Page 11 of The Hellion is Tamed
Clever time traveler, yes; able spy, no.
As he closed the door gently behind him, the air shifted, the faintest hint of rosemary and lemon capturing the dimly lit space, shoving aside the baser fragrances of brandy, sweat and cigar smoke that had come in from the hall with him.
Halting two paces from the coat rack, Simon dragged a rickety stool over with the heel of his boot and sprawled on it. Braced his elbow on his bent knee, took a silver cufflink he’d lifted from a baron two hours ago from his trouser pocket and began to rotate it between his fingers, gaslight from the sconce above his shoulder winking off the tarnished metal. Releasing a shallow breath he cared little if Emma heard him release, he settled in. Just him, the Dark Queen of the East End and a thousand glinting dust motes. She had no idea, Miss Breslin, buthewas the patient Alexander. The brother with the fiercest temper perhaps…but also the one who couldwait.
He’d gladly sit all night in this stinky little room if that’s what it took to break her.
Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long.
With a scrunch of wool and linen, her head gradually emerged from amidst the rack of coats, her muffled complaint echoing off the walls. The cufflink fell still in his hand. Her hair was a marvel, a wondrous surprise every time he got a look at it. Unbound and flowing across her shoulders, gaslight sparked off the auburn tresses, hints of ginger like the inside of a chestnut, an unforeseen blaze in the darkness. Adding to the allure, those cobalt eyes traveling the length of him, leaving fiery eruptions in their wake.
She stepped out with an impatient huff and unladylike shake of her skirts, ultimately giving up her ruse. She gave a bashful tuck to her hair, placing the loose strands hanging in her face neatly behind her ears. Simon rocked back on the stool, his breath stuttering. Beneath her shabby brown cloak was a gown he’d never seen. New, created for an evening event, unfinished, the ragged hem trailing along the warped floorboards, the bustle yet to be added, the final piece of the alteration process. A plunging neckline, which he didn’t need to make his life or his cock harder at the moment. The curve of her hip highlighted as she stepped forward, her long legs enchanting beneath clinging silk.
He felt the surge. Lust, umbrage, sympathy. A crushing trifecta for any man.
Silly to feel resentment when the gown was everything current style dictated. In a glorious shade he would have pegged as plum or eggplant, so opaque it was almost black, a flash of violet in the murky light.
But it wasn’t the color, although that was a dazzling choice with her creamy skin and vibrant tresses.
It was thefit.
The rags he’d seen her in had been hiding a delicious body. He longed to strip that threadbare cloak from her shoulders and slide her gown in a deliberate exhibition to her feet. Then watch her step out of the puddle of material as she crossed to him.
Caught outside his fantasy, she smoothed her palm shyly down the bodice, her glorious lips curling in what could only be construed as delight. So, she liked the new clothing. Even if she protested, which Delaney had told him she’d done. Mightily.
They stared for a long moment before recognizing the pointlessness of such an endeavor. His shaft hardened a notch further, causing him to shift slightly to hide the reaction. Her eyes were wide, so damn blue, and amazingly easy to read. Layers of pain and sorrow, and like icing topping a cake, garnished with a glimmer of hope. His heart thumped once in his chest, his erection withering.
He’d never held someone’s happiness this close—or been truly responsible.
In a way, he wasn’t sure he wanted toberesponsible.
Compelling him, she stared. Right at him, rightthroughhim. He hoped like hell he’d cloaked the thoughts racing through his mind before they showed on his face. He hadn’t done well hiding what being this close to her had done to his body.
Then with a daring glance, she stepped out of the shadows and into his space. Into his life. Unapologetic, fearless Emmaline. And Simon realized with a surge of some deeply held emotion that she wasn’t meant to be tamed.
Not this girl.
She would run free until a man just as formidable was courageous enough to seize her.
Chapter 3
Simon looked like a tiger lying in wait for his prey.
Relaxing in a masculine sprawl on a dented stool that was struggling to hold his long, lean body. Looking like he was seconds away from pouncing. On her.
Emma didn’t take the way he finessed that cufflink between his fingers as anything but a ploy to distract them both.
The faintest hint of gin, and mint, swept into her nostrils. He smelled like something very agreeable she yearned to take a sip of. A bite of. Dressed entirely in black, except for his shirt, the snowy-white collar marked by an infuriating smudge of rouge. Apart from the fetching eyes she’d seen in her dreams, as dark as the darkest tea she’d ever brewed, he looked nothing like the boy she’d left behind. He’d grown up, his cheeks full, his jaw hard. Shoulders broad. Legs long. Hair deepened to a color somewhere between fresh wheat and a dying ray of sunlight, the strands caressing the nape of his neck with each breath he took.
Against her will, her skin flushed, and she warned herself that she didn’t know him. A man the old Emma would have called abang-up cove. What the new and improved Emma would simply call dashing.
Discomfited, she elbowed through the coats, fumbled, finally locating her parasol and yanking it free.
Simon laughed, the glossy echo skating down her spine. He could have touched her and gotten less of a response, her body heated so quickly. “A weapon, Miss Breslin? Are you going to need one?” The cufflink flashed as he spun it between his fingers. “Maybe you will, as we shouldn’t be alone like this. Your reputation would suffer greatly should we be found. Has the duchess gotten to the propriety portion yet? Meeting the owner of a gaming hell in said gaming hell is not recommended. Or are you merely ignoring every damned thing she’s told you?”
Emma spun around, brandishing the parasol like a sword. “My reputation is anasset, Simon Alexander. And don’t you ever say it isn’t.”
“One question before we resolve the sorrowful predicament in which you find yourself. How did you end up inhere?” He gestured to the tight, dark space. “Although, I’m thanking the gods you didn’t end up on one of the hazard tables. Or in some bloke’s lap.”