Page 32 of The Hellion is Tamed
Julian held out his hand. His wife, Piper, was American, and long ago, he’d taken to the very un-English act to seal a deal. “Well, young pup, what say you? We go after the tracer as a family?”
Simon looked into Julian’s steely gray eyes and held out his hand, Emma’s passionate kiss circling his heart, uncertain thoughts of the future corrupting his mind.
Chapter 10
She was going to apologize.
To Simon. For the trip to the past she’d taken with Mollie.
Emma gave the ivory fan she held a punishing rap against her thigh, recalling how much she hated apologizing. Although it appeared they’d saved Mollie’s sister from ruin. Except for meeting up with the tracer and coming back bloodied and unconscious, the adventure had worked. A successful endeavor.
Like a canny wager at Simon’s gaming hell.
She would remind him of thatafterthe apology.
Emma stalked the fringe of the duke’s ballroom in search of the veranda doors she’d seen Simon slip through minutes earlier, this quest leading her in the opposite direction of the retiring parlor she’d said she needed to visit to repair a hem that wasn’t damaged. The baron whose dance she’d rejected had offered to fetch her an ice sherbet, lingering in the event she had another open slot on her dance card. His determination stunned her when perhaps, it shouldn’t. Society had accepted the falsehood about her being a duke’s cousin, accepted her wobbly accent, her sudden appearance in their ranks, her hesitancy to provide details about her background, simply because the Duke and Duchess of Ashcroft demanded it.
Because they’d created a false history for her. Shy, retiring, Emmaline Breslin. Which she was not and never would be.
Even now, theton’sgazes clung to her, interested,toointerested, the men appreciative, the women speculative. She felt exposed and uncertain, sure she was a misstep away from disaster despite looking like she belonged. Her gown was a glorious pewter confection, a color Madame Hebert claimed no one else would dare wear. And she was right.
Ignoring the impulse to fidget, tug her suede gloves high on her arms or twirl her dance card, Emma nodded and smiled, hoping she looked demure, not determined, and continued on her way. She was following instinct, the moment of serenity at seeing Simon Alexander stroll down the ballroom staircase guiding her like a tug to her hand. With every man dressed in black, Simon’s navy coat set him apart like a chrysanthemum in a field of weeds, his height making it impossible to ignore him as he’d moved through the crowd. Accepted, even as the byblow of a viscount, because the duke and duchess required he be.
Same as her.
She wondered what years of living a lie had done to the rookery scoundrel Simon had claimed to be. Had it tangled him up until he didn’t recognize himself? This experience was changing her in ways she wasn’t sure she liked. Altering the person reflected in the cheval mirror in her lavish bedchamber.
Now, a cultured voice rolled from her lips, her extravagant gown—she smoothed her hand down her bodice—costing more than all the clothing she’d owned in her past life.
The chandelier’s radiance, a gaslight glory that still astounded, winked off her silver slippers as she lifted her skirt and stepped through the doorway and onto the veranda. The footman guarding her followed, but not too closely. Drawing a hydrangea-and-lilac scented breath into her lungs that corseting made near impossible, she searched each corner until she found him. On the far side of the terrace, shoulder propped against a column, a charitable wash of moonlight from the most transparent sky London had offered in days tumbling over him. However, a sharp chill and a deadly aroma from the Thames tainted the evening air, enough to keep society behind closed doors. Taking another inhalation she indignantly realized was layered with nerves, she wiggled a finger inside the duchess’s choker circling her neck and crossed the distance separating her from her gorgeous nemesis.
She wasn’t going to let that ridiculous kiss they’d shared stop her.
Even if the feel of his tongue guiding hers into play, his long body pressing her into the wall at every key spot she could imagine wanting it to, had kept her up at night, staring at a pristine ceiling without even one crack and wondering how she could get him to do it again.
He turned as her step echoed off marble, propping against the column. Taking a lazy sip from the flute he held, he eyed her over the rim. His gaze was relaxed, like a pleasure boat drifting along the Serpentine, taking its fair time, and then some. The orchestra started playing, music rippling over them like a breeze. After a long moment where time felt suspended, a bubble about to burst, Simon gestured with his flute to her guard, who turned, leaving her to Simon’s protection.
Again, her hand went to the duchess’s choker, another bout of nerves she was going to have him pay for making her feel.
His focus followed the movement, tracking her like a hunter would his prey. “Alexandra, Princess of Wales, has a scar on her neck she hides with jewelry. Hence the abundance of bejeweled collars in the assemblage this evening. We shall thank her for the trend.”
Wordless, Emma squeezed the necklace, a small fortune in gems grazing her palm.
With a smile, Simon took the challenge her rounded neckline offered, his gaze sliding low. And holding. More scandalous than any gown she’d ever worn but perfectly fashionable, according to Madame Hebert, her skin nonetheless burned from the notice. “I’m sorry. That’s what I came out here to say,” she blurted when it appeared he wasn’t going to offer a single, encouraging word of welcome.
He froze, the flute halfway to his lips. “Care to repeat that?”
Halting before him, she huffed a breath through her nose, remembered Piper had advised her not to do that in public, then knocked her fan against her waist instead. Four firm taps. “I’ve found something good I can do with this gift. But I reckon”—she swallowed, opened and shut the fan two times before continuing—“Isupposeit’s not fair, when you brought me here at great risk to yourself, to then turn around and place myself in danger. Using the League’s property. A bit of a reckless gambit, that.” Her voice dropped, a thready effort to hide her chagrin. “And ungrateful.”
“The swish stone,” Simon murmured, his gorgeous lips curled to hold back a grin, that if released, was going to have her bashing him over the head with her fan. He patted the pocket of his coat with his flute, and when she looked closely, squinting, she could make out a bulge that must be the Soul Catcher. His captivating, bronzed eyes met hers. “You need spectacles.”
She blinked, frowning. Touched the arch of her nose as if a pair were perched there. “I do not.”
He shrugged, bringing the curved crystal to his lips, a muffled hum his only reply as he drank deeply.
“You think you’re rightallthe time. It’s infuriating.”
His lips twitched, releasing a sheepish, wonderfully appealing grin. He leaned in to give the dance card attached to her wrist with a mauve ribbon a flick, sending it spinning.