And Then He Kissed Her (18 page)

She pressed her fingers to her lips. They were puffy, burning from the rasp of his unshaven face. Now she knew what it was to be kissed. Now she knew, and nothing would ever be the same.

Emma had the absurd desire to cry, but not with the guilt and remorse a proper woman would feel. That kiss was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to her, and she wanted to weep with joy.

I
t was the sound of a creaking stair tread that roused Emma from her euphoric trance. She glanced at the stairs and saw Mrs. Inkberry standing there, her small, round form illuminated by the shaft of sunlight pouring through the window on the landing.

She’d seen what happened.

Emma knew it at once. The frown on the older
woman’s usually good-tempered face made that fact crystal clear. Emma’s joy evaporated.

Mrs. Inkberry glanced in the direction of the doorway where Marlowe had gone, then back at her. Her frown deepened. “Come up, Emma, and have a dish of tea with me.”

She did not wait for agreement, but instead turned and went up the stairs. It would have been unthinkable for Emma to refuse. Refusing dear Mrs. Inkberry would have been almost as grievous a discourtesy as refusing Aunt Lydia. With a growing sense of dismay, she followed the older woman upstairs, along a corridor, and into the drawing room.

Mrs. Inkberry rang the bell for tea, then sat down on the settee. She patted the seat beside her for Emma to sit down, but she did not speak again until the parlormaid arrived bearing a tea tray.

Annie dipped a curtsy and gave Emma a smile of greeting. “Good day, Miss Emma.”

Emma’s answering smile was perfunctory.

The tea things made a slight clatter as Annie set the tray on the table beside her mistress. “The master not coming up, ma’am?”

“Not yet. Annie, there will be a dark-haired gentleman somewhere about the shop, a prosperous-looking gentleman in a black frock coat and striped trousers. Find him, take him aside, and tell him it is my wish he leave the premises at once.”

Emma’s mortification increased with each word, and she ducked her head. Marlowe’s kiss
still burned against her mouth, and she felt it must be like a brand, obvious for anyone to see.

“Then,” Mrs. Inkberry continued, “you may tell Mr. Inkberry his tea will be ready in half an hour. See that Cook has a fresh pot ready to serve at that time. Close the door behind you.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

The parlormaid’s print dress and stiff white apron rustled as she departed. The click of the latch told Emma the door was closed, but she did not lift her head. She stared at her lap, waiting as the older woman mashed the tea and poured.

It wasn’t until Mrs. Inkberry had handed her a cup of the fragrant beverage that she spoke. “Emma, dearest girl.”

Just what Auntie might have said, affectionate words spoken in a tone of grave concern, with the barest sigh of disappointment at the end.

Of course Mrs. Inkberry was disappointed in her. Anyone who loved her and cared about her would be. She had allowed a man to commit an insult upon her person and had done nothing to stop him. Worse, all it had taken was one touch of his mouth for her to throw aside a lifetime of moral rectitude. She had done far more than acquiesce to his kiss. She had reveled in it.

Even now the memory of it was enough to tilt her from remorse to joy.

Mrs. Inkberry’s next words tilted her back again. “Emma, your aunt brought you up with the strictest principles and a full awareness of right and wrong. But I can appreciate that without her guidance now, you may sometimes
become…” There was a delicate pause. “Confused.”

That described her topsy-turvy state of mind and her inexplicable actions of late rather well. She nodded in complete agreement.

“Now that Lydia is gone,” the older woman went on, “there is no one to advise you. No one but myself, that is. I have known you since you were a girl of fifteen, and I should like to think that were you to wander from your genteel upbringing, Lydia would have wished me to guide you back. I realize you are no longer a girl, but a mature woman….”

If I’m a mature woman, then don’t treat me like a child. Stop smothering me.

Those words flared up out of nowhere, resentful and defiant. Emma bit down on her lip and didn’t say them.

“Being unmarried,” Mrs. Inkberry went on, “you are still blissfully unaware of what men can be. How coarse their actions if they are not true gentlemen.”

“Nothing like this has ever happened before!” she cried. “He has never—” She broke off, remembering that day at Au Chocolat. She could not lie to Mrs. Inkberry. “He has never been coarse.”

“I am glad to hear that what I witnessed was the only inappropriate thing he has done,” Mrs. Inkberry said, making Emma wince. “Still, my dear, it is incumbent upon me to act in Lydia’s stead and caution you. Men, however they may seem, can lead women to wrong.”

How could anything as beautiful as that kiss be wrong? Defiance flared again, hotter and more fierce. “Is it so terrible a thing to be kissed by a man?”

“It can be, yes,” the older woman answered in a gentle voice. “If that man is not your husband, or at the very least, your fiancé. Has this man offered you marriage?”

Emma stared at her gloved hands clenched in her lap. “No.”

“Do you believe him capable of courting you in honorable fashion and marrying you?”

She thought of the parade of women she’d seen Marlowe set aside during the years she had worked for him. Women for whom he hadn’t cared a whit, women for whom he’d never spared a thought once they were gone. “No.”

“A man who accosts a lady in a bookshop and attempts to make love to her, yet who is not honorable enough to court her properly, become acquainted with her friends and family, and offer her marriage is not a gentleman. You know that as well as I do, Emma. You were brought up to know right from wrong.”

“That kiss didn’t feel wrong,” she said stubbornly.

Mrs. Inkberry sighed. “Lydia always said you are very much like your mother.”

Startled, she opened her eyes and turned to stare into the other woman’s face, dismayed. “Auntie told you,” she said with dawning awareness. “She told you about my parents?”

“That they had to marry, you mean? Yes, she did.”

Something of her distress must have revealed itself on her face, for Mrs. Inkberry reached out and patted her arm in a reassuring way. “Now, now,” she murmured. “Your father married your mother in the end and did right by her, so there’s no shame in it now.”

“But she told you my parents had to marry. If they hadn’t, I would be…I would have been…illegitimate.” She stirred, her dismay deepening. “Who else did Auntie tell about this? Does Mrs. Morris know?”

“No one else knows, Emma, not even Mr. Inkberry. I’ve kept Lydia’s confidence many years now. And Lydia felt a great responsibility for you. It weighed heavy on her shoulders, and there were times when she felt a need to confide in me and seek advice. She and Mr. Worthington had no children, you know, and I’d raised four daughters of my own. Please do not be distressed that she told me.”

Emma shook her head, far more concerned by her aunt’s remark than Mrs. Inkberry’s knowledge of the circumstances surrounding her birth. “Auntie always told me that it was up to women to enforce the boundaries of propriety because men will not. Do you believe that to be true?”

“Yes, of course, women must set the boundaries. Left to themselves, men cannot be counted upon to exercise restraint. They have certain…animal spirits we do not possess.”

Emma was beginning to think herself an exception to that well-established dictum, now that her own restraint had been tested and found woefully lacking. While kissing Marlowe, enforcing boundaries had been the last thing on her mind. “My mother stepped out with my father before they married. And Auntie believed I am like her?”

Was that the reason she had to keep reminding herself that the things Marlowe had done were wrong? Because she was at heart an immoral woman only trying to be good? “I am not a hedonist!” she burst out. “I am not immoral. Did Auntie think I was?”

To her amazement, Mrs. Inkberry smiled at her. “I believe your aunt simply meant there is a strong desire for romance and adventure in you, and also an innate sense of curiosity. Given that you possess these qualities, it is only natural that from time to time you would rebel.”

Emma’s fingers slid to the tiny scar on her cheek. There were always consequences to rebellion, painful ones. She did not want to be a rebel. She lowered her hand and took a quick gulp of her tea.

“But Emma, because of her nature, your mother made a mistake, one that could have cost her dearly had your father not done the right thing in the end. I should hate to see you make the same mistake. Lydia, were she alive, would no doubt feel the same.”

Emma took a deep breath and got a firm hold of her good sense. She looked into the compas
sionate brown eyes of the woman beside her. “I should not wish to dishonor my aunt’s memory by any of my actions,” she said and wondered why speaking those words made her feel as if there were a lead weight on her chest, pressing her down until she couldn’t breathe.

Look there. That’s where you’ll find the truth.

The heaviness she felt was just where Marlowe had put his hand when he’d told her those words. She ignored it and forced herself to continue. “I should not wish to dishonor myself.”

Mrs. Inkberry’s kindly face beamed with approval and relief. “Very wise of you, Emma. Very wise and sensible.”

“Yes,” she said dully. “I know.”

“There is a maneuver, dear, that a woman can use to defend herself if a man gets fresh with her. A well-placed blow with one’s knee. I taught it to my daughters. Would you like me to show it to you as well?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Inkberry, but that won’t be necessary,” she said and gulped down the rest of her tea.

It wasn’t necessary because she had no intention of allowing Marlowe to get fresh with her ever again. No matter how it made her feel when he did.

As his carriage rolled away, Harry stood on the sidewalk of Little Russell Street in the shadows of dusk, a paper-wrapped bundle of books tied with twine dangling from his fingers. He stared at Emma’s building, but he didn’t cross
the street to go in. He could see by the light in the window that there were several ladies in the parlor, and though Emma was not among them, he could not enter the building without being seen. He glanced up at the lighted front windows of Emma’s flat and saw her pass by one of them, then he looked again at the parlor, trying to figure out a way in.

Only a few months ago, if someone had told him he’d be skulking about outside Miss Emmaline Dove’s rooms, aching with lust, he’d have called that person demented. But he hadn’t known then how enticing a slender redhead with freckles could be. He hadn’t known how much passion lurked beneath his former secretary’s reserved, maidenly exterior and how intoxicating it was to bring it out. Now he knew, and it was torture. Sweet, painful torture.

He set the books he’d bought for her on the pavement and leaned back against the brick wall of the building opposite hers. For the hundredth time in the past few hours, he thought about that kiss. He remembered every detail of it: the soft, sweet yielding of her mouth, the feel of her arms around his neck pulling him closer, the heat of her body as she’d moved against him with the awkwardness of inexperience, making him realize she’d never been kissed before. But the thing he remembered most vividly was her face afterward. Though she hadn’t been smiling, her face had shone with so much astonished pleasure it had taken his breath away. Never in his life had he seen a woman look so radiantly
beautiful. It had taken every ounce of strength he possessed to let her go and walk away.

He’d waited for her to follow him out of that room, lingering amid volumes of Byron and Shelley and other dead poets, for what had seemed an eternity. Instead of Emma, however, a maid had appeared, informing him that the mistress of the house required him to leave. He’d known the reason at once, of course. They’d been seen, and from the maid’s message, he could discern who had seen them.

He remembered what Emma had said, that Mrs. Inkberry had been her Aunt Lydia’s friend, and he could well imagine what sort of shameful lectures she’d received after his departure. He glanced again at the window. Knowing Emma, she was probably filling herself with reproaches and recriminations at this very moment. He’d never known a woman more smothered in rules. He suspected her aunt and her father could take the credit for that.

He, of course, was no good at rules. He wanted to kiss her again, and again, and again. One taste of her mouth was acting upon him like an opiate, for now he craved her kisses like an addict. That was why he stood here, filled with thoroughly dishonorable intentions, trying to find a way to get up to her flat. He hoped that once he was there, she’d put all those rules aside and give him kisses and a great deal more.

Once he was in her rooms, he thought he had a fair chance of bringing her around to his way of thinking on the topic. Her propriety was a
shell; underneath it, she was soft as butter. She wanted him, and he knew he could use that desire, use his experience against her innocence to pleasure them both. First he’d drug her with kisses as she had drugged him. Then he’d take her down on that exotic Turkish carpet she had, rid her of any nonsensical ideas in her head about what men and women were supposed to do, and show her what they really did.

Two grenadier matrons crossed his line of vision. They gave Harry and his expensive, finely tailored clothes a long, curious study as they passed by. He glanced around and saw that a group of boys playing marbles on the corner had stopped their game and were also staring at him with curiosity. He knew he couldn’t stand here, in this enclave of bobbin lace curtains and working-class respectability, much longer without drawing even more attention.

Hell with it
, he thought.
Who cares what anybody thinks?

He straightened away from the wall, picked up the books, and started across to her front door, then stopped in the middle of the street for no reason whatsoever.

With an oath, he changed direction and walked to the group of boys playing marbles on the corner. A few minutes later, one of those boys was sixpence richer, Emma had the complete set of Burton’s
The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night
, and Harry was on his way home in a hansom cab, wondering if he was the one who was demented.