Something pulsed in the air between Henry and Miss Stitch, a feeling born perhaps of the unexpected kiss they’d shared in the woods the previous day.
“I think I’ll share Lord Huntly’s blanket; after all, the cause of his unfortunate accident was due in part to his rescuing me from Peony.” The way her lips pursed so delicately as she spoke set Henry’s blood racing.
Honora nodded, her eyes flashing between Henry and Miss Stitch. She stopped one of the servants bustling about, the young man leaning down and nodding at her instruction. Montieth soon came upon them, the doll-like Miss Cradditch having vacated the blanket Miss Stitch must have left her on, to cling to his arm. The girl did look mildly terrified. Shocked, perhaps, that she’d gained the attention of Montieth. He was terribly imposing, after all.
“Something amuses you, my lord?” Miss Stitch noted the direction of Henry’s gaze.
“Looks like he’s dragging about a porcelain doll, the sort his daughter favors for her tea parties.”
“Unkind, my lord. Though I do think Miss Cradditch was relieved when Montieth escorted me to dinner last night and she was spared having to make conversation with him. I’m sure there are only so many things her little mind can conceive of to say.”
“Now who is being unkind?”
“Me. Do you mind?” She nodded at the blanket. Without waiting for his reply, Miss Stitch abruptly dropped herself, stilted and awkward, at the corner of the blanket and nearly spilled the wine she held all over him. Not at all graceful.
He’d never wanted a woman so much.
“I think I’ll sit with you,” she said tartly. “No one else here is the least bit interesting.”
*
Emmagene, after settlingherself on the blanket, with Lord Huntly mere inches away, considered she might have lost her wits.
The smell of vinegar floated on the breeze, the source of the aroma directly before her. Not nearly as bad as the horrible stench of Peony, thankfully, but still enough to make one’s nose wrinkle. The hard part was admitting to herself that Huntlywasthe most interesting person at this house party. At least, for Emmagene. Yes, she found him infuriating and rude, but that was much preferable to the cloying annoyance she felt while sitting with Lady Trent, Lady Bainbridge, and that dimwit Miss Cradditch. If nothing else, Emmagene could speak her mind around Huntly. If he didn’t care for her opinions, he would tell her so.
“I’ve been called many things, Miss Stitch. Interesting is perhaps the kindest.” The corners of his eyes crinkled at her. He was holding a small flask and took a long swallow.
Emmagene watched the movement of his throat, noting that some sort of effort had been made with his cravat this evening. The effect was ruined by his waistcoat, which was wrinkled and missing a button. No gloves. No hat. Did he even possess a valet?
She finished the remainder of her wine and set the glass down on the blanket. “Aren’t you going to offer me”—she nodded in the direction of the flask—“any of that?”
“I don’t wish to offend your tender sensibilities.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Miss Stitch,” he addressed her with a low purr.
Emmagene’s heart, quiet for so many years, stretched softly in the confines of her chest. “It’s far too late for that, my lord. You’ve long since offended every sensibility I’ve ever had.”
He leaned forward, teeth flashing as he gave her a wicked smile, the flask in his hand.
Now that she’d grown accustomed to the smell, the vinegar wasn’t so bad. Certainly tolerable. Lady Trent had only been looking for another excuse to keep Huntly from the rest of the party.
“What did you do, exactly, to make an enemy of Lady Trent?” Emmagene thought of the ball where Huntly had torn a woman’s skirts, spilled wine, and generally made a nuisance of himself.
“I think you know, Miss Stitch. You were there that night as well.”
Emmagene’s fingers stilled on the flask as she felt her heart reach in his direction. “Lady Trent’s ball.”
“Not my first offense and unlikely to be my last. I had too much to drink. Pissed off South and Montieth. Lost at cards. Took a bottle of wine from one of the servants, then dropped it accidentally. Stepped on a young lady’s skirts, ripping the hem. Lady Trent was quite incensed. I suppose she wished me to drop to my knees and stitch the wailing girl’s gown back up.”
That amused Emmagene. The thought of Huntly on his knees, sewing. Or possibly it was the thought of him on his knees. Before her. His mouth—
The air grew much warmer. Emmagene fanned herself.
“I would like to say,” Huntly continued, “that I had never behaved so badly before, but the truth is I had been cutting quite a swathe through society. And not in a way that makes young ladies swoon.” His chin tilted toward her. “A small sip, Miss Stitch.”
Emmagene considered his words, raising the flask to her lips. “Why?”
“I don’t want you coughing and choking. I’d be forced to thump you on the back. The whiskey is expensive and shouldn’t be wasted.”
“Don’t be obtuse; you know exactly what I meant,” she retorted. The scent of a very fine blend of whiskey wafted up her nostrils as she took a healthy swallow, shivering when the smoky warmth hit her belly.
