"No, no. Denmore had become garden-mad in his old age. He had no time for hunting or balls. He had ceased to even write letters." Osbourne's bushy eyebrows lowered. "I cannot imagine his interest in a young girl like Emma, but duty comes along with the title, I suppose. Still, they must have got on well. She knew all the old stories about me— some I wish she hadn't, I can tell you that." His chuckle turned to a sigh. "She speaks of him with great affection."
"Of course."
Something of his doubt must have cooled Hart's voice, because Osbourne turned to glare at him. "I daresay she knew him even better than I, and she'd only spent a year or so in his house. She's a fine woman and she was clearly a fine wife. A bit wild for games of chance, but that's the extent of it. A good girl."
"I didn't mean to imply otherwise. She seems quite lovely."
"Hmph."
"How is your arm?"
"Damned thing aches like the devil, but I can't let on. Lady Osbourne is not pleased."
"Well, you seem to be good at charming her out of these piques."
Osbourne flashed a reprobate's smile. "That I am, young man. That I am."
Emma left the table abruptly, startling the other players. She still had twenty pounds in the pot, after all. But better twenty than two hundred. Her thoughts would not bend to her demands and kept careening away from the game to a certain black-haired gentleman.
Glancing about the hallway to be sure he'd gone, Emma hurried toward the music room. She hadn't been prepared for him, not up close. She knew now why she'd thought him an angel that night. He was beauty and power and mystery. Those ice-blue eyes framed by black lashes. That lush mouth and careful control. And he was tall, just as she'd remembered, tall and impossibly elegant.
He hadn't remembered her, and she should have felt relieved, not nervous. But he'd flirted with her. And she'd flirted back.
Unwise and reckless as ever. She thought she'd learned her lesson.
The music room was crowded with women, and Emma had to weave her way through the door. But the suffocating heat proved bearable when she heard the name she'd hoped to hear.
Somerhart. She felt an urgent need to know something about this man and, as luck would have it, the whole party seemed abuzz with excitement at the duke's appearance.
Emma had heard things about the famous duke. Winter-hart, they called him. Or Hartless. But she'd never paid attention, not realizing she knew him. And now . . . now the things she heard were like a veil of sadness over the fantasy she'd once created.
Oh, she had woven quite a hero out of their brief meeting. Yes, he had been at her father's house, a place well known for its unsavory assemblies, but he had left after their encounter. Emma had hounded the housekeeper for information and learned little—just that a man had left Denmore that very night after having words with her father. So she had excused his presence there. He'd likely had no idea what kind of party it was and, upon learning, had confronted her father. Perhaps he'd even threatened violence before leaving in outraged shock.
It hadn't seemed a fantasy at all when she'd imagined it ten years before. It had seemed definite. The actual scenario. He might have even thought of coming back to check on her, to save her from her life.
But. . . no. No, of course not. The man was pretty, but he was no angel and never had been. The easy gossip confirmed that. Emma plucked bits of it like low-hanging fruit as she strolled through the crowd. Cold. Cruel. Ruthless.
And lower voices whispered other words, tales of his past that did not match his present. Decadent and wicked. Shameless and insatiable.
He was no pillar of morality, no upstanding gentleman. It seemed he had attended many scandalous gatherings like that in his youth, though he was more circumspect now. Quieter about his pleasures, but still in pursuit of them. He was a reprobate, just like her father, so why had he bothered with defending a little girl?
"He must be sans lover," Emma heard Lady Sherbourne whisper to a friend. "He only ever makes an appearance to troll for a new bedmate." The woman spoke derisively, not noticing the way the other lady perked up at the words. "No doubt that Caroline White displeased him with her indiscreet prattle. You know why he despises indiscretion, of course."
The other woman nodded thoughtfully, then turned keen eyes on Lady Sherbourne. "Did you ever actually see the letters?"
Emma leaned closer to hear the friend's reply. Her efforts failed. She caught only the word "shameful."
Was he looking for a woman to warm his ducal bed? He had flirted with her, watched her. Emma felt a swarm of sparks float up from her belly, heating her chest and setting off a buzzing in her head.
The thought of his bed excited her, though she tried to feel nothing but disgust. She hated the burst of anticipation she suffered at the thought of danger, of risk. Her father's blood, she knew. And if she indulged it, she'd no doubt follow in his path—always compelled to search out that next adventure, that next conquest, till her soul suffocated beneath a sticky film of debauchery.
She would not accept her fath
er's inheritance. She would not be a whore to pleasure.
Jaw set, she worked her way back through the crowd and toward the card room, ignoring more talk of Somerhart and titters about some scandalous sister of his.
She could not afford to become distracted. She had only weeks to finish her work and leave town. Right now she was risking little. The Osbournes had accepted her with unexpected warmth; their approval went a long way toward paving her way through society. But soon the ton would begin their slow return to town.