Emerson didn’t flinch. The big hands settled on his thighs, fingers stretching across the fabric of his trousers as he stared back at her.
Drat.
Odessa, filled with determination, scratched at herself in great dramatic fashion. Rather impolitely. She wasn’t entirely pretending. The wool had balled up around her hips and grown increasingly itchy with the heat of the day.
Emerson regarded her blandly, before the hazel eyes fell on her waist. There was no revulsion in his gaze, only curiosity.
Odessa’s fingers rubbed against a troublesome spot on her thighs. He should be cringing in horror after seeing her smile. That was the entire point of rotten teeth, to be disgusted. Emerson should be holding a handkerchief to his nose and ordering the driver to turn the carriage around.
“You don’t seem well, dear,” Aunt Lottie announced.
“The rocking of the carriage distresses my stomach,” she replied in a contrite voice, hoping Emerson would take the hint. Maybe the threat of Odessa casting up her accounts on his boots would persuade him to take her home.
Emerson rapped on the driver’s seat behind him, halting the carriage. “Then perhaps we should walk a bit to help settle you before returning.”
Oh, good grief. He cannot be serious.
Odessa glanced at her aunt for help.
“A short stroll will set you to rights,” he said politely, already hopping down. His coat flapped just a bit, enough so that Odessa caught sight of what was a spectacular pair of carved—
“Oh, my,” Aunt Lottie said under her breath.
There would be no help from that quarter.
Emerson held out his hand to Odessa, meaning to help her down. “Come, Miss Whitehall. We’ll take a quick turn about the pond and return to your aunt. Will that suffice, Miss Maplehurst?”
Her traitorous aunt, undoubtedly still struck by the curve of Emerson’s buttocks, agreed. “I shall enjoy the view from the carriage.”
Having no choice, Odessa allowed him to assist her out of the carriage, which was difficult at best given the excessive padding and the difficulty in moving properly. At least the park wasn’t overly crowded. Wobbling slightly as her feet made contact with the path, she tried not to look directly at Emerson. He was breathtaking up close.
When Emerson tucked her hand into the warmth of his elbow, a jolt of sensation shot up Odessa’s arm at the polite touch of his masculine,very nakedfingers.
The wool tied to her hips had started to list beneath her petticoats, sliding about with every step. She tried not to panic. Things were secured, of course, but Odessa hadn’t planned on strolling about the pond.
Drat.
“Isn’t this better, Miss Whitehall?” Emerson glanced over at her.
He could not be unaware of his effect on her, or any woman he came in contact with. “Is what better?” she snapped, appalled when a bit of tar flew out and she barely had the presence to cover her mouth. Odessa quickly pulled her lips together.
“Why, to be out of the rocking carriage. Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, quite. I appreciate your concern,” she mumbled, glancing back at Aunt Lottie. “Thank you, my lord.”
Her traitorous aunt waved at her from the carriage.
Emerson lifted his head. “Miss Maplehurst recalls my parents, so too, the resulting scandal.” He leaned over just enough for his shoulder to brush hers. “Has your aunt shared the story with you?”
“In passing.” Aunt Lottie hadn’t been terribly forthcoming.
“My mother trod the boards at Covent Garden before meeting my father. All of London is aware. A great sin, apparently, in the eyes of society, to be an actress.” He gave a careless wave with one glorious hand. “At any rate, Mother was very fond of the theater, but growing up in the country, such entertainment was in short supply.” A smile lit his features along with the appearance of a dimple in one cheek.
Her heart, as traitorous as her aunt, flapped about Odessa’s chest in response.
“Unless a traveling troupe of actors came through,” Emerson laughed softly. “Which happened every summer. I’m sure my father paid them to stop at River Crest. My country estate,” he added.
“How interesting.” She itched at her stomach with her free hand, wishing Emerson would make his point. The tar was fighting the onion to see which could leave a more horrible taste in her mouth. Thus far, the onion was winning.
