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"You are what's wrong."
"I'm merely attempting to feed you."
"Nonsense. You are trying to seduce me, and I've explained before—"
"Yes, you have explained." He closed the curtains and guided her down to the window seat; his shoulders seemed impossibly wide, looming above her. "You were quite impertinent, rude, and arrogant in your position. Which is why I'm surprised to find that you've turned suddenly cowardly."
"I have. I'm afraid. Of you. Please leave me be." His hand nudged her chin up, and Emma glared at his silhouette.
"Afraid," he huffed. "And I am the Queen. Or near enough," he added, reminding her of one of her many insults. "You don't look afraid, Lady Denmore. You look anxious and even a bit angry." His fingers lingered under her chin, stroking tiny waves of heat into her skin.
"I am angry. You will not leave me be."
"I am not planning to pounce upon you in a darkened hallway. You are very much in control of your own fate. So why so much upset?"
She shook her head and took a gulp of his drink.
"Has anyone ever told you that you drink like an alewife, Lady Denmore?"
"No, no one. I believe 'like a sailor' is the preferred comparison."
"Ha! Hoyden." He shook his head at her. "Move over."
She scooted an inch to the left and he took the seat beside her. There wasn't nearly enough room. His body pressed against hers in mirror image. His arm against her arm, his hip against hers. If she leaned over, her head would rest perfectly on his shoulder. If she looked up, his lips would find her kiss.
"How old were you when you married?"
"Nineteen," Emma said without having to think about it.
"And were you happy with the arrangement?"
"Mm. I wasn't displeased. Lord Denmore was a lovely man, and my family had declined in the world."
"So you were a local miss who caught the eye of an older gentleman."
"Yes."
"A squire's daughter perhaps?"
"I didn't grow up in a tavern if that's what you're asking."
His shoulder nudged hers. "No, you're well-mannered enough, at least with others."
Emma smiled and took a slightly smaller drink.
"Do you miss him?" Somerhart asked, his deep voice quiet.
She was shocked by the gentle question. No one had asked if she missed him. Everyone assumed she was delighted to have thrown off the bonds of a marriage of calculation, and she supposed she might have been. Except that Lord Denmore had been her uncle and he had loved her. He'd taken care of her and shown her a real home for a brief, shining moment in her life.
"I do," she finally answered, horrified when her voice broke over the last word. She coughed to clear the tears away. "He died in a fire, you know. He wasn't ill; it wasn't expected."
"I'm sorry."
Emma nodded, and drank the rest of his champagne with ruthless efficiency. "So you see, Somerhart, I am a hopeless gambler and an impolite drinker, but I am also a respectable country widow. Boring and not fit to act out a scandal with a duke."
"Hm."
She knew she should stand up. Just two steps and she would be free of the intimate darkness of the window seat. And it was intimate, despite the occasional voices that passed their nest. She felt sheltered here, warm and safe. Cradled in the strength of the very beast who meant to eat her up. Somehow the danger made her feel even more languid, helpless to resist the sweetness of the moment.
