There is a stain on your soul, Reverend Whittier had said, and Matthew had wept to hear the truth spoken aloud. He wanted to be clean again, clean of the lust and fornication she'd wrapped him in. He hadn't realized the danger at the time, had been blind to her deception. He'd thought it all to do with love, and hadn't once thought of the devil. Not until he'd confessed to Reverend Whittier and seen her for what she truly was.
Even with her gone it wasn't better. Every night she came to him in shameful dreams. Every night she coaxed his body to lust. He woke each morning with the proof of his sin like a brand on his flesh.
He could not simply forget her. In order to save himself, he had to save her. She would be his wife or they were both doomed. As soon as they married he would be redeemed, and he could begin his work for the Lord. He would start with her jezebel soul and temptress body.
"God will lead me to her. Soon," he murmured as he rose from his aching knees. "And I will save her from herself."
Emma arrived at Moulter's estate at six o'clock and was dressed and ready for the party by eight. By nine she was glowing from the effects of good cards and even better champagne. Everyone around her was beginning to glow, actually, though she doubted they were drinking for the same reasons she was. Probably not one of them was attempting to drown their anxiety over Somerhart's coming seduction.
Her stomach fluttered again, and Emma took another sip. Not too much more though. She'd had trouble stifling a groan at the sight of her first bad hand.
He hadn't put in an appearance, might not even be here yet, but she knew where his room was because the maid had mentioned it quite casually as she'd unpacked Emma's clothes. Somerhart's door was directly across from Emma's, a careful arrangement undoubtedly arranged by an attentive and helpful host. A duke's mistress must be accommodated, after all.
She had no idea how she would avoid the man if he was sleeping only a few feet away from her.
Emma shook her head and placed a few coins in the pile. His presence wasn't the true problem; her own temptation was the danger. The knowledge that he was near would be far more vexing than his physical proximity.
A murmur of surprise took the whole table when Emma laid down her hand. They hadn't expected her to win, and she couldn't blame them. Her worry over Somerhart had translated as displeasure with her cards. But she couldn't rely on that kind of luck for long. She needed to concentrate. The duke was a distraction she could not afford.
Emma cleared her mind and raised her stake in the game, which was all the incentive fate needed to intervene. The next three hands went to a young lord she'd never met before, and nearly flattened her pile of coins. But Emma persevered. By the time she looked up an hour later, she was flush with coin again, and not thinking about the Duke of Somerhart.
Which was, of course, when he chose to invade her world. Her little jump of surprise at seeing him standing at the table made the other players laugh. Knowing, indulgent smiles were exchanged among the men. Even the great duke arched an eyebrow in amusement.
"Lady Denmore," he said, with a dignified nod.
"Your Grace," she growled in answer.
The laughter swelled again, though it stopped in an instant when Somerhart aimed a frown at the nearest gentlemen. Puppets, Emma thought. No wonder he was bored.
"I'm sure these gentlemen would appreciate if I offered to escort you to the dining room. They look quite pale with impoverishment, yet none will risk disgrace by calling a retreat."
"You flatter me," Emma said, though she made quick work of sneaking her feet back into her heeled slippers.
"Enjoy your refreshment," one of the men said, and the rest collapsed into renewed laughter. "Yes, do," another called.
Emma offered each man a smile as she gathered up her winnings. Somerhart circled to her chair and she was sure she could feel his body heat as he stood behind her. A flush overcame her, adding credence to everything the other guests assumed.
Hasty with self-consciousness, she tugged her reticule onto her wrist and stood in a rush, shoulder brushing along his hip. Her hand found its natural place on his arm. A faint clink sounded as her bag hit his belly.
"Ouch. I feel rather like I'm courting a pirate."
Emma let him sweep her away from the table, but she refused to laugh. "I will not be your lover," she murmured as they moved toward the door.
"I sense that only one of us is allowed to be polite at any given time. True?"
One side of her mouth refused to obey and curled up. "Perhaps."
"Well, it is my turn, I suppose. Would you like a glass of champagne?"
"Yes," she answered too quickly, but her fingers were beginning to tremble against his sleeve. She'd been thinking about him incessantly since he'd kissed her. She felt written in those thoughts, every wicked fantasy revealed on her skin. Seeing him—his lips and eyes, the flash of his teeth when he smiled—reminded her of what he'd done and what she wanted him to do.
She had to keep from snatching the glass from his hand when he finally found a servant with champagne. As it was, she couldn't bear to sip it demurely, but turned away and drank it down in three great swallows. When she turned back, Somerhart said nothing, merely removed the empty flute from her hand and handed her his own.
"You've worked up a well-deserved thirst, Lady Denmore. You must be hungry as well."
"Yes. No." She took a sip from his glass and put her hand to her throat instead of pressing it to his chest, his flat stomach. "I cannot do this." Her heart beat too hard, fueling the insane fight that had broken out inside her. Lust and.. .fear. She wasn't used to it, didn't know how to appease it. She was afraid of him, and so very, very afraid of herself.
"Lady Denmore . . ." Somerhart's hand took her elbow and pulled her toward a deep-set window that looked out over blackness. "Tell me what is wrong."