“You are to be someone’s valentine?” he asked.
She looked up at him, and he felt that familiar drowning sensation. “Yes,” she said.
He could sense the suppressed excitement in her. She looked quite radiant. He felt a surge of gladness for her. And a surge of something else too—envy. Jealousy.
“And who is the fortunate gentleman?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “His letter was anonymous.”
“But you can guess?” he asked.
She smiled at him again. “Yes,” she said.
“If you are to be at the ball,” he said, “I will have a chance to dance with you. Will you reserve a set for me, Miss Richmond? Or is your card full already?”
She laughed. “Oh, no,” she said.
She had never been any good at flirtation. She should not, of course, have admitted that she knew from whom her valentine came. She should have made it seem as if it might have come from any of a number of admirers. And she ought not to have admitted so quickly and emphatically that her dancing card was not full—indeed it was quite, quite empty.
Except that it was no longer so. He had asked for one set. Mr. Bradshaw. The most handsome gentleman in Bath or even in all England, perhaps. How she envied Mrs. Langtree. The lady would doubtless have many valentines, but somehow surely she would find out which was his and choose it. How could she not?
How wonderful it would be to be Mr. Bradshaw’s valentine. Except, she thought, sobering, being such would doubtless involve something quite different from a mere dance and a reclaiming of his favor and perhaps an offer of marriage a few days later. She could imagine very well what he would expect of Mrs. Langtree if she chose to be his valentine. She flushed at the thought.
It was doubtless Harris, Roger thought. He had not seen any other man hanging about her. Harris. He was too old for her. Too dull. She deserved better. Who? Himself? His lip curled into a smile of self-mockery.
He might have sent his valentine to her instead of to Eugenia, with whom he had no interest in anything beyond a good bedding. He might have given Harris some competition. But no. It would be too dangerous to play with the affections of someone like Emily Richmond. It was far safer to stick with a game whose rules and methods he knew from long experience.
Dangerous? he thought, frowning. Dangerous for whom? For her, certainly. And for himself?
When they reached the house on the Circus, Roger went inside with Emily and deposited the two bandboxes on a table in the hallway. The butler, who had opened the door for them, shambled back to the servants’ quarters again.
“There,” Roger said, “my good deed is done for this week.” He grinned at her. “What? No Jasper? He is not hiding behind the aspidistra, is he?”
“Oh,” she said, smiling, “you know about that hiding place, do you? No, Lord Westbury took him riding.”
She had set her parcels on top of his as she spoke, and untied the strings of her bonnet. She pulled it off her head. But somehow the back of it caught in the pins that held her hair in its knot at her neck. There was a tinkling as several pins fell to the tiles, and her hair cascaded down about her shoulders.
Roger, standing a mere couple of feet from her, felt as if a fist had just caught him in the chest, robbing him of breath. It was pure gold silk. And suddenly she was transformed before his eyes from a prim and lovely lady to a beautiful and voluptuous woman.
“Oh,” she said ineffectually. She was transfixed by the look in his eyes, unable to think clearly enough to move.
“Golden silk,” he said huskily, lifting a hand to take one lock between a thumb and forefinger. “Emmy, what a crime to keep it so disguised.” His eyes strayed to her lips. She licked them as she had once before.
But before he could lose his head entirely, she lifted her arms sharply and caught back her hair. “The pins came out,” she said foolishly.
He stooped down, picked them up from the floor, and set them in her outstretched palm. “An embarrassment to make you forget about the crumb on your chin, doubtless,” he said, grinning at her. “Good day to you, Miss Richmond.”
He let himself out of the front door. Thank goodness she had moved when she had, he thought, taking several deep breaths of fresh air. He would have made an ass of himself by kissing her again. But not in the way he had kissed her before, exploring, asking with his mouth if she was seducible. He knew she was not seducible. He would have kissed her with genuine desire, genuine affection.
Good Lord, had he really called her Emmy? Jasper’s name for her? He hoped she had been too embarrassed to notice. What the devil had he been about, going all to pieces merely because her hair had fallen down?
Emily stood in the hallway holding her hair back with one hand and stabbing at it with the pins in the other. She had been inviting his kiss. She had been standing there foolishly, her hair all about her, knowing that he was about to kiss her, and wanting it. Had she turned thoroughly wanton?
She frowned suddenly, and her hands paused about their futile task. He had called her Emmy. Not even Emily, but Emmy. Papa’s name for her and Jasper’s. He had called her Emmy, hadn’t he? She had not imagined it?
Roger had six golden roses delivered to his hotel room the morning of the ball—at an exorbitant cost, considering the fact that it was February and not June. He had ordered six so that he might be sure that at least one of them would be the exquisite bloom he hoped for.
He was looking forward to the evening, though not with quite the warm anticipation he had expected. The truth was that he was restless to be gone from Bath. Perhaps he would have left already if he had not sent that valentine and received an affirmative reply. Now he must stay, at least for tonight, and probably for a few days longer.
