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Somerhart shifted, his shoulders turning toward her while she waited for his touch.
"I can barely see you in the dark," he said, "but your voice is its own seduction, Lady Denmore." And then he stood and stepped past the curtained alcove, out into the light. "Shall we go to dinner?"
"Dinner?" she mumbled. "Now?"
He flashed a smile. "Is there someplace else you'd rather go? Now?"
Yes. "No!" she snapped and managed to stand without the slightest hint of a sway.
"Dinner, then." He offered his arm.
Emma gritted her teeth. "Stop being charming and ci
rcumspect, Somerhart. It doesn't suit you."
"Liar."
Emma took his arm, but she had the distinct feeling that he was leading her not to dinner, but to her destruction.
Chapter 5
Nothing. Not even a kiss. All that anxiety and suspense and Somerhart hadn't even accidentally brushed his knuckles over her bosom. Emma smoothed her own hand over her nightgown, over the hard jut of her nipple, the curve of her breast, then down to her belly and lower, until she pressed her palm to the soft mound of her sex.
Somerhart would touch her there, if she let him. And she wanted to let him. If she didn't have this secret to keep, she would cross the hall to the door of his room. She'd heard him go in an hour before, had heard his valet leave ten minutes later. She'd expected a knock then . . . a servant with a carefully worded note or, more likely, Somerhart himself, half undressed and dark-eyed with expectation.
She shivered at the thought, pressed her palm harder to her own heat.
She'd steeled herself against him, she'd been ready. But the minutes had ticked by, and with no one to argue against, her resistance had simply trickled away, unneeded and certainly unwanted. Or perhaps this was part of his plan as well. To make her so angry that she would storm his room and demand an accounting.
Emma sighed and let her hand fall away from her body.
She was alone as she'd always been, and it would not do to forget it.
Snow blew against her window, a speckling of icy drops, and Emma was drawn toward it. Lights from the rooms below shone across frosted grass. A tree branch sparkled with a thick layer of clear ice. Nothing moved but what the wind blew. Another empty night, and she was tempted again.
She wanted to run down the stairs in her bare feet and sneak out a side door. She wanted that blast of impossible cold, the stinging of her skin. She could walk for miles, she thought, before her body froze into crystals and was picked apart by a gust of wind, scattered into the world like magic. The little pieces of her would float forever, the whole sky would be her home. Everywhere. Nowhere.
A sound in the hallway pulled her away from the winter seduction. Her heart leapt. Emma held her breath and waited, waited. . . but it was nothing and no one.
What if she did cross the hall? What if she simply slipped into his bed and gave into both their desires? When he discovered her secret, she could tell him the truth. It would be such a relief.
He'd been kind tonight, his arrogance a volatile genie that appeared only when someone else approached. His every smile and attempt at humor had called to mind that night when he'd reached out his protection to a young girl, if just for a moment.
So if she told him the truth, would he reach out for her again?
Emma's heart began to thud. He'd been so gentle. . . asking questions about her life, escorting her from table to table to wait patiently while she played. Then he'd walked her up the stairs, pressed a lingering kiss to her hand, and watched her walk to her doorway, hot eyes burning into her back.
He hadn't treated her as a challenge. He'd been . . . charming.
And now she sat alone in her room, wondering if Somerhart would rescue her from her life.
Her thumping heart picked up speed as the thought swung through her, battering her insides. Somerhart coming to her rescue. That had been her long ago childhood fantasy, the hope of her little girl's soul.
He had seemed so gallant, so good, and she had wished and prayed for his return. Even months and years later, when her body had begun to mature, when the sights and sounds of her father's gatherings had begun to arouse instead of frighten . . . Oh, she'd still waited for rescue then, with thoughts of a wedding and his marriage bed.
But then her father had died, dragging her little brother to the grave with him, and Emma had known there was no hope of rescue. Or she'd thought she'd known, but the leap of her heart was recognizable. Stupid, reckless hope.
"No," Emma said aloud. Her heart beat faster, harder. "No." There was no salvation waiting around the corner. There would be no rescue. She could not afford to dream of fairy tales.
