“Perish the thought,” Huntly said. “They’re nauseatingly devoted to each other.” The blue of his eyes was sharp on her. “I have no idea why Lord Trent married her. I find her to be trying.”
“Odd, she has the same opinion of you. Aren’t you friends with Montieth?”
“I am. Doesn’t mean I like his mother.” His gaze roved over Emmagene’s perfectly acceptable gown of indigo silk, lingering over the high neckline. “Why are you dressed for a funeral?”
Emmagene struggled to keep her tone polite. “Perhaps you merely can’t see well, as the lighting is poor in here—”
“You look like you’re in mourning.”
“The gown is not black but indigo. A perfectly acceptable color for a woman of my standing to wear to dinner.”
“Your standing?” Huntly snorted. “How will you be able to move your arms enough to eat?” He peered at the tight sleeves of her gown. “Though it doesn’t look like you eat much to begin with. Probably pick at your food.” He raised a brow. “You’re wispy.”
“Will you please go away? Dampen someone else’s evening with your charming personality?” Emmagene took several steps away from Huntly. “Just because you have an opinion doesn’t mean you should share it.” She didn’t want anyone to think they were even remotely acquainted.
“Everyone.” Lady Trent clapped her hands. “We’ll be dining al fresco this evening. The night is so lovely. Please, let us make our way to the terrace.”
Guests began to pair off at Lady Trent’s command, knowing without a word being said which gentleman would lead which lady into dinner. Honora and Southwell were arm in arm. He whispered something in her ear that made her blush furiously.
Emmagene looked hopefully in Lord Carver’s direction. They’d been introduced once or twice, and thinking him a fine dinner companion, she placed a polite smile on her face.
Lord Carver breezed by her with an elegant older woman on his arm.
One by one, everyone left the drawing room, leaving Emmagene with only Lord Huntly. She clasped her hands, prepared to accept her unwelcome fate. Maybe he would do the decent thing and ignore her as well.
“Come along, Miss Stitch.” The low baritone brushed over her skin in a pleasurable way. At least his clothing no longer bore the stains of the wine he’d consumed the night before. He smelled better. That was something.
“Must I?” she asked.
“Unless you wish to take a tray in your room.” The big shoulders rolled in such a way that led Emmagene to believe he couldn’t have cared less if she went to dinner or not. “We are the only two left, as you can see. Though, your hair is pulled back so tightly it may be impacting your eyesight.”
Emmagene bit back the sharp reply hovering at her lips. What did it matter if he escorted her to the terrace? She would leave his side soon enough for her place by Honora. “Very well.”
A large elbow hovered in her field of vision.
Reluctantly, Emmagene placed her fingers on his sleeve.
*
Damn,this wasfar worse than Henry had first assumed.
He wanted to kiss her. Tart, sharp-tongued, far-too-thin Miss Stitch.
Miss Stitch was so incredibly restrained, from the top of her tightly coiled hair to the high neckline covering her less than ample bosom. The thought of lifting her dull-colored skirts to taste the wildness she so desperately tried to contain made his mouth water.
Henry had put thoughts of Miss Stitch aside and napped for a great part of their ride to Longwood, assuring himself that the unwanted attraction to her had indeed merely been the result of a sleepless night.
Until she’d exited the carriage upon their arrival. Her skirts, ugly waves of dirt brown, had caught on the door—exposing a trim, delicious ankle. Henry’s cock, half-asleep for most of the trip, had suddenly sprung to life. As the damned organ was doing now.
Honeysuckle floated up from her, a sweet, decadent aroma that had no business lingering on the skin of Miss Stitch. Shouldn’t she smell of lye or something equally abrasive? A scent that would chafe at his skin like a scrub brush instead of this brilliant tingling along his limbs?
Henry had very particular tastes when it came to women. Generous curves. Slightly bawdy personalities. Full bosoms. Adventuresome between the sheets. Miss Stitch displayed none of those attributes, except for possibly the last one.
Tearing his gaze from what little skin showed above the line of her bodice—because, quite frankly, it was making him mad with desire—Henry focused instead on the delicious scent of roasted meat floating in their direction. Hewasstarving but less enthused about eating outside.
“Lady Trent said we’d be eating on the terrace,” he said, steering her toward the open doors. “I’ll be swatting gnats while I try to enjoy my food.”
“I’m not much of an outdoors person either,” Miss Stitch agreed with a frown.
