Her eyes widened and he had to resist more than ever the urge to pull her against him, to avoid the sight of those eyes. And what had he been babbling?
She was in a dream. The most wonderful dream of her life, and as with all good dreams, she held on to it consciously, willing herself not to wake up. Not yet.
She should not be dancing with him like this, their eyes locked together, totally unaware of anything or anyone else around them. She should not allow him to say such things to her. But this was a magical time. He had chosen her—freely chosen her—to be his valentine. To him she was all golden.
He made her feel beautiful. He made her feel valuable beyond price.
She would not let go of the moment. Tomorrow, yes. Tomorrow would be February 15. Valentine’s Day would be over and ordinary life would resume. But not yet. The golden rose in his buttonhole had not even begun to droop. She was his golden rose and she would remain fresh and lovely for him until the next day.
She smiled.
And Roger felt that his hands might well be trembling. He held a very delicate and beautiful flower in them and he felt that he could only do it irreparable damage.
The music ended far, far too soon. Surely it must have been the shortest set of the evening. In all of the week and more since she had received his letter, Emily had not once thought past the moment when he would make himself known to her. Oh, she had assumed that it would be the beginning of a serious courtship and possibly the herald to a proposal of marriage. That was when she had believed the sender to be Mr. Harris, of course. But she had never thought of what would happen at the ball after the moment when he would come to claim her.
He took her by the elbow and led her back to Lady Copeland. Was it all over, then? Would he bow and leave her now? Was the dream over, and cold reality already about to take its place?
“Roger, dear,” Lady Copeland said as soon as they were within earshot, “you may go have my carriage brought around to the door, if you will be so good.”
“It will be my pleasure, Aunty,” he said. His hand tightened on Emily’s elbow. “Come with me?” he asked her.
She had no thought to refusing, even though doubtless it would be highly improper to go. But this was not a night for propriety.
“Do take your cloak with you, dear,” Lady Copeland said placidly. “Make sure that Emily puts on her cloak, Roger. I would not have her take cold.”
“Trust me, Aunty,” he said.
Several people’s carriages had arrived, it being a well-known fact that in Bath all good citizens returned home at eleven o’clock. Most were at the side of the Assembly Rooms, waiting to be summoned to the doors. Their coachmen stood in small groups, talking.
Roger and Emily strolled along the length of them between the carriages and the building, unseen by the gossiping coachmen, until they reached Lady Copeland’s carriage. Somehow they were hand in hand, Roger noticed, their fingers laced together. They walked in silence while he fought an inner battle with his conscience and his better nature.
She was a young innocent. A sweet and lovely innocent. She did not need to become tainted with the likes of him. She deserved someone better.
But whom? Amazingly, she seemed to have attracted no admirers in Bath. Because she was so quiet and unassuming and dressed so plainly? Because she was a lady’s companion? Although her father was Sir Henry Richmond, she was in reality a woman in service.
Would she ever find the husband she deserved?
He had nothing to offer except a wild and unstable past. And a fortune, of course. And the expectation of a viscount’s title at some time in the future. Security for a girl from a large and impoverished family.
They stopped by unspoken consent when they came to his aunt’s carriage, though neither made a move to pass between the carriages in order to attract the attention of the coachman.
Almost without his willing it, his arm was about her waist, turning her to face him, bringing her at long last against him. She did not resist. She lifted her face to look up at him. Inviting his kiss? Emmy.
“Emmy,” he said, his voice low, one hand smoothing over her hair. Her hands reached up to his shoulders. “Emmy.”
Her lips were closed when his own touched them, and cool from the night air. But they were soft and responsive. They parted to his coaxing, and moved over his. Her arms were about his neck, one hand in his hair.
He probed gently with his tongue at first, but when her mouth opened to receive it, he plunged inside to the heat and moistness of her, his tongue circling hers, teasing the soft flesh beneath until she whimpered in his arms.
He was lost to conscience and good sense and propriety. He wanted her. God, he wanted her. Even through the folds of her cloak and her domino and the dress beneath, he could feel the heat and the softness of her and the enticing curves. He wanted her. Sweet Emmy.
Emmy. Beautiful, quiet, gentle, affectionate, fun-loving, innocent Emmy. His rose. His golden rose. Brighter by far than the rose that was being crushed between them. He wanted her, yes. But not just for his bed. There too, but not just there.
He wanted her for his life. She had become his hope, his lifeline, his promise of salvation. He wanted her for all his life and for eternity after that.
His kiss gentled. His arms cradled her.
“Emmy,” he murmured, lifting his mouth away from hers and kissing her softly once more, “you feel it too, don’t you? Say you’ll be mine.”
