"No," she whispered.
"I would have offered more. I still will, Emma, since you haven't been sullied up yet. Will two thousand be sufficient? I consider it quite generous."
"I did not mean to follow through."
Her chin trembled a little and the sight of it brought him joy. "Ah, so you are not a whore, just a cheat."
"Yes." Her trembling chin rose, trying to look proud.
"Why did you come here, straight to the lion's den?"
Emma took another step and her back was against the paneled door. He wanted to press her hard against it.
"I wanted to apologize to you, for causing you any embarrassment."
"Liar."
"I. . . I knew you would . . ."
"You think you've injured me, and you feel guilty, and you want me to make you pay."
"Ridiculous," she hissed.
"And then you will leave here feeling better, and telling yourself you owe me nothing."
"You are drunk and irrational. I needn't listen to this."
"Wonderful. I'm through talking."
She was drawing herself up to argue when Hart shot his arm out and wrapped a hand around the back of her neck.
"Oh!"
Her body stumbled into his when he tugged her forward. Hart tightened his hold and pressed his mouth to her temple. "Marsh," he growled into her ear, "a worthless piece of rubbish."
"Hart—"
"Shut that lovely mouth, Emma. Or I will shut it for you." Her teeth clicked together. "Good girl."
He reached behind her to open the door, then edged her out into the hallway. Morton was nowhere to be seen, but Hart knew he was close. "Have wine sent to my chambers," he snapped and was rewarded with the quick appearance of a bowing footman.
Emma jerked from his grasp, but she did not fly toward the door. Instead she followed the sweep of his hand and moved regally toward the staircase. She stepped carefully up, calmly toward the second floor. Toward his bed.
Hart's cock, already swelling, stiffened to heavy attention. She would be his now. Regardless of what she'd offered that disgusting bastard, she would belong to Hart. Only to him.
This could only make it worse, could only make her betrayal more painful, more personal, but he did not care in the least. He wanted her as he'd never wanted any woman. In his youth he'd had the women he'd wanted, had them every which way. And later . . . well, later he'd never wanted like this, because he'd never let himself.
But now the sight of her trussed waist and swaying hips moved him. His heart, that heart rumored to be made of ice, shifted with each of her steps. It lurched at the thought of her spread naked on his bed, trying to appease his anger with her body. She could not make it better, but she could damn well try.
And she wanted it like this, he knew it. She wanted him angry and demanding, so she could tell herself that she'd been overwhelmed. But Hart had no intention of absolving her of responsibility. She would ask for what she wanted, or he would not oblige.
Emma had reached the top of the staircase and now she stood, uncertain and suddenly younger. Hart took her arm and walked her to the set of carved doors that led to his chambers. The footman was close behind with the tray, so Hart simply led her through the door and stopped her in the middle of the room.
When the door closed, he offered a glass of wine, and wasn't the least bit surprised when she finished it in four gulps. "Another?"
"Yes."
"Trying to catch up? I warn you that I've three hours on you."