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Emeline stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Something to prevent a baby—”
Emeline choked.
“Are you all right?” her bosom beau asked as if she hadn’t just shot a cannon into the conversation.
Emeline waved at her as she took a drink of tea. Briefly, she contemplated denying that she’d spent the night with Samuel, but the conversation seemed well past that point. Instead, she settled on the more pressing matter. “Quite. How...how—?”
Melisande stared at her sternly. “I can’t think how you can embark upon an affair without taking appropriate measures. There are sponges that fit in the female body—”
“How in the world do you know of such things?” Emeline asked in real wonder. Melisande was unmarried and presumably a maiden.
“There are books if one is interested.”
Emeline’s eyes widened. “Books about...?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord.”
“Pay attention,” Melisande said sternly. “Have you taken the appropriate measures?”
“I think it’s too late for that,” Emeline muttered.
Her hand crept to her laced belly before she caught herself and snatched it away. How could she not think about such a fundamental thing, even in the heat of passion? The possibility of a baby was a real concern, and one she could not afford. Jasper was very sophisticated, but no man wanted his heir to be someone else’s get. If she was with child, she’d have to marry Samuel. The mere thought turned her stomach. There would be nowhere to hide, living with such a man. She’d be constantly exposed, her feelings, her worst traits, open to him. He saw her, really saw her as no man had ever done before, and she didn’t like it. He would demand things of her, emotions she didn’t want to feel, and she wouldn’t be able to hide behind a fraudulent facade.
Her horror must’ve shown on her face, for Melisande leaned forward and placed her hand on hers. “Don’t panic. It’s too soon to know; there may be no cause for worry. Unless”—she frowned—“this affair has been going on longer than I’ve thought?”
“No,” Emeline moaned. “Oh, no. It’s just been...” But she couldn’t finish the thought. What must Melisande think of her? She’d been cavorting with a man she’d known only a little while at the same party that her fiancé attended.
Her friend patted her hand. “Then there’s no point in worrying. Enjoy the rest of the party and don’t go back to him without prevention.”
“Of course not.” Emeline drew a steadying breath. “I won’t even look at him again. I’m certainly not going to...” She waved away the rest of the sentence and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll just avoid him. There won’t be another time.”
“Hmm.” Melisande’s murmur was noncommittal, but her look was skeptical.
And Emeline really couldn’t blame her friend. She’d tried, but her voice sounded uncertain even to herself. Against her will, her gaze wandered back to the corner where Samuel sat. He was watching her, his eyes narrowed. To anyone else, his expression was casual, she was sure. But to her it was not. In his eyes she saw lust, possession, and certainty of his own strength. This man wouldn’t give her up without a fight.
Dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into?
Chapter Fourteen
Iron Heart woke on the next dawn—the day before he was to be released from his silence—to the scream of a woman. The wet nurse stood in the doorway to the plundered nursery, and she screamed and screamed. For every stick of furniture was broken, the walls were splashed with crimson blood, and worse, far, far worse, the baby was gone. Soon the nursery was crowded with the people of the palace—guards, servants, cooks, and maids. All stared at Iron Heart, covered in blood in the nursery where his son had once slept. But his heart did not ache until Princess Solace pushed to the front of the crowd and beheld her husband, and her eyes filled with sorrow....
—from Iron Heart
She was avoiding him. This much was obvious to Sam as he and Emeline moved through an odd, furtive dance that morning. He would enter a room and she would turn aside, giving him her shoulder. He would make his way slowly, casually toward her; she would voice an excuse and exit the room before he ever got close to her. Over and over again they played this game, and each time he grew more frustrated. He no longer cared if his attempts to catch her were observed by the other members of the party. His only focus was on cornering her. And each time she eluded him, he became more determined.
They were in the library now, the house party confined to the indoors again today since the rain continued relentlessly outside. He was biding his time, making no move toward her, simply watching for an opening. She sat in the corner with her friend, Miss Fleming. The other woman was plain beside Emeline’s dark beauty, but her eyes were sharp, and she was aware of his every move. Either Emeline had confided their involvement to her friend or the woman had guessed. Not that it mattered. Miss Fleming might be a fierce watchdog, but he wouldn’t let her stand between him and his prey.
Sam grimaced at the thought and looked away. His emotions had never been this primitive, this ungentle, with a woman he wanted before. He knew he was losing control—had perhaps already run past the point of self-control—and yet he could not help himself. He wanted her. Her rejection was like ice held against his bare skin too long. Painful. Unacceptable. She’d let him make love to her; she could not withdraw herself from him now. And underneath all that, there was a layer of hurt that he didn’t want to acknowledge. She’d hurt him, both his pride and something else within him that was basic to his being. It was agonizing, this hurt, and he needed it to stop.
He needed her.
“Won’t you come play cards?” Rebecca asked beside him. He’d not even seen her approach.
“No,” he said absently.
