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Emeline darted a glance over her shoulder as she scurried into a dim servant’s passage. She couldn’t see the dratted man, but she could feel him somewhere behind her. Any other gentleman would know by now that he’d been given his conge. She’d been careful to not look at him, to not engage him in any conversation all this morning. She’d all but cut him dead, and still Samuel would not give up. And the terrible part was that something inside her thrilled at his determination. How he must want her to pursue her like this! She couldn’t help but be flattered.
In a very exasperated way, of course.
Emeline rounded a corner, completely lost now, and shrieked when a large hand shot out of the darkness to grab her. Samuel pulled her behind a dusty curtain. There was a little alcove here in the passage that was used as a storage space—she could make out the shapes of barrels stacked against the wall. Nevertheless, it was a very small space, and she was forced up against his chest, which made her squeak.
“Hush,” he murmured into her hair in the most provoking manner, “you are so loud.”
“You nearly gave me apoplexy,” she growled at him. Pushing at his chest was having no discernible effect at all, so she gave up and peered at him in the gloom. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to talk to you,” he muttered. There was an edge to his voice, and she could feel, even through the miles of fabric between them, that he was quite hard. He sounded frustrated, and a small, not very nice feminine part of her rejoiced. “It’s not been easy.”
“That’s because I haven’t wanted to talk to you.” She shoved at his chest, despite her vow not to, but he didn’t give an inch.
“You’re such a prickly little thing,” he said.
“I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Her frustration boiled over, and she slapped him on the chest. “Let me go!”
“No.”
“We can’t go on like this.” She set her jaw, making her voice hard. “It was pleasant while it lasted, but it’s over now.”
“I don’t think so.”
“This was nothing but a country affair. We will be going back to the city soon, and then all shall be as it was before. You must be on your way.”
“Does that often work?” He sounded amused, not at all put out by her hurtful words.
“What?” she asked irritably.
“Ordering men about.” His voice was low, but in the dim alcove it sounded loud to her ears. “I bet it does. They probably creep off, their tail between their legs to lick the wounds your sharp tongue cuts into them.”
“You’re impossible!”
“And you’re spoiled by getting your own way all the time.”
“I am not.” She reared back, trying to see his features. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
She felt him still against her, and there was a sudden silence in the alcove.
When next he spoke, his voice was grave and horribly intimate in the dark. “I know that you have a cutting tongue and a quick mind that doesn’t always think pleasant thoughts. And I know that you try to hide all that, as if you were like every other lady, a pretty thing made of meringue—sugary sweet and nothing but air.”
“A lady should be sweet,” she whispered. Awful that he knew such things about her. Worse than the intimacies revealed by sex. She maintained the facade with most, or at least she thought she did. A lady should be sweet, not sharp-tongued with mean thoughts flying through her mind all the time. She was too strong, too self-sufficient, too masculine. He must be repulsed.
“Are there rules for how a lady should be, then?” he asked her temple. “So many things you must do properly in this country, I don’t know how you stand it.”
“I—”
“I like a tart lady.” Was that his tongue on the lobe of her ear? “I like the taste of sour, a sharp surprise, like an apple picked too green.”
“Green apples give you a stomachache,” she muttered against his chest. She felt a welling in her throat, as if tears threatened. How dare he do this again? Push past her defenses. Destroy her walls like so much papier-mâché?
He chuckled, the vibration rumbling against her neck. “Green apples never give me a stomachache. And they make the best pie. Other apples are too sweet; they turn to bland mush when cooked. But a green apple”—his hand was on her skirts, lifting and bunching them—“is brought to life by the sugar and spice. Just right on my tongue.”
He brought his mouth down on hers, and she was lost all over again. The taste of him was intoxicating. She might be sour to him, but to her he was coffee, rich, darkly sweet, and pure male. She gasped, widening her mouth, wanting to drink him in. This would be the last time; she must stop this insanity soon. She pushed that thought away and simply felt, drifting in a sea of sensation, his arms about her, his tongue in her mouth, the sheer bulk of him over her.
The scrape of a shoe came from the hallway. Emeline broke the kiss and would’ve gasped, but Samuel covered her mouth with his hand.
“Has she lost her mind?” an ill-humored voice grumbled directly outside the curtain they hid behind. “To try tennis in the great hall. Jaysus!”
