Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone Sheriff\The Gentleman Rogue\Never Trust a Rebel (28 page)

But Ned was already moving smoothly through the crowd, crossing the ballroom, his focus fixed on Emma Northcote.

Chapter Six

‘O
h, my!' Emma heard Miss Chichester exclaim as she stared in the direction where Ned Stratham stood talking with Mr Finchley and Lord Longley. ‘You are not going to believe this, Miss Northcote, but Mr Stratham—'

Emma resisted the urge to look round. ‘I do not understand why Mr Stratham is of such fascination to the ladies of the
ton
,' she interrupted. ‘He is just trade, for all his money.' It was a cruel and elitist remark, but after what he had done he deserved it.

Miss Chichester's eyes widened. Her pale cheeks flushed ruddy. She gave a soft, breathless gasp and pressed a hand to her
décolletage
.

‘Indeed I am, Miss Northcote,' Ned Stratham's voice said. That same soft East End accent, that same slight edge underlying the quiet words.

Emma's heart stuttered. Her stomach turned end over end. She froze for a second before turning to look up into those too-familiar cool blue eyes.

‘Mr Stratham,' she said with a controlled calm that belied the trembling inside. ‘You surprise me.'

He smiled. ‘Evidently.'

She held his gaze as if she were not embarrassed at being caught out and ashamed of her words, but the seep of heat into her cheeks betrayed her. However, she offered no apology.

The silence stretched between them.

His eyes never faltered for a moment. He stood there, all quiet strength and stillness, with those eyes that knew her secrets and those lips that had seduced her own. ‘I am here to ask you to dance, Miss Northcote.'

Her stomach gave a somersault.

Beside her she heard Miss Chichester give a quiet gasp.

‘I thank you kindly for your magnanimous offer, sir.' Emma held his gaze with a determined strength, knowing that, in this battle of wills, to look away would be to admit defeat. ‘But I am obliged to refuse. I am here as Lady Lamerton's companion, not to dance.'

His mouth made a small dangerous curve, making fear trickle into her blood at what he meant to do. Too late she remembered that one word from his mouth could destroy her. One word and her return to the
ton
and all that meant for her brother would be over. Her mouth turned dry as a desert.

He turned his attention to Lady Lamerton. Only then did Emma notice that all of the ladies around them had fallen silent and that Lady Lamerton and her friends were watching with avid interest.

‘I am sure that Lady Lamerton would be able to spare you for some small time.' He looked at Lady Lamerton with that quiet confidence in his eyes. Cocked the rogue eyebrow.

All eyes turned to the dowager, like a queen with the presiding vote over a court.

‘Mr Stratham has the right of it, Emma.' Lady Lamerton turned her focus to Ned. ‘I trust you will return m'companion to me safely, sir.'

‘Safe and sound, ma'am.' Ned smiled at Lady Lamerton.

Safe and sound.
The very air around him vibrated with danger.

All of the tabbies watched in rapt amazement.

His eyes switched back to Emma, the bluest blue eyes in all the world, so cool and dangerous, and filled with the echoes of shared intimacies between them. ‘Miss Northcote.' He held out his hand in invitation. ‘Shall we?'

Her eyes held his for a tiny moment longer, knowing that he had manoeuvred her into a corner from which there was no escape. Then she inclined her head in acknowledgement.

He might have won the battle but it did not mean he would win the war.

She placed her hand in his, rose to her feet and let him lead her out on to the dance floor.

* * *

They joined the nearest set for a country dance that was neither progressive nor too fast for conversation.

‘What game are you playing, Ned Stratham?'

‘No game. We need to speak with a degree of privacy. This provides the perfect opportunity.'

She glanced around to all the pairs of eyes fixed upon them, to all the murmurs being whispered behind fans and into ears. ‘You call this privacy? Our every move is under scrutiny.'

‘Indeed. Apparently I am a source of fascination for the ladies of the
ton
.'

She blushed and eyed him with anger. She was very aware of the warmth of his hand around hers, of the proximity of his body. ‘I have already told you I will not listen to more of your lies.'

‘But I was not the one who was telling the lies, was I, Emma?'

‘Given what you did, I do not think I owe you any explanation as to why I did not wait. And as for a lady's maid, I have undertaken such duties in the past. For a month.'

‘A month.' He paused. ‘As the daughter of the maid's master.' He looked at her.

‘Strictly speaking it was not a lie.'

‘Strictly speaking.'

She pressed her lips firm. Glanced away.

He leaned closer, so that she felt the brush of his breath against her cheek, felt the shiver tingle down her spine and tighten her breasts.

‘And as we are speaking strictly, the little fact of your name, Miss
de Lisle
...' His blue eyes seemed to bore into hers.

‘It was not a lie. De Lisle is my mother's name.'

‘Your mother's name. But not yours.'

She swallowed again. Her mouth was dry with nerves. He was making it sound as if she were the one in the wrong. ‘My father and I could hardly admit the truth of our background. That we were fallen from society. That we were of that privileged class so despised in Whitechapel. Do you think we would have been accepted? Do you think Nancy would have given me a job in the Red Lion?'

‘No.' His eyes held hers, unmoved by the argument. ‘But it does not change the fact that you lied to me, Emma Northcote.'

‘Small white lies that made no difference.'

Something flashed in his eyes, something angry and passionate and hard. Something in such contrast to the cool deliberate control normally there that it sent a shiver tingling down her spine and made her heart skip a beat. ‘They would have made all the difference in the world.'

The dance took them apart, leading them each to change places with the couple on their right. She took those few moments to try to compose herself before they were reunited once more and his hand closed over hers, binding her to him. And to this confrontation she had no wish to conduct upon a crowded dance floor.

‘Do not seek to turn this around,' Emma said. ‘You made me believe you were something you were not.'

He raised his eyebrows at that.
Just as she had made him believe she was someone she was not.

It fuelled her anger and sense of injustice.

‘All those nights, Ned... And in between them you were here, living in your mansion, dancing at some ball with the latest diamond of the
ton
hanging on your arm. Seeking to ally yourself with some earl's daughter while you played your games in Whitechapel.'

He said nothing.

‘You would have bedded me and cast me aside.'

‘Would I?' His voice was cold, hard, emotionless. There was something in his eyes when he said it that unnerved her.

Had she waited, she would know for sure.

Had she waited it would have been too late.

The dance played on, their feet following where it led. There was only the music and the scrape and tread of slipper soles against the smooth wood of the floorboards. Only the sound of her breath and his. Given all that was at stake, she had to know. She had to ask him.

‘Are you going to tell them the truth of me? That I was a serving wench in a chop-house in Whitechapel? That my father is a dockworker? That we lodged in one of the roughest boarding houses in all London?'

‘Are you going to tell them that I was a customer in the same chop-house?'

They looked at one another.

‘You they would forgive. Me, you know they would not.'

‘They would be a deal less forgiving of me than you anticipate.' He smiled a hard smile. ‘But do not fear, Emma. Your secret is safe with me.'

She waited for the qualifier. For what he would demand for his silence.

He just smiled a cynical smile as if he knew her thoughts. Gave a tiny shake of his head.

It made her feel as though she was the one who had got this all wrong. She reminded herself of the shabby leather jacket and boots he had worn—a disguise. She reminded herself of what had passed between them in the darkness of a Whitechapel alleyway while he was living a double life here. For all his denials he was a liar who had used and made a fool of her.

‘Now that matters are clear between us, there is no need to speak again. Stay away from me, Ned.'

He smiled again. A hard, bitter smile. ‘You need not worry, Emma Northcote,' he taunted her over her name. ‘I will stay far away from you.'

‘I will be glad of it.'

He studied her eyes, as if he could see everything she was, all her secrets and lies, all her hopes and fears. Then he leaned closer, so close that she could smell the clean familiar scent of him and feel his breath warm against her cheek, so close that she shivered as he whispered the words into her ear, ‘Much more than you realise.'

Her heart was thudding. Her blood was rushing. All that had been between them in the Red Lion and the alleyway, and at the old stone bench, was suddenly there in that ballroom.

They stared at one another for a moment. Then he stepped back, once more his cool controlled self.

‘Smile,' he said. ‘Every eye is upon us and you wouldn't want our audience to think we were discussing anything other than the usual petty fripperies that are discussed upon a ballroom floor.'

He smiled a smile that did not touch his eyes.

And she reciprocated, smiling as she said the words, ‘You are a bastard, Ned Stratham.'

‘Yes, I am. Quite literally. But I deem that better than a liar.'

His words, and their truth, cut deep.

The music finally came to a halt.

The ladies on either side of her were curtsying. Emma smothered her emotions and did the same.

Ned bowed. ‘Allow me to return you to Lady Lamerton.'

She held his gaze for a heartbeat and then another. And then, uncomfortably aware that every eye in the ballroom was upon them, she touched the tips of her fingers to his arm and let him lead her from the floor.

* * *

Ned and Rob were in Gentleman John Jackson's pugilistic rooms in Bond Street the next morning. At nine o'clock the hour was still too early for any other gentleman to be present. After a night of gentlemen's clubs, drinking, gaming and womanising—which were, as far as Ned could make out, the chief pursuits of most men of the gentry and nobility—gentlemen did not, in general, rise before midday. After a bout of light sparring together, Ned and Rob were working on the heavy sand-filled canvas punchbags that hung from a bar fixed along the length of one wall.

Rob sat on the floor, back against the wall, elbows on knees, catching his breath. Ned landed regular punches to the sandbag.

‘What the hell was that about with Emma Northcote last night?' Rob asked.

‘I wanted to speak to her.'

‘About what?'

‘To verify her identity.'

‘And you needed to dance with her for that?'

‘I had to put all those lessons with that dancing master to use at some time. I paid him good money.'

Rob raised his eyebrows. His expression was cynical. ‘I take it she is who we think.'

‘What gives you that impression?'

‘Maybe the fact that you're knocking two tons of stuffing out of that punchbag.'

Ned raised an eyebrow, then returned to jabbing at the sandbag, right hook, then left hook. Right hook, then left. ‘She doesn't change anything. We go on just as before.' He landed a left-handed blow so hard that it almost took the punchbag clear off its hook. He ducked as it swung back towards him, punched it again, and again. Kept up the training until his knuckles were sore and his arms ached and the keenness of what he felt was blunted by fatigue.

Rob threw a drying cloth up to him and got to his feet, gesturing with his eyes to the doorway with warning. ‘That it, is it, Stratham?' he said, reverting to a form of formality now that they had company.

Ned caught the cloth and mopped the sweat from his face as he glanced round to see who it was that had entered.

There was only the slightest of hesitations in the Duke of Monteith and Viscount Devlin's steps as they saw who was in the training room using the equipment.

Ned met Devlin's eyes. The viscount returned the look—cold, insolent, contemptuous—before walking with Monteith to the other end of the room.

Ned and Rob exchanged a look.

‘Your favourite person,' said Rob beneath his breath.

‘It just gets better and better.' Ned smiled a grim smile, as he and Rob made their way to the changing rooms.

* * *

Within the dining room of Lady Lamerton's town house a few streets away, Emma and the dowager were at breakfast.

‘It is just as I suspected, Mr Stratham dancing with you at Hawick's ball is all the gossip, Emma,' Lady Lamerton said as she read the letter within her hand.

The clock on the mantel ticked a slow and sonorous rhythm.

‘I cannot think why. It was only one dance.' Emma did not speak while the footman moved from Lady Lamerton's side, where he filled her cup with coffee, to Emma's and stood waiting, coffee pot in hand.

She gave a nod, watching while the steaming hot liquid poured from the pot into the pretty orange-and-gold-rimmed cup. The aroma of coffee wafted through the air. She added a spot of cream from the jug and took a sip of the coffee.

Sunlight spilled in through the dining-room window. sparkling through the crystal drops of the chandelier above their heads to cast rainbows on the walls.

Lady Lamerton set the letter down on the growing pile of opened papers and reached for the next one. She glanced up as she broke the seal. ‘Because, my dear, Mr Stratham has not previously been seen upon a dance floor. He does not dance.'