Page 21 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

Jordan cast his friend a covert glance. This new preoccupation of Ian’s with marrying was beginning to disturb him. “I’m sure she’ll be well in a few days, and you’ll find a way around her father’s objections.”

“I’m counting on Lady Emma to aid me with that. If I can speak to her alone. But for that I need your help.”

Jordan regarded his friend thoughtfully. “I’ll be glad to help. As long as you help me speak to her alone as well.”

Ian scowled. “See here, if you’re planning to browbeat the girl—”

“I won’t browbeat her. I merely want to ask her some questions.”

“I can well imagine,” Ian said with a snort.

“I won’t do it any other way.”

With a sigh, Ian set his pipe aside. “You’re really interested in her, aren’t you?”

Lady Emma/Emily consumed his thoughts, bedeviled his sleep, and made him behave like a slobbering dog in a butcher shop. No woman had ever blown him off the carefully plotted course of his life before.

Jordan glanced away. “I’m interested in determining the truth, that’s all.”

“I take it your sally into the dark caves of Astramont proved pointless?”

“You could say that.”

“You couldn’t draw near your prey? Or when you did, she proved too wily for you?”

The mocking way he said “wily” made Jordan bristle. “The girl evaded my questions, if that’s what you mean. If you’re dying to know everything that happened, ask Pollock. He was there, too.”

“Pollock witnessed this great contretemps? This grows more interesting by the minute. Perhaps I’ll have Pollock help me with Lady Emma instead.”

Jordan spoke without thinking. “If you do, I swear I’ll hang that preening popinjay with one of his own ridiculous cravats!”

Ian broke into a grin. “By God, you’re jealous!”

“Jealous! Of that dandy? Don’t be absurd!”

But when Ian’s grin widened, Jordan busied himself with stubbing out his cheroot and hunting in the case for another.

He wasn’t jealous. It merely disturbed him to think of an exquisite creature like Lady Emma with an idiot like Pollock.

Unfortunately, thanks to his own fit of temper, she was probably strolling through the extensive Astramont gardens with Pollock at this very moment.

What if she truly were some laird’s daughter looking for a husband? Could she possibly think Pollock would suit her, a man whose idea of entertainment was to drive about town in his phaeton showing off his newest gaudy waistcoat?

And what if Pollock got her alone? What if the fop were treated to the same kind of kiss she’d given Jordan the other night?

A red haze filled his vision. To think of her standing under a cherry tree in Pollock’s arms, teasing the man to kiss her, to caress her, to—

Devil take it, he should never have left her with that fool! Pollock could be quite smooth-tongued when he wanted to impress a woman, and judging from the leers the bastard had cast her at Lady Astramont’s, Lady Emma was exactly the sort of woman Pollock would want to impress.

Well, if she took up with Pollock, she’d regret it. Jordan snatched up his second cheroot and lit it with a snarl. He would show her how vain and pompous Pollock was.

Never mind that until two days ago, Jordan had considered Pollock a casual friend. Now Pollock was the enemy. Anyone who stood between him and Lady Emma—Emily—was the enemy.

Even Ian. “Well?” Jordan glanced at his friend. “What’s your plan? Am I in?”

“You’re in. I can’t miss the chance to watch you make a fool of yourself over a woman.” Before Jordan could retort, he continued, “Here’s what I thought we’d do …”

This was Emily’s second walk with Mr. Pollock through the gardens. During the first, he’d questioned her about her love of Scotland. She hadn’t been able to turn the conversation to Lady Sophie before Lady Dundee had joined them.

Though Emily had wanted to leave, this was the perfect time to question Mr. Pollock, especially with Jordan gone. Somehow she’d conveyed to Lady Dundee her desire to stay, but it had taken more contrivance to gain this second walk with Mr. Pollock.

At last they were alone. Everyone else had retreated into the house since the afternoon light had waned, so the gardens felt more intimate and exotic.

The gazebo added to the effect, with its nymphs for columns and its ornate roof.

As they approached it, the only sounds were those of their boots crunching the gravel walkway and a nightingale trilling a twilight song.

“You certainly put Blackmore in his place this afternoon,” Mr. Pollock murmured. “I wager he won’t bother you again.”

She wished that were the case, but suspected that Mr. Pollock’s remark merely revealed his hopes. Lord St. Clair was right: the young man did seem to resent Jordan. She couldn’t imagine why, unless it was because Jordan had the title and status Mr. Pollock was unlikely to obtain.

But then, Mr. Pollock possessed things Jordan did not. Like a heart that wasn’t made of granite.

“I wasn’t trying to put him in his place,” she said truthfully. “I was trying to make him stop mocking everything.”

“You’ll never succeed at that, I fear.” They had reached the gazebo now. Mr. Pollock took out his handkerchief and dusted off one of the marble benches for her. “But let’s not talk about Blackmore, shall we? I wish to talk about you.”

“Me?” Warily, she took the seat he offered. “What is there to say about me?” She’d rather talk about Sophie.

The dying sun caught his thoughtful expression. “I could spout the usual platitudes—your hair is like spun gold and your lips like rubies—but I fear a woman of your sophistication is so used to hearing them you’d find them tedious.”

A woman of her sophistication, indeed. If only he knew the truth.

“Tedious, no. Ridiculous, yes. I am no more than an ordinary woman with perfectly ordinary hair and lips, I’m sure.

” She toyed nervously with the fan attached to her wrist, wondering how to turn the conversation elsewhere.

Then inspiration struck. “My looks don’t compare to my cousin’s.

That creamy complexion and jet hair. Don’t you think she’s stunning? ”

“Lady Sophie can’t hold a candle to you.” To her surprise, he sat down and seized her fidgety hands in his well-manicured ones. “Just as the moon fades to nothing when the sun rises, so does her beauty compare to yours.”

Dear heavens, she’d never had a man speak poetically to her, but she didn’t imagine it boded well for keeping their acquaintance casual. She tried to extricate her hands, but he only clasped them tighter. “Mr. Pollock, really, you must release me!”

“Not until I say what’s in my heart.” The dusk light muted his features, but didn’t hide the glitter in his pale blue eyes. “I think you might have some small feeling toward me, or you wouldn’t have rebuffed Blackmore on my account. And your contriving to come out here with me alone confirms it.”

Goodness gracious, she’d given him the wrong idea entirely. “Mr. Pollock—”

“Don’t speak yet. Let me first tell you how I feel. Doubtless you have many suitors; I only ask that you count me among them and give me the same chance to further our acquaintance that you give the others.”

This was disastrous. “I don’t understand. I thought you were enamored of my cousin.” She tugged her hands free, then slid away from him. “I never dreamed you might think of me in that way. You hardly know me.”

He slid closer on the bench. “I know you well enough after today. I scarcely knew your cousin any better when I courted her. But you came along and put an end to any thought of that when I realized that the least of your family’s jewels had been displayed first. The best was kept for last—you, a diamond of the first water. ”

Flowers, heavenly bodies, and now jewels.

Did he ever speak in plain English? Obviously, his feelings for Sophie had been inconsequential if he could dismiss them so easily.

She couldn’t let him go on like this, no matter what Lord Nesfield expected.

“Please say no more. You and I could never … that is, it wouldn’t be possible for—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” he interrupted.

It’s a good thing, since I haven’t the foggiest idea.

“I know your father might disapprove of your being courted by a man without a title. But you Scottish aren’t so fastidious about such things as we English. Surely, if you explained that I’m well able to provide for you, such a thing wouldn’t matter.”

Eagerly she seized on his reason. “You’re wrong.

It matters very much, not only to my father, but to Mama.

She’s determined to have me marry well. When it comes to such things, she’s very English.

” When he looked crestfallen, her tender heart was pricked.

“Of course, you know that I don’t care about titles and such.

You’re a very nice man, and I’m sure you’ll make a fine husband for someone.

But I couldn’t flout my parents’ wishes by allowing you to court me. I’m sure you understand.”

Her attempt to soften the blow of rejection regrettably only further encouraged him. His face lit up, and he seized her about the waist, tugging her next to him on the bench. Her fan dropped from her fingers to dangle from her wrist.

“I don’t care how your parents feel,” he whispered, now close enough that the cloying scent of his toilet water filled her nostrils.

“If that’s all that concerns you, you needn’t worry.

Parental permission isn’t always required for marriage, you know.

” He raised one eyebrow suggestively. “As you must realize, in some parts of the country men and women can marry as they choose.”

His words gave her pause. Some parts of the country? As she must realize? He meant Gretna Green in Scotland, didn’t he?

Had he said these same words to Sophie? “Mr. Pollock, you’re being premature. You can’t be implying that … that we should elope.”

“Not unless we have to, but I wouldn’t let a paltry thing like parental permission stand in the way of our mutual affection.”