And Emma couldn't help but laugh in agreement.
Hart knocked on the gleaming black side of the carriage, one foot still on the street. "Your direction," he snapped toward Lady Denmore's shadow as she arranged herself inside. There was a definite pause before she answered.
"Belgrave."
Hart did not sigh his impatience, because dukes did not do such a thing, but a very sighlike sound emerged from his lips. "Where in Belgrave?"
A longer pause. "Marlborough Road. Number Twenty-three."
He stared at the pale smudge of her face in the dim confines of the carriage. Marlborough Road. Not quite Belgrave then. More like Chelsea, or just at the edge of it. Hart had been telling himself quite forcefully that he needn't accompany her, that he should send her on her way and have his driver fetch him afterward.
If he left with her it would fuel the gossip about them to a fever pitch, add permanence to her fledging notoriety, and revive the old talk about him. Talk he'd been trying to forget for years. And Lady Denmore would either torture him further or tempt him into going forward with these impetuous thoughts of seduction.
But she lived in Chelsea, for God's sake. The edge of respectability. Not precisely a safe place to simply drop a woman at her doorstep and wish her well. It seemed he had no choice.
Hart gave the street and house number to his driver, then stepped up to his doom. The carriage rocked with his weight, reminding him that the sturdy boat of his life was about to be swallowed by rough waters. Breath escaped his lips in a definite, undeniable sigh.
As his eyes adjusted to the lamplight, he could make out her gloved hands folded against her black cloak, and the dark line of her eyebrows against pale skin. Those eyebrows arched with some scathing emotion.
Hart braced himself for an attack but none came, and he slowly settled into the strange feeling of being closed up with a woman he didn't know how to handle. She irritated him to no end and prodded the beast he'd kept contained for so long. It had once roamed free, and she reminded it, revived it to its former hunger.
Just the memory of her ankles aroused him, and those ankles were right there, resting mere inches from his own. Hart could reach down and ease her slippered foot up, rest it between his knees. He could explore the delicate puzzle of bone and muscle, then glide up until his hand rose over her firm, warm calf. She had strength in her legs, the muscles of a country girl who'd explored hills and marsh and forest. Her calf would be relaxed, but her thigh . . . Oh, her thigh would tense under his touch. Her muscles would clench and strain as he stroked. They would tremble. He wanted them to tremble.
His fingers curled into his palms.
This was not how he chose a mistress. Not anymore. He did not pick a woman because of her ankles. He chose women who were easy. Simple. Women who volunteered for seduction and wanted him enough to keep their mouths closed about it. Hart dictated the terms, and forced the woman to voice her agreement before he would arrange a meeting. It was all business until he got to the bedroom, and even then . . . even then he was composed and . . . and .. .
"You did surprise me," Lady Denmore said in a rush, as if she could not resist speaking.
Hart blinked and felt himself settle back into his body. His new body. The one that didn't explore sordid fantasies with every desirable woman. "Pardon?"
"Your suggestion that we indulge ourselves. It shocked me. Your reputation is . . ." She raised both hands slightly. "Confusing."
Hart leaned into the cushions at his back. He let his gaze fall to her skirts, thinking of those damned ankles again.
"You are a rake. You do not fall in love, do not even pretend affection toward your lovers. You simply engage in affairs. Everyone knows this. I know it. But. . ." Her hands rose again, hovered. "You were worse than a rake in your youth. A reprobate. You attended parties . . ." Her breath jumped in her throat.
Hart thought of Lady Denmore at one of those gatherings . . . but she would be with him, only with him.
"You were notorious, Somerhart, but you have changed. A circumspect duke with a heart of ice, a study in control. But still a rake. How can that be?"
His distraction vanished and Hart felt a brush of panic over his nerves. He didn't like this, didn't like her looking at him with such focus. "Your confusion is easily dispelled. I am not a rake."
"But you were."
"I never seduced virgins, never lied to get into a woman's bed. I—"
"You had Mrs. Charlotte Brown and her sister-in-law in your bed at the same time!
"I was hardly past my nineteenth birthday," he snapped, flushing almost immediately at the ridiculousness of his own words. He felt stupid. She made him feel stupid and he had sacrificed for years so he wouldn't have to face that feeling again. Her ankles could go to hell.
She wasn't even beautiful, merely pretty. Unremark-able except for those wicked eyes and that midnight voice. And the delicate pink toes and tensing thighs.
Lady Denmore made a thoughtful sound and pressed on. "There was—"
"Why did you accept my offer of a ride?" Hart ground out. "You clearly don't enjoy my company any more than you say I enjoy yours. Perhaps you are the glutton for punishment."
Her husky laugh enveloped him. "Perhaps I am. But you are an attractive man, Somerhart, and so very cool and arrogant. I admit I enjoy needling you. And I daresay you need it. No one else seems willing to try."