To Taste Temptation

Page 9

“Oh, I just can’t!” Rebecca suddenly stopped in midturn. “These steps are so slow. I feel like I’ll overbalance and fall.”
“Perhaps you need a partner,” Mr. Hartley said. He rose and made a lovely bow to his sister. “May I?”
The girl blushed very prettily. “You don’t mind?”
“Not unless you stomp on my toes.” He grinned down at Rebecca.
Emeline blinked. Mr. Hartley was exceedingly handsome when he smiled. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?
“The only problem,” he continued, “is that I’m in as much need of tuition as you.” He looked expectantly at Emeline.
Devious. Emeline nodded briskly and stepped forward so that she and Rebecca now flanked Mr. Hartley in a line. She held out her hand to him. He took her fingertips, quite properly, but his hand felt hot on hers.
Emeline cleared her throat. She raised their joined hands to shoulder height and faced forward. “Very well.” She pointed her right toe. “We begin on three. One and two and three.”
For the next quarter hour, they practiced various dance steps together. Mr. Hartley sometimes partnered his sister, sometimes her. And Emeline, though she would never have admitted it even if put on the rack, rather enjoyed herself. She was amazed that such a big man could be so light and graceful on his feet.
Then somehow, Rebecca made a false step, and she and her brother ended up tangled. He caught his sister about the waist as Emeline hastily stepped away from the mess. “Careful there, Becca, or you’ll have your partner on the floor.”
“Oh, I’m terrible at this!” the younger girl cried. “It isn’t fair! You never danced this way as a boy and yet you can follow the steps.”
Emeline looked between brother and sister. “In what way did Mr. Hartley dance as a boy?”
“Badly,” he said.
While at the same time his sister said, “He jigged.”
“Jigged?” Emeline tried to imagine Mr. Hartley’s tall form bouncing up and down in a country jig.
“The peasants about the château where I grew up used to dance so,” Tante remarked.
“I would like to see you jig,” Emeline mused.
Mr. Hartley shot her an ironic look. Emeline smiled back. For a moment, their gazes were locked and she couldn’t quite discern the look in his brown eyes.
“He was wonderfully fast,” Rebecca said, warming to her theme. “But then he got old and stiff, and he doesn’t jig anymore.”
Mr. Hartley broke eye contact with Emeline to mock frown at his sister. “A challenge if I ever heard one.”
He took off his coat and, in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, struck a pose, hands on hips, head held high.
“You’ll really do it?” Rebecca was laughing openly now.
He sighed theatrically. “If you’ll keep time.”
Rebecca began clapping and Mr. Hartley leapt. Emeline had seen men jig before—peasants celebrating or sailors on shore leave from their ships. Usually such dancing was characterized by the clumsiness of the movements, legs and heels kicking everywhere, hair and clothing flying in the air like a puppet on a string. But when Mr. Hartley jigged, it was different. He was contained, for one thing, his movements precise and intentioned. And he was graceful. It was extraordinary. He was jumping about, his moccasined feet stomping on the parquet floor, and yet somehow he contrived to be graceful and quick. He grinned at her, a wholly joyful look, his strong, white teeth flashing against his brown skin. Emeline clapped to the beat along with everyone else, including Tante.
He darted forward and drew Rebecca into his wild dance, spinning her in a circle until she staggered away, laughing and out of breath. Then he caught Emeline. She found herself whirled in strong, sure hands. The mirrored walls and the faces of Rebecca and Tante flew past, and she felt her heart speed until she thought it might burst from her chest. Mr. Hartley grasped her about the waist and lifted her high over his laughing face, and she found that she was laughing, too.
Laughing with joy.
THAT NIGHT, SAM wore black, the better to slide into the shadows between the buildings. It was well past midnight, and the moon hung high overhead, casting a colorless glow on the earth below. He was on his way home, having already been to see Ned Allen—or what was left of the man. The ex-sergeant had been incoherent with drink. Sam hadn’t been able to get any information from him; he’d have to try again later, perhaps catch the man earlier in the day. Trying to question Allen had been a waste of time, but stalking the shadows was invigorating nevertheless.
He carefully watched the street. A carriage was rumbling closer, but there was no other sign of life. Visiting Ned’s crib had made Sam remember Scarlet Coat. Had his follower given up the chase? He’d not seen the big man again. Strange. What had the man been—
“Mr. Hartley!”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment. He knew that voice.
“I say, Mr. Hartley! What are you doing?”
He’d been the best tracker in the Colonies during the war. It wasn’t vanity that said so; his commanders had told him. Once, he’d snuck right through a camp full of sleeping Wyandot warriors and not a one had been the wiser. And yet one small woman found him out. Could she see in the dark?
“Mr. Hartley—”
“Yes, yes,” he hissed, emerging from the dark doorway he’d been lurking in. He approached the grand carriage. It was stopped in the middle of the road, the horses blowing impatiently. Lady Emeline’s head appeared disembodied, sticking out from the dark curtains that covered the carriage’s window.
He bowed. “Good evening, Lady Emeline. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Come inside,” she said impatiently. “I can’t think what you’re doing out alone so late. Don’t you know how dangerous London can be for a man by himself? But perhaps you are used to the more benign streets of Boston.”
“Yes, that’s probably it,” he said wryly as he climbed inside her elegant carriage. “And may I ask what you’re doing out so late, my lady?” He rapped at the roof before taking the seat across from her.
“I’m returning from a soiree, of course,” Lady Emeline said. She smoothed the shawl that covered her knees. The carriage lurched forward as they started again.
It was dim inside the carriage, the only light a single lantern by her face, but he could see that she was dressed very grandly. She wore a flame-red frock with some type of pattern in yellow. The skirt had been drawn aside to reveal a petticoat in yellow and green. Above, her bodice was square and very low, her breasts pushed up until they formed two soft, white mounds that nearly glowed in the lamplight. Heat seemed to radiate off her, warming his bones.
“It was rather dull, so I came away early,” the lady continued. “You won’t believe, but the punch was gone by ten, and there was hardly much for a midnight supper—only a few meat pies and fruit. Quite scandalous. I can’t think what Mrs. Turner was about, serving such poor refreshments to everyone who matters. But the woman always has been a wigeon. The only reason I attend her parties is in the hope of seeing her brother, Lord Downing. He is a terrible gossip.”
She paused, probably because she’d run out of breath. Sam stared at her, trying to figure out why she was speaking so fast. Had she been drinking spirits at her party? Or was she...? He felt a smile forming and worked to suppress it. No, it couldn’t be. Was Lady Emeline nervous? He’d never thought to see the sophisticated widow out of sorts.
“But why were you about so late?” Lady Emeline asked. Her hands, which had been busy playing with the lace that trimmed her bodice, stilled. “Or, perhaps that is none of my business.” Even in the dim light, he could see the blush that stained her cheeks.
“No, it isn’t your business,” he replied. “But not for the reason you think.”
If she’d been a little black hen, her feathers would’ve ruffled. “I don’t know what you mean to imply by that, Mr. Hartley. I am sure—”
“You think I’ve been to see a whore.” He smiled and slid lower in the carriage seat, canting his legs to the side so that he might cross them. He slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pockets, enjoying himself. “Admit it.”
“I will do no such thing!”
“But that blush on your cheeks says otherwise.”
“I...I—”
He tutted. “Your thoughts are very lewd. I am shocked, my lady, quite shocked.”
For a moment, all she could do was sputter; then her eyes narrowed as she recovered. Sam braced himself. God, he liked sparring with this woman.
“I couldn’t care less how you conduct yourself after dark,” she said primly. “Your affairs are of absolutely no importance to me.”
She’d made an entirely proper statement and was obviously uncomfortable on this ground. If he was a gentleman, he’d let it—her—go, turn the conversation to something dull and polite such as the weather. The problem was that once the prey was within his grasp, it was so very difficult to let go.
Not to mention that polite conversation had always bored him. “My affairs should be of no importance to you, but they are, aren’t they?”
Her brows drew together as she opened her mouth.
“Ah. Ah.” He held up a finger to forestall her denial. “It’s past midnight, and we’re alone in a dark carriage. What’s said here will never see the light of day. Humor me, lady, and be frank.”
She inhaled deeply and sat back, her face entirely hidden by shadows now. “What difference does it make to you if I do find your affairs to be of interest, Mr. Hartley?”
He smiled wryly. “Touché, my lady. I’m sure a sophisticated gentleman of your society would deny it to his death if he was moved by your interest, but I am made of simpler stuff.”
“Are you?” The words were whispered in the dark.
He nodded slowly. “So I tell you: I am moved by your interest. I am moved by you.”
“You are frank.”
“Can you admit the same?”
She gasped and for a moment, he thought he’d gone too far and that she’d retreat from this dangerous game. She was a lady of standing, after all, and there were rules and boundaries in her world.
But she slowly leaned forward, her face emerging into the small pool of light cast through the window. She looked him full in the face and arched one black eyebrow. “And if I did?”
And he felt something within his chest leap that she dared to pick up his gauntlet—something like joy. He grinned at her. “Then, my lady, we have a point of mutual interest that bears further discussion.”
“Perhaps.” She sat back against her plush red cushions. “What were you doing out on the streets this late at night?”
He shook his head, smiling slightly.
“You’re not going to tell me.” The carriage was slowing now.
“No.” He glanced at the window. They were outside her town house. It blazed in the night with lit lanterns. He looked back at her. “But I wasn’t with a woman; I give you my word.”
“It shouldn’t matter to me.”
“But it does, doesn’t it?”
“I think you presume too much, Mr. Hartley.”
“I think I don’t.”
A footman opened the carriage door. Sam stepped down and then turned to offer her his hand. She hesitated a moment, as if considering whether to let him help her or not. She was surrounded by the dark interior of the carriage, her pale face and bosom glowing as if lit by a fire from within. She placed her small gloved hand in his. He tightened his fingers over hers as he drew her into the light by the walk.
“Thank you,” she said, and tugged at her hand.
He stared down at her dark eyes, aware that he didn’t want to let her go. But in the end, he opened his hand and let hers slip away. There was no other choice.