Page 14 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

Chapter Six

In men this blunder still you find—

All think their little set mankind.

— HANNAH MORE, FLORIO

An hour later, Emily still couldn’t decide what bothered her most. That she’d fooled Jordan by giving him precisely what he wanted—a reckless interlude with an experienced woman—or that she’d played the wanton with such ease.

What sort of wicked person could do that, could lie to a man and tease him so … so scandalously?

“You’re awfully quiet, Lady Emma,” said a voice at her side. “Are you bored?”

She glanced at Mr. Pollock and, as she’d been doing all evening, said what she thought Lady Emma might say. “Of course I’m bored. You city folk are so sedate. In Scotland, we’d have been dancing jigs until dawn, but already this ball seems to be ending. I’m quite put out over it.”

The two coxcombs who flanked Mr. Pollock laughed. He smirked at her, his eyes brightened by too much punch. “Yes, and those Scottish lads are wild, aren’t they? Walking about with nothing under their kilts. I imagine their jigs are … enlightening for a young lady, shall we say?”

It was a shocking thing to say to a girl at her coming out, and he probably knew it. Tamping down her urge to chastise him, Emily tapped him playfully with her closed fan. “I see you take my meaning exactly. You English should try wearing kilts sometime. It would certain liven up these affairs.”

The three men laughed raucously, and Mr. Pollock the loudest. Then he leaned toward her, his voice lowering. “Name the time and place, Lady Emma, and I shall be happy to wear a kilt for you.”

She ignored the decidedly naughty implication behind the comment. “I wouldn’t dream of dressing you in a kilt when you already have such splendid attire.”

That seemed to please him enormously, which didn’t surprise her.

Mr. Pollock, for all his blond good looks and devil-may-care manner, was what Lady Dundee would surely term a dandy.

His head was perched above the largest number of folds she’d ever seen in a cravat, and from the unnatural way he moved, she guessed that the starched material chafed his neck.

She could suggest a soothing ointment for it, but doubted he would appreciate it.

Besides, Lady Emma wouldn’t know about such matters, would she?

“I wonder what your mother would think of your interest in kilts,” Mr. Pollock murmured.

“Oh, Mama doesn’t understand me at all,” she said in a conspiratorial voice. “These days she lets herself be guided by my Uncle Randolph, and he’s a sour old fart.”

Papa would have a nervous collapse to hear her use such language, but she secretly enjoyed shocking these pompous nobles—especially since she’d never have to suffer the long term consequences of her outrageous behavior.

Oh, she was truly becoming wicked.

Mr. Pollock seemed to like it, however. He arched one finely plucked eyebrow. “Having had my share of set-tos with your uncle, I’d have to agree.”

Her heartbeat accelerated. Could he be the one? “Really? Has he insulted you, too?”

“Warned me away from your cousin, he did.”

“What did you do about it?” she asked, holding her breath for his answer.

Just then his two friends, peeved at being ignored, made their presence known. “Pollock, Blackmore’s scowling at us again,” one of them whined. “This time I think he’s really angry.”

Curse the fools.

Pollock faced them, her question forgotten. “Ignore him.”

“How can I? I invested in his latest concern, and I need that money. I think he—” The man hesitated, casting Emily an apologetic look. “I think he has his eye on Lady Emma, and I for one shan’t stand in his way.” He grabbed his friend’s elbow. “Come on, Farley, I’m parched. Let’s have some punch.”

As the two fops left, Emily seethed. How dare Jordan scare off the other men? How would she find out who’d been courting Sophie if he frightened them all away?

Her gaze shot across the room to where Jordan stood beside a Ming vase, downing champagne and scowling at the men who’d just left her.

How she’d dearly love to crack the vase over his head!

The scoundrel hadn’t danced with anyone else, further rousing people’s speculations about his interest in her.

He’d probably done it purposely, curse him.

Suddenly he caught her looking at him, and his scowl disappeared.

With deliberate slowness, he allowed his gaze to drift down her gown as if he could see every inch of what lay beneath.

He might as well have stroked her naked skin with his hand, for every place his gaze touched, her body grew hot and tingly.

When his eyes finally came back to hers, they smoldered.

Then he smiled insolently, knowingly, and to add insult to injury, lifted his glass in a mocking salute.

She snapped her gaze back to Pollock in utter mortification.

The miserable wretch! When Emily Fairchild had wanted his attention, he’d thrust her away, but let a wanton like Lady Emma kiss him and he broke out his best seduction techniques.

No wonder Lord Nesfield suspected him of treachery.

He was a scoundrel. He deserved to be deceived, and oh, how she would enjoy doing it!

“Why aren’t you running off, too?” she challenged Mr. Pollock. “Aren’t you afraid of Lord Blackmore?”

“Not at all. We’re friends of a sort.” He leaned close, two spots of color rising in his pallid cheeks.

“If you have an ounce of sense, you’ll steer clear of him.

He has no interest in a woman beyond the obvious.

Don’t think you’ll snag him as a husband, because you won’t.

He boasted to me only this evening of his granite heart.

Even as lovely as you are, I doubt he’ll soften it for you. Beware of setting your cap for him.”

“Don’t worry; I find him rude, arrogant, and annoying. He doesn’t interest me at all.” A pity he kissed like the very devil and made her toes curl whenever he looked her over.

“I’m glad to hear it. I thought you might be flattered by his attentions.”

“Not at all. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss Lord Blackmore. The subject gives me terrible indigestion.”

Mr. Pollock laughed. Then he began to describe his latest visit to his tailor, wringing a smile from her.

Dear heavens, the man certainly placed great store by choosing the right clothes.

She’d never met a man for whom examination of the cut of a waistcoat required at least an hour.

How frivolous could one be? Emily Fairchild would have told him right out that he was wasting his life.

Unfortunately, Lady Emma must pretend to find the tale enormously diverting.

So much for being herself and saying what she wanted.

A few minutes later, as Mr. Pollock was deep into his recitation of how he’d enlightened his tailor on the subject of waistcoats, she saw Lord St. Clair approaching. She mustn’t lose this opportunity to speak with the viscount in private and determine if he could have been Sophie’s love.

Waiting until Mr. Pollock paused, she said in a sugary voice, “I hate to trouble you, but would you be a darling and fetch me some punch? I’m simply parched.”

“I’d be delighted.” He gave her a gallant bow, then hurried off across the room. And none too soon, for she turned to find Lord St. Clair at her elbow.

He wasn’t classically handsome--his black brows were rather thick, his complexion a bit too dark, and his features too coarse for that.

But he stood out among his pampered, perfectly coifed peers, and not only because of his great height.

It was his eyes, black as sin and far too knowledgeable for a young woman’s comfort.

It was hard to imagine timid little Sophie running off with him.

But then, it was hard to imagine her running off with any man, so Emily supposed it could be Lord St. Clair as easily as anybody.

The smile he gave her was genuine, if a little formal. “You seem to have acquired several admirers, Lady Emma. Every time I turn around, you’re surrounded by men.”

She wasn’t sure she’d call them men. They were more like children, with their fawning and their petty arguments about whose horse could run a faster mile down Rotten Row. It was refreshing to speak to a man with a brain.

“I’m sure I’ll fall out of fashion by the next ball,” she quipped. “From what I’ve heard, the fashionable become unfashionable with every change of the wind.”

“It does seem that way sometimes.” A servant passed with a tray of champagne glasses. He took one and handed it to her. “I heard you say you were thirsty.”

“Yes.”

She fumbled for some way to bring the subject back to Sophie, but he surprised her by addressing a completely different topic. “I’ve come to apologize for my friend’s behavior earlier. He can be … odd sometimes when it comes to women.”

His mention of Jordan made her steal a glance toward the earl, who was glowering at them both. She deliberately turned her back to him. “From what I’ve heard, he has no use for women at all except for what they can provide him in bed.”

The scandalous statement seemed to surprise him. “I see you’ve been listening to Pollock. Don’t put too much stock in what he says. He envies Blackmore.”

“So Lord Blackmore did not boast about his heart of granite?”

“I have no idea. It does sound like something he’d say. But no matter what he claims, he has the same vulnerable heart as most men. He’s merely erected a large shield around it.”

How very sad. “It sounds as if you know him well.”

“We’ve been friends since childhood, and we attended Eton together. There’s little we don’t know about each other.”

Emily fought the urge to ask him about Jordan. She should be questioning him about Sophie instead. Dismissively, she remarked, “Well, I think he’s insolent and boorish.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Why? Because he mistook you for a rector’s daughter? You needn’t worry about that. I set him straight. He won’t trouble you with such nonsense anymore.”