Page 12 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

Chapter Five

Foolish eyes, thy streams give over,

Wine, not water, binds the lover:

At the table then be shining,

Gay coquette, and all designing.

— MARTHA SANSOM, “SONG”

Of all the wretched luck, Emily thought as Jordan waltzed her deftly through the throng of fashionably dressed lords and ladies. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Or recognize her. Or waltz with her.

She should have protested more strongly when he’d asked—no, commanded her to waltz with him.

But Lord St. Clair’s sudden defection had confused her.

Was it acceptable for one man to hand a woman off to another?

She rather thought it wasn’t. Still, who knew what rules applied to men like the Earl of Blackmore and Viscount St. Clair?

Worse yet, Jordan was a fabulous dancer.

In her practice sessions with the awkward Lord Nesfield, she’d fallen all over her feet.

The marquess had blamed her and she’d woefully accepted the blame, but now she wished she hadn’t.

With Jordan, she was as graceful as a swan.

Somehow he lightened her feet until the steps of the waltz seemed as natural and easy as walking.

She forgot to count the measure, didn’t even need to count the measure.

Curse him for that, and for holding her so intimately. If he held her any closer, she’d make a complete cake of herself. As it was, she was near enough to see his clean-shaven jaw and the Blackmore crest on his gold cravat pin, to feel his thighs brush hers in the turns.

As usual, he looked handsome and very male.

None of those silly satin breeches for the Earl of Blackmore—oh, no.

His coat and breeches of expensive black cashmere and his figured gray waistcoat and snowy cravat were more commanding in their simplicity than any of the extravagantly embroidered waistcoats worn by the other men in the room.

Did he know how dancing with him affected her?

Of course he did. One broad hand rode her waist with shameful familiarity, and the other hand clasped hers possessively, reminding her of their night in the carriage.

No wonder Papa thought the waltz too scandalous for decent people.

No woman with an ounce of self-preservation would willingly put herself this near to an attractive, virile earl.

Especially after having shared intimate kisses with him. Memories plagued her … of his hands in her hair … his breath warming her skin … his mouth anointing her cheeks and neck with secret, thrilling kisses.

Goodness gracious, now she was turning red! Please, God, don’t let him notice.

She might as well have been howling at the moon. When she risked a peek at Jordan, she found him quite obviously aware of the heightened color in her cheeks. His dark eyes seemed to miss nothing, more was the pity.

“I like making you blush, Emily,” he whispered wickedly.

“Emily? Why do you persist in thinking I’m this Emily person?”

“You can lie to those others, but not to me,” Jordan said in that low, husky tone she remembered all too well. “Why are you here? Why are you pretending to be some deuced Scottish lady?”

She truly hated deceiving him, but she had no choice. “Lord Blackmore, your little joke has grown tedious. I don’t know why you persist in confusing me with this Emily Fairfax creature.”

“Fairchild! Her name … your name is Fairchild, not Fairfax, as you well know, goddammit!”

“You needn’t curse at me,” she chided automatically.

The flickering light from the candles overhead played over his gloating expression. “Seems I’ve heard you say that before--one night in my carriage.”

Dear heavens, she’d slipped up already. “Your carriage? I have no idea what you mean.”

The music crescendoed, preventing him from answering at once, but his smug expression stayed firmly in place.

This was futile. How could she possibly succeed? All her life she’d been taught how not to lie, and now she was expected to lie like an expert. And to Jordan, who seemed to read her very thoughts.

Perhaps she should just reveal everything. It would be so much easier.

Then Lord Nesfield would have her hanged.

If she could trust Jordan to keep her secret, there’d be no problem.

But she doubted he’d keep quiet, especially with Lord St. Clair who seemed to be a close friend.

Lord St. Clair had spent half the ball asking her about Sophie, and he was her most likely suspect.

For all she knew, Jordan could have helped the man plan an elopement with Sophie.

“Come now, Emily, tell me what this is all about,” he demanded as soon as the music allowed him to speak again.

He would never believe her. How could he? He saw through the ridiculous pose they’d forced on her. Deception wasn’t in her nature.

Suddenly, Lady Dundee’s words came to her—Lady Emma is your masquerade, merely an amusement. It doesn’t change Emily Fairchild.

This was a masquerade, not a deception. And why should it matter if she had to lie to him?

That night in the carriage, he’d made it quite clear she was nothing but a fleeting diversion.

He too had played a role with her—flattering her, saying sweet things when he knew all the time he never intended to see her again.

“I grow weary of this game, Lord Blackmore.” She cast him a frosty look. “Please find another.”

He glowered at her as if to frighten her into telling the truth, but when she said nothing more, he set his lips into a determined line. “Very well. You force me to take more drastic action.”

She laughed coyly. “What shall you do to me? Torture me? Throw me in a dungeon until I say what you wish?”

For the first time that evening, he smiled, though most devilishly. Angels must cry every time he loosed that smile on unsuspecting women. “I can think of more pleasant ways to get the truth from you.”

Too late, she realized they were dancing along the edge of the room, where doors of cut crystal opened onto wide, marble balconies. Somehow he had maneuvered her there without her even noticing.

He danced her onto the balcony, then stopped. Furtively, Emily looked back into the ballroom, praying that Lady Dundee had seen her, but too many people were dancing for anyone to notice one couple’s absence.

She tried to wriggle away, but he merely snaked his arm more tightly about her waist and dragged her toward the steps that led down into the garden.

“I thought you wanted to dance,” she said acidly, though her heart was pounding loudly enough to be heard in China. “You behaved in a most rude manner to gain a waltz with me.”

“I require more than a waltz from you, as you well know. And for what I intend, we need privacy.”

Privacy. The last time they’d had privacy, he’d kissed her senseless. If he kissed her again, she was likely to fall apart and confess everything.

But Lady Emma wouldn’t balk at going into the garden with him. She was much too sure of herself to do such a ninny thing. Indeed, the woman would probably delight in a private assignation with an unmarried earl of Jordan’s consequence.

Centering her mind on that thought, she let him draw her down the stairs, her legs moving mechanically beside him. When they halted behind an oak that hid them from anyone who might be watching from the balcony, however, she felt a moment’s panic. This was private, wasn’t it?

“Now then, Emily.” He released her arm and faced her with the expression of an older brother chastising a child. “What do you have to tell me?”

The condescension in his voice provided her with a jolt of courage. How dared he treat her like some simpleton?

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know what to tell you.

This is your little fantasy, Lord Blackmore.

” Flipping open the ivory fan attached to her wrist by a slender cord, she worked it with languid motions.

“A rector’s daughter? Is that who I’m supposed to be?

I don’t guess you’d settle for an opera dancer, would you?

A rector’s daughter is such a tiresome role. ”

Her reward was the stunned look on his face. “Deuce take it, woman,” he growled, grasping her shoulders roughly. “Stop this pretense! I know who you are!”

“Oh, I don’t think you do.” Casting him a flirtatious smile despite the somersaults in her stomach, she walked her fingers up his silky coat lapel. “If you really knew anything about me, you’d lose interest in this Emily person at once.”

He blinked, then scanned her again, as if to ascertain where he’d made his mistake. Then his face cleared, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “You won’t mind if I determine the truth in the only way I can think of.”

“Oh? And how is that?”

His hands closed about her waist, drawing her hard against him. “Like this.” He lowered his head to hers. “By kissing you as I kissed her.”

She had no time to prepare herself before his mouth caught hers.

Though she’d already half expected it, the touch of his lips came as a shock.

It was exactly like that night in his carriage …

the same dizzy pleasure stampeding over her restraints, the same hot, hard thrill linking her to the man forbidden to her.

She melted and sizzled against him like butter in a hot pan.

But when his mouth left hers and he murmured “my sweet Emily” in a tone that left no doubt of his certainty, her heart sank. She was doing this all wrong. Emily Fairchild melted. Emma Campbell burned.

“It’s Emma,” she whispered, correcting him. Releasing her fan to dangle from her wrist, she boldly slid her arms about his neck and drew his head forcefully back for another kiss.

He went rigid at once, though he didn’t pull away. Remembering how he’d kissed her in the carriage, she opened her mouth and ever so lightly touched her tongue to his, then smoothed it along his unyielding lips in a repetition of his actions that night.