The Wicked Wallflower (13 page)

“Can I borrow a few of your wedding bands?” he asked with his most charming grin. “I know you must have at least half a dozen.”

“Lord save us all from your sense of humor. There, over on the dressing table,” Agatha said. “Put them to good use.”

Happily ever after

In the library

This was no longer just a game. It wasn't just a song or just a kiss. Emma didn't recognize herself anymore. For she had quite easily slipped into being a girl who kissed a duke behind a tree in the garden, sang duets with him in the Music Room, and otherwise forgot about the man she'd loved for three seasons now.

She sought refuge in the library, a long room with windows overlooking the lawn, dark bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling, sparkling chandeliers, and roaring fireplaces at either end. Alcoves were built into the shelf-­lined walls, providing shadowed and intimate nooks.

Emma's pace slowed when she entered, wide-­eyed with wonder at all the leather-­bound volumes, taking in the familiar scent of books and the comforting silence of a library. Until this moment she fancied winning the games as a way to obtain the funds she needed to marry Benedict with their families' blessings. Now she fiercely wanted to win for this room alone.

She imagined hours, days, weeks, a lifetime here with Benedict. He would love this room as much as she. He would forgive her for the deception required to gain this room of wonders. They would be
happy
here.

Almost.

Her vision came with a prick to her conscience. This was Blake's
home
. It was clear by the easy way he strolled through the rooms, the corridors, and the gardens. As if he belonged. He had a story for every room, right down to the scratches on the banister.

“What are you looking for?” Blake's low voice rent through the silence. Emma gasped and spun around, not having heard him enter.

“Happily-­ever-­after. Do you know where the novels are shelved?”

“Not a clue,” Blake replied, leaning against a bookshelf. He looked so bloody perfect. A duke in his palatial home, at ease in his fine, fitted clothing. His hair disheveled
just so.
His smile was ever so slight, but ever so effective at making her heart skip a beat.

How vexing.

“Do you not read?” she inquired. He scowled mightily at her, and she needed that normalcy. She was beginning to fear that her heart would never return to its regular pace again. Somewhere, between love at first sight and the sound of music, things had
changed
between them.

Kisses were dangerous. She'd had no idea.

“Of course I
read
, Emily,” he retorted, and it was her turn to scowl at him. “I just prefer to live my life rather than read about it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, already disliking his response.

“I could read about sword-­fighting. Or I could actually sword fight,” Blake stated. “I could read about Brighton, or I could just go there. I could read erotic literature or I could—­”

“Your point is made,
Duke
. Easy for a man to say,” she replied. “As a woman, I'm afraid my options are far more limited. So many experiences are only available to me in books.”

“You just think they are,” he replied, still leaning against the bookshelf.

“I'm certain my attempts at sword-­fighting would be frowned upon,” she said.

“You are far too concerned about what ­people think about you, Emma.”

“Easy for a duke to say. You would care if you were a young woman named one of London's Least Likely,” she said strongly. “You can afford not to care because you are a man, a high-­ranking one at that. Plus you are charming, well-­liked, handsome, intelligent and—­”

“You think I'm handsome?” Blake asked with a lift of his brow.

“We both know you are and it's not a matter of opinion,” she retorted. “But the point is, when ­people hold a favorable opinion, it's easier to—­”

“You think I'm charming,” he said, strolling toward her with a grin on his face and a swagger in his step.

“And yet I am not charmed by you,” Emma mused.

“Are you saying that you are London's Least Likely to fall for me?” Blake asked, towering over her. She stepped back until the bookshelves dug into her back. Blake placed one hand on either side of her, effectively boxing her in.

“That is exactly what I am saying,” she said. He was so arrogant. He set her nerves on edge. He played with her affections and her very grasp on reality. He made her heart race, and he made her crave kisses that drove her to dizzying heights of pleasure. With a gaze from his darkened eyes, he made her dare to believe that she was desirable.

“And yet some say I am a master of seduction,” Blake replied in a low voice that sent a shiver shimmying up and down her spine.

“And yet here I am, hardly seduced,” Emma replied.
Breathlessly
. Dammit.

“We can fix that,” Blake murmured, tracing a fingertip along the edge of her bodice and along the swells of her breasts. She fought back a sigh and tried valiantly to recall why it was so imperative that she
not
be seduced.

Benedict. The Wager. The Fortune Games. Pride.

“No one is watching. Not George, nor Lady Bellande or anyone,” Emma pointed out. “There is no need for this display.”

“Even better that no one is around,” he said. He gave her a look that positively smoldered. She felt sparks and shivers as he pressed kisses along the edge of her bodice. Her skin tingled from the warmth and pressure of his lips upon her bare skin.

She wanted to say:
Kiss me
.
Kiss me on my lips.
Kiss me lower.
Show me things I'm not supposed to know.

None of those words crossed her lips.

“I am not like your other women,” Emma said. He laughed, and she felt a rush of breath across her skin, like a caress.

“Trust me, I know,” Blake murmured. “It's impossible to forget.”

“Yes, so why—­” But her protestations died on her lips when he slid his fingers through her hair, clasping her face gently in his big, strong hands. He closed the distance between them, pressing the long hard length of him against her. Just enough for her to know of his desire. Just enough to remind her that he was bigger, stronger, and had her trapped. His point was made: she was at his mercy. She only had to say
No
or
Let me go
and he would release this hold on her.

Emma lifted her eyes to his, not quite able to say
Yes
but with no desire to leave.

“I want you, Emma,” he said, gazing at her. No one was around to see or hear those words—­or what came next.

Blake claimed her mouth for a kiss. The scorching, devastating kind that was impossible to fight. One could only surrender. The warmth from his touch seemed to make her own temperature spike until she felt certain she'd melt.

If no one could see, what was the point of this?

If no one could see, what did this mean?

Against her better judgment, Emma closed her eyes and breathed him. She grabbed a fist of his linen shirt in her palms, holding on for dear life.

Benedict . . .
She shouldn't do this. She shouldn't forget him. But it was so hard to keep him in mind when her every nerve was attuned to the expert seducer before her.

Blake leaned against her, and she felt his hard arousal pressing against the vee of her thighs. Her breasts were pressed against the muscled plane of his chest, the centers becoming stiff peaks. She craved his touch, there. This was more intimacy with a man than she had even dreamed . . . and it was not enough.

Blake cupped her breast in his palm. No, this was not enough.

The kiss deepened, and she didn't shy away from it.

But then she felt his smile against her lips and she feared that it wasn't a smile of happiness or pleasure, but of triumph. She could only imagine what he was thinking:
London's Least Likely to Be Seduced, Fallen in just one afternoon.

 

Chapter 11

Of all the priceless art and heirloom jewels, one of the most valuable items in the Grey fortune is the Castle Hill urn. It alone is worth such a sum as to keep a family of twelve in style for a year.

—­
T
HE
E
XHAUSTIVE
H
ISTORY OF
THE

A
SHBROOKE
C
LAN
AND
T
HEIR
H
OLDINGS

Destruction

B
LAKE MADE
E
MMA
feel things she simply couldn't handle. It wasn't just the new, exhilarating sensations that made her gasp in pleasure. It wasn't just the newly awakened desire within her that howled for satisfaction. It was more than the fluttering of her pulse when he was near, or the way she felt warmed whenever his brown eyes gazed upon her.

She reminded herself about Blake's wager. She reminded herself that this was pretend. She reminded herself of
why
she flirted with such danger: Benedict.

Benedict didn't turn her world upside down with every encounter. He wasn't forever trying to kiss her or seduce her or lead her into all sorts of trouble. He was steady and constant and the kind of man she could be happily married to forever.

Of course she felt like a wretched traitor for the palpable, intense longing she felt for Blake. She wanted his touch. She wanted to taste him on her lips, run her fingers through his hair, feel his arousal against her. Her resolve was weakening.

Traitor. Weakling.

So she escaped Blake's embrace and fled before she drowned in regrets. She pushed open the library doors and dashed down the hall. She rushed headlong through the pink marble foyer, barely noticing Miss Dawkins, who awkwardly carried a large gold-­framed painting.

Emma collided with Harriet Dawkins.

The ladies stumbled. In an effort to right each other and save the painting, they collided with the pedestal and the large porcelain urn perched upon it. Past tense.

The family heirloom fell, shattering on the pink marble floor.

Large, sharp shards and a million tiny pieces jutted out from the pile of ashes the urn had contained. Emma knew all about the urn, thanks to reading
The Exhaustive History of the Ashbrooke Clan and Their Holdings.
It had been a personal gift from the King. The hand-­painted porcelain depicted Castle Hill through the seasons. The painter had been an infamous recluse who produced only four priceless pieces in his entire career.

“Oh no,” she gasped.

“Oh dear,” Harriet whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

“No, I must apologize. It was my fault.”

“No, mine. I'm so very sorry.”

“Me, too,” Emma said. Harriet's face paled.

“Are those ashes?”

“Oh my God,” Emma whispered. They had broken a priceless family heirloom and disturbed the dead. And lost the Fortune Games.

“We are wrecked,” Harriet said. “Utterly and completely wrecked. I suppose we should alert a housemaid and then go pack our things.”

Harriet sighed, as if watching all her hopes and dreams wash away, and she was powerless to stop it. Emma suspected they were the same dreams as hers: that winning the games would enhance her prospects and give her a chance for true love, or at least a measure of security in the world. But Harriet's swift surrender tugged at Emma's heart and conscience. She didn't deserve to lose because of something that was just as much her own fault, if not more.

A few others emerged from their card games in the drawing room to see what had happened.

“Emma!” Both she and Harriet turned to see Blake rushing into the foyer. “Oh bloody hell,” he muttered, skidding to a stop when he saw the destruction.

“Harold!” At the sound of Lady Agatha's shout, the three turned and lifted their gazes to see her standing, with Angus for support, at the top of the stairs.

“Who is Harold?” Harriet asked in a whisper.

“He was Agatha's fourth husband,” Emma whispered back. The only one she liked. The one she had loved. There had been a whole chapter on their romance in
The Exhaustive History of the Ashbrooke Clan and Their Holdings.

“And he is currently that pile of ashes upon the floor,” Blake said grimly.

Lady Agatha glared at the scene below as she slowly descended the stairs.

Emma had never known what it was to cower in fear—­she'd read about it, of course. But until this moment she hadn't truly known. This was it. This was the loss of all her hopes and dreams. All because of a foolish mistake. She ought to have stayed and kissed the rogue. Let that be a lesson to her!

“Who did this?” Agatha barked, now standing before them.

Harriet whimpered, and Emma knew she could let her take the blame. Harriet wouldn't protest, for in her heart had already presumed herself guilty and accepted her fate.

It occurred to Emma that if she were more ruthless, more heartless, more like Lady Katherine Abernathy, she would declare that Harriet in her haste hadn't seen where she was going. Harriet knocked it over. Harriet was to blame. It wasn't true, but Emma knew that no one would say otherwise.

But even though she didn't know Harriet Dawkins well, Emma recognized in her a kindred spirit. A girl who wasn't perfect, but was perfectly lovely. A girl who was
not quite
but was in fact quite wonderful, truly. Emma felt she didn't deserve to win any more than Harriet, and knew that the only way Harriet would have a chance was if she gave it to her.

“I did it,” she said in a rush, before Harriet could interject. “I did this. It was a mistake and I am so very sorry.”

“Emma . . .” Blake murmured, touching her arm. She'd just have to explain to him later that her sense of kindness and decency was worth more than ninety thousand pounds. She had already betrayed her loyalty to the man she loved in a misguided attempt to secure the funds they
thought
they needed. These wicked desires to win were causing all sorts of problems for her conscience. Perhaps it wasn't worth it.

“Good luck winning the games after that mistake, Lady Emma,” Dudley remarked from where he stood near the drawing room door. He crossed his arms over his chest and sneered at her.

“Are you still here, Dudley?” Agatha asked, bored.

Dudley shuffled awkwardly, unsure of how to answer that.

“Be gone with you,” Agatha said with a dismissive wave of her hands.

“But Lady Emma was the one to break this beautiful, priceless family heirloom and trample upon the ashes of your beloved third husband,” Dudley protested.

“Fourth,” Emma corrected. “Harold Henry Harrison. The vase had been a wedding gift to you both from the King.”

“More Debrett's?” Lady Agatha inquired.

“Actually, it was in
The Exhaustive History of the Ashbrooke Clan and Their Holdings,
” Emma said.

“Interesting bit of knowledge to have at your fingertips, Lady Emma. And I'm glad to see that someone is enjoying the reading material I had so thoughtfully provided to all of my guests,” Lady Agatha replied. “That's the thing, Dudley. I shall be interested to see if she is able to redeem herself after this tragedy. Whereas you will simply wait for others to fail and make snide but unclever remarks off to the side. How dull. Do go on.”

“Lady Agatha . . .” Dudley shut his mouth when he saw it would be pointless to continue, for she had already turned to address a servant about cleaning up.

“Do take care, the rest of you. Wouldn't want to wreck everything before someone has a chance to inherit it.”