Archer offered a grin, then took a moment to study her further. She was of average height with the blackest hair he’d ever seen. The column of her neck was ivory and lead to trim shoulders. Plump breasts pressed against the bodice of her lilac gown, and her waist was trim, leading to the generous swell of her hips.
She seemed somehow familiar, and yet he knew he couldn’t possibly know her.
His body reacted as any red-blooded man’s would as he drew nearer and found himself wishing she were more welcoming.
If she were, he’d sweep her off to a private place and ravish her luscious body, to be sure. As it was, he approached with quick strides, then swept her into his arms with equal fervor.
Before the woman could protest, he pressed his lips to hers.
She was soft and plump, and he desperately wanted to taste her. As he held her tiny waist, pulling her against him, he urged her to part her lips.
* * *
Emma’s breath caught in her throat as the stranger pressed his lips to hers. He’d approached quickly and swept her into his arms as though he’d done so a million times before. Surely he’d mistaken her for another.
She worked her hands between them, then shoved them against his chest. The man stumbled backward, a smile stretching across his handsome face. Grey eyes sparkling with amusement. Or was it something else?
What the devil was wrong with him?
Her anger ignited. Emma peered at him, her hands on her hips, and demanded, “How dare you!”
“Come, now. It was just a kiss,” Archer said.
“Just a kiss?” Emma stalked toward him, seething. “And do you kiss every lady you see?”
“Just the pretty ones,” he said, then gave a charming grin. “I should hate to think you found my kiss lacking. Why don’t you come closer so I can give you a proper one?”
“If you take another step, I will scream for the duke,” Emma challenged.
All traces of merriment fled from the stranger, his gaze turning speculative as he studied her. “The duke?” He asked, one sandy brow raised in question.
“Indeed. I am under the Duke of Thorne’s protection.” She notched her chin.
The man’s brows drew together as he studied Emma closer. “Then you are not a village girl?” He reached out as if to touch her cheek.
Emma jerked her head away from his hand and said, “I most certainly am.”
The man shook his head. “No, I do not believe that you are.”
Emma’s pulse sped. If the man saw through her ruse, she’d have ruined the day for her friends. She had to get away from him, and fast.
Heart pounding, Emma turned back toward the place where her friends had been dancing around the maypole and took a step.
“You are Lord Heywood’s daughter.”
She froze. Emma wanted to deny the charge. Tell the stranger he had her all wrong. But he had the truth of it. What was she to do now?
“I should have recognized you straight away. We were introduced last season. I’ve since seen you all about London, though we’ve not spoken again,” He stepped around to face her, his grey-blue eyes piercing in their intensity, “your being a wallflower and such. Still, I would recognize you anywhere, Lady Emma Finch,” he said.
Emma cringed. There would be no lying her way out of this. But neither did she have to let the stranger ruin the day for her friends. He no more belonged here than she did.
“It seems you have me at a disadvantage, sir.” Emma gave a congenial smile. “You know who I am, but I cannot palace you.”
“Then it seems my disguise has worked well.” He captured her hand, then bowed over it. “Lord Linley, at your service, and do forgive me for my earlier behavior.”
“On one condition.” She bit her bottom lip and met his gaze. “You promise not to tell another soul that I was here.” Emma held her breath as she awaited his reply.
Inwardly, she cursed her friends for drawing her into this charade. Hadn’t she warned them this masquerade would be a disaster? Hadn’t she told them they would be discovered?
