleeves and on the scarf that draped her bodice. For God’s sake, her entire pelisse was made of the stuff. And yards of it covered the bonnet that he detested because it hid her luscious hair.

She glanced up at him, her expression still full of wonder. “Why is it locked away? It should be on display with the others.”

It took him a second to remember what she was talking about. “The metope? They’re cleaning it. After years in Elgin’s back garden, it was filthy. I imagine it’ll be some weeks before it’s put on display.”

“So why are we allowed to see it?”

“As I said before, I’m on the board of directors.”

“Oh, of course. That’s why the guard knew you.” A pleased smile touched her lips. “I can’t thank you enough for using your influence to let me have a look at such a piece of work.” She stroked the sculpture again with a gentle touch, and he felt a jolt of lust so intense he nearly groaned aloud. He wanted those fingers to touch him, to caress him. He wanted it as badly as he’d ever wanted anything.

“Here,” he said softly, taking her hand. Slowly, he unbuttoned her glove and drew it off to expose her slender fingers. “You can feel it better this way.” He pressed her hand against the marble, fervently wishing he were pressing it against something now equally as hard.

She stilled as he molded her hand to the marble. For him, the sculpture had ceased to exist. He was aware only of the delicacy of her bones, the shape of her fingers beneath his, the way her breath had quickened.

They stood there a moment, linked together, each so aware of the other that the silence in the room was deafening.

Then she slid her hand back, forcing him to drop his. She kept her gaze fixed on the sculpture as she murmured, “It’s a crime to think of this lying in the dirt. It’s so beautiful.”

He gazed down at her upturned cheeks and wistful smile, both as fragile and smooth as the marbles themselves. “Yes, beautiful,” he choked out, fighting back the urge to seize her and kiss her senseless.

God, how he wanted her. But he mustn’t scare her off before he could attend to his first priority. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to see the rest of it—the part under the cleaning cloth?”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, certainly. I…I mean, if it’s allowed.”

The eager anticipation in her face sparked a brief moment of guilt. He was planning to play a very dirty trick on her. Still, he wanted to know the truth, didn’t he?

Ignoring his conscience, he yanked off the swath of muslin and fixed his gaze on her face. He didn’t have to look at the sculpture to know what she was seeing. He’d purposely chosen this metope because of the veiled figure.

Under the cover was a headless sculpture of a Lapith man. He was apparently grasping the centaur by the mane, possibly preparing to cut off the head that nature had already worn away from the stone. The man’s body was brilliantly carved to show each muscle and rib, and draped over his arm was a splendid cloak, with every ripple and fold lovingly depicted.

Except for the cloak, however, the figure was naked from head to foot.

There was no way on earth she could ignore that. And if, as he thought, she was Emily Fairchild, her reaction would have to be dramatic.

Dramatic indeed. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. She blushed from the roots of her hair to the edge of her bodice, filling him with a quick burst of satisfaction. She was Emily—she had to be.

After a moment of stunned silence, she said in a hushed whisper, “My word, he’s magnificent.”

Magnificent? He nearly choked. “You’re not shocked?”

She shrugged. “Why should I be? I’m from Scotland, where the men wear nothing under their kilts.”

Amazement followed upon amazement. How could Emily be spouting off about kilts with such nonchalance?

When she peered closer at the carving, he actually found himself jealous. “This half of the carving seems even more to your liking than the other.”

“Of course. The man is quite well rendered.”

Well-rendered? Did she mean well-hung? “So his nakedness doesn’t bother you,” he said inanely, unable to leave that subject.

“Certainly not. The human body is nothing to be ashamed of. The Greeks knew that, even if we aren’t so wise.”

She couldn’t be so calm about this. It was unthinkable! Then his eyes narrowed when he saw her rest her hand on the table as if to support herself. Ha—she was merely pretending not to be shocked. That was it. He’d try his other trick on her. “What you’re saying is, ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return there.’ And that makes it all right.” He held his breath, waiting for her to respond to the bit of scripture.

“I suppose. What poet are you quoting? This Lord Byron everyone seems so interested in?”

Byron! She thought it was Byron? Emily Fairchild would have been familiar with such a well-known biblical passage—even if he’d had to spend hours looking for it in the Bible he never touched. But Lady Emma…

Her gaze traveled casually up the sculpture to fix directly on the man’s flaccid member, and he choked back a groan. His own member supplied the arousal the stone figure’s lacked.

Deuce take her! He could believe her lack of shock had been a pretense, and he might even believe she didn’t know the scripture he’d quoted—but there was no way Emily Fairchild would peruse a man’s privates with such curiosity.

Ian must be right. The girl was precisely who she claimed to be: Lady Emma. She was probably a distant relation of the rector’s daughter, nothing more.

He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or ecstatic. If she weren’t Emily, then he’d been right about the rector’s daughter and her purity. The young woman hadn’t been deceiving him; she was probably still tucked up in her rectory reading Bible verses. And Emily was the woman he wanted.

Or was she? He watched as Lady Emma stepped back from the sculpture to take a better look at the overall effect, and a surge of lust hit him as strongly as before. Good God, he was still attracted to the chit! Why was that, if she wasn’t his Emily?

Because she was exquisite, with a mind like a man’s and a body decidedly female. The women he met in society paled next to her. She inflamed his senses and tempted his wicked loins. And she was accessible. He needn’t be careful of her the way he’d been careful of Emily. Lady Emma was no innocent.

She sighed, a darling utterance that sent hot urges careening through his unruly body. “I suppose we’d best return to Mama before she sends the museum guard after us.” When she pivoted toward the door, he caught her arm to halt her.

“Don’t go yet, Emma,” he said softly.

“I mustn’t let Mama worry about me—”

“You weren’t so concerned about your mother at Merrington’s ball. As I recall, her wishes didn’t affect you one way or the other.”

Her gaze swung to his, full of fear and something else. Panic. What had happened to the flirtatious wanton?

As if she’d read his thoughts, she flashed him a sudden coy smile. “If Mama charges in here with half the museum guards in tow, you won’t be happy, I assure you.”

“I won’t be happy if you leave without giving me a kiss.” He tugged her toward him, his heart thudding erratically. “Just one. I went to a great deal of trouble to have the chance for it. Surely you won’t disappoint me by turning missish all of a sudden.”

He clasped her chin lightly, then rubbed his thumb over her moist lower lip, feeling her suck in an urgent breath. She wanted him, too. She pretended otherwise, but she wanted him. The desire was like a primeval force between them, going out from him and reflected back by her.

“You don’t play fair,” she whispered, her eyes wide and needy.

“I never have.” Then he brought his mouth down to meet hers.

She tried to break the kiss at once, but he clasped her head in his hands, dislodging her bonnet and sending it tumbling to the floor. Then he held her still to explore her lips. They were warm…pliant…luscious, like marzipan hot from the oven. And not nearly enough to satisfy his sudden, unbearable sweet tooth.

He pressed his tongue against her tender, adorable mouth, feeling triumphant when she opened it and moaned. Driving his tongue deeply into the velvet warmth, he reveled in the way she accepted him.

But it still wasn’t enough. After days of burning and aching for her, he wanted more, needed more. Dropping his hands to her waist, he clutched her close, melding her body to his from chest to thigh as his hands roamed freely over her ribs and waist and hips.

He kissed her long and hard, with all the hunger of a man who’d never been so reckless. She didn’t fit his usual pattern. She was a marriageable girl, but not an innocent. And she wasn’t Emily.

Still, he kissed her. And when her slender arms crept about his waist, he groaned, then backed her toward the table a few paces away. He didn’t stop to think, didn’t break the kiss. He merely set her on the table and fit himself between the thighs that parted naturally under her loose skirts.

Something otherworldly had seized him, shattering all thoughts of propriety or sense. He had to touch her all over, feast on her, stroke the legs and arms and breasts that had driven him mad.

She tore her lips from his, shock written in her face. “Wh-What are you doing?”

“Playing with fire,” he muttered, then seized her mouth again.

Fire, Emily thought as Jordan swept his large, knowing hands along her sides to her waist, then down her thighs. Yes, fire…heaps and heaps of coals bursting into flame. That’s what it felt like all over…in her breasts…in her belly…in the secret place between her legs. His mouth and hands sowed sparks all over her body, and like a fool, she gave herself up for kindling.

Surrendering to the urge to touch him in return, she threaded her fingers through the auburn hair that looked like dark flames in the midday sunlight streaming through the windows. His thick hair was soft and yielding, so different from the hard, firm hands taking liberties with her body.

God help me, she thought as he slid one of those hands beneath her skirt and glided knowing fingers up the length of her stocking to her garter, stoking more fires as he went. She should never have let him kiss her. She should never have used her saucy persona to fool him when he’d tried his blatant attempts to unmask her.

It had worked; he’d called her Emma, not Emily.

But now she was reaping the results of her foolish game. Lady Emma was wild and unruly. Lady Emma craved a man’s touch, a man’s kiss. The wicked Lady Emma had taken her over.

And with a seducer’s unerring instincts, he knew it. There was none of the reticence he’d shown to Emily Fairchild that night in the carriage; he was transgressing every boundary. One of his hands now caressed her thigh sensuously; his other rested on her waist.

Not for long, however. Drawing back, he lifted his hand to seize the lace scarf loosely knotted over her bodice. “Let’s get rid of this useless bit of fluff,” he muttered as he deftly unknotted it and tossed it aside to bare the tops of her breasts.

Her breath caught in her throat. His hot gaze was fixed on the swells pushed up by her short corset until they nearly spilled out of her gown. She ought to cover herself, but her hands inexplicably stayed tangled in his hair. Starting in the hollow at the base of her throat, he dragged his index finger slowly down between her breasts.

“Don’t…you shouldn’t…be so wicked, Jordan.”

“Wicked?” he rasped. “I’ve not been nearly wicked enough with you.” Hooking his finger beneath her bodice and chemise, he tugged the muslin down on one side. Her breast sprang free as if eager to flaunt itself for him.

Shocked at her own acquiescence, she dropped her hand to her bodice, but he caught it, imprisoning her fingers while his other hand reached for her exposed breast. His eyes met hers in a look as potent as opium and just as mesmerizing. Wordlessly, he ran his thumb over the nipple, which puckered into a tight little knot beneath his deft touch.

“Goodness…gracious,” she gasped when he stroked and teased it again. Curse the seductive wretch. It felt so…so thrilling!

She couldn’t bear looking at him, at the triumph in his face. But as her eyes drifted shut, she didn’t stop him from touching her either. The urge to experience his caresses overwhelmed her modesty as the exquisite sensations turned her knees to putty and her resolve into air.

When he took her mouth again in a searing, sensuous kiss, she rose to it, welcomed it, slid into it as if into a waking dream. She was as boneless as a sleeping cat, except that she wasn’t asleep. She was awake, and so very alive, more alive than she’d ever been in her life.

Somewhere in the swirl of wild, ungoverned excitement, she realized that his hands launched twin assaults—one freeing her other breast while his other hand inched above her garter to stroke the soft, inner skin of her upper thigh. At the intimate caress, she abandoned all pretense that she might resist. The reckless Lady Emma had completely possessed her, filling her with a fierce urge to feel his hands on her.

How could she have spent so many years in complete ignorance of what a man could do…could tempt a woman to do? She craved every glide of his fingers across her sensitized nipples, every wispy caress, every sweet, tormenting motion.

His parted lips left hers to trail openmouthed kisses over her cheeks, her closed eyelids, her temples. She couldn’t think or move or do anything but be. Her world had shrunk to this alluring exchange of intimacies. The scent of marble dust and the rough wooden table beneath her curling fingers were her only links to the physical world beyond him.

Then his mouth followed a path down the slope of one breast, and before she knew it, he was devouring it as he rolled the nipple of the other between his thumb and finger.

Goodness gracious! How wanton, how sinful!

How delightful. A moan escaped her lips as she arched back, letting him suck her breast so hard she nearly shot up off the table from the sheer pleasure of it.

“Jordan,” she whispered as she raised her hands to grip his shoulders. “My God…Jordan…this is…this is…so…so…”

“Scandalous?” he murmured against her breast.

“Heavenly!”

He drew back from her with a grin. “That’s what I adore about you,” he said as he took his hands off her long enough to remove his coat and toss it on the table, then unbutton his waistcoat. “You aren’t ashamed of a little honest pleasure.”

Somewhere in the depths of her fevered brain she registered that he shouldn’t be removing his coat. But then he caught her hands and placed them inside his waistcoat to rest against his ribs, and the urge to explore his body the way he was exploring hers became almost painful. Shamelessly wishing he would also remove his linen shirt, she felt along his sides with curious fingers, molding the muscles as she went. They were as firm as the sculpted ones of the naked figure behind her, hard and lean and very male.

When her hands reached his waist, he groaned, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his trousers. Grabbing her gloveless hand, he slid it inside. “Touch me,” he whispered, his gaze hot on her as she resisted feebly. “Touch me as you touched him.”

“H-Him?”

“The statue.” His voice was hoarse with need as he pushed her hand down to where something long and hard strained against his stockingette drawers. “The centaur.”

“I didn’t…touch him like this.”

“You might as well have,” he choked out. “You made me jealous of the damned statue, for God’s sake.”

His admission thrilled her. It was surely wrong to put her hand on his groin and certainly beneath his trousers, but she wanted to touch him very badly. Besides, looking at that statue had roused her curiosity. Timidly, she curled her fingers around him as he bade.

The hard thing leapt to life in her hands, and she let go with a gasp.

“No, don’t,” he groaned, then pushed her hand back to cup him. Her mouth went dry as his hand urged hers to stroke him. “God, yes, like that. Don’t stop.”

He thrust against her hand a couple of times, his eyes closed, his expression one of sheer need.

But when she tightened her grip on him out of curiosity to see the effect, his eyes shot open and he jerked her hand out of his trousers with a curse. “That’s too good. No more. I can’t take any more.”

His wanton gaze locked with hers as he reached for the hem of her skirt and drew it up so high it bared her legs nearly above the knees. “Your turn,” he whispered with a teasing smile that froze her breath in her throat.

What did he mean?

He showed her. Smoothing his hands up her thighs, he caressed her lightly above her garters. Then she felt his fingers open the slit in her drawers. She tried to clamp her legs together, but his body between them prevented that. “Jordan, I don’t know if you—”

The first caress made her jerk. The second made her sigh. By the third, she was aching for more, her hips writhing on the table in her attempt to get closer to his teasing fingers. “Dear heavens, Jordan…Jordan…”

“Yes, Emma?” He stroked her again, and she gasped. “Do you like that? Have I pleased you?”

“Goodness gracious—”

Whatever else she might have said was lost in the needy kiss he gave her. He fondled her devilishly, driving her to madness. She no longer cared what happened to her. She was in the arms of the man she’d dreamed feverishly about for weeks, and he was showing her what passion was all about. Everything else paled by comparison.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, flexing and unflexing as he made her twitch and wiggle. When he slid his finger inside her, she was beyond being shocked. This was what she’d been waiting for, what she wanted. It was delicious. She liked it—she loved it!

“God, how I’ve wanted to do this from the first moment I saw you,” he rasped out. “I’ve wanted to touch you, to have you in my arms like this, to be inside you, my sweet, adorable darling.”

The endearment sent a thrill coursing through her.

“I’ve thought of nothing but you since we kissed,” he said fervently, his finger driving deep inside her.

Somehow she’d grown damp inside, making it easier for him to stroke her. “And they say you have no romantic feeling,” she whispered as she clutched at his shoulders. “How wrong they are!”

He delved inside the slick passage between her legs with a particularly insolent caress. “This isn’t romantic feeling, my dear. This is desire, pure and simple. I’ve never lacked for that. Not for you.”

It took a few seconds for his words to drift through the haze of seduction, but when they did, she froze and drew back to look at him. “Wh-what did you say?”

He nuzzled her ear, his finger still thrusting inside her. “I said I’ve always wanted you. Surely you knew that.”

His words were like a cold bucket of water dumped on her head. All her rampant urges and shameful impulses died at once.

The…the lecherous wretch! She’d thought he wanted her, but he’d just wanted this! Oh, mercy, she was going to be sick. She’d been such a fool!

Frantically, she grabbed at his arms, trying to get his hands off of her.

“What the devil are you doing?!” he cried when she dragged his hands from beneath her skirts. The incredulous look on his face was exactly what she deserved for being so stupid.

“Get away from me!” she cried desperately. “I don’t want your hands on me!”

“Damn it, Emma,” he growled as he reached for her. “What nonsense is this?”

“It’s not nonsense!” She batted his hands away, then shoved free of him and leapt off the table, hurrying to the opposite end of the room. She turned her back to him. “I won’t…I can’t do this shameful thing! It’s wrong!”

As tears of mortification and anger welled in her eyes, she fumbled with her clothing, trying to straighten it, trying not to think of the things she’d let him do. And all because she’d been foolish enough to think he actually cared for her! She would have fully given herself to him if she’d thought he was in love with her.

But no, not Jordan. Not him, with his hard heart. It had been lust and nothing more. For goodness sake, it hadn’t even been for her, but for Lady Emma! And only because he thought the woman from Scotland was as experienced as those…those fancy women he spent all his time with. The bastard!

“Emma, there’s no shame in making love,” he bit out as he came up behind her.

He laid his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugged them off. “No shame for you,” she whispered. “But no matter what you think of me, I do have a reputation to uphold. And if I throw my virtue away—”

“Throw your virtue away,” he said sarcastically. “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

Horror gripped her as she swung around to face him. “You don’t mean that what we just did…that I…” She knew something of how a woman lost her virginity, but not in great detail. He’d put his fingers inside her. Was that the same as…did that mean he…“Did you take my…my virginity?” she asked, appalled by the possibility.

“What the devil! Don’t you know?”

“Of course I don’t know!” she cried in sheer frustration. “I’ve never been with a man like…like that! How would I know?”

His jaw went taut, and he looked decidedly ill. “I thought…from the way you acted in the garden, the way you kissed me…hell, from the way you acted just now, the things you allowed me to do, I thought—”

“I did those because I believed you cared about me!” she burst out, then instantly regretted the confession. “I was curious, and you were so…so—”

“Persuasive.” His voice was now under his wretched control. “Yes, I have a talent for persuasion. And I wanted you, Emma. I still want you. But that’s all there is to it. If you think that this little encounter shall result in marriage—”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” she snapped, remembering their first time in the carriage. “I’ve never seen a man so convinced that women are trying to trap him into marriage!” Rage made her reckless. “I’m not the one who dragged you in here! I’m not the one who wanted ‘one kiss’! In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve had my share of suitors since I came to London. I don’t need to trick some hapless man into marriage, Jordan!”

For a moment, he looked stunned. Then his eyes narrowed, and his tone grew icy. “You’ve said that before, Emily.”

She started to retort, then froze. She had used those exact words—the first time they’d met, in the carriage. And he’d just called her Emily, not Emma.

Her heart sank. Dear heavens, he knew. He knew because he’d made her so angry she’d forgotten her role. A thousand curses upon him! She couldn’t even take it back or invent some explanation for her words. Playing a role was beyond her at the moment, when her emotions were raw and he was standing there, his hands clenched in fury.

Panic-stricken, she darted toward the door.

“Emily, no!” he growled as he lunged toward her.

But he was too late to prevent her. Praying that the guard was still there, she pounded furiously on the door and shouted, “We’re ready to leave! You can let us out now!”

“Yes, milady,” a muffled voice answered.

Relief coursed through her at the welcome sound of a key being inserted in a lock. Then Jordan pinned her against the door so hard she could feel his arousal against her backside. “Devil take you, Emily, we have to talk,” he hissed under his breath.

She shook her head violently. “Let go of me! I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” The door shuddered beneath her fingers. “Release me or I swear I’ll scream.”

He hesitated, his breath hot and hard against her cheek. She felt the guard trying to open the door, but Jordan still had her braced against it.

“Milady, is there something blocking the door?” the guard called out through the door. “I can’t seem to move it.”

She twisted her head to glare at Jordan, daring him to attempt keeping her in there. For a long moment, he glared back, and she feared he might actually do it.

Then with a curse he stepped away, allowing her to step away from the door, too.

It swung open at once. The guard looked suspiciously from Jordan to her. “Is everything all right, milady?”

She forced her voice to be calm. “Everything’s fine, thank you.” She walked out, grateful that there was no one else in this part of the museum at the moment.

“Wait!” Jordan said behind her.

She paused, all too aware of the guard’s gaze on her. “Yes?”

“You’ve left your bonnet and glove behind, Miss Fairchild,” Jordan said acidly.

She faced him slowly, hardly able to meet his implacable gaze. He held the items out, and she took them, not even bothering to correct him. It was silly to go on pretending with him. He knew who she was now.

The enormity of that fact suddenly struck her. She couldn’t just walk away, not without making some attempt to salvage the situation. She cast the guard a pointed look. “Excuse me, sir, would you give us another moment alone?”

The guard scowled at Jordan, whose missing coat and waistcoat surely demonstrated that something had been going on in the room besides simple admiration of the arts. But if he noticed, he didn’t say anything. With a curt nod in her direction, he turned away. “All right. But I’ll be over here, miss, if you need me.”

As he moved off a few paces, she forced herself to meet Jordan’s livid gaze. “I have a favor to ask of you. I have no right to it, I know, but I’m asking you…” She swallowed, staring down at her hands. “I’m entreating you not to tell anyone your…suspicions about me.”

“They’re not suspicions anymore, Emily.”

“I realize that. But only you know the truth, and I—”

“The truth?” Stepping toward her, he lowered his voice to a hiss. “I don’t know the goddamned truth. All I know is you’re masquerading as Lady Dundee’s daughter. I don’t know why or how or—”

“And I can’t tell you.”

He glowered at her. “Why the devil not?”

She drew on her glove, then forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s…complicated. But please believe me, I have good reason for this pretense. If you reveal the truth to anyone—your friends, your servants, anyone at all—it could ruin not only my life, but the lives of several other people.” She swallowed her pride. “I’m begging you. If you care even a little for me, you’ll keep silent.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “You want me to keep silent, but you’ll give me no answers. Why are you doing this? Why be guided by Nesfield and his sister? What purpose does it serve? If you’d just tell me, I’d keep your secret!”

Yes, of course he would—except for where it concerned his good friend, Lord St. Clair. She and Lady Dundee were so close to finding out who Sophie’s lover was, that Emily couldn’t risk frightening off their most likely suspect now. Or suffering Lord Nesfield’s wrath. “I’m sorry, Jordan, I can’t tell you. It’s not my secret alone.”

“And if I refuse to keep quiet unless you tell me everything?”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them back furiously. She would not let him see her cry. She wouldn’t! “Then the first person you’ll destroy is me. Isn’t it enough that you’ve taken my…virginity? Must you take everything else?”

Remorse filled his features, and his voice gentled. “I didn’t take your virginity. Your virtue is intact.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” she said in a whisper. “But it doesn’t change anything. I still can’t tell you.”

“Devil take it, Emily! Tell me, damn you!”

She cast him a pleading glance. “Why do you care so much about this? It has nothing to do with you.” He’d given her no indication that he’d ever been interested in Sophie, so there was no point in continuing to suspect him, no matter what Lord Nesfield thought. “Keeping my secret won’t hurt you. Do you despise me so much for trying to fool you that you won’t rest until you destroy me?”

His expression was stark, drawn. “I don’t despise you, for God’s sake. I could never despise you, and I certainly don’t wish to destroy you.”

“Then keep my secret.”

“Why can’t you trust me with the truth? Haven’t I proved I care about you?”

He could say that now? After what had just happened? “Oh, yes, I heard how much you cared! ‘This isn’t romantic feeling, my dear,’” she quoted bitterly. “‘It’s desire, pure and simple.’ You desire me, that’s all.” She hugged herself, feeling the hurt slice through her again. “No, you don’t even desire me! You desire that wanton Lady Emma! Yet you want me to trust you with my entire future! How dare you?” Tears began to stream down her face, and she wiped them away furiously. “You have no right to ask that of me, you…you bastard!”

He groaned, his expression shifting from anger to guilt as he stepped forward, reaching for her.

Quickly, she backed away, stammering, “I…I have to go now. I d-dare not stay here any longer.” Turning on her heels, she hurried off.

“Please, Emily,” he bit out behind her. “Can’t we talk about this?”

She didn’t answer but kept on going, a fervent prayer tumbling from her lips as she hurried through the rooms. Dear God, don’t let him tell. If you’ll keep him from exposing me, I’ll never do anything like this again, I swear.

She only hoped God heeded the prayers of wantons.