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Her eyes flared wide. “Stop it! It’s too dangerous. You can’t—”
“Here we are,” Vale said happily. He plunked down a laden plate in front of Emeline and sat with a tall glass of what must be barley water for himself. “I wasn’t sure what would tempt you, so I got some of everything.”
“You’re too kind,” Emeline said weakly, picking up a fork.
“Quite the gallant,” Sam murmured. “I shall have to take lessons from him, don’t you think, Lady Emeline?”
She pursed her lips. “There’s no need—”
“But there is.” He’d lost all control. It was the sight of her being cared for by Vale, a man who didn’t even know her. He was aware that his face had tensed, that he was revealing too much, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “My manners are too rough, my speech too blunt. I need to learn to smooth my ways so that I can have proper congress with a lady.”
On the word congress, Emeline dropped her fork.
Vale choked on the sip of barley water he’d taken and started coughing.
Sam looked at him. “Don’t you think so, Lord Vale?”
“I’m sorry, I just remembered...” Emeline’s face was pale with anger as she searched for an excuse. “I don’t know. I have to go.” And she got up and walked quickly from the room.
“Congress, old man, is really not the word you were looking for,” Vale said. “Conversation, maybe, or—”
“No? I stand corrected,” Sam murmured. “Excuse me.”
He didn’t wait for Vale’s reply or look to see what the other man thought. He didn’t care anymore. She’d fled, and she must know by now the reaction that that would provoke in a predator.
EMELINE GATHERED HER skirts as she quickened her pace down the hallway. Awful, awful man! How dare he—after rejecting her the night before, actually pushing her away from himself—act as if he were the one wronged? She rounded a corner, nearly cannoning into the Duke of Lister and barely muttering an apology before continuing. The worst part was that her attraction to the horrible man was completely undimmed. How mortifying. To have offered herself to him, have him reject her in no uncertain terms, and then be unable to kill the animal lust her body felt for him.
She’d been so worried when she’d first seen him in the breakfast room. How were his feet? Had she properly cleaned them? How had he been able to walk this morning? And then he’d begun stalking her with his words, not caring who overheard or that he’d already rejected her. It was because of Jasper, she was sure. Samuel was reacting with a kind of male territorial instinct like a hound guarding its dinner. Well, she wasn’t some moldy bone to be fought over.
The stairs were in front of her, but her vision was blurred by rage and frustration. She didn’t care for him; she refused to care for him. He was a colonial without manners or sophistication. She hated him. On that thought, she nearly slipped on a tread and prayed she could make her room before she broke down altogether. That would be the final straw—to be found wandering the Hasselthorpe hallways out of her mind because of a man. She nearly ran the last distance to her room, wrenching open the door and falling inside before slamming it behind her.
Or at least she tried to slam the door. It met with resistance. She looked over her shoulder and found to her utter horror that Samuel stood there, one palm flat against the wooden door.
“No!” Emeline pushed against the door with all her might. “Get out! Get out, you whore-mongering, son of a bitch, arsehole!”
“Hush.” His eyebrows were drawn down sternly. He took her shoulder and effortlessly pulled her away from the door before shutting it.
Which only enraged her further. “No, you don’t!”
She was writhing, trying desperately to get out of his grasp, slapping at his hands, snaking her head to bite him.
“Yes, I do,” he retorted.
And he pulled her roughly against his chest. He slammed his mouth onto hers. Immediately, she bit him. Or tried to. He yanked his head back and, amazingly, grinned down at her, although the expression held no amusement. “I remember that trick.”
“Bastard!” She flung up a hand to hit him, but he caught that as well.
He shoved her bodily against the wall and pinned her there like some unfortunate moth. Then he bent his head and, avoiding her mouth, bit her neck, just under her ear. And her body—her idiot, traitorous body—responded, going all soft and warm. He nipped and tongued her neck, and her head arched back even as something close to a growl slipped from her lips. He chuckled.
“Don’t you laugh at me!” she screeched like a harpy.
“I’m not,” he murmured against her throat. “I’d never laugh at you.” He pulled at her bodice, ripping something. Then he was licking across the mounds of her breasts above her stays.
She sobbed and his mouth softened, whispering against her flesh.
Damnable man. “Don’t you dare do this out of jealousy.”
He raised his head, his cheeks flushed, his mouth reddened from kissing her. “This doesn’t involve anyone else. This is purely between you and me.” He yanked her hand down and thrust it crudely against his breeches.
