Emmeline put her hand in Alex’s, happy to be escaping such malicious women, even if it meant subjecting herself to the temptation of his embrace.
“I would enjoy dancing with you, Sir Alexander.”
His eyebrows rose, but he said nothing, only led her into the center of the hall.
As they performed the dance steps together, she watched his face, trying to make sense of this new information. She was curious about the two years of his life he’d given up, but she did not know how to raise the subject with a man so private with his true thoughts. She found herself feeling compassion for him, and it softened her. What had it been like to risk his life for his country, then give up the power and wealth to which he must have become accustomed? Had he felt the same as she had when she’d given up Clifford Roswald: lost and frightened of the future? Did men merely hide their feelings beneath bravado?
His grin turned wolfish. “Ah, you study me so thoroughly, my lady,” he murmured. “I feel quite…ravished.”
She wanted to groan. His arrogance only hid even more arrogance—and salacious thoughts. “Alex, you really should learn to control your tongue.”
He laughed outright. “Em, you can attest to how well my tongue obeys me.” He lowered his voice and leaned nearer. “And there are so many interesting places on your body it wants to delve, to taste. I want to part your thighs and—”
As she felt her face blush hotly, she was glad that the dance steps drew her to another man. But her vivid imagination expounded on Alex’s implications until she was breathless and yearning for the secrets he hinted at.
Yet Lady Boxworth’s words rose again in her mind.
When the dance brought Alex back to Emmeline’s arms, he couldn’t help staring down at her, wondering at the subtle change in her. She seemed pensive, and he wondered if it was because of the intimacies they’d shared—or the ones he’d just implied.
Or was it due to Maxwell Willoughby? He’d seen Maxwell’s hand on her arm, seen her touch him. Feeling a primitive jealousy, Alex had wanted to break off his dance with Blythe and drag Emmeline away.
So she was the next woman he’d danced with. And the only woman here he wanted to dance with.
Thankfully, Emmeline spoke before he could dwell on such a ridiculous thought.
“Alex, did you just arrive at the palace?”
“No, I’ve been here for a time. You just didn’t see me.” He saw the curiosity in her eyes, watched her bite her full lip to keep from questioning him. “I was with the Queen.”
They were swept apart again for several minutes. When they returned together, she repeated, “With the Queen?”
“My, aren’t you the curious one?”
Emmeline couldn’t help it. For a man so looked down upon by much of the nobility, he seemed to have the Queen’s attention and companionship. How did he do it? What made him so good with women, even women who knew they should not be attracted to him—like her?
Just dancing with him made most women swoon; why couldn’t Maxwell dance like this with Blythe? There must be some secret; maybe all Maxwell needed was guidance.
And who better to teach him than Alex?
A plan began to form in Emmeline’s mind, and she shivered with the daring perfection of it. Could she persuade Alex to teach Maxwell what he knew about courting women?
But how to explain her plan to Alex? She needed privacy, but not enough for him to work his magic on her.
When the dance ended, they bowed to one another.
“Alex, would you lead me to the refreshment table?”
He raised one eyebrow as he eyed her suspiciously. “You don’t wish to run from me as quickly as you can?”
“Certainly not. You must be as thirsty as I am.”
He inclined his head, then led the way through the milling crowd. At a table laden with sweets, he poured her wine from the elaborate fountain, then sipped his own as he studied her.
Emmeline knew she must be blushing. After all her attempts to get him out of Blythe’s life, how could she ask a favor? But she must—for Blythe’s sake.
“Emmeline, what is this all about?” he asked softly.
She wet her lips and forced herself to meet his gaze. “I need to speak with you…privately.”
For a moment he looked incredulous, then his eyes smoldered. “It seems our last private moment was interrupted too quickly for you.”
“N-No!” she stammered quickly. “It is…nothing like that. I need to ask a”—she lowered her voice—“a favor of you.”
Could his smug smile make her face feel any hotter? She wanted to run from him—and yet there were Maxwell and Blythe, two people she knew should be together. She stiffened and tried to meet his gaze coolly.
“It will not require much of you, Alex. Are you willing to hear me out?”
His black eyes regarded her and she stared back. He would not defeat her, she vowed to herself, warming to the challenge of besting him.
“Very well, my lady. Where do you suggest for our little…tryst?”
“It is not a tryst,” she said crossly, looking toward the high windows. “Do you know how to reach the terrace?”
He grinned and nodded, and she wondered how many secret places in Whitehall he knew about that she did not.
“Very well, I shall meet you out there in a quarter of an hour.”
“Must I wait so long?” he murmured.
She resisted the pull of his voice. “I need to speak with you, not lure the rest of the party outside for curiosity’s sake.”
He heaved a melodramatic sigh. “The minutes will drag like hours.”
“For a poet, that is a highly unoriginal phrase, Alex.”
He put a hand to his heart and leaned over her. “You wound me, Lady Emmeline.”
She backed away. “You’ll meet me, then?”
“Of course. How could I resist?”
“Resist your baser impulses, sir, and think only to listen to my request.”
He caught her hand before she could escape. “My baser impulses control me when I’m with you, Em.”
She could confess to the same sin. She pulled away, trying not to remember the way he’d kissed her, held her, and stroked her. “Fifteen minutes,” she whispered, and let the crowd swallow her.
To calm her wayward thoughts, she spent the next few moments discovering Blythe’s whereabouts, and then her father’s. Neither was looking for her.
She began to walk the length of the chamber, staying near the wall. She wandered through archways and back, hoping to confuse anyone who might see her. Finally, with a last look over her shoulder, she slipped behind a marble column, then out the open doors to the terrace.
The night was overcast and dark, and a slight breeze made bumps stand up along Emmeline’s arms. There were torches lit near the palace and guards on duty at the doors, but farther out into the gardens, where the ground dropped away into the next level of terrace, it looked like the end of the earth.
She didn’t see Alex. She had not thought of an exact place to meet him, and she now realized she could wander the grounds for days before they found one another.
She walked out toward the stone balustrade, hugging herself against the chill, wondering if she was acting stupidly. Should she have just invited him to the manor and met him in broad daylight? Before her doubts could escalate, he seemed to materialize out of the gloom at her side, his midnight velvet garments concealing him.
She gave a little start of surprise, then sagged against the balustrade with a sigh.
“Expecting someone else?” he asked calmly.
She felt foolish and far too daring than could be good for her. She almost said he might be as good at spying as his brother, but she restrained herself. He had confided none of this to her, and she didn’t want to offend him just when she needed something from him.
“I didn’t hear you coming, Alex. But thank you for doing so.”
“How could I resist when asked so mysteriously?”
He stood too close at her side, and rather than move nervously away, she looked out into the darkness.
She should just ask him the favor; but how to sway him? She could not tell him Maxwell needed help to court Blythe, because surely he would see that as a challenge. She heard him chuckle.
“My lady, did you just need a companion tonight? We could have found a place where even the guards wouldn’t find us.”
She ignored his implication and decided to charge right in. “Alex, Lord Willoughby needs our help.”
Whatever Alex had expected her to say, it wasn’t that. “What has he done, gambled away all his money?”
She waved a hand. “Nothing so foolish. He needs a different kind of help, something more…personal.”
He didn’t like the dark sensation that wound through his gut and made him want to bash in Willoughby’s face. Emmeline betrayed her fondness for the boy with every smile, and Alex couldn’t explain why it bothered him so.
“I know I’m gifted at agriculture, but I can’t grow his grapes for him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She laughed, then quickly covered her mouth. “Oh, no, ’tis something else. Have you noticed how uneasy Maxwell is with young ladies?”
“He is rather clumsy in his speech. I thought the ladies found that endearing.”
“But it bothers Maxwell, and I fear he’s quite given up on the idea of courting an appropriate young lady.”
Appropriate? What the hell did that mean? Did she think Willoughby wasn’t moving fast enough for her? Hellfire, it was enough to make him want to shake her—or hold her tight and prove with his mouth that Willoughby wasn’t right for her.
“So if he puts his tail between his legs and hies off for Sussex, what does it matter to me?”
Her face was a pale smudge in the darkness. “Alex, do be civil. You—you’re very good at charming the ladies. You know what to say, what to do.” She took a deep breath. “Do you think you could tutor Maxwell? His shyness would disappear if he but knew what to say, what was expected of him.”
He could only stare at her in astonishment. She wanted her newest suitor trained? By him? Were there only parts of Alex she tolerated, and these she would graft onto Willoughby and make a new man of him?
His brain was muddled, his chest constricted, and he felt a violent need to slam his fist against the stone balustrade. Never had a woman made him feel so at a loss, so desperate to make her see reason.
All of a sudden he saw himself clearly, and was appalled. Why was he so upset? He could find a way to use this to his advantage, to make Emmeline see that Willoughby would never be the right man for her.
She stepped closer and looked up at him. “Will you do it, Alex?”
“I’m not sure I can, my lady. Such skills might be something a man is born with. No one needed to teach me.” He dropped his voice lower, knowing it made her come even nearer.
“But surely you can try?” she pleaded prettily, even putting a hand on his arm.
She should be the one giving lessons, he thought.
All for that fool Willoughby.
He knew in that moment what he would do. “You would need to help me.”
A little frown creased her forehead. “But I know nothing of such things.”
“Without you, I won’t have the first idea of what to teach him. You must be with us every moment, guiding us with your common sense.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t possibly journey to your lodgings. My presence might be misinterpreted.”
“Then Willoughby and I could come to you. Is there a private room where we could work?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then that is settled. Now, I am to teach him what, exactly?”
“What to say to young ladies, how to—to—flirt with them.” She blurted out the last part quickly, and he knew her blush must be scarlet by now.
“Flirt? I never think of calling it that. I pay women the respect they deserve, treat them the way they want to be treated.”
“Well, that might be going too far, Alex.”
“Really? Then you do not like things like this?” He caught her hand and brought it up to his mouth, letting his lips learn the smooth feel of her skin. When he didn’t release her quickly, he felt a slight tremor run through her hand.
“I—I’m sure other ladies enjoy…such things.”
Still holding her hand, he glanced up at her. “Does Maxwell do this?”
“No.”
“Ah, then this is a skill I can teach.”
“Yes, I guess so. Now that you grasp the idea, let us go back inside.”
“Wait, my lady, I’m not sure what else I can teach him. What about…this?”
He caught her arms and drew her forward to where he leaned on the balustrade. Her full skirts pressed into his legs, and with just a little more pressure, he would feel her hips against his. But there was time for that yet. He leaned down toward her, hearing the catch in her breathing, feeling her hands clutch the fabric covering his chest. Her lips glistened, and it was only through sheer willpower that he turned his head and pressed his mouth to her neck. God, he wanted her, needed her in his bed, and his frustrated desire was maddening.
Her gasp sounded loud in his ear. “Surely this is going too far,” she whispered.
He trailed his lips to the edge of the ruff at her throat, then back up. His tongue traced the shell of her ear and she shivered. “But ’tis effective, is it not?”
“But…but it’s not what a gentleman would do,” she answered breathlessly.
“But it’s what a man would do.” He lifted his head and looked down into her eyes, feeling her breath against his mouth, wanting desperately to kiss her. “Very well, so that’s not what I’m supposed to teach him. What do you wish of me?”
Her eyes were dazed, and he could almost see her try to rally her thoughts. He wanted to gloat in triumph, to tell her that Willoughby would never make her feel this way. But he would bide his time.
“You’re supposed to teach him what to say to a lady,” she finally answered, her gaze on his mouth, “how to amuse her.”
“Ah. I know quite well how to amuse a lady.”
He waited, allowing her imagination to expand on his words.