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“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!”
Emeline glanced down and saw a huge pair of buckle shoes just below the hem of the curtain. She looked up at Samuel in mute horror. His lips were trembling as he watched her, his hand still over her mouth. The dreadful man was amused! She narrowed her eyes at him. If she could’ve hit him without alerting the man standing not two feet away, she would’ve.
“Not much else they can do, is there?” A second man was speaking now, his voice higher and almost slurred, as if the servant had been drinking. “Toffs gotta have amusements, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but tennis?” The first man’s tone was rich with disgust. “And in the house? Why can’t they just do their cards or maybe dice or somethin’?”
“Dice? Don’t be daft, man. Toffs don’t dice.”
“Well, why not? Whatsa matter with dice, I asks you?”
Emeline could feel Samuel shaking against her as he tried to contain his laughter. How he could find this amusing was beyond her understanding. She was nearly petrified with the fear of discovery. She glared at him as she lifted her foot and brought the heel of her shoe down on his moccasin. For a moment, she thought he’d lose his self-possession altogether. Instead of sobering him as she’d meant to do, apparently the feel of her heel digging painfully into his foot only amused him further. His eyes sparkled with silent laughter. She stood mutely glaring at him, and then he took his hand from her mouth and replaced it with his own mouth. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, and altogether silently.
From without the curtain came a sigh. “Have you some of that good ’bacco?”
“Aye, right here.”
“Ta.”
Dear God, they were settling in to smoke a pipe! The thought sent horror spiking through Emeline, but at the same time, Samuel thrust his tongue into her mouth and the horror became mingled with pleasure, heightening both. He’d begun working on her skirts again, drawing them stealthily up. The fabric rustled as it moved over her thighs and she froze.
Outside the curtain, one of the men coughed. She could smell the fragrant scent of tobacco smoke now. They must have both lit pipes. Then that thought fled as Samuel brushed the bared curls at the top of her thighs.
“Why tennis, d’you ’spose?” the lower voice asked.
Samuel was threading through her maiden hair, his long fingers drawing nearer to that special spot. She clutched at his shoulders, distracted, confused, and incredibly aroused.
