Page 91 of A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

"No—" His slap cut off her protest. Pain blossomed over her cheek just before he slapped her again. When she tried to lash out, the heel of his hand caught her cheekbone and she fell. All she could do was shield herself as he hit her over and over. Blood trickled down her lip and she sank into a gray, noiseless fog.

The world shifted and fell and she felt her body being car­ried away. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

Chapter 22

The carriage bounced over the rough road, jolting Hart's tense muscles. The crash of the waves should have been a soothing distraction, but he found himself grinding his teeth with hatred for the sound. He'd heard those damned waves all night as he'd tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed, and he was beginning to think he'd be haunted by them for the rest of his miserable life. Haunted by the waves and this stupid decision to give up all hope for his pride and see Emma one more time.

The late morning light sparkled off the water, mocking his mood.

She'd told him she hated him, asked him never to return. And how did his heart interpret that? Ah, yes, old man, let's try once more. And so he was back on this road again, head­ing for her home.

He'd been done with her. Humiliated and abused. Curs­ing her for a heartless, cruel witch. She had aimed right for his heart, and her bullet had found its target with ease. Except. . .

Except that her attack hadn't made any sense. After he'd calmed down, after he'd nursed his hurt in half a bottle of whisky, he'd had an unexpected moment of clarity. Emma Jensen was a liar.

She'd said she wanted nothing to do with him, claimed he disgusted her, and that could not be true. Every move she'd made in London, every word spoken and bet placed, had helped her toward her goal. She'd calculated everything except the time she'd spent with Hart. He hadn't helped her plan in any way. And that night at his house—that c

ould have ruined her completely. If he'd realized the truth that night, her deception would have crumbled around her.

Yet she'd come to him. Willingly. Recklessly.

She could not hate him.

So she was a liar. A consummate liar. A woman who lied about important things. Her life, her past, her feelings, her thoughts. And somehow that didn't matter in the least to Hart because, fool that he was, he trusted her. He understood her. He'd spent years lying to the entire world, lying to him­self. He understood what it meant to keep everyone out, to hide yourself even from people you loved.

And she'd had more to protect than her heart; she'd had to protect her body when her own father had failed her. The one man who should have protected her had not, and Hart could understand that better than anything.

So she lied. But it wasn't so hard to see, as long as he could keep his temper in check. Emma lashed out, struggled against anything that might hold her. She would break his heart before she let him break hers. That's what he was risk­ing. His heart. His pride and his soul.

If he didn't take that risk, she would never, ever believe him. And the thought of going back to London without her. . .

Hart shook his head. He couldn't stand it. Going back to that place where he kept all his desires in check. Where no one ever said anything sincere. Where the world bowed down when he neared and snickered when he left.

The thought of it burned like coal in his gut. He wanted Emma and all the tumult she'd brought to his life. All he had to do was convince her. Perhaps he should take out a lease in Scarborough. It wouldn't take more than a year of dedi­cated effort, surely.

He was actually starting to smile when the carriage jerked and rattled. "Whoa," the driver called. "All right. All right."

The carriage rolled on at a slightly slower pace.

"Sorry, Your Grace. The horses are a bit spooked. There's smoke ahead."

The smell of woodsmoke had been growing steadily inside the carriage, and Hart hadn't realized how strong it was till the driver spoke. Odd. There weren't many trees around.

He was just tensing with the first hint of concern when the driver spoke more sharply. "Your Grace!"

Hart knocked open the door and stood, bracing himself between the carriage roof and the open door. They'd taken a small rise, and the lane below stretched out in clear ex­panse. Clear except for the haze of smoke that stretched out like a gray puddle. A steady breeze swirled the haze around and around itself, sending occasional tendrils farther inland. A small group of people milled about a structure that had collapsed. Flames still licked at the blackened wood, but there wasn't much left for the fire to consume. A small shed had been spared, but the bushes next to it were scorched.

When his eyes fell on the neat garden, Hart's mind shud­dered with recognition. "No." He looked around the yard again, then farther, to the surrounding meadows, the low rock wall at the back of the property, the trail that wound through tall grass to the edge of the cliffs.

This was Emma's home.

The driver glanced back and Hart met his somber gaze. He wanted to scream for him to go faster, damn it, but the horses struggled against the reins and the lane was only a few feet from the danger of the cliffs.

Finally, when Hart could no longer take the pace, he jumped to the grass and ran the last hundred yards to her home. Three men knelt in the grass, bent over a white shape laid on the ground. Hart sprinted toward them.

"Emma!" He saw a limp arm stretched across the ground, saw the fingers twitch. "Oh, thank God," Hart groaned as he skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees. The men parted and Hart was staring down into a slack face. The lips far too pale, eyes unmoving beneath closed lids. And it wasn't her.

"This is Bess," he choked out. "Bess Smythe. Where is Emma? Where is the lady of the house?"

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