And Then He Kissed Her (13 page)

Still, there was no mistaking that he didn’t seem quite himself today. There was that very odd look on his face when she’d mentioned peaches. A dazed, uncomprehending look, as if he’d just gone off into a world of his own. She couldn’t account for it.

And then there was the way he kept staring at her mouth.

He was doing it now.

Emma paused, a strawberry poised halfway to her lips. “Why do you do keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Staring at me. It is most disconcerting.”

“Is it?” He didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned back on his forearms and tilted his head to one side. He began to smile.

“It makes me feel as if I have something on my face,” she told him. “And why are you smiling like that? Did I say something amusing?”

He lifted his gaze from her mouth to her eyes. “You don’t have anything on your face, and I do not mean to stare. My apologies. I am simply trying to get to know you better by making a study of your person. In our new spirit of equality, you understand.”

Though he was still smiling, he sounded sincere. Gratified, she decided a show of conciliation on her part was in order. They did have to work together. “Despite what you may think, there are things about you I do admire.”

“Well, go on,” he prompted when she paused.
“Don’t stop now, in heaven’s name. You must tell me what my admirable qualities are.”

“You have very shrewd business instincts, for one thing.”

He sat up, reached for a strawberry, and gave her a rueful look as he ate it. “Not so shrewd when it comes to a certain Mrs. Bartleby.”

“Anyone can make an error of judgment. Besides, I have come to accept that what I write is not your cup of tea, so to speak. And you were right that my popularity could be a transient thing. You, on the other hand, have a history of success, and I cannot help but admire that. I respect your business acumen.”

That said, she ate her strawberry and reached for another from the basket.

Marlowe, however, was looking at her askance. “Is that all?” he asked. “You respect my business acumen?”

Emma looked at him in bewilderment. “What were you expecting me to say?”

“Not that,” he said with emphasis. “As gratifying as it is to know I have your respect, that’s not a very flattering thing for a woman to say to a man.”

She looked at him with doubt as she ate her strawberry, uncertain if he was teasing. “So it’s flattery you want from me?”

He paused as if thinking it over, then gave a decided nod. “Yes, I do,” he said and grinned. “After your litany of my faults, my masculine pride is wounded. I am in serious need of buttering up.”

He could be so outrageous. “No,” she said,
folding her arms and trying not to laugh. “Flattery will only make you conceited.”

“Not with you to keep me on the straight, narrow, humble path.” He stirred and edged closer to her on the grass. “I know you said you don’t like me, but I refuse to believe you think me wholly bad. There must be something besides my business acumen that you like about me, Emmaline.”

“I did not give you leave to use my Christian name! Besides,” she added, making a face, “I hate Emmaline. Calling me that won’t help you.”

“All right, then. Shall I call you Emma instead? Is that what your friends call you?”

“Yes, if you must know. But I don’t know why you keep referring to friendship. It is impossible for us to be friends.”

“Why?”

She sniffed. “A gentleman, so my Aunt Lydia always said, is never a trustworthy friend to a woman.”

He chuckled. “Shrewd woman, your aunt.” He stretched out his long legs parallel to hers, so close they were nearly touching. It went beyond the bounds of propriety. She opened her mouth to point that out, but then his knee brushed hers, and she could not seem to speak.

“You still haven’t told me what you like about me,” he murmured and leaned forward, coming so close that she caught the masculine scent of sandalwood soap, so close that she could see the dark blue ring around the irises of his eyes. He eased his hand between her leg and his, flatten
ing his palm on the ground between them and resting his weight on his arm. His wrist brushed the side of her thigh.

“C’mon, Emma,” he coaxed. “Butter me up.”

Warmth flooded through her, a tide of it that made her sure she was blushing all over. She feared she was the one being buttered up, for the way he looked at her made her feel as soft as butter in the sun. She stirred, flustered, restless, and acutely aware of his wrist against the side of her leg.

For some reason, his smile widened. He must have been able to perceive her agitation, but he did not move away from her, and she knew he was not going to do so until she gave him what he was waiting for.

Oh, how she envied him his glib tongue at this moment. Emma swallowed hard, and looked straight into his brilliant blue eyes. Her breath caught at his heart-stopping smile. Her pulses began to race, and she understood for the first time just why women made such fools of themselves over him. “You are a very handsome man.”

He pulled back a bit and gave her a dubious look, then he glanced around as if uncertain she was speaking to him. Seeming to determine that he was, indeed, the recipient of this compliment, he returned his gaze to hers, yet his expression was still skeptical. “
You
think I’m handsome? You do?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “And very charming when you wish to be.”

He leaned forward again until his forehead was only inches from the brim of her hat. “I should very much like to kiss you.” His lashes lowered. “By God, if we were in a more secluded spot, I’d do it, too.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. “What abominable conceit!” she said, ashamed that her voice came out breathless and rushed instead of properly remonstrative. “As if I would let you!”

He didn’t look the least bit chastened by that, the wretched man. His smile came back, and this time it was downright wicked. “Is that a challenge, Emma? Are you daring me to kiss you?”

She felt a shiver of excitement at those bold words, and it took her a moment to gather her poise. “What nonsense you talk,” she said, then picked up her dispatch case and rose to her feet. “Now that I’ve flattered you so lavishly, which cannot be a good thing for any man, we’d best be going back. I have writing to do for next week’s issue.”

She stepped away from him, putting a much more proper distance between them. But as she brushed bread crumbs from her skirt, she heard him murmur something under his breath. It sounded like, “Emma, I never refuse a dare.”

She knew she ought to impress upon him that she hadn’t dared him to kiss her, and that he was not, under any circumstances, permitted to do so. But as they left the Embankment, Emma didn’t say anything about it. Aunt Lydia, she feared, would have been greatly disappointed in her.

E
mma’s typewriting machine tapped out one word, then another, then two more. A vague feeling stirred within her that something was wrong, and she stopped typing. Staring at the sheet of paper before her, she read aloud the last few words she had written. “‘Therefore, when a lady is in need of kisses—’”

With a groan, she leaned forward in her chair and rested her forehead on the typewriting machine, grinding her teeth in frustration. Kid
gloves, she’d meant to type, not kisses. This was the fifth time in a row she’d typed the wrong word. What on earth was the matter with her today?

Even as she asked herself that question, Emma knew the answer. She glanced sideways at the window, imagined again sitting on the grass in Victoria Embankment Gardens, looking into a pair of teasing blue eyes.

I should very much like to kiss you.

Thinking about that man had been distracting her from her work for two days. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was exasperating.

Reminding herself that she had a stringent deadline to meet and no time for daydreaming, she sat up, pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriting machine, and set it aside, along with several other error-filled pages. She started to reach for a fresh sheet of paper, then for no reason at all she plunked one elbow on the desk instead, rested her chin in her hand, and closed her eyes.

C’mon Emma. Butter me up.

That melting warmth washed over her again, as delicious today as it had been two days ago. In her mind’s eye, she saw him sitting there with that look of mock skepticism on his face, acting as if he didn’t believe her, acting as if her compliments were a complete surprise to him when he already knew full well the potent charm he possessed.

Really, how did he manage it?
she wondered and
once again straightened in her chair.
How did he manage to make harmless words sound so iniquitous?
It was a talent she suspected could be very dangerous to any woman’s notions of proper behavior. Especially hers.

Is that a challenge, Emma? Are you daring me to kiss you?

The man was so outrageous. Daring him to kiss her, indeed. She didn’t even like him. After she had sternly reminded herself of all the reasons why, she pressed her fingers to her mouth and wondered how it would feel to have his mouth on hers.

The clock on her mantel chimed and Emma came out of her reverie with a guilty start. She glanced at the clock, dumbfounded by the fact that it was half-past two. Where had the day gone? She had to be at her appointment in half an hour’s time.

Emma jumped to her feet and ran for her bedroom, stumbling over poor Mr. Pigeon and earning herself an indignant howl from him. “Sorry, Pigeon,” she told him over her shoulder as she entered her room.

She hurriedly replaced her shirtwaist with a fresh one, but all her rushing proved wasted, for she had to rebutton the front twice to align it properly. After donning her green serge walking suit, she secured a simple straw boater on her head with a hat pin and stuffed her little notebook and pencil into her reticule. Hooking the reticule to her wrist by the braided handle, Emma ran for the door, pulling on her gloves as
she went, buttoning them as she ran down the stairs.

Breathless, she emerged from her building and started down the sidewalk, moving at the quickest pace permissible to a lady. She hated being late.

“Emma?”

The sound of her name caused Emma to glance sideways toward the street. There, stepping down from his carriage with a newspaper in his hand, was the reason she was in such a rush, the very man who’d been tormenting her thoughts for two days. Knowing it was impossible to pretend she hadn’t seen him, Emma stopped and waited as he approached, but the moment he halted beside her, she spoke. “Good afternoon, my lord. Forgive me, but I cannot tarry. I have an appointment in just a few minutes.”

She resumed her rapid stride along the sidewalk.

“I brought you something.” He fell in step beside her, keeping to her rapid pace with ease. As they walked, he held up the newspaper in his hand. “Tomorrow’s edition.”

Emma came to a halt, her appointment forgotten. “Already?”

“Ink’s barely dry,” he told her, “but here it is. First copy off the press. Want a peek?”

She took it from him, opened it to her section, and gave an exclamation of surprise at the sight of her pseudonym so prominently displayed. She began flipping pages, scanning
the articles she had written. As she always did when her words appeared in print, she felt like a little girl at Christmas who’d gotten the perfect present. “It’s wonderful!” she cried and couldn’t help laughing with exultation. “Simply wonderful!”

“Emma, your column has been in this newspaper every week for over two months,” he re minded her. “Do you get this excited every week?”

“Yes,” she said and paused to look up at him, still laughing. “Yes, I do.”

He grinned back at her. “If it makes you smile like that, I’ll bring you a copy every Friday afternoon.”

Before she could reply, a church clock began to chime the hour. She made a sound of vexation. “Oh, dear, is it three? Heavens, now I truly am late!”

“On another journalistic expedition, are you?”

“Yes.” She folded the paper and held it out to him. “Thank you again for showing it to me.”

He shook his head in refusal. “That’s yours.”

“But it’s the first copy. Don’t you want it?”

“No. I want Mrs. Bartleby to have it.” He gestured over his shoulder to the open carriage at the curb. “I have my carriage. I can easily take you where you are going.”

“Thank you, but it wouldn’t be proper for me to ride in your carriage. And in any case, it isn’t necessary. I’m only going to Au Chocolat,” she added as they resumed walking, “and that establishment is on the next corner.”

“You have an appointment with a confectioner’s shop?”

“Yes. I am meeting with the owner, Henri Bourget. Of course, he thinks he is meeting with Mrs. Bartleby’s secretary.”

“Which reminds me of something I meant to ask you the other day. Isn’t posing as someone you’re not considered a lie?” he teased. “Or bad form, at least?”

“I’m not the one who insisted upon secrecy. Besides, it is a minor prevarication to preserve journalistic integrity,” she said at once. “For purposes of research.”

He laughed. “A confectioner’s is research, is it?”

“It is! I am toying with a theme of sweets for our third issue. Desserts, comfits, that sort of thing. It was one of the ideas I told you about last Saturday. Don’t you remember?”

“Um, of course. Have you a sweet tooth, Emma?”

“Oh, yes. I adore sweets. Particularly chocolate.” She bit her lip and gave him a helpless look as they paused at the corner. “I fear you have learned my secret weakness. I would do anything for chocolate.”

“Would you?” he murmured and paused to give her a searching glance. “Do you mind if I accompany you?” he asked after a moment. “I should like to purchase some chocolates for my sisters. As you so rightly pointed out, I need to begin selecting gifts myself, and chocolate is a gift I know would please all my sisters.” He
reached for the newspaper in her hand. “Allow me to carry that.”

“Thank you. Do your sisters like chocolate, then?”

“They adore the stuff. Baffling to me, but there it is.”

“You don’t like chocolate?” When he shook his head, she stared at him and began to question his sanity. “How is that possible?”

“I’ve a preference for savories and salty things. I’ve a particular addiction to sardines.”

That made her laugh. “Now you are joking.”

“On the contrary, I am perfectly serious.”

Her laughter subsided, and she once again studied him with doubt. Then she sighed. “I never can quite tell when you are teasing me.”

“Yes, I know, and because of that, I am beginning to appreciate just how much fun teasing you can be. I intend to do a great deal of it from now on.”

“Lovely,” she said with a groan. Now she’d never get any work done. “That’s just lovely.”

When faced with a woman’s confession that she would do anything for chocolate, a truly honorable man would have refused to speculate on what the word
anything
encompassed. But Harry had been deemed a dissolute fellow who lived an immoral life, and as the owner of Au Chocolat gave them a tour of the premises. Harry’s thoughts were occupied with all sorts of wicked possibilities.

Their tour ended in a sort of reception room,
where a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice awaited them, flanked by crystal flutes and a selection of chocolates on a silver tray. Also on the table was a paperboard box wrapped in pink tissue paper and white silk ribbon. Monsieur Bourget gestured to the table. “Perhaps your lordship and the secretary of Madame Bartleby would care to sample our truffles and have a glass of champagne?”

Emma looked at the selection of chocolates as if she’d just found heaven. “How thoughtful of you, monsieur.”

The Frenchman indicated the pink-wrapped box on the table. “Please ask Mrs. Bartleby to accept this selection of truffles as our gift. We believe we make the finest liqueur chocolates in London, and we hope she will conclude the same in her column.”

“I will be sure she receives them,” Emma answered with a straight face, “but, of course, I cannot guarantee what her opinion will be. Alas, I am merely her secretary.”

The Frenchman had no chance to reply, for at that moment another gentleman entered the room, a frown of concern on his face. He came to where they stood by the table and said something to Bourget in a low voice.

A brief exchange of words in French followed, only about half of which Harry understood, for they spoke rapidly and his French had always been awful, but there seemed to be a problem with the tempering of a particular batch of chocolate.

Bourget turned to his guests and spread his hands wide with a smile and a shrug. “Alas, they can do nothing without me. Miss Dove, Vicomte Marlowe, I fear I must leave you for a moment. If you will pardon me?”

When they nodded, he gestured to the table. “Enjoy the truffles. I shall return in a few moments.” With a bow to them, he departed with the other Frenchman, leaving Harry and Emma alone in the room.

Harry turned toward her and set aside the newspaper he’d been carrying to reach for the bottle of champagne. “Shall we avail ourselves of Monsieur Bourget’s hospitality?” he asked, pouring a glass for each of them.

Emma put her little notebook and pencil in her reticule, then set the ecru linen bag on the table. She unbuttoned her gloves, pulled them off, and laid them beside the reticule. Sipping champagne, she studied the selection of sweets for a moment, then she chose a truffle of dark chocolate with thin ribbons of pink icing on top.

Harry studied her as she daintily took half the truffle into her mouth, and he smiled at the expression of ecstasy that crossed her face, his imagination going wild. When he saw a drop of liqueur filling slide down her bottom lip and onto her chin, he was quick to take advantage of a heaven-sent opportunity.

Even as she set down her flute of champagne and started to reach for one of the folded linen serviettes on the table, Harry was lifting his hand to her face. He caught the droplet of liqueur on
the pad of his thumb, then lifted his hand to his own mouth. Her eyes widened as she watched him suck at the tacky spot.

“Hazelnut,” he murmured and glanced down. “It was delicious, but I didn’t get any chocolate.”

Before she could guess his intent and stop him with some ridiculous rule of etiquette, he grasped her wrist, lifted her hand, and opened his mouth. His lips closed around her fingers and the remaining half of the truffle.

She gasped, but though she tried to pull her hand away, he wouldn’t let her. She glanced at the door, then back at him as he slowly pulled the candy from her fingers with his mouth.

He saw her lips quiver and heard her breathing quicken. He perceived the change in her body, a purely feminine reaction of passion tempered by modesty. By innocence. Harry’s body began to burn.

Rosy color came up in her cheeks. She took another desperate glance around and tried again to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Not yet,” he murmured around the chocolate in his mouth, still holding on to her wrist. “I missed a bit.”

He swallowed the bite of truffle, then pulled the tip of her forefinger into his mouth. She made a startled sound, and he knew she was shocked by what he was doing and by her own body’s response. He could feel her pulse racing against his thumb as he sucked the last vestiges of chocolate from her fingertip with slow, deliberate relish.

Her resistance began melting away as he licked chocolate off her fingers one by one. Her hand relaxed in his hold. Her gold-tipped lashes lowered, and she closed her eyes. When he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her palm, she made a soft little sigh. Her fingers curved around his face, the damp tips caressing his cheek, sending desire coursing through every nerve ending in his body.

He flicked his tongue over her palm, and he felt the shiver that ran through her. He lifted his head, watching her face as he lowered her hand and eased his body closer.

She sensed his intent, for she lifted her face without opening her eyes and parted her lips. Pure instinct, he judged, doubting she even realized what she was so prettily asking for. If she had, she would surely have called a halt, but all her senses were focused on only one thing: the awakening of her own desire.

It was one of the most erotic things Harry had ever seen in his life.

He didn’t have much chance to enjoy it. The tap of footsteps in the corridor told him someone was coming, and after pressing a quick kiss to her knuckles, he let go of her hand. By the time Bourget reentered the room, Emma’s dreamy expression was gone, and Harry was on the other side of the table, studying the truffles as if trying to make up his mind.

“Once again, forgive me,” the Frenchman said, coming toward them.

“Pray do not distress yourself, monsieur,” Harry replied and picked up a truffle. Looking at Emma, he added, “We have been thoroughly enjoying ourselves.”