Shouldn’t Lady Trent have objected to her being alone with the Earl of Huntly? Was Emmagene’s lack of appeal so assured? Cultivating such a severe demeanor had been necessary ten years ago. Then it had become habit. Now…well,nowit suited the woman she’d become. Miss Emmagene Stitch, spinster.
She turned her attention back to her unwanted traveling companion, marveling at the sheer size of him. Huntly sucked up all the available air in the coach, infusing what was left with a stale odor from his wanderings the previous night. He probably had been at one of London’s gambling hells, women dangling from his muscled forearms. She could picture such a thing in her mind because despite his horrid personality, Huntly wasn’t at allunattractive, especially when he wasn’t speaking.
The bones of his face, Emmagene mused, were all harsh cuts and slashes, as if someone had taken a large piece of granite and hacked away until Huntly had emerged from the stone. There wasn’t a hint of refinement about him, which considering he was an earl raised with wealth and privilege, seemed somewhat deliberate on his part. He was rumpled. Unshaven. Ungloved.
Completely ungentlemanly.
His legs, sprawled across the aisle of the coach, were thick with muscle, beneath the fabric of his trousers. The booted feet, even now dropping another clump of mud, were enormous. Her gaze traveled up to his torso, her noting the careless way his cravat was tied, as if he’d done it himself with little thought. Maybe he didn’t have a valet, which seemed odd for a man of his station. Probably couldn’t find anyone who could tolerate working for him.
Emmagene could barely stand to ride in a coach with Huntly, let alone what a valet must endure. Dressing and undressing him. Trimming his hair.
Again a slow burn of heat suffused the skin of her arms, growing warmer the longer she regarded Huntly. He’d unsettled her in much the same way when they’d first been introduced. Her skin had prickled that time as well. In annoyance. Thankfully, they would be at Longwood by the end of the day.
Emmagene squared her shoulders and put her traveling companion out of her mind. She was made of very stern stuff indeed. Tolerating Huntly for the duration of the journey would be no trouble at all.
*
Henry Eldrick, theEarl of Huntly, deliberately let out a rumbling snore guaranteed to irritate the starched and pressed woman across from him. She was an incredibly sour, tart thing, with her scowling lips and her tightly braided hair. If only Miss Stitch smelled of violet water or something equally nauseating, he might have been able to forget her presence.
No such luck.
Miss Stitch, as it happened, smelled of honeysuckle, a decadent and frivolous scent that belonged on a more sparkling and adventuresome young lady.
Her mouth, lips far too plump to belong to such a waspish woman, pursed in annoyance as his snore echoed through the coach. She might try to suffocate him, which would put her slender honeysuckle-smelling body in close proximity to him. He doubted Miss Stitch would ever risk such a thing. She hardly allowed her drab skirts to touch his boots.
Despite the fact she smelled so delicious, there was little else about Miss Stitch to draw any man’s attention. She possessed few, if any, curves, though there had been some softness beneath his fingers when he’d picked her up. She was dressed like a wren about to molt for the winter. Had her hair pulled back so tightly from her temples it stretched her eyes into slits. Possessed features that were permanently twisted as if she’d bitten into an unripe plum.
Henry found herunbelievablyarousing.
He thought the reason might be her ear or, more specifically, the spot where her neck ended at the curve of her ear. She’d taken off her bonnet, and there were small wisps of roasted chestnut hovering at her temples and cheek. Imagining what lay under that ugly traveling dress would make him mad if he allowed it. A vision rose before him, of Miss Stitch with her unbound mass of hair swirling over her shoulders as her mouth, with those plump lips, trailed across his stomach to—
Bloody hell.
Henry had a healthy appetite for women, but even he would look twice at seducing a shriveled prune like Miss Stitch. That he found her so oddly seductive was troublesome. He blamed it on lack of sleep. Most of the previous evening, into the wee hours of the morning, had been spent playing faro with that prick Halstead, who had intentionally forced Henry into losing his temper.
“Not much like your brother, are you?” Halstead had droned.
“I suppose not,” Henry had snarled. “Because he’s dead.”
Douglas had been dead for some time, but the comparisons to him continued even during a game of cards, as it happened. Henry was nothing like Douglas. If his parents were still alive, the former earl and countess would have spent hours detailing what a disappointment their youngest child had become. The very opposite of their beloved elder son.
Henry shifted in the seat, the familiar wound, never fully healed, opening enough to bleed. It certainly put a damper on his erotic thoughts about Miss Stitch.
Chapter Two
“Lady Trent, youremember my cousin, Miss Stitch.” Honora smiled, fingers pressing into Emmagene’s arm, a warning to not say anything rude.
Emmagene forced her lips into a smile, dipping stiffly. “Lady Trent.” She detested all the bowing and scraping that attached itself to society. Once, Emmagene had thought it would be very fine to have others defer to her when she’d assumed, wrongly of course, that she would become the wife of a lord. In her first season, Emmagene had paid attention to every rule, every bit of society’s dictates that must be adhered to. Her manners had been impeccable. In retrospect, it had all been an incredible waste of time and effort, the only person remotely pleased by her adherence to such a strict societal code having been her mother. Emmagene would have been better served learning how to knit, for instance. Or weave. A wrinkle started between her brows as she thought of herself behind a gigantic loom, creating a tapestry with a Greek myth upon it, sipping on a glass of brandy.
“Miss Stitch, is there something wrong?” Lady Trent said, lightly touching her wrist. “You seem troubled.”
Emmagene had been troubled the moment she’d seen Lord Huntly in the coach taking her to Longwood this morning but didn’t dare tell Lady Trent. Arriving at this house party hadn’t bettered her mood. “No, not at all, my lady.” She beamed back a bit too brightly.
Honora tensed, shooting Emmagene a glance to mind her tongue.
“I was worried the journey here hadn’t been agreeable.” Lady Trent frowned, her elegant features made more lovely by supposed worry over Emmagene. “I’m told once the tracks are laid for the rail station, the trip to Longwood will be much quicker, though in this instance, it is of no help. I do hope the coach didn’t rock too dreadfully on these country roads. Longwood issoisolated. And Imustapologize for my lapse about Lord Huntly. Truthfully”—she leaned in—“I’d forgotten all about retrieving him from London, but please don’t tell South.” A conspiratorial wink was thrown in Honora’s direction. “Huntly’s own coach is being…repaired. I’d hoped it would be available for the trip but received word it would not be. I do hope it wasn’t a dreadful inconvenience, Miss Stitch.”
She was sorely tempted to slap the kind smile, which she was certain was false, from Lady Trent’s lips. Huntly was the very epitome of an inconvenience, as her hostess well knew. “Not at all, my lady. My cousin”—she nodded to Honora—“provided me with a riveting novel for the trip. I barely noticed his presence.”
