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"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stopped like that." She finally glanced to her collider. "Admiral Hartford, that man looks familiar—the one with Matherton—but I can't place him."
"Oh." The admiral's eyes widened, then slid back to her with a sympathetic smile. "That, my dear, is the Duke of Somerhart. A committed bachelor, I'm afraid."
"Somerhart," she murmured, feeling the name on her lips. "Oh, yes, of course. Somerhart. Thank you, Admiral."
Emma spun on her heel and retreated, hurrying back to the front hall, then around a corner to the ladies' retiring room. She darted into a corner that had been curtained off and sat down hard on the padded chair. A duke! She would never have believed it.
Had he seen her? And if he had, would he know her?
"Of course not," Emma breathed. It was ridiculous to think so. She'd only met the man once and that had been.. . what? A decade before? Yes, she'd been nine at the time. He couldn't know her. He'd probably forgotten her that very evening.
Still, the whole of her plan rested on this charade, this lie of being the widow of the tenth Baron Denmore, and if Duke Somerhart did remember her then the game would be up, for she could not have been married to her own great-uncle.
She'd planned on at least another two months before doubts began to surface. There were few fashionable members of society from their county, and none who'd arrive before the Season. She needed just a few more weeks . . .
Emma sat up straight and looked into the wall mirror. No, the duke would not know her. Her brown hair had been dark blond then, and she had certainly filled out in important places. Also, she was not wearing a white nightgown and braids. She was unrecognizable.
He, on the other hand, had been etched into her mind the first moment she'd seen him, stepping from his shadowed space on the wall.
"Hello, pet," he'd called, as she snuck down the wide hallway, trying desperately to get a peek at one of her father's strange new parties.
By God, he'd scared the devil out of her, his voice like a ghost's, floating from the dark. Then he'd come into the light and Emma had gasped.
"What are you about so late?" he asked, voice soft and low. Emma thought he might be an angel. He was far prettier than any of her father's other friends. But did angels wear red waistcoats and smoke cigarillos? "You should be in bed, kitten."
"I. . . I wanted to see the dancing. I can hear the music from my bed."
His eyes, pale sky blue, swept over her, from her braided hair to her bare toes, and his beautiful face turned sad. "This is no place for you. You shouldn't come down to your papa's parties, all right? Best to stay in your room."
"Oh," she breathed, amazed at the kindness of that voice. He was an angel, the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. Emma eased one foot back, meaning to turn toward the servants' stairs, but his eyes stopped her, blue warmth closing her throat with something hopeful.
She drew a breath. "But. . ." When she leaned forward a little, his mouth quirked up into a smile, but the smile blurred when her eyes pricked with tears. "But someone has come to my room."
"What?" She'd thought him enormously tall, but he drew himself up taller. His pretty mouth hardened and thinned. "What do you mean?"
Emma took that step back. "I don't. . . My, my room. Someone came in last night. While I was sleeping. I don't want to stay there." Her cheeks flushed hot at the burn in his gaze. "He kissed me."
Something hard and terrible stole over his face. Emma cringed and meant to spin around, but his mouth gentled with a twitch and he reached out one hand to curl her fingers into his.
"I'm sorry." He crouched down and offered a small smile. "You are certainly pretty enough to want to kiss, but only a husband should do that, you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And no one has hurt you?" Emma shook her head.
"All right. Is there a lock on your door? Yes? You go back to your room then, and lock the door. Then put a chair under the handle. Do you know what I mean?"
A nod this time.
"Do that whenever your papa has a party. And do not try to spy again, pet, all right?"
"Yes." And she had fled. And though she hadn't ceased her spying, she'd nursed an infatuation for that nameless man for nigh on four years. Then she'd forgotten him. Until now.
A duke. A rather notorious duke at that. Not known for his kindness. And still the handsomest man she'd ever seen.
Well, there was no choice; she could not accomplish her goal by sneaking nervously about for the next few weeks. If her plans were in danger, she needed to know now. So Emma forced herself to her feet and went to meet her old protector.
"Ah, the traitorous Lady Denmore!" Lord Matherton boomed, eliciting a husky laugh from a woman somewhere behind Hart's back.
