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"Indeed. I endeavor to please."
"Mm." She pretended not to notice his flirtation. She couldn't stand the way he licked
his lips whenever he looked at her. He'd likely be terribly chapped by the end of the evening.
"Let me show you my home."
Unable to think of a polite way to extricate herself, Emma was forced to take his arm and follow him up to the first floor of his town house. Several gentlemen tipped their heads in her direction as they passed, but none stopped to introduce their companions. This party was less than respectable, and she'd never have been admitted if anyone knew the truth about her marital status. But widows could get away with more than virgins, and the presence of a few of the demimonde was hardly enough to shock her.
Still, her muscles tensed as Lord Marsh led her to the first room and stopped just inside. "Piquet," he said simply, and indeed, that's all it was.
It's just a gambling party. Nothing more. Nothing like her father's "gambling" parties, for instance, where you were as likely to see a man laying a woman on a table as you were to see him laying down cards.
"But piquet is not your game, is it?" Marsh asked.
"I play, but 'tis not my preference."
"Too simple, I'd imagine. You enjoy more stimulation."
Emma cut her eyes at him to let him know he'd gone too far, but he only smiled back unashamedly. "Come. The next room." And so they proceeded through six rooms, each one eliciting some barely veiled entendre from Lord Marsh until Emma didn't care if she offended him or not.
"Thank you for the tour, Lord Marsh. You may leave now."
Unfortunately the man remained unoffended. He waggled his fingers in farewell as she turned and headed for the second room she'd seen. A footman stood at attention with whisky and champagne. Emma chose a whisky and tossed it back as she observed the play.
No women sat at the table, though a few had gathered around, leaning against the shoulders of the players. Emma had seen a woman downstairs whom she recognized, but the females in this room were likely demireps or even common whores. Good. They'd keep the men distracted as Emma divested them of their coin.
"Lady Denmore?" a familiar voice growled as she took a step toward the nearest table.
Emma spun around to glare at the Duke of Somerhart. His sudden, unexpected presence flashed heat through her blood.
His blue eyes scorched her as they flicked down over her body. When he met her eyes again, he scowled. "What are you doing here?"
"Why, gambling, of course. What else do I do?"
"Nothing, as far as I can tell."
"Just right, Your Grace. A pleasure to see you again. So charming."
Except that he didn't need to be charming. When she started to turn away, Somerhart wrapped his hand around her elbow and sent more warmth gliding into her veins. Overbearing bastard. He could be as rude as he wanted, because his hands were hot and strong. She could still feel his thumb exploring the most sensitive parts of her foot, her ankle . . .
"Is there something wrong?" Emma snapped.
"Yes. I'm shocked to find you at this party."
"And yet you are here."
"I am not a very young woman from the country."
A laugh broke free from her irritation. Oh, yes, she was all bluebirds and innocence. "Somerhart, I am not a young miss, fresh off the estate. I'm a widow and free to do as I please. A fact I feel certain you've made note of."
"Pardon?"
"Widows. They are your companion of choice, are they not?"
His scowl turned into a sneer as he dropped her arm. "I cannot believe I thought you subtle."
"Subtle? Good God, Somerhart. How very misguided."
