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His anger kept him from stopping her this time, and Emma made her way to a vacated seat at the brag table. She hoped the man would leave before she started play, but she did not turn around. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, nor the people in the room who were watching with happy interest.
And she would not let him chase her from her work again. She threw herself into the game and quickly accumulated three hundred pounds. She just as quickly lost it all. One of the men at the table laughed.
"Lady Denmore, you are reckless tonight."
"Yes," she snapped and placed a new bet. She could feel him there, a few feet behind her, glaring a hole into her neck. She wished her hair weren't up. Wished she hadn't worn a dress with such a low back. Wished the thought of him looking wasn't quite so thrilling.
Emma pushed the play harder, and the men happily obliged, sure that she was off her game. A collective groan went up as she turned her cards. "Reckless," she muttered, pulling the pile of coins toward her. Yes, she was reckless and unsubtle and a liar as well.
Two more months.
An hour later, she was up two hundred pounds and sick of looking at the wench across from her, the one whose ample bosom couldn't quite stay contained. "Good night, gentlemen."
Unseen hands pulled her chair out, but she knew who it was. Somerhart hadn't budged since she'd begun play. She'd only been able to tolerate his presence by picturing him as one of the hangers on: forearm perched on the back of her chair, shirt unbuttoned to his breast bone, his fingertips trailing teasingly against her hairline as he awaited her pleasure. But he had done no such thing and looked as rigid and elegant as always when she turned to him. His eyes burned. Had he waited just to resume their argument?
Emma ignored his hand and walked from the room. "What is it that you want, Somerhart?" she tossed over her shoulder.
"To speak with you."
"Why? I seem to annoy and offend you with very little effort on my part."
"You do."
"So why seek me out? To suffer? I hadn't heard you were the type to enjoy paddles and degradation. And one would expect that to get out."
"Pardon?"
"Then again . . ." She kept walking, heading for the stairway. "You do insist on circumspect partners."
"You are utterly outrageous," he growled, managing to sound quite ominous, but Emma smiled down at the balustrade. He could act horrified, but the truth was that she entertained him.
"How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-one? And speaking to me of paddles!"
"Yes. Paddles. Shocking, as you've pointed out before."
He muttered something she couldn't make out, but it made her laugh all the same. From what she'd heard of the duke, he never muttered. Just as he never yelled. But in the three times she'd met him, he'd managed to do both.
"You say things just to surprise me," he said, as she stepped into the grand entry of the town house.
Emma rewarded him with a wide smile. "Why would I do that?"
"Because it amuses you." "And you."
Somerhart frowned down at her, eyes narrowed. He stared until Emma felt her face grow pink. Not with embarrassment, but with pleasure at being the focus of this man's attention. His face was masculine despite its beauty, angles drawn out in strong jaw and high cheekbone. Emma couldn't help focusing on his wide, indulgent mouth. She thought of touching his jaw to see if the skin was smooth, or if it was roughened by the dusky hint of his dark beard.
"Where did you learn to play?" he asked, breaking the spell he'd woven.
Emma blinked and pulled her thoughts into strict compliance. "Lord Denmore loved games of chance. Nothing to do with the coin, I mean. He would play with pennies, with beans even. We spent hours playing every night. He said I had a gift."
"But you don't play because you have a gift. You don't play for beans. Or pennies."
"Mm," she hummed and glanced around for the footman. "My cloak, please. And a hack."
"I will drive you."
"There's no need. People would talk."
"People are talking already. The whole of London knows we are lovers."
