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Emily wrenched her mouth from his and pushed against his chest. His arms released her, and she tumbled back on the seat. She straightened.
“You’re thinking,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
“Of course I’m thinking. You only kiss me to interfere with the working of my brain. What is your fascination with Lady Ravenhurst? Is she the lost love of your youth? Or do you suspect her of concealing government documents in that little blue velvet reticule of hers with the silver ties?”
“Neither. I thought you enjoyed our kisses last night.”
“I don’t deny it. You obviously know what you’re about. But you put a ring on my finger, kiss me senseless, show me the pain that could be ours in marriage, and shove me in a carriage alone? What were you thinking?”
“Considering the alternative, it seemed the wisest course?”
“What alternative? Attentive, gallant behavior?”
“Ravishing you in a carriage.”
“People do not engage in...carnal congress in carriages with coachmen on the box and footmen riding behind, besides linkboys and who knows who else about and the discomforts and...”
“Oh, but they do. Consult your guidebook. I think you’ll find that the author advises against being alone in a closed carriage with a man.”
Emily certainly knew the essential mechanics of carnal embrace. She’d read the radical pamphlets written for poor women on the subject of cundoms. And the outraged letters to the Times about those pamphlets. She just hadn’t imagined until this moment in Lynley’s presence the gap between reading about the subject and engaging in the activity. And there was another gap she had not considered—the gap between sitting upright and fully clothed in conversation with a man and lying unclothed with him for a different form of intercourse.
“You’re thinking again.”
“I’m trying to understand how it can be managed.”
“Trust me. It can be done.”
“But you don’t mean to do it.” She shook her head to rid it of confusion. “You kiss to distract me. You could simply say that you don’t wish me to pry.”
“I don’t wish you to pry into my interest in Lady Ravenhurst. There, I’ve said it. Now, can we go back to where we were?” He reached for her again.
Emily held him off with a hand pressed against his chest. “We can’t continue an engagement, even such an engagement as ours, if you have a romantic interest in another woman, a married woman, at that.”
“I don’t,” he said.
She let her hand drop. His denial sounded sincere. She wished she could see his face properly. The fleeting play of light and shadow in the dark carriage made a searching inquiry of a man’s face impossible. Gentlemen were supposed to be free, after certain marital obligations had been met, to pursue other interests. It should not bother her, but Emily did not wish to contemplate Lynley pursuing Lady Ravenhurst. But if he was telling her the truth, she must draw a different conclusion. “Then you are a...spy?”
“Spy?”
“What would you call it? You are someone who does the government’s work. You’ve hatched some kind of plan with Phil.”
“You can’t imagine that Phil has anything to do with spying.”
“No, of course not.” When he put it like that, the whole idea seemed absurd. But she knew how to test him. “Ride with me in the morning.”
There was a pause before he said, “Yes.”
“Circe and I will be ready at seven.” If he had some plan with Phil that would keep them out until the small hours of the morning, he would hardly agree to meet her so early.
“Seven it is,” he said.
Chapter Eight
There is in human society a tendency for the fortunate among us to mistake our favorable circumstances for superiority of character. And to consider those whom circumstance places beneath us as deserving of their position though fortune is wholly external to either party. While it is unlikely that the husband hunter will encounter genuine vice in her Season, London, like any great city, has its unsavory neighborhoods where the merely unfortunate and the actively ill-intentioned mingle.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
The widowed Mrs. Hewitt, who, as Phil explained, had once been quite respectable, now ran an elegant little gaming establishment on a quiet street off St. James’s Square. Lynley had seen most of its rooms the night before. The club had a faro bank, a spinning EO wheel, and rooms for several varieties of card play. The supper was passable, but he could have advised their hostess on her choice of wines. There was not an acceptable sherry in her cellar.
