The Forbidden Lord by Sabrina Jeffries (6)

An hour later, Emily still couldn’t decide what bothered her most. That she’d fooled Jordan by giving him precisely what he wanted—a reckless interlude with an experienced woman—or that she’d played the wanton with such ease. What sort of wicked person could do that, could lie to a man and tease him so…so scandalously?

“You’re awfully quiet, Lady Emma,” said a voice at her side. “Are you bored?”

She glanced at Mr. Pollock and, as she’d been doing all evening, said what she thought Lady Emma might say. “Of course I’m bored. You city folk are so sedate. In Scotland, we’d have been dancing jigs until dawn, but already this ball seems to be ending. I’m quite put out over it.”

The two coxcombs who flanked Mr. Pollock laughed. He smirked at her, his eyes brightened by too much punch. “Yes, and those Scottish lads are wild, aren’t they? Walking about with nothing under their kilts. I imagine their jigs are…enlightening for a young lady, shall we say?”

It was a shocking thing to say to a girl at her coming out, and he probably knew it. Tamping down on her urge to chastise him, Emily instead tapped him playfully with her closed fan. “I see you take my meaning exactly. You English should try wearing kilts sometime. It would certain liven up these affairs.”

The three men laughed raucously, and Mr. Pollock the loudest. Then he leaned toward her, his voice lowering. “Name the time and place, Lady Emma, and I shall be happy to wear a kilt for you.”

She ignored the decidedly naughty implication behind the comment. “I wouldn’t dream of dressing you in a kilt when you already have such splendid attire.”

That seemed to please him enormously, which didn’t surprise her. Mr. Pollock, for all his blond good looks and devil-may-care manner, was what Lady Dundee would surely term a dandy. His head was perched above the largest number of folds she’d ever seen in a cravat, and from the unnatural way he moved, she guessed that the starched material chafed his neck. She could suggest a soothing ointment for it, but doubted he would appreciate it. Besides, Lady Emma wouldn’t know about such matters, would she?

“I wonder what your mother would think of your interest in kilts,” Mr. Pollock murmured.

“Mama doesn’t understand me at all,” she said in a conspiratorial voice. “These days she lets herself be guided by my Uncle Randolph, and he’s a sour old fart.”

Papa would have a nervous collapse to hear her use such language, but she secretly enjoyed shocking these pompous nobles—especially since she’d never have to suffer the long-term consequences of her outrageous behavior.

Oh, she was truly becoming wicked.

Mr. Pollock seemed to like it, however. He arched one finely plucked eyebrow. “Having had my share of set-tos with your uncle, I’d have to agree.”

Her heartbeat accelerated. Could he be the one? “Really? Has he insulted you, too?”

“Warned me away from your cousin, he did.”

“What did you do about it?” she asked, holding her breath for his answer.

Just then his two friends, peeved at being ignored, made their presence known. “Pollock, Blackmore’s scowling at us again,” one of them whined. “This time I think he’s really angry.”

Curse the fools, she thought as Pollock faced them, her question forgotten.

“Ignore him,” Pollock said harshly.

“Ignore him! I can’t ignore him. I invested in his latest concern, and I need that money. I think he—” The man hesitated, casting Emily an apologetic look. “I think he has his eye on Lady Emma, and I for one shan’t stand in his way.” He grabbed his friend’s elbow. “Come on, Farley, I’m parched. Let’s have some punch.”

As the two fops left, Emily seethed. How dare Jordan scare off the other men? How would she find out who’d been courting Sophie if he frightened them all away?

Her gaze shot across the room to where Jordan stood beside a Ming vase, downing champagne and scowling at the men who’d just left her side. How she’d dearly love to crack that vase over his head! The scoundrel hadn’t danced with anyone else this evening, further rousing people’s speculations about his interest in her. He’d probably done it purposely, curse him.

Suddenly he caught her looking at him, and his scowl disappeared. With deliberate slowness, he allowed his gaze to drift down her gown as if he could see every inch of what lay beneath. He might as well have stroked her naked skin with his hand, for every place his gaze touched, her body grew all hot and tingly. When his eyes finally came back to hers, they were smoldering. Then he smiled insolently, knowingly, and to add insult to injury, lifted his glass in a mocking salute.

She snapped her gaze back to Pollock in utter mortification. The miserable wretch! When Emily Fairchild had wanted his attention, he’d thrust her away, but let a wanton like Lady Emma kiss him, and he broke out his best seduction techniques! No wonder Lord Nesfield suspected him of treachery. He was a cad! He deserved to be deceived, and oh, how she would enjoy doing it!

“Why aren’t you running off, too?” she challenged Mr. Pollock. “Aren’t you afraid of Lord Blackmore?”

“Not at all. We’re friends of a sort.” He leaned nearer, two spots of color rising in his pallid cheeks. “If you have an ounce of sense, Lady Emma, you’ll steer clear of him. He has no interest in a woman beyond the obvious. Don’t think you’ll snag him as a husband, because you won’t. He boasted to me only this evening of his granite heart. Even as lovely as you are, I doubt he’ll soften it for you. Beware of setting your cap for him.”

“Don’t worry; I find him rude, arrogant, and annoying. He doesn’t interest me at all.” A pity he kissed like the very devil and made her toes curl whenever he looked her over.

“I’m glad to hear it. I thought you might…be flattered by his attentions.”

“Not at all. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss Lord Blackmore. The subject gives me terrible indigestion.”

Mr. Pollock laughed. Then he began to describe his latest visit to his tailor, wringing a smile from her. Dear heavens, the man certainly placed great store by choosing the right clothes. She’d never met a man for whom examination of the cut of a waistcoat required at least an hour. How frivolous could one be? Emily Fairchild would have told him right out that he was wasting his life. Unfortunately, Lady Emma must pretend to find the tale enormously diverting.

A few minutes later, as Mr. Pollock was deep into his recitation of how he’d enlightened his tailor on the subject of waistcoats, she saw Lord St. Clair approaching beyond him. She mustn’t lose this opportunity to speak with the viscount in private and determine if he could have been Sophie’s love.

Waiting until Mr. Pollock paused, she said in a sugary voice, “I hate to trouble you, but would you be a darling and fetch me some punch? I’m simply parched.”

“I’d be delighted.” He gave her a gallant bow, then hurried off across the room. And none too soon, for she turned to find Lord St. Clair at her elbow.

He wasn’t classically handsome—his black brows were rather thick, his complexion a bit too dark, and his features too coarse for that. But he stood out among his pampered, perfectly coifed peers, and not only because of his great height. It was his eyes, black as sin and far too knowledgeable for a young woman’s comfort. It was hard to imagine timid little Sophie running off with him. But then, it was hard to imagine her running off with any man, so Emily supposed it could be Lord St. Clair as easily as anybody else.

The smile he gave her was genuine, if a little formal. “You seem to have acquired several admirers, Lady Emma. Every time I turn around, you’re surrounded by men.”

She wasn’t sure she’d call them men. They were more like children, with their fawning and their petty arguments about whose horse could run a faster mile down Rotten Row. It was refreshing to speak to a man with a brain.

“I’m sure I’ll fall out of fashion by the next ball,” she quipped. “From what I’ve heard, the fashionable become unfashionable with every change of the wind.”

“It does seem that way sometimes.” A servant passed with a tray of champagne glasses. He took one and handed it to her. “I heard you say you were thirsty.”

“Yes.”

She fumbled for some way to bring the subject back to Sophie, but he surprised her by addressing a completely different topic. “I’ve come to apologize for my friend’s behavior earlier. He can be…odd sometimes when it comes to women.”

His mention of Jordan made her steal a glance toward the earl, who was glowering at them both. She deliberately turned her back to him. “Odd? From what I’ve heard, he has no use for women at all except for what they can provide him in bed.”

The scandalous statement seemed to surprise him. “I see you’ve been listening to Pollock. Don’t put too much stock in what he says. He envies Blackmore.”

“So Lord Blackmore did not boast about his heart of granite?”

“I have no idea. It does sound like something he’d say. But no matter what he claims, he has the same vulnerable heart as most men. He’s merely erected a large shield around it.”

How very sad, she thought. “It sounds as if you know him well.”

“We’ve been friends since childhood, and we attended Eton together. There’s little we don’t know about each other.”

Emily fought back the urge to ask him about Jordan. Instead, she should be questioning him about Sophie. Dismissively, she remarked, “Well, I think he’s insolent and boorish.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Why? Because he mistook you for a rector’s daughter? You needn’t worry about that. I set him straight. He won’t trouble you with such nonsense anymore.”

“You don’t mean to say that he still thinks I’m this…Emily creature!”

Did she imagine his slight hesitation? “No, of course not. Your waltz seems to have disabused him of the notion.”

Thank heavens, the kiss had worked. This masquerade would be difficult enough, especially if Jordan were Lord St. Clair’s good friend.

“Actually,” the viscount went on, “I believe he’s as interested in you as he was the rector’s daughter.”

Emily’s pulse began a wild thumping. Steady, now, she cautioned her foolish heart. It’s not me that Jordan finds interesting, but that wanton creature, Lady Emma. And he’s forbidden to both of us—now more than ever.

“Well, I don’t return the interest, I assure you.” She tucked her hand in the crook of St. Clair’s elbow. “I much prefer you to him. You don’t spend the evening scowling at me.”

“I’m flattered, Lady Emma, but…” He paused.

“But what?”

“My interest lies with your cousin.”

Aha! Her flirting had finally turned up something useful. Odd that he’d announced his infatuation in such a cool manner, but Lord St. Clair didn’t seem the sort to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“Does she return your interest?” She held her breath. This masquerade might end tonight if he cooperated. It couldn’t end too soon for her.

“You mean she hasn’t mentioned me to you at all?” he said.

Oh, dear. She scrambled to rethink her tactics. “You must understand, we’ve had little chance to talk since my arrival. With this illness, she sleeps all the time and only rouses to take her medicine.”

The concern in his face seemed appropriate, though not excessive. “That sounds serious.”

“Not really,” she hastened to assure him. “I mean, it may sound serious, but I’m sure she’ll be fine after a few days’ rest.”

For a woman who’d been taught that lying was an awful sin, she’d certainly learned the art of it quickly. Obviously wickedness was as easy as it was wrong.

She was saved from more lies when Lady Dundee emerged from the crowd and bore down on them like a mother elephant thundering to the rescue of her calf. “Where have you been, you naughty girl? I told you not to stray too far!”

It took Emily a second to remember her role as willful “daughter,” but her response was quick. “I refuse to follow you about like a ninny, Mama. I intend to enjoy myself, no matter what you and Uncle Randolph intend.”

Lady Dundee whipped out her fan and worked it furiously. “The very idea! That a young girl should think of enjoyment before her elders’ wishes—what is the world coming to?” She leaned toward Lord St. Clair, her tone conspiratorial. “I do hope you’ll keep an eye on my daughter. You’ve been so very solicitous of Sophie that I know I can trust you to be a good influence on this willful creature here.”

“I’ll do my best to curb her youthful impulses,” Lord St. Clair answered, flashing Emily a sympathetic glance over the countess’s head.

Emily bit back a smile. Obviously, the countess also believed Lord St. Clair to be a likely suspect for Sophie’s love.

Mr. Pollock suddenly emerged from the crowd to join them, a glass of punch in his hand. He glanced sullenly at Lord St. Clair and the untouched champagne in her hand, then gave her the punch. “It’s the last of it, Lady Emma. I think you were right about the ball ending.”

Lady Dundee fixed her penetrating gaze on Mr. Pollock. “Of course it’s ending. I’m told Merrington’s affairs never go late. Our young ladies need their rest.”

She glanced quizzically at Emily, who gave her the barest nod to indicate that Mr. Pollock was one of her suspects. Then the countess bestowed a regal smile on both men. “So I fear we must be on our way as well. We’re attending a breakfast tomorrow.”

“Which one?” Lord St. Clair asked.

Lady Dundee snapped her fan closed. “Lady Astramont’s. Perhaps we’ll see you there?”

“If I may caution you,” Mr. Pollock offered, “Lady Astramont is terribly unfashionable. Only the most tedious people attend her affairs. I fear you’ll be bored to tears.”

“Probably,” Lady Dundee said with an impatient wave of her bejeweled fingers. “But she’s an old friend of mine. We came out at the same time. I can’t slight her by not attending her breakfast on the one occasion when I am in town.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Lord St. Clair said smoothly. “And may I express my hope that Lady Sophie will be well enough to attend also.”

“I’m afraid that’s unlikely. But she’ll be fine at home while Randolph and I take Emily to the breakfast.” She tugged on Emily’s arm. “Come, girl, you need your rest. We don’t want you falling ill, too.”

Flashing Lord St. Clair and Mr. Pollock a helpless look, Emily handed each of them a glass, then went off with her “mother.” As soon as they left the men’s hearing, she whispered, “Do you think Lord St. Clair is the one?”

“Quite possibly, but we’ll find out soon enough. Now that he knows Sophie is at home alone tomorrow, he may attempt to visit her in private. That would be a certain sign of his guilt.”

“How will you keep him from discovering she’s not there?”

“Don’t you worry about that, my dear. The servants know what to say. Besides, Randolph will contrive to be home. He’ll thwart Lord St. Clair if he attempts anything drastic.” She glanced back to where the two men were still standing. “What about Mr. Pollock? Do you suspect him as well?”

“I’m not sure. He did say something odd, however, about Uncle Ran—I-I mean, Lord Nesfield’s warning him away from Sophie.”

Lady Dundee grinned at her. “I see you’re falling into your role very well.”

Emily blushed. “I suppose. But sometimes I hate her.”

“Her?”

“Lady Emma.” They entered the foyer, and Emily glanced around to see who might be listening, but the place was empty. “I hate her for being rich and a flirt and making all the men like her.” She thought of Jordan’s change in behavior toward her tonight, and added fervently, “They wouldn’t act that way around Emily Fairchild. They wouldn’t give her a second thought.”

“Don’t be silly—they are acting that way around Emily Fairchild. This is a masquerade, not a spirit possession. Both women are you. Why, you couldn’t be Lady Emma so convincingly if her personality weren’t latent in you.” She brushed back one of Emily’s wayward curls in another of those motherly gestures Emily had come to like. “Now tell me honestly, did you hate your masquerade so very much?”

She ducked her head, almost too ashamed to answer. “No. But that’s what’s so awful. I should have hated it.”

“‘Should have.’ ‘Ought to have.’ Those are words for people without minds of their own. Thankfully, you’re not one of those.” The countess smiled and added, “There’s no shame in enjoying oneself, you know. Life is meant to be fun.”

Life is meant to be fun, Emily thought as Lady Dundee went off to request their wraps and order their carriage. No one had ever said that to her before. Her parents had spoken of fulfilling one’s duties without complaint or of giving something useful to the world. They’d even spoken of the importance of finding love. But no one had ever mentioned fun.

What a novel concept.

“Leaving already, Lady Emma?” said a smooth voice behind her.

Emily froze. Why must Jordan continue to plague her? Or was this God’s way of punishing her for daring to enjoy her masquerade?

Pasting a cool smile on her lips, she faced him. “Yes. The evening has grown tedious, I’m afraid.”

“I was hoping we could have another dance.” He lowered his voice. “Or perhaps another walk in the garden.”

His gaze caught hers, fathomless, intense…tempting. Her heart did a quick somersault. Curse him! He shouldn’t affect her like this! “Surely you have better things to do than dance with me—ladybirds to seduce, young girls to ignore, matrons to shock.”

He raised one eyebrow. “I see someone’s spreading nasty rumors about me. I wonder who it might be. Pollock? Or those pups gamboling about you all night, making fools of themselves?”

“If I didn’t know better,” she said sweetly, “I’d think you were jealous.”

A thunderous scowl darkened his face. “Not jealous—curious. Are you hiding behind those popinjays because you can’t handle more challenging company?”

“Like yours, you mean?” She fought down the butterflies that his all-seeing glances scared up. “I’m perfectly capable of handling the likes of you. I think I made that clear earlier in the garden.”

She regretted the words the instant she said them, for his body went hard, his lips curved upward in a smile, and the look on his face would have tempted a nun.

His gaze was a whisper of seduction, so clear she could swear everyone in the room could hear it. When he stepped close enough for her to smell the male scent of him, she had to stiffen every muscle to keep from backing away.

He spoke softly, huskily. “The only thing you made clear in the garden is that you and I should dance your particular variation on the waltz more often.”

Her mouth went dry. Her particular variation on the waltz would no doubt lead to his particular variation if she ever allowed him to get her alone again. And she suspected that his variation would be a great deal more naughty than hers.

Thankfully, Lady Dundee returned just then. “I don’t know what’s wrong with servants these days. I swear they can’t—Oh, hello.” She halted beside Emily, her gaze narrowing on Jordan. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, sir.”

Emily performed the introductions quickly, eager to be away from him.

“I see Lady Emma gets her looks from you.” He took Lady Dundee’s plump hand and pressed a gallant kiss to it.

Goodness gracious. Was he hinting that Emily was an impostor? Or merely paying Lady Dundee the usual facile compliments?

Whatever the case, he’d met his match in Lady Dundee. “Of course she does,” she said smoothly, as if she weren’t speaking the most blatant lie in Christendom. “The shape of her brows, the elegant nose…it all came from my line, though she resembles her father, too. The Campbell mouth, you know.”

Emily barely smothered a laugh when Jordan actually searched her features as if to confirm Lady Dundee’s words.

“I must say, Blackmore,” Lady Dundee continued, “that you’ve given the lie to what I heard about you. I was told you never flattered young women and their mamas. I was even told that you preferred a more…experienced sort of woman.”

He shook his head in mock disappointment. “All these unfounded rumors. As someone once told me, it’s not right for people to malign a man when he’s not there to defend himself.” He cast her a taunting smile. “Don’t you agree, Lady Emma?”

Dear heavens, she’d said those very words to him when they were in the carriage together!

“Besides,” he went on smugly, “I wouldn’t think of treating you and your lovely daughter so abominably, Lady Dundee. Lady Emma is the most original woman I’ve met in a long time.”

So original she’s invented, his gloating smile said. Emily pretended not to catch his meaning.

Lady Dundee evidently missed it entirely. “Yes, my daughter is quite original. All the men think so. Even before her coming out, I had to send several unsuitable young men in Scotland packing.”

Her unwitting reference to the very suitors Emily had mentioned earlier wiped the smile off Jordan’s mouth. “Did you really? I’m not surprised. Lady Emma has a talent for attracting unsuitable men.”

Lady Dundee tapped her foot with impatience. “My brother would say that you’re unsuitable, Lord Blackmore. I believe he disapproves of your politics.”

“Your brother disapproves of everything about me. But your brother is a fool.”

The blatant insult astonished Emily. She glanced at Lady Dundee, who surprised her by laughing. “Indeed he is. Always has been. How good of you to notice.”

Just then, the footman announced that their carriage had come.

Lady Dundee drew her cloak more closely about her. “A pity I can’t stay and hear more of your intriguing opinions, but we really must leave. Come, Emma.”

She headed off for the entrance, but before Emily could follow, Jordan caught her arm. Bending his head, he whispered, “We’ll continue our discussion when your protector is not around.”

Protector, not mother. She glared at him, then regretted it. Looking at him was always a mistake. A man that handsome should be locked away from virgins.

Fixing his gaze on her, he lifted her gloved hand to his lips. When he pressed a kiss to the back of it, a shock of awareness sizzled up her arm and exploded over her like Chinese fireworks.

“You and I aren’t finished,” he whispered meaningfully.

“Dear me, I’m all aquiver with anticipation,” she snapped as she jerked her hand free, then whirled away to follow Lady Dundee.

Jordan watched her go, every muscle straining to keep from rushing after her and shaking her senseless. She had to be Emily Fairchild. No matter what any of them said, she could not be this Lady Emma creature.

This alluring, infuriating, Lady Emma creature.

As Emily Fairchild, she’d tempted him with sweetness. As Lady Emma, however…What would taking her to bed be like? He imagined tracing each line and curve of her shapely limbs with his mouth, taking down her hair with its cloud of lavender scent and rubbing the gossamer strands between his fingers, filling his palms with her lovely ripe breasts—

Sweet God in heaven, he was hard again. No woman had ever made him lose control like this, and he’d made love to the best courtesans—the most famous, the most beautiful. Those women had satisfied his needs, but he’d never burned for them this intensely, not before, not after. He was sweating buckets merely thinking about having Emily’s body beneath his, her legs spread in welcome, her skin hot to the touch as she cried his name at the height of her release.

With a curse, he strode up to the footman and ordered that his carriage be brought. Devil take her lovely face and quick mind and this strange masquerade. Was she Emily or not?

She had to be Emily—no other woman had ever affected him like this. She was Emily and she was lying, and he would prove it somehow.

His carriage arrived and he leapt in, his mind already awhirl with strategies as Watkins began the short drive home. As soon as he arrived at his town house, he commanded a footman to fetch Hargraves to his study at once. When the butler entered a few minutes later, Jordan was crouched on the floor, searching through the papers piled under his desk.

“My lord?” Hargraves exclaimed, peering around the desk with alarm in his expression. “Is something amiss?”

“Didn’t I receive an invitation to the Astramont breakfast a few weeks ago?” Jordan tossed aside a gilded envelope and picked up another.

“Of course. It’s in the pile with the rest of the discards. Lady Astramont always invites you. And you always refuse. This year was no exception.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” At Hargraves’s silence, Jordan glanced up to find his butler gawking at him. “Well? Surely the flighty creature won’t mind if I accept at the last minute.”

“Mind? After she receives your acceptance, her ladyship will probably spend the intervening hours in joyful contemplation of the good chance that led you to decide to grace her home for the first time in a decade.”

Jordan laughed. Hargraves always managed to cheer him.

Hargraves cleared his throat. “Um, milord. May I ask why your lordship has decided to attend the viscountess’s affair?”

The Astramont invitation suddenly surfaced, its chicken-scratch script reminding him of how very much Lady Astramont irritated him. She was an effusive, bird-witted twit with the dullest guests imaginable.

But he would be at her breakfast. Jordan rose and brushed off his dusty hands, then threw the invitation atop his desk. “Someone I met tonight is planning to attend.” He had Ian to thank for that piece of information. “I suspect she’ll not be as glad to see me as Lady Astramont, however.” Until he discovered the truth about this Emily/Lady Emma woman, he would dog her steps, unsettling her at every opportunity.

He studied the invitation, then groaned. “Two P.M.? Whoever heard of serving breakfast at that ridiculous hour?”

“If I may interject, my lord, that isn’t unusual for these breakfast affairs.”

“I’m sure you’re right. But I can accomplish mounds of work by the time these women begin breakfast. Very well. Two P.M. it is. Send a message over in the morning.”

Now that the matter was settled, he leaned against the desk and surveyed his servant. Hargraves’s duties extended far beyond those of the average butler. It was Hargraves who’d kept an eye on Jordan’s stepsister when she’d still lived here, and Hargraves who’d found someone to protect her on her disastrous trip to New South Wales. The man also had a knack for using the servants’ gossip network to find out information useful to Jordan at Parliament and elsewhere.

“Hargraves, do you ever speak with any of Lord Nesfield’s servants?”

“No, my lord; that lot keeps pretty much to themselves. But that’s not to say I couldn’t. I believe their coachman is courting the parlormaid at Langley House, and she’s the sister of our own Mary’s husband.”

Jordan squelched a smile. “I see. And does all of that mean you could get an introduction to the Nesfield coachman if needed?”

“I believe so. Yes.”

“Good. I want you to find something out for me.”

“Certainly, milord. If the coachman will not tell me what you need to know, I’ll find another avenue.”

That was what Jordan liked about his stalwart butler—the man was determined and devious. His small frame and servile manner took everyone off their guard, and his surprising ability to drink anyone under the table had resulted in more than one valuable piece of information for Jordan. Even better, he never asked questions of his employer. He took his orders, then set out to do the job with a thorough attention to detail. The man should have been a Bow Street Runner.

But Hargraves was better than any Bow Street Runner, because his best quality was discretion. In this instance, discretion was something Jordan valued highly.

“Here’s the situation, Hargraves.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s this young woman…”