The Forbidden Lord by Sabrina Jeffries (13)

A dinner party, of all things. Jordan still couldn’t believe it. He climbed out of his coach at Ian’s town house, shaking his head at his friend’s odd behavior. Before his absence from England, Ian had kept to himself at his country estate. Jordan certainly never remembered his giving a dinner party. This sudden burst of conviviality was very uncharacteristic.

But then, so was the man’s search for a wife. Jordan had never thought to see the day when Ian would be dancing attendance on the simpering girls at marriage marts. Soon Ian would be married, and there would be no more lazy afternoons fishing at Jordan’s estate or hours spent debating politics in the Subscription Room at Brook’s. Ian would be done with all that. He’d have little need for his friends, because he’d have a wife to keep him company, to share his thoughts and life.

To keep the loneliness at bay.

The thought shook Jordan. That was one thing to be said for marriage: it meant the end of loneliness.

Or did it? His mother had been lonely, painfully so. And his father, too. Marriage didn’t always end loneliness. Sometimes, it brought about a much worse loneliness, the kind that came from living side by side with a stranger.

He sighed. Pray God Ian chose his wife carefully and found someone who wouldn’t ignore him. Jordan wouldn’t wish his parents’ sort of marriage on anyone.

The door opened as he reached the top of the marble stairs, and a footman took his greatcoat and top hat. A familiar female laugh drifted down to him from the drawing room upstairs, sparking a sudden anticipation in his belly. Was she here? Two days had passed since he’d spoken to her, though he’d seen her at several social functions. But if she were here…

How could she be? Surely Ian, with all his protective instincts, wouldn’t have invited her. Still, his palms grew clammy as the servant led him upstairs. And when he entered the drawing room to find a knot of men gathered around Emily, drinking wine and relating stories that she laughed at with feminine delight, his throat went raw.

She was here, all right, and making the men lust after her as usual. For God’s sake, why didn’t Lady Dundee do something instead of sitting there and watching Emily with fond indulgence? Did the deuced countess want Emily to be hounded by a lot of lecherous fools?

At least Emily’s gown was demure tonight, unlike that piece of scarlet seduction she’d worn to the opera. Rich folds of pale rose satin swathed her form, making her lips and cheeks look petal pink and soft. Sprigs of white orange blossoms encircled her golden hair like a fallen halo, and a strand of equally white pearls nestled between her breasts with a contented glow, drawing his envy. To rest between those soft mounds of flesh would bring contentment indeed.

“Well, if it isn’t the good earl himself,” said a cold voice. Jordan tore his gaze from the delectable image to find Pollock standing by the window, a wineglass of delicate crystal cupped in one equally delicate hand. “Welcome, Blackmore. You’re missing a fine burgundy.” Pollock held up the glass, then shifted his gaze to Emily. “And even finer company.”

Pollock? Here? Had Ian gone mad? Didn’t he realize Pollock had his eye on Emily? Oh, how he’d like to smash that dandy’s face for even daring to look at her!

By some miracle, he made himself sound nonchalant. “Good evening, Pollock. If I’d known you were here, I would’ve hurried. I wouldn’t want to miss your latest riveting account of your trip to your tailor.”

At his sarcasm, the ladies tittered, the gentlemen smirked, and Lady Dundee cast him a calculating smile. Only Emily ignored him, turning her back deliberately to him.

Pollock gestured dismissively with one manicured hand. “At least I know what the ladies want to hear. You’d bore them with stories about your precious reforms.”

“Ah, yes. Good forbid we should discuss anything important, like how to feed the poor and provide the workingman with a decent wage. We’re much better off focusing on the cut of your fancy coats.”

“Why, you—” Pollock broke off as the glass he was holding shattered in his fist. “Damn you, Blackmore! Look what you’ve made me do!”

A pall fell on the room, the other guests staring in horror, uncertain what to do, where to look. This sort of thing just wasn’t done.

Pollock grabbed at his hand, now studded with glass shards. “It’s bleeding, for God’s sake!” It was indeed, dripping down over Pollock’s other hand and onto Ian’s Moroccan carpet, the blood and burgundy mingling into a vermillion stream. “Somebody do something! Get a doctor!”

Whirling around, Emily hurried to Pollock’s side. “Let me see that.”

When he resisted at first, she caught his wrist and took out her handkerchief. “Stop it! You’ve cut an artery! Do you want to bleed to death?”

He went limp, his face turning ashen as she dragged up his lace-edged sleeve, then wound the handkerchief tightly around his forearm in a tourniquet.

Her commonsense reaction and lack of aversion to blood took Jordan by surprise, until he remembered the night he’d first met her, when she’d given Sophie some elixir and the two women had discussed her penchant for doctoring.

“Come over here,” she commanded, leading Pollock to the settee. “We must pick the glass out of it. I’m afraid you’ve got quite a nasty gash. I may have to sew it up.” She scanned the room, her eyes fixing on Ian, who was calming his guests. “Lord St. Clair, I’ll need some towels and clean rags, a bowl of hot water, a needle, and some clean thread. Ask your cook for garlic, rosemary, or mint. And bring some brandy. Mr. Pollock will need it.”

Ian called for a servant and passed on Emily’s instructions, then returned his attention to his hapless guests, who were now milling around the chair where Emily sat.

“Rosemary and garlic?” Pollock snapped, as she bent her head over his hand. “Sounds like you’re making a soup.”

“Both are good for treating wounds. I’d prefer eucalyptus,” Emily muttered, “but I doubt Lord St. Clair keeps that on hand.”

“What does a mere girl know about doctoring anyway? It’s not exactly the pastime for an earl’s daughter.”

Jordan’s blood chilled in his veins. There was a vague suspicion in Pollock’s tone. The man couldn’t possibly know anything. Still…

“Surely you’ve heard of the Scottish penchant for physic,” Jordan said. “I believe it’s common for even their women to learn such things. Isn’t that true, Lady Dundee?”

The countess raised one eyebrow. “Oh, certainly. My Emma has learned from the best doctors. You’re in safe hands with a Scot, Mr. Pollock.”

“I never heard any such thing about the Scottish,” Pollock grumbled. Emily dug out a piece of glass, and he jerked his hand. “Ouch! Are you trying to murder me?”

“I will if you don’t sit still! Would you rather we send for a doctor? Then you can bleed to death while you wait for him to arrive.”

Pollock lapsed into a resentful silence. The servant entered, bearing the items Emily had requested, and Ian tactfully offered to take the ladies on a tour of the house so they wouldn’t have to watch. The other men left with them, as did Lady Dundee. Only Jordan remained. He wasn’t about to leave Emily alone with Pollock for one minute.

“Staying to gloat over my pain?” Pollock snapped at Jordan.

“Not at all. But Lady Emma might need something else.”

“Yes, make yourself useful.” Emily’s calm, clear gaze met his for the first time all evening. She handed him a rag. “Tear that into strips, will you?”

“Don’t give that to him,” Pollock muttered peevishly. “He might put poison on it.”

Jordan bit the ragged edge with his teeth, then tore a strip loose. “I ought to poison you. The world would be better off without men foolish enough to cut themselves on wineglasses.”

“Why, you arrogant ass!” Pollock said, half-rising in his seat.

“That’s enough, both of you!” Emily jerked Pollock back down. “You’re not helping matters, Mr. Pollock.” She glared at Jordan. “Nor are you. This is all your fault, you know. If you hadn’t provoked him—”

“How was I to know he couldn’t take a joke?” Jordan said unrepentantly as he handed her the strips of rags.

She took them with a scowl. Crushing rosemary and garlic together between her fingers, she pressed the pulpy mass against the wound, then wrapped the bandage around it. “It wasn’t a joke. It was just another case of your showing contempt for anybody who doesn’t meet your high and noble standards.”

The words of rebuke brought him up short. Was that what she thought of him?

Pollock watched them both, a slow smile curling his lips. “Exactly, Lady Emma. You know the man well. He looks down on us mere mortals. And he certainly doesn’t understand men with sensitive tastes like me.” He covered her hand as she bound his wound, and his gaze drifted down to ogle her breasts. “Or women of kindness like you.”

Jealous fires seared Jordan. And when she went still, blushing to the roots of her hair, the fires flamed even higher.

Quickly, she finished binding the wound, then mumbled, “The servant forgot the brandy, and I know you must be in pain. I’ll fetch it.”

As soon as she had gone, Pollock leaned back and cast him a taunting glance. “I was wrong, after all. She’s very good at doctoring, isn’t she? She has a soft touch.”

Jordan could hardly see for the anger clouding his vision. “You stay away from her, Pollock, do you hear me? She’s not your sort.”

Pollock smiled, examining his bandaged hand with fastidious interest. “I suppose you think she’s your sort.”

“Stay away from her. That’s all.”

“I will if she will. But as you can see, the woman can’t keep her hands off me.”

“Don’t be absurd.” He added snidely, “She amuses herself by helping idiots.”

Pollock’s gaze shot to him, resentful, devious. “Really? Is that what she was doing that night she and I were together in Lady Astramont’s garden?”

The blood drained from Jordan’s face. He told himself that Pollock was lying to pay him back for making a fool of him in front of Ian’s guests. But there’d been that blush of Emily’s every time Pollock was mentioned, and what she’d told him last night about Pollock’s advances…

“You know, Emma kisses like an angel,” Pollock remarked. “And those breasts, so ripe to the touch—”

“You bastard!” Jordan reached Pollock in two strides and jerked him out of the chair. “You keep your filthy hands off her!”

Pollock smirked at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken a fancy to her. She’s more my sort than yours, you know. At least I’d marry her.”

The words were a shock of cold water in his face. At least I’d marry her. Would Pollock marry her? Even if he knew who she really was?

More importantly, would she marry Pollock? Why else would she have let the man touch her, if not to gain a rich husband?

No, he couldn’t believe that of her! He couldn’t!

He thrust Pollock away with an oath. “Get away from me, before I shove all your lies down your dirty throat!”

“Lies, eh?” Pollock said smugly as he dusted off his frock coat. “Perhaps you should ask Lady Emma what we were doing in Lady Astramont’s garden the night of the breakfast.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps you’d better not. You might not like the answer.”

With thunder in his brow, Jordan advanced on Pollock.

The scoundrel stood his ground, a cruel laugh escaping his lips. “So the man who can’t feel has finally met his match, has he? Good. I hope she breaks your frigging heart.” Then Pollock turned on his heel and walked out.

Jordan stood there, Pollock’s nasty words careening through in his brain. They were lies, nothing but lies! She wouldn’t have let Pollock put his hands on her. She wouldn’t have!

The source of his torment made the grand mistake of entering just then, bearing a bottle of brandy in her lily-white hands. She looked startled to see him alone. “Where’s Mr. Pollock? He may want this brandy for the pain.”

“Such elaborate concern for a reprobate,” he snapped. “I wonder why Mr. Pollock’s pain should disturb you so much.”

“I don’t like to see anyone hurt. At home, I always patched people up. It’s my specialty.”

“And is letting them make free with your body your specialty, too?”

She stiffened. “If you’re talking about what happened between you and me in the museum—”

“I’m talking about what happened between you and Pollock at Lady Astramont’s, deuce take it!”

The blood drained from her face. “He…he told you about that?”

No denials. No protests. Just guilt. He felt as if his guts were being wrenched out with a pitchfork. “Oh, yes, he was quite happy to boast of how he kissed and fondled you!”

“He didn’t!” She paused, confusion in her face. “I…I mean…well…it wasn’t like that—”

“So he told the truth.” The words tasted like ashes in his mouth. “And how many other men have put their hands on you?”

Her confusion faded, replaced by fury. “How dare you! It’s acceptable for you to put your hands all over me, even though you freely admit you never intend to marry. But no one else must touch me, is that it? Only you can ‘make free with my body’?”

“If you’re nurturing some foolish notion that Pollock will marry you, you’d best forget it. Once you tell him who you really are, he won’t come near you. You can lay money on that!”

“Thank you for reminding me yet again of my inferior class,” she said bitterly. “I’m good enough for you to maul, but not good enough for either of you to marry, is that it? Don’t worry, Jordan. I’ve no intention of forgetting my place—with you or with Mr. Pollock.”

It dawned on him how his words must have sounded just as she whirled on her heel and opened the door. “Now, Emily, I didn’t mean—”

But she was already walking out the door, her head held so high it was a miracle it didn’t fall off her elegant little neck. Cursing himself for being so blunt, he started after her, then spotted Ian and the others coming down the stairs from the second floor. Quickly, he ducked back into the drawing room. The last thing he wanted was to make polite conversation when jealousy raged through him like a wild bull.

He heard a servant in the hall announce that dinner was served. Then Ian said, “Why don’t all of you go down to dinner? I’ll just fetch the others.”

Jordan glanced about the room, looking for an escape. But there was none. Next thing he knew, Ian was sauntering into the room.

The viscount looked around, bewildered. “Where’s Pollock? And Lady Emma?”

“Who knows?” He couldn’t prevent the acid edge to his voice. “She’s probably off ‘comforting’ him the way only a woman can. You might try one of the bedrooms.”

Ian arched one eyebrow. “Your jealousy is showing, Jordan. You know quite well Lady Emma would never go off into a bedroom with Pollock.”

“Wouldn’t she?” He stared unseeing into the fireplace, feeling a sudden childish urge to kick at the embers. “Pollock seems to think otherwise. He implied he’d come close to having her.”

“Pollock will say whatever he can to provoke you. You know that. It’s just lies.”

“Then why didn’t she deny it?”

“You actually repeated Pollock’s words to her?”

At Ian’s incredulous tone, Jordan faced his friend. “Yes. Why not?”

“Bloody hell, have you no sense at all when it comes to respectable women?”

“No,” he growled. “If you’ll recall, I don’t usually deal with them.”

“Well, you don’t accuse a well-bred woman of being free with her affections, unless you deliberately want to insult her. And you especially don’t tell her you heard it from some idiot, then actually believed it.”

Jordan strained to remember the entirety of their conversation. “She admitted she’d been alone with him.”

“And she admitted that he’d touched her?”

“Not exactly. But she blushes every time his name is mentioned.”

“I see. And this is your evidence. I wish you could hear yourself. If any other man had told you such a tale, you would have laughed him out of countenance.” He shook his head. “Why do you care anyway? If you’ve no interest in marrying the girl, what does it matter if Pollock courts her?”

Jordan shoved his hands in his pockets. Emily had said much the same thing. “He’s no good for her. You know that. He’ll take advantage of her, then refuse to marry her.” When he finds out who she really is. “Why did you invite the bastard anyway?”

Ian hesitated before answering. “Actually, inviting Pollock was Lady Dundee’s idea. I wouldn’t have, but she insisted upon it.”

Good God. What if Lady Dundee and Lord Nesfield had some strange idea of marrying Emily off to Pollock? “What does Lady Dundee have to do with this?”

“The dinner party was her idea. She promised to press my courtship of Sophie with Nesfield. But first she wanted some idea of my potential as a husband.”

Ian’s words caught Jordan by surprise. “What do you mean? Have things advanced so far with Lady Sophie? Why, you haven’t even seen the girl in weeks!”

“That doesn’t change anything. I still have very serious intentions toward her.”

Jordan remembered what his butler had told him that morning. “I think there’s something you should be aware of, my friend. When Hargraves was asking Nesfield’s servants about Lady Emma, he discovered that Lady Sophie isn’t in town. She hasn’t been for some time. I’m not even sure she’s ill.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know?”

“Lady Dundee told me. Apparently Nesfield whisked his daughter away to the country to protect her from ‘scoundrels’ like me.” He smiled. “But the countess has decided that her brother is a fool. She says that if I prove acceptable, she’ll find a way to get around Nesfield’s objections.”

“Ah.” That made perfect sense. It was just like Nesfield to do something so dramatic, and just like Lady Dundee to do as she pleased. So Sophie’s absence apparently had nothing to do with Emily’s masquerade. Or else the countess and the marquess hadn’t wanted Sophie around mucking up things while they finished their plot.

But what was their plot?

Inviting Pollock was Lady Dundee’s idea. Devil take it, this had something to do with Pollock. Otherwise, why would Emily ever have gone near the man? And now that he thought about it, she’d spent a great deal of time with Pollock at that first ball as well.

The thought of Pollock and Emily together made his skin crawl.

“Are you all right?” Ian asked. “You’re looking pale.”

“I’m fine. Just a little hungry.”

“Then I guess we’d best go down to dinner.”

Jordan followed Ian out of the room. He was hungry, all right. Hungry to know what was going on.

At least now he had a way to make Emily tell him the truth. Oh, yes, he had a little surprise to spring on Emily once he could get her alone. And no amount of tears and begging would put him off this time.

 

Emily glanced across the dining-room table to where Jordan sat beside an attractive and decidedly well-endowed young widow. Thank heaven his attention was drawn to his companion. Perhaps the wretched woman would even convince him to leave the party early. Emily would be quite happy if she did. Truly.

“You want to scratch her eyes out, don’t you?” Mr. Pollock whispered in her ear.

A curse on Lord St. Clair for seating her next to Mr. Pollock. The daughter of an earl was not supposed to be taken in to dinner by a mere mister. Perhaps Lord St. Clair, being a bachelor, didn’t know such things. He had said this was his first time to give a dinner party. Still, Lady Dundee should have set him straight in the drawing room.

Of course, the viscount hadn’t erred in the least with the rest of the seating. Oh, no. That’s why Jordan was seated between Lady Dundee and the beautiful countess. The countess whose eyes Emily indeed wanted to scratch out, although she’d never admit it to anyone.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she blithely lied to Mr. Pollock as she concentrated on slicing a piece of roast beef.

“The merry widow sitting with Blackmore. She’s just his sort, you know.”

Emily’s hand on the knife shook. She knew only too well. The woman was perfect for him: sensuous and lush and obviously available, if one was to judge from the way she kept thrusting her ample breasts up in his face and leaning on his arm. Well, let the widow have him. Since the man only seemed to want tarts, he deserved her.

“I know we got off to a bad start,” Pollock whispered again, “but we could put all that behind us. I promise I’d do better by you than Blackmore.” He laid his bandaged hand on her thigh. “Any man who prefers common crockery to fine china is a fool.”

The scoundrel never gave up, did he? Laying her knife carefully down, she slipped her hand under the table to grab his wounded one and squeezed it just until she heard him curse under his breath. “Mr. Pollock, if you touch me again, I will smash a piece of fine china on your head. Do we understand one another?”

Lifting his hand, she dropped it in his lap, then returned to cutting her meat.

“You’re saving yourself for him, I suppose,” Pollock said in a nasty voice as he nursed his hand. “Well, he won’t marry you.”

“The last thing in the world I want is to marry Lord Blackmore.”

What a blatant lie. For days now she’d pretended to herself that she didn’t care what he thought or did, that his lack of interest in her as a prospective wife didn’t matter. And all the time, she knew she cared far too much. She wanted to ravage the face of the woman across from her, the one with the good fortune to be an attractive widow. She wanted to rail at Jordan for his coldness and his absolute control over his emotions. She wanted to hate him for believing all the nasty things Pollock had probably said about her.

But she couldn’t hate him. If this had been any other place and time, if she and he had been of equal standing and wealth, she would have risked anything to have him.

Curse him for that!

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he glanced her way, his gaze flicking first to Mr. Pollock, then to her. His jaw tightened. Then he turned his head abruptly and leaned to whisper something in the widow’s ear that made her laugh.

Emily colored, wondering what he was saying and, worse yet, doing. Was he touching the widow beneath the table as Pollock had tried to do to her? Or making an assignation to meet the woman later? Her heart constricted painfully at the thought.

It seemed an eternity before the meal was over and another eternity before she and the other women could retire to the drawing room and escape the men. How wonderful to be away from them all! If this interminable masquerade were ever over, she would never speak to one of their gender again! They were more trouble than they were worth!

Unfortunately, she had scarcely settled into a comfortable chair when yet another male appeared at her side. Everyone looked up as the footman handed her a folded handkerchief and said, “You forgot this in the dining room, madam.”

“But it’s not mine—” she began as she took it from him. Then she saw the Blackmore monogram and felt the stiff crackle of paper inside the cloth. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, it is mine. Thank you.”

She waited until everyone’s attention turned elsewhere, then carefully opened the note in her lap.

Make some excuse to leave, it said. I’ll meet you in the hall. I have something to discuss with you.

Cursing inwardly, she balled the paper up into a tiny knot. She could just imagine what he wanted to discuss. No doubt he wished to make more filthy insinuations about her and Mr. Pollock. The wretch! Did he think she was at his beck and call?

Yes, he did. And with good reason. He held the knowledge of her real identity in his hand. He could make her dance to his tune whenever he wanted, and he knew it.

She waited until Lady Dundee’s attention was diverted, then murmured to the woman nearest her that she was going to use the necessary. Thankfully, no one paid her much mind when she slipped out the door.

There he was, in the hall as he’d promised, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. Pushing away from the wall, he caught her with a look designed to strip away her defenses.

She wrapped her lace shawl protectively about her body. “What do you want?”

Gripping her arm, he led her down the hall a short distance. “We must talk. But not now. Tomorrow morning I shall come to take you riding, and you will go with me, do you understand? Find some way to leave your maid and Lady Dundee at home. You and I shall have a very long, very private chat, and you will tell me the truth at last.”

“Will I indeed? Why do you think I’ll be more likely to do that now than I was before?”

A smug smile touched his lips. “Because now I know more about what you’re up to. This has something to do with Pollock, doesn’t it? If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll tell Pollock everything I know.” His smile faded abruptly. “That ought to put an end to whatever your scheme is.”

So he’d figured that much out, had he? Or was he just guessing? She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide her trembling. “Tell him what you wish,” she bluffed. “It doesn’t matter. I shan’t go riding with you tomorrow, and I certainly shan’t tell you anything.”

His mouth thinned into a grim line. “Very well. I’ll speak with Pollock in the morning. But first I shall confront Nesfield. I know that he’s behind this. Perhaps he won’t share your nonchalance when I tell him I’m planning to reveal your identity to Pollock.”

Horror swept through her. Lord Nesfield! If he told Lord Nesfield—

“You can’t! You mustn’t!” she protested, dropping all pretense of unconcern. “Please, Jordan, don’t do this!”

“Why? Just tell me that, and you have my silence.”

She was tempted, oh so tempted to tell him everything. But that was impossible. Once she told him that this concerned Sophie, he would realize that it concerned Ian as well. He’d never stand for having his friend’s chances for happiness destroyed. He’d go to Lord Nesfield anyway, and then Nesfield would make good on his threats.

The thought made her shudder. “I-I can’t.”

“Then tomorrow I’ll pay Nesfield a visit.”

“But you promised me you’d keep silent! What kind of honorable man reneges on his promises?”

He scowled. “The kind who sees the sort of danger you’re getting yourself into. The kind who wants to protect you from the likes of Pollock and Nesfield.”

“Pollock? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re jealous of Pollock and the other men around me, so you—”

“I’m not jealous!” he bit out. But his rigid stance and angry expression belied his words. “My reasons don’t matter. Either you tell me everything, or I go to Nesfield. It’s as simple as that.” When she stared at him, frantically wondering how to change his mind, he added, “You have tonight to make your decision. But in the morning—”

“In the morning, you will ruin my life!”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t be so melodramatic. Any connection between you and Pollock would be far more ruinous to you than my mild interference.”

Mild interference? Oh, if only he knew. “It’s not…this awful thing you’re imagining, I assure you. You know I could never engage in something truly distasteful.”

“Do I? What do I really know about you? You’re adept at masquerades, and you can quote scripture when it suits you.” His gaze flickered over her body. “And you have a talent for making men want you. That’s all I know. You’ve toyed with Pollock, and God knows you’ve toyed with me. And for what? Tell me that.”

“You…you make it sound so…sordid.”

“From where I’m standing, it certainly looks that way.”

Curse him! He had a right to be suspicious, but what more could she tell him? How was she to escape this thorny mess?

Suddenly a voice called to them down the hall. “Blackmore, is that you?”

It was Lord St. Clair. She cast Jordan a pleading look.

“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word to Ian. But tomorrow, I will reveal your identity to whomever I wish.” He strolled past her toward his friend, as casually as if he’d been carrying on the most insipid conversation with her. “I was just coming to see you, Ian. Sorry, but I have to leave.”

“So early? Don’t you wish to stay for the dancing?”

“You’re having dancing? Good God, that isn’t like you.”

The viscount shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve been too long away from society.”

Jordan looked grim. “Or perhaps you’re letting certain people influence you.” When Lord St. Clair scowled at him, he added, “In any case, I can’t stay. Business and all that. You understand.”

Lord St. Clair’s gaze shot past Jordan to her. “Not really. But you’ll do exactly as you please as usual.”

Jordan glanced back at her, a taunting smile on his lips. “Good night, Lady Emma. I’ll be at your town house at ten tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

She glared at him. Forget! He knew quite well she wouldn’t forget! She would never forgive him for this—never!

Lord St. Clair showed his friend out, then came back to where she was still standing, her hands working her shawl into knots.

“Lady Emma, are you all right?” Gently, he took the corner of her shawl from her clenched fingers. “My friend seems to have distressed you.”

“Your friend always distresses me! At the moment, I’d like to see his head on a platter!”

He laughed. “A bloodthirsty sentiment for a lady.”

But I’m not a lady, she thought sourly. That’s the trouble.

Too bad she couldn’t tell him that. Donning her best Lady Emma persona, she cast him a haughty look. “We Scots are a bloodthirsty lot. And we don’t take kindly to arrogant English lords who meddle in other people’s affairs.”

“I hope he wasn’t discussing Pollock with you again.”

Her eyes widened. “Jordan told you about that? Never mind about his head on a platter! It belongs on a spike!”

“Calm down, Lady Emma. I came upon him when he was angry, and he spoke out of turn. But I defended your honor to him, I assure you, and reminded him of what an idiot Pollock is. Jordan would normally ignore the man’s lies, but he’s prone to jealousy where you’re concerned. You should be flattered: no other woman has ever succeeded in making him jealous.”

“Yes, I’m quite flattered,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “What woman wouldn’t want the attentions of a man who has no desire to marry, yet has the audacity to be jealous of every man who smiles at her?” Tears welled in her eyes, and she cursed them, turning away from Lord St. Clair to hide her face. She shouldn’t have said so much. He would guess the true nature of her feelings.

“What do you mean—‘has no desire to marry’?”

She blotted her eyes with the end of her shawl. “You know what I mean. Everyone knows about Jor—About Lord Blackmore. How he only consorts with ‘experienced’ women like that…that widowed countess, how he has a heart of stone.” Her voice sounded overwrought, yet she couldn’t calm herself. “He’s proud of his immunity to normal human emotions, for goodness sake! He boasts of it!”

Lord St. Clair was quiet a long moment. Then he laid his hand on her arm. “That’s true. But I think he boasts of it precisely because he fears those emotions. He’s not as impervious as you think.”

“Yes, he is,” she whispered, remembering his cold refusal to consider her pleas.

“Lady Emma, shall I tell you a bit about my friend? It might help you to understand his strange behavior.”

“Nothing could make me understand him!”

“All the same, come with me to my study. I think you’ll want to hear this.”

She nodded, allowing him to lead her down the hall. She might as well hear him out, though he could say nothing to change her mind. Jordan was just one of those men who were empty inside. The sooner she accepted that, the better.