Oh, she had no doubt that he would help her. Men were always willing to help young women who had fallen on hard times. She'd met many of those women in her father's home.
And how easy it was to imagine being Somerhart's lover, being kept by him in a beautiful home. She could live a glorious, disreputable life, bright with laughter and wicked nights. She could set aside all these dark worries and live like a woman.
But a lover wasn't a wife, and the march of years would find her with a new protector and another and then, perhaps, a handful of less affluent gentlemen. And soon enough, she'd be older, less desirable, a doxy trotted into country parties to take on any guest who cared to bend her over the nearest chair.
No, she had no illusions about what life held for an impoverished young gentlewoman. Whore or wife, and she would be damned if she'd become her mother. Whore or wife. Emma chose neither.
She blew out the lamp and snapped back the layers of bedclothes.
Somerhart was trying to seduce her and, oh, he was good. Better than she'd thought he could be. But his charm was a delicate thing. Emma would break it like glass and watch the pieces fall.
There were no dreams of the Duke of Somerhart that night. Instead she dreamed of Will, her brother. His warm hands always creased with dirt. His infectious, chortling laugh. His stubborn jaw. She dreamed of him hugging her tight, wrapping his small legs around her waist as he clutched her neck. Even after he'd grown too old for clinging, he'd still held on that way after a bad dream.
Oh, God . . . his tangled brown curls and bright hazel eyes. His angry pout.
She could not reconcile it. Could not. How his little body—always hot and grimy from running, jumping, climbing, always restless—how could it get so cold? His pink cheeks turned to wax. The sweet, sticky fingers stiffened to wood.
It had seemed to her as if that body had not had anything to do with Will. And, God, she'd been so sure that a mistake had been made. It hadn't been him, not Will.
And yet it had.
Emma woke with deep red crescents gouged into her palms. Her pillowcase was stiff with salt, but her throat burned with fury and renewed determination.
She was not weak enough to need rescue. She would rescue herself.
Chapter 6
Unbelievable. He'd been looking for the woman all morning and now this.
He'd spent the previous evening on his best behavior, doing his best to relax her stiffened back to a more sultry line, and he'd had a surprisingly nice time. He'd enjoyed watching her eyes lose their suspicion of him, watching her cheeks glow with laughter. He'd even enjoyed the thought of her wondering why he had stopped his pursuit. But he'd still spent the night with thoughts of her body instead of the real thing. And now this.
She had eaten little the night before. Hart had expected to pile her plate high with breakfast this morning and tease her about it while she ate. But he'd lingered in the breakfast room for over an hour, conscious all the time of what he was doing, and she'd never come down. A maid had returned from her room with a little shake of her capped head, so Hart knew she wasn't there. And it was too damned cold for a ride.
It had been a short-lived mystery though. Hart had found Lady Denmore just where he should have looked first. . . in one of the gaming rooms. He had forgotten for a moment that she wasn't a respectable young widow at all. He was reminded now, and beginning to think that she wasn't out to trick one unlucky man into turning over his fortune . . . she wanted the fortunes of many.
"Ho!" several of the young men cried at once. "Another drink!"
"Lady Denmore," one gentleman chuckled as the woman in question turned a wine bottle up to her lips, "you are a regular bounder." Hart glared from the doorway, trying to place the young pup's name.
"That's another twenty-five pounds, gentlemen." She gestured to a pile of paper and coins. "In you go."
The men paid up, and th
en one of them retrieved a heavy leather ball from the corner as Lady Denmore reset five wine bottles in a triangular pattern on the floor. Hart felt fury rise up through his chest at the two players lounging against the fireplace, eyes roving over her backside as she worked. They spoke in quiet whispers to each other, then toasted their opinions and drank.
The young man with the ball—Mr. Richard Jones, Hart's brain finally supplied—asked for luck, and Lady Denmore complied by pressing a kiss to the brown leather. All the men in the room watched her mouth as it lingered over the skin.
"Now that's good luck," someone murmured, and then the ball was rolling across the carpet. Three of the empty bottles fell before it, but they toppled into each other and two of them broke with a crack. The room cheered, everyone drank, and Richard Jones tossed several coins into the middle pile.
"Time to play for the pot," she called with a gesture toward the middle of the table. "Most bottles knocked over wins, but if you break one, you're out. Agreed?"
The men were still in evening wear. They'd clearly not been to bed yet. Emma stood out like a rose in a field of rocks. She wore a simple morning gown of dusky pink muslin that dipped in a low scoop over her bosom. Little white blooms were woven into her braided chignon. She looked fresh and lovely as a flower, and just as likely to be plucked.
The two men near the fireplace—Lord Marsh and some portly fellow—moved in for this final round of play. They were heavy with drink and exhaustion, and crowded too close to Lady Denmore. Not that she seemed to mind. She smiled and sipped from her wine. Marsh leaned over her, eyes devouring her pale skin as he whispered into her ear. She blushed and laughed and shook her head, but her eyes were on the man pitching the ball. One of the bottles cracked open and Emma's smile stretched wider. That was when Marsh's hand touched her hip.
The door hit the wall with a loud bang that snapped everyone in the room to attention. Marsh swayed, blinking owlishly, but when his eyes found Somerhart standing in the doorway, he swayed well away from Lady Denmore and her enticing hips.
"Your Grace," the lady murmured, and all the men in the room followed suit. "Are you up for a rousing game of pins this fine morning?"