My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) (27 page)

“You smell divine,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Sweet, almost like—” he quirked his mouth in the most adorable way “—a tart.”

“I beg your pardon?” she snapped.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t sound complimentary, but it is. Believe me. You smell as if I could eat you in one bite.” He halted and jerked a hand through his hair. “Christ!” he swore, wincing. “I’m sorry. Doubly so. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” she barely choked out, inundated by images of him ravishing her in exactly the same way that she had sucked the batter off her fingers this afternoon as she baked. “I smell like tarts because I baked them this afternoon.”

“You bake?” Astonishment rang in his voice as he maneuvered them in and out of the crowd. Somehow he kept his gaze trained on her, yet never lost sight of her grandfather up ahead.

“Yes,” she said in a tone that dared him to criticize her, but somehow, she didn’t think he would.

He smiled, and the dimples she adored appeared. Just once, she wanted to lay her finger in one of those impressions. As if he somehow read her thoughts, his smile deepened, making those dimples bigger. “How did you learn to bake?”

His question was earnest, curious, and not at all judgmental. Why did he have to be so kind, so good, so blasted gentlemanly? “My mother owned a bakery in New York, and my sister and I worked there.”

“That’s remarkable. I cannot believe we have never talked about this before.”

The admiration and awe in his voice warmed her and drew a smile to her face without her consent. “Thank you. I imagine most men of the
ton
would not think it remarkable or even care to discuss it with me.”

“Most men of the
ton
are fools.”

“But not you,” she said archly, unable to quite squelch the ridiculous hurt his rejection of her kiss had caused.

He paused mere few feet from where Grandfather and Anne were now sitting, a waiter hovering beside their table. Philip’s eyes locked on Jemma’s, and it seemed as though he was almost imploring her to understand something. But what?

“I don’t know,” he replied in an achingly earnest tone. “There was a time when I did not think myself a fool.”

“And now?” Her hammering heart made the vein in her neck pulse so hard that she wanted to still the rapid movement with her fingertips.

“And now,” he said, his fingers moving gently back and forth over the top of her hand. “And now I’m not certain. I suspect, though, I may be the biggest fool of them all.”

Was he trying to tell her he regretted pulling away from her kiss?

Before she could even allow the question to take root in her head, he released her and made a sweeping gesture toward the table. “I do believe you should eat something quickly. You are swaying on your feet.”

“I am not—” The words died on her lips as the ground underneath her feet tilted precariously. She gripped Philip’s arm, her fingers wrapping around firm, sinewy muscle. For a gentleman poet, he was sinfully solid. She gave her head a little shake to ward off his effect. “Did you feel that?” she asked, her words suddenly taking great effort to form.

“No,” he said gently but with a grin. “The Attack Punch is living up to its name. Try not to say much until you’ve eaten. You’re slurring your words, and I wouldn’t want your grandfather to hear you and make you go home.”

“You wouldn’t?” She had to lean on him a little more to keep the ground in the correct position. A warm, fuzzy feeling filled her. He didn’t want her to go home.

“Certainly not,” he said. “Who would help me become a rake?”

That warm feeling vanished as fast as it had appeared, leaving a hollow pit in her stomach. She was a blithering fool! Of course he only wanted her to stay to help him become a rake. She released his arm, the earth shifting at once, but blessedly, she stayed upright.

“I think,” she said, trying to keep her hurt feelings out of her tone and the world from spinning at the same time, “that you are well on your way to becoming a rake without my help, but I will stay, as per our
bargain
.” Before he could say one more blasted word to wound her further, she spun on her heel, a decidedly bad decision given her woozy head.

She reached for the table where Anne and Grandfather were sitting. She missed it by a hairbreadth and would have gone down face-first, but strong hands—
his hands
—grasped her under her arms and hauled her against his hard chest. Everything fell away—the music, the spinning, the bright glow from the lamps that seemed suddenly too harsh—and what remained was Philip’s heartbeat pounding against her back, his searing warmth, his masculine scent, his breath gusting against the delicate skin of her earlobe. She gasped, and then so did Anne.

“Jemma, are you all right?” her sister asked.

Jemma blinked, and the world came crashing back in. Her grandfather’s fierce frown was the first thing she noticed. With a will that was long overdue, she straightened herself up, nodded, and grasped the edge of the table before wiggling out of Philip’s hold. “My slipper caught on a root,” she lied as she sat down. Grandfather eyed her skeptically but didn’t say a word.

Dinner came swiftly, which was a very good thing. Jemma attacked her plate of chicken, ham, and salad as if she hadn’t had a meal in years. When she was done, she felt slightly better and the world was no longer spinning. Once Grandfather and Anne were finished eating, Anne—
the traitor
—wasted little time reminding Grandfather that he had promised to accompany her to watch the acrobats, and they departed the box, leaving Jemma and Philip sitting there alone.

The orchestra was commencing the notes of the next song when Philip cleared his throat. Jemma just knew he was about to say something more that would make her feel worse than she already felt. She spoke immediately to cut him off. “This is the perfect opportunity for you to spread your rakish wings.”

“Is it?” He arched his eyebrows.

She nodded, hoping she appeared enthusiastic. “Absolutely! Go ask the most beautiful lady you see to dance, and when you are done dancing with her, ask another fair lady, and another. Spend the rest of the night dancing with only beautiful women but never the same woman twice. I guarantee you the other ladies will take notice and wish they were in your arms.” She cringed. She’d not meant to say that last part at all.

He leaned toward her, his eyes becoming intense and boring into hers. “Will you dance with me?”

“Certainly not,” she snapped.

A smile tugged at his lips, and she would swear on her life it appeared to be a smile of admiration. He came closer to her, his fingers tracing a line back and forth on the table very near where her arm rested. “But you said to ask the most beautiful lady to dance.”

“Well, of course—” Her breath caught as his words sunk in to her Attack Punch–hampered brain. She reclined in her seat until the wood of the chair dug into her back. She needed to put a safe distance between her and Philip, though she suspected all the distance in the world would not matter at this point. “Very good, Philip. It seems you don’t need my help to become a rake, after all.”

“I don’t?” His brow creased.

She shook her head. “No, indeed. I’d say any man who can lie as you just did with such a smooth, silky tone is quite the rake already.”

“No, Jemma, you’re wrong. I—”

“Jemma Adair!” a male voice rang out from a distance.

She glanced toward the crowd and searched for who had called her. Her gaze landed on Will.

Will!

The Attack Punch must surely be getting to her. She blinked, but, no, heaven help her, Will was still there. She knew good and well that he had taken that ship, which seemed so very long ago now, to go to England with his future wife, but for heaven’s sake, England was an enormous place! Did he have to be here, now, when she was so very vulnerable?

He strode toward her with the same gait he always had, but instead of finding it commanding, she saw it for what it truly was—arrogant and overly proud. He stopped, grinning from ear to ear, in front of her table.

“Jemma.” He breathed her name just as he used to, just as she last remembered him saying her name when he was apologizing for marrying another. “I cannot believe it’s you.”

“You always were one to miss what was right in front of your face,” she said, allowing the disdain she felt for Will to color her voice. Philip shifted beside her and cleared his throat. She motioned to him. “Mr. Collins, this is Lord Harthorne.”

Philip stood, greeted Will, and asked him where he was from and how he knew Jemma. As Will answered, Jemma watched him, expecting her heart to tug, or twist, or do
something
to remind her just how much she had loved Will and how much he had hurt her. But nothing happened.
Nothing.
Her heart beat a normal rhythm as she stared at him.

He looked the same for the most part, except he was dressed in much more expensive clothes than last she’d seen him, and his hair... She squinted to make sure she was seeing correctly. Hadn’t his hair been a richer brown before? It seemed dull now. And hadn’t it been thicker? He caught her gaze and smiled, and her heart didn’t do a thing. Her breath did not catch. Her body did not heat. She was over Will and all he had ever meant to her. Giddiness for that small gift filled her.

She grinned, and Will grinned back. Lord, but the man was conceited to think she was smiling at
him
. She moved her gaze to Philip, who returned her stare with a brooding, probing one of his own. Her breath caught, heat suffused her face, her heart tugged, twisted, and did every blasted thing she wished it wouldn’t do. But it did. And it was a thousand times more painful than it had been with Will.

It was too much to bear. She needed an escape from Philip, a way to get away from him without him realizing she was fleeing him. She gazed wildly around at the sea of faces in the distance, the shadowy paths, the dancers gliding under the pavilion. What could she do?

“Jemma, would you care to dance?” Will asked.

She whipped her gaze to him.
No
was on the tip of her tongue. No, she wouldn’t care to dance with him. He should be dancing with his wife.

“You should call her Miss Adair,” Philip said coldly. “It’s not proper to call her by her given name.”

“I’d love to dance,” she lied as she scooted out of her seat. She paused and faced Philip, who was gaping at her. “Lord Harthorne, you need a dance partner, as well.” Jemma made a quick perusal of the ladies around them. Lady Beatrice was so close-by Jemma could have called her name and the woman would have heard. Jemma waved her hand toward Lady Beatrice.

“How lucky you are!” she exclaimed. “There’s Lady Beatrice, and I know you have a particular affection for her.”

With that, she brushed past Philip, took Will’s proffered elbow, and tried, even with her heart hammering, to hold her shoulders back, her head up, and look as unaffected as possible.

W
atching Jemma walk away from him on the arm of another man, a man who had known her since she was a child, made Philip’s chest tighten with jealousy and his blood burn with longing. It was as if she were walking out of his life forever. Suddenly, he knew two things for certain with a clarity he had been trying to deny: he could never marry a woman he didn’t love, and he loved Jemma but couldn’t marry her.
Yet.

Hellfire. Maybe not ever if she wouldn’t have him, but if she
would
—he curled his hands into fists—he would find a way. Damn the
ton
. Damn a marriage of convenience. Damn his pride. There had to be a way to solve his financial woes. The thought again occurred that he could ask Scarsdale if the man needed a partner at his shipping company. Philip yanked his hand through his hair. The two people he could not forget, could not damn, were his mother and Eustice. Could he really ask them to endure the
ton’s
scorn?

An image of Jemma with her belly swollen with his child filled his mind and settled his soul unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He couldn’t
not
ask it. He loved her. At some point his feelings had gone from interest and admiration to love, and now he didn’t want to live without her. She made his world right, and trying, even for a moment, to imagine his life without her in it was impossible to do. As soon as Scarsdale returned to Town, Philip would go see him. He’d need to speak with Eustice and his mother, as well, so he could try to explain and beg for their understanding and forgiveness.

Philip sat down at the table again and leaned back against the chair with his eyes trained on Jemma, but after a few moments, the crowd of dancers thickened and he lost sight of her. He started to stand to move closer to the pavilion when Miss Anne appeared in a part in the crowd. He gained his feet and sketched a quick bow.

She frowned. “Where’s Jemma?”

He waved a hand toward the pavilion. “Dancing with some gentleman she knew from America.”

Her frown deepened. “Who?”

“A Mr. Collins.”

“What?”
Miss Anne’s gaze darted wildly to the crowd.