A Christmas Wedding Wager (13 page)

A look of annoyance crossed the doctor's face. 'You know in my charity work I go to the homes of workers. Poor places they are. Foul. Sometimes I wonder about this Industrial Revolution they are always going on about. Is it making the world a better place?'

'What does this have to do with Jack Stanton?'

Dr Milburn gave a shrug. 'I hate to think of what must have happened to those poor devils he bought out. How do they feel about his wealth? And the women he has romanced but not married? You must be careful, Miss Harrison.'

'I believe I understand the measure of the man. He is over-seeing the bridge--that is all.' Her wrist tingled slightly where Jack's lips had brushed it. 'I have no interest in the man.'

'I am relieved to hear it.' Dr Milburn made another bow. 'I believe the reel is about to begin.

Shall we?'

Emma let him lead her out on the floor. As they lined up, ready to begin, she saw Jack in the next line. Jack's eyes were on her, cold and hard, speculating. Something she had never noticed before. A shiver ran down her spine. What did he have planned for her? Was Dr Milburn right about his business practices?

'Miss Emma, the dance has begun,' Dr Milburn complained.

Emma looked down at the floor, trying to pay attention to her dance steps and banish all imaginings from her clearly over-taxed brain.

'I shall now retire to my room a happy man,' Emma's father pronounced when they arrived back at the house. 'I am not getting younger, but these balls do my heart good.'

Emma made a move to follow her father up the stairs. Her feet ached, and she was certain a blister was developing on the base of her right foot, but a happy glow filled her. She had forgotten dancing could be this much fun.

'A word, Miss Harrison, if you please.' Jack gestured towards the drawing room.

Emma swallowed the quick retort. Her body quivered as if his hand had brushed hers. She forced the tiredness down. Surely Jack could not want to have a discussion about the bridge at this hour? She had counted on it being tomorrow morning. As it was, she had probably had one cup of punch too many. It was the only thing that could account for this lighter-than-air feeling. In the morning she expected to feel every inch of her twenty-five years again.

The embers of the fire gave out a golden orange glow, giving the normally sedate room a mysterious allure.

'Is there something wrong?' Emma asked as she moved about the room, straightening all the cushions. Her heart thudded in her ears as Jack shut the door with a click.

'I have been remiss.'

'Remiss?' Emma's hand froze, hanging suspended in mid-air, hovering over a cushion. 'You have been most pleasant all evening. I can find no fault with your behaviour. You even shepherded old Mrs Armstrong into supper. Goodness knows that was above and beyond the call of duty. She assumes everyone is deaf and in need of an ear trumpet.'

'She is pleasant enough, but my choice of dinner companion is not what I want to speak about.' The darkness of Jack's hair contrasted sharply with the whiteness of his shirt-front, giving him a dangerous look.

'The bridge? You wish to discuss the bridge now?' Emma held out a cushion as her mind struggled. She was over-tired from dancing and would have to guard her tongue. Where to begin? How to begin?

He took the cushion from her and replaced it on the sofa. The air was suddenly tinged by his very masculine citrus scent, holding her, enveloping her. Within the space of a heartbeat the room had shrunk. Emma's tongue wet her dry lips as her pulse began to race. They were alone, and it was unlike the last time they had been alone. Then, the servants had been about; now the house was hushed. Above her, she could hear the distant sounds of her father getting ready for bed.

'I promised you another dance--a waltz, I believe--but I became entangled in other matters.'

The fire cast shadows over his face, concealing his expression. 'And you...were busy.'

'After our polka I was not a wallflower.' Emma's voice sounded breathless. She concentrated on the mantelpiece clock, ignoring the way her body became alert, as if it expected something to happen--wanted something to happen.

'I dislike saying something and not doing it.' Jack took a step closer. If she reached out a hand she'd encounter his shirtfront. Her palm itched to touch, and she barely restrained it.

'There is not another ball between now and Christmas. Put it out of your mind. I have.' Emma knew it was a lie. All the time she had waltzed with the other men she had thought about what it had been like to be in Jack's arms. How safe and familiar it had felt, like returning home.

She struggled for control. 'Shall we speak about the bridge? It is another promise you made. I am eager to hear your progress.'

'If a polka was worth a discussion, might a waltz be worth a site visit to see how things are actually progressing?' His voice dropped an octave, became thick rich velvet that stroked her skin.

She struggled to remember what was important.

'It might be. But we are discussing theory only, Mr Stanton. I told you there was no ball between now and Christmas.' A pang of disappointment ran through Emma. Against all reason, she wanted to be in his arms again. The reason did not matter.

'What if I hum?' He held out his hands. His eyes were shadowed. 'Would you dance with me? Here, now, in the firelight?'

She attempted to draw a breath, but her stays were pulled far too tightly. To dance here...A tingle of excitement rippled down her spine.

'You are teasing me, Mr Stanton. Waltzing in the drawing room? Without music?' Emma tried a laugh, but it died in her throat as she saw his expression. The light from the dimmed gas gave him a dangerous look, his face all planes and shadows. And his evening dress did nothing to tame him. If anything, it showed that the merest veneer of civilisation covered him.

'I have never been more serious.' He moved over to the fireplace.

Emma stared at him, took an involuntary step forward, gave an imperceptible nod.

Tomorrow she would be sensible. Tonight she wanted to feel his arms about her waist. She had drunk a cup too many, and even her blood seemed to be tingling.

'Once around the room and that is all.'

'As my lady commands.' He put one hand on her waist, and the other clasped her free hand.

Emma's fingers trembled as they touched his shoulder, felt the muscles rippling underneath.

He began to hum loudly, a definite waltz, a Strauss waltz like the one that they had first danced to all those years ago. Was it deliberately chosen? Or simply the one waltz tune he knew? Emma hesitated, longed to ask but decided against it. She had no desire to alert him to the fact that she remembered. She dreaded to think what construction he might put on that piece of intelligence.

At his look, she joined in. Her hum matched his. He nodded, and his hand rested more firmly on her waist, pulled her body closer to his. His hand seemed to burn through her dress.

They circled the room once. Their feet slowed, the humming faded. Stopped.

Her gaze tumbled into his, caught, held. Emma knew she should step back. Propriety demanded it. But her limbs were powerless to move.

She wanted to stay where she was--in his arms. Safe. The desire to lay her head against his chest and hear the steady thump of his heart threatened to overwhelm her. She made one last effort towards sanity. Pushed back against the circle of his arms.

'I should go.' She looked towards the closed door. It seemed an age away. She had no idea how she would make it there without stumbling. Her legs seemed to be made of jelly.

He made no reply, but his mouth swooped down and captured hers. Lips touching lips. His hand came and cupped the back of her head. It seemed as if her entire world had come down to this one thing--the pressure of his mouth against hers.

Firm, but gentle.

A warm ripple coursed through her. She had been kissed before, quick pecks, and once someone had kissed her full on her lips. But nothing like this lingering possession of her mouth, this kiss that threatened to unravel her senses. She should move back, but her spine appeared to have melted. She wanted the moment never to end. The kiss changed, became more seeking, more urgent, devoured her lips as his arms tightened and drew her closer, crushing her against his hard body.

The clock chimed, striking midnight, and Emma jumped away from Jack. Her face showed panic, but her lips were a little too full, too red. He made no move to keep her there.

He had meant to test her, to see how far she'd go and to pull back at the last possible moment.

Then this had happened. He had tasted her lips, felt them curve underneath his, yield, and it had taken all his self-control not to go beyond that. Even now his hands itched to reach out and press her warm body back against his.

'Forgive me, Miss Harrison--the mistletoe.' His breathing was laboured, as if he had run a long distance. He forced his lungs to fill with air, his hands to remain by his sides, his head upright.

'There is no mistletoe here.' She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

He raised an eyebrow. 'You surprise me with the boldness of your assertion, Miss Harrison.

There is a sprig in your hair.'

Her cheeks flamed red as her hands explored the knot at the back of her head. 'Where? How did I not notice? Do you know how long it has been there? Imagine what the gossips will be saying!'

'Not so very long.' Jack reached out and plucked the sprig from where he had placed it as they were dancing. A mild deception, but surely better than the accusing stare. And her lips had tantalised him all night. 'You should be more observant.'

He kept his face perfectly solemn and waited.

The corners of her lips twitched.

'I am sure that wasn't there before.' Her eyes danced as a tiny bubble of laughter escaped. 'I am positive. It couldn't have been. Lucy Charlton would have said something when we parted. You put it there.'

His laughter echoed hers.

'Are you accusing me?' He raised an eyebrow and dared her to carry the flirtation further.

'Maybe.' She lowered her lashes and developed a sudden interest in the pattern of the Turkey carpet.

He hesitated, waiting.

The ticks of the clock grew louder, reverberating through his body. He forced his hands to freeze. Years ago they had once shared a flirtation, and he had rushed things. And had lost her.

He refused to lose again.

Jack shut his eyes. Seven years ago he had vowed to start afresh, not to look backwards. He should not break his resolution simply because the woman he had held in his arms was Emma Harrison.

'Then perhaps I did have something to do with it. Now, say you forgive me.'

Her cheeks flushed, and her mouth became redder. A small sigh escaped, but the carpet still held her interest.

He waited, wanted her to offer her lips again, wanted to plunder her mouth. He had felt her quivering response.

Her small white teeth caught her bottom lip and she turned her head. 'There is nothing to forgive.' She gave a small trill of laughter and trailed her hand along the mantelpiece. 'As you said, it was the mistletoe's fault. It could have happened to anyone.'

Her eyelashes swept down, forming black smudges on her cheeks, making her look like she'd used to. Jack's hand curled at his side.

He had to remember what she was capable of--how he had poured out his heart to her in that letter and she had cut him dead, never answering, never acknowledging it. He had used her silence as a spur to make something of his life rather than settling as a junior civil engineer.

With the death of one dream came another.

But there was something different about Emma. Something that called to him, urged caution.

All was not as it seemed.

'Why did you dance with me?'

'I told you that I was very interested in the bridge. I wanted...wanted to go on a site visit.'

She tilted her head to one side. 'You did promise.'

'And why is that?'

The words seemed to resonate throughout the room. Emma could hear the warning behind them. Danger. She had nearly forgotten who Jack Stanton was, and how much depended on him not guessing the truth about the bridge and its design. She had to find a way to alert him to the errors in the calculations without explaining about her father.

She had to think about more than the way his arms had felt against her, or how she'd wanted to lay her face against his chest and confess her fears about her father, about her future. She could not explain. Not even now, after they had shared a kiss. Especially after they had shared a kiss.

A kiss.

No one had walked in on them, but the possibility had been there. What would her father have said? Would he have forced the issue? The worst thing was that she wanted to feel the pressure of Jack Stanton's lips again, be encircled in his arms. She wanted all this.

'Tell me, Miss Harrison.' His words coaxed her, but she saw his intent expression. 'Tell me, Emma.'

'Because--' Emma bit back the words to explain about the mistaken calculations. Now was not the time to discuss such matters. She wanted to enjoy the romance of the night. 'Because I like to take an interest in the things my father does. It gives us something to discuss besides the weather.'

Even as she said the words she knew how false they must ring. She covered her mouth with her hands and hoped.

Jack's face hardened. He reached over and lit three candles, making the room suddenly bright.

'Hopefully one day, Emma, you will trust me enough to tell the truth.'

'And hopefully one day you won't need to cheat. Mistletoe in my hair, indeed. To think I trusted you. You are worse than a rake.' She drew herself up, picked up a candle to light her way, and gave a nod. 'I expect the site visit tomorrow morning.'

'But--'

'You should have read the fine print of our contract, Mr Stanton,' she said firmly. 'Goodnight.

Annie, my maid, will be expecting me. I have no wish to keep her waiting.'

She hurried out of the room before her legs gave way. Before she begged him to let her stay.