Page 36 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she blithely lied to Mr. Pollock as she concentrated on slicing a piece of roast beef.

“The merry widow sitting with Blackmore. She’s just his sort, you know.”

Emily’s hand on the knife shook. She knew only too well.

The woman was perfect for him: sensuous and lush and obviously available, if one was to judge from the way she kept thrusting her ample breasts up in his face and leaning on his arm.

Well, let the widow have him. Since the man only seemed to want tarts, he deserved her.

“I know we got off to a bad start,” Pollock whispered again, “but we could put all that behind us. I promise I’d do better by you than Blackmore.” He laid his bandaged hand on her thigh. “Any man who prefers common crockery to fine china is a fool.”

The scoundrel never gave up, did he? Laying her knife carefully down, she slipped her hand under the table to grab his wounded one and squeezed it just until she heard him curse under his breath.

“Mr. Pollock, if you touch me again, I will smash a piece of fine china on your head. Do we understand one another?”

Lifting his hand, she dropped it in his lap, then returned to cutting her meat.

“You’re saving yourself for him, I suppose,” Pollock said in a nasty voice as he nursed his hand. “Well, he won’t marry you.”

“The last thing in the world I want is to marry Lord Blackmore.”

What a blatant lie. For days now she’d pretended to herself that she didn’t care what he thought or did, that his lack of interest in her as a prospective wife didn’t matter. And all the time, she knew she cared far too much.

She wanted to ravage the face of the woman across from her, the one with the good fortune to be an attractive widow.

She wanted to rail at Jordan for his coldness and his absolute control over his emotions.

She wanted to hate him for believing all the nasty things Pollock had probably said about her.

But she couldn’t hate him. If this had been any other place and time, if she and he had been of equal standing and wealth, she would have risked anything to have him.

Curse him for that!

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he glanced her way, his gaze flicking first to Mr. Pollock, then to her. His jaw tightened. Then he turned his head abruptly and leaned to whisper something in the widow’s ear that made her laugh.

Emily colored, wondering what he was saying and worse yet, doing. Was he touching the widow beneath the table as Pollock had tried to do to her? Or making an assignation to meet the woman later? Her heart constricted at the thought.

It seemed an eternity before the meal was over and she and the other women could retire to the drawing room and escape the men.

How wonderful to be away from them all! If this interminable masquerade were ever over, she would never speak to one of their gender again.

They were more trouble than they were worth.

Unfortunately, she had scarcely settled into a comfortable chair when yet another male appeared at her side. Everyone looked up as the footman handed her a folded handkerchief and said, “You forgot this in the dining room, madam.”

“But it’s not mine—” she began as she took it from him. Then she saw the Blackmore monogram and felt the stiff crackle of paper inside the cloth. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, it is mine. Thank you.”

She waited until everyone’s attention turned elsewhere, then carefully opened the note in her lap.

Make some excuse to leave, it said. I’ll meet you in the hall. I have something to discuss with you.

Cursing inwardly, she balled the paper up into a tiny knot. She could just imagine what he wanted to discuss. No doubt he wished to make more filthy insinuations about her and Mr. Pollock. The wretch! Did he think she was at his beck and call?

Yes, he did. And with good reason. He held the knowledge of her real identity in his hand. He could make her dance to his tune whenever he wanted, and he knew it.

She waited until Lady Dundee’s attention was diverted, then murmured to the woman nearest her that she was going to use the necessary. Thankfully, no one paid her much mind when she slipped out the door.

There he was, in the hall as he’d promised, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. Pushing away from the wall, he caught her with a look designed to strip away her defenses.

She wrapped her lace shawl protectively about her body. “What do you want?”

Gripping her arm, he led her down the hall a short distance.

“We must talk. But not now. Tomorrow morning I shall come to take you riding, and you will go with me, do you understand? Find some way to leave your maid and Lady Dundee at home. You and I shall have a very long, very private chat, and you will tell me the truth at last.”

“Will I indeed? Why do you think I’ll be more likely to do that now than I was before?”

A smug smile touched his lips. “Because now I know more about what you’re up to. This has something to do with Pollock, doesn’t it? If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll tell Pollock everything I know.” His smile faded abruptly. “That ought to put an end to whatever your scheme is.”

So he’d figured that much out, had he? Or was he just guessing? She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide her trembling. “Tell him what you wish,” she bluffed. “It doesn’t matter. I shan’t go riding with you tomorrow, and I certainly shan’t tell you anything.”

His mouth thinned into a grim line. “Very well. I’ll speak with Pollock in the morning. But first I shall confront Nesfield. I know that he’s behind this. Perhaps he won’t share your nonchalance when I tell him I’m planning to reveal your identity to Pollock.”

Horror swept through her. Lord Nesfield! If he told Lord Nesfield—

“You mustn’t!” she protested, dropping all pretense of unconcern. “Please, Jordan, don’t do this!”

“Why? Just tell me that, and you have my silence.”

She was tempted, oh so tempted to tell him everything.

But that was impossible. Once she told him that this concerned Sophie, he would realize that it concerned Ian as well.

He’d never stand for having his friend’s chances for happiness destroyed.

He’d go to Lord Nesfield anyway, and then Nesfield would make good on his threats.

The thought made her shudder. “I-I can’t.”

“Then tomorrow I’ll pay Nesfield a visit.”

“But you promised me you’d keep silent. What kind of honorable man reneges on his promises?”

He scowled. “The kind who sees the sort of danger you’re getting yourself into. The kind who wants to protect you from the likes of Pollock and Nesfield.”

“Pollock? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re jealous of Pollock and the other men around me, so you—”

“I’m not jealous!” But his rigid stance and angry expression belied his words.

“My reasons don’t matter. Either you tell me everything or I go to Nesfield.

It’s as simple as that.” When she stared at him, frantically wondering how to change his mind, he added, “You have tonight to make your decision. But in the morning—”

“In the morning, you will ruin my life!”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t be so melodramatic. Any connection between you and Pollock would be far more ruinous to you than my mild interference.”

Mild interference? Oh, if only he knew. “It’s not … this awful thing you’re imagining, I assure you. You know I could never engage in something truly distasteful.”

“Do I? What do I really know about you? You’re adept at masquerades and you can quote scripture when it suits you.

” His gaze flickered over her body. “And you have a talent for making men want you. That’s all I know.

You’ve toyed with Pollock, and God knows you’ve toyed with me. And for what? Tell me that.”

“You make it sound so sordid.”

“From where I’m standing, it certainly looks that way.”

Curse him! He had a right to be suspicious, but what more could she tell him? How was she to escape this thorny mess?

Suddenly a voice called to them down the hall. “Blackmore, is that you?”

It was Lord St. Clair. She cast Jordan a pleading look.

“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word to Ian. But tomorrow, I will reveal your identity to whomever I wish.” He strolled past her toward his friend, as casually as if he’d been carrying on the most insipid conversation with her. “I was just coming to see you, Ian. Sorry, but I have to leave.”

“So early? Don’t you wish to stay for the dancing?”

“You’re having dancing? Good God, that isn’t like you.”

The viscount shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve been too long away from society.”

Jordan looked grim. “Or perhaps you’re letting certain people influence you.” When Lord St. Clair scowled at him, he added, “In any case, I can’t stay. Business and all that. You understand.”

Lord St. Clair’s gaze shot past Jordan to her. “Not really. But you’ll do exactly as you please as usual.”

Jordan glanced back at her, a taunting smile on his lips. “Good night, Lady Emma. I’ll be at your town house at ten tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

She glared at him. Forget! He knew quite well she wouldn’t forget. She would never forgive him for this!

Lord St. Clair showed his friend out, then came back to where she was still standing, her hands working her shawl into knots.

“Lady Emma, are you all right?” Gently, he took the corner of her shawl from her clenched fingers. “My friend seems to have distressed you.”

“Your friend always distresses me! At the moment, I’d like to see his head on a platter.”

He laughed. “A bloodthirsty sentiment for a lady.”

But I’m not a lady. That’s the trouble.

Too bad she couldn’t tell him that. Donning her best Lady Emma persona, she cast him a haughty look. “We Scots are a bloodthirsty lot. And we don’t take kindly to arrogant English lords who meddle in other people’s affairs.”

“I hope he wasn’t discussing Pollock with you again.”

Her eyes widened. “Jordan told you about that? Never mind about his head on a platter. It belongs on a spike!”

“Calm down, Lady Emma. I came upon him when he was angry, and he spoke out of turn. But I defended your honor to him, I assure you, and reminded him of what an idiot Pollock is. Jordan would normally ignore the man’s lies, but he’s rather prone to jealousy where you’re concerned.

You should be flattered. No other woman has ever succeeded in making him jealous. ”

“Yes, I’m quite flattered,” she said with heavy sarcasm.

“What woman wouldn’t want the attentions of a man who has no desire to marry, yet has the audacity to be jealous of every man who smiles at her?

” Tears welled in her eyes, and she cursed them, turning away from Lord St. Clair to hide her face.

She shouldn’t have said so much. He would guess the true nature of her feelings.

“What do you mean—‘has no desire to marry’?”

She blotted her eyes with the end of her shawl.

“You know what I mean. Everyone knows about Jor— About Lord Blackmore. How he only consorts with ‘experienced’ women like that … that widowed countess, how he has a heart of stone.” Her voice sounded overwrought, yet she couldn’t calm herself.

“He’s proud of his immunity to normal human emotions, for goodness sake. He boasts of it.”

Lord St. Clair was quiet a long moment. Then he laid his hand on her arm. “That’s true. But I think he boasts of it precisely because he fears those emotions. He’s not as impervious as you think.”

“Yes, he is,” she whispered, remembering his cold refusal to consider her pleas.

“Lady Emma, shall I tell you a bit about my friend? It might help you to understand his strange behavior.”

“Nothing could make me understand him.”

“All the same, come with me to my study. I think you’ll want to hear this.”

She nodded, allowing him to lead her down the hall. She might as well hear him out, though he could say nothing to change her mind. Jordan was just one of those men who were empty inside. The sooner she accepted that, the better.