“Butnothing! On two separate occasions you have ventured where no lady of quality would, let alone should.” He gripped herupper arms. “Youcould be a target, and for that, I would never forgive myself.” He pulled her in for a hot, passionate kiss, then dropped his hold. “Amir and I shall accompany you home in your carriage and return by hackney.”
“What are you hiding from me?” Her demands were growing tiresome.
“Noth—”
Her index finger poked him in the chest. “Do. Not. Lie. To me. I’m not an imbecile. How can I adequately protect myself if I am held in the dark? If I don’t know what to watch out for, I can’t help myself.”
Emerson let out a ragged breath. The porcelain of her cheeks and her jaw glowed amber from the fire, soft against her skin. And…she was right. Part of protecting her meant…trusting her. Allowing her to trust her own instincts. Tonight should have taught him that. “It was Billy.”
“What?” Her voice was a near whisper.
“It was Billy who attacked us tonight. Billy Buster. I doubt he’ll try again, but you’re right. You’re a strong, competent woman, and who knowsyoubetter than you? You have sound instincts and I…I trust you to watch out for yourself.”
“Oh, Emerson,” she whispered. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes shimmered in the fire’s reflection.
“Rose?”
She blinked, and a tear dampened her lower lashes. Her hands moved to his shoulders. She went up on her toes and touched the corner of his mouth with her full lips. “You could not have given me a greater gift.”
The ice encasing his heart shattered.
Thirty-Eight
Rose had tossed and turned all night.
Sleep had come in jagged fragments, delivering visions that left her breathless and shivering. Fiery kisses stolen in shadows, chased by images of bloodstained hands. Emerson’s. Hers.
“Argh.” She pressed her palms against her temples as if they could stop her brain from the reckless phaeton ride upon which it had decided to embark. Already, Society believed them engaged. Already her name was tangled with his. To walk away now would be ruin—for her and for him.
And her body…It was no longer her own; it belonged to the memory of his touch, the strength of his arms, the heat in his eyes. The warmth—yes, irritation and fire—in his voice, whether scolding or gentle, projected a compassion she’d never experienced with Stanford. Never.
Long before his death, her husband had deserted their marriage bed for the young opera singers and actresses he could control. Rose had never been one to hold in her opinion. Perhaps that had been her problem. Alas, at the age of one and thirty, she had no desire to change that aspect of her personality, even were she able.
How fragile everything seemed, one misstep from crumbling into a dry biscuit for bird feed. Every stolen moment, every clandestine carriage ride felt brittle. Her mind was too jumbled to think coherently.
She growled into the pillow again, frustration roaring through her unfulfilled body. This was no time to indulge in such fevered musings—Viola Lockhart remained heavy on her heart and mind.
Rose rolled out of bed and rang for Jane. Her maid deserved a raise in her quarterly wages for certain.
While awaiting her chocolate, in the quiet household, Rose made straight for the guest chamber to talk to Viola. With a light tap, she turned the handle and peered inside. The drapes were parted slightly, allowing a small amount of light. The bed was unmade, and Rose tiptoed over. A feeling of dread weaved up her spine as she drew closer.
Empty. She was gone.
The borrowed night rail was neatly folded and placed atop the vanity.
Rose’s stomach plummeted. She hurried back to her bedchamber and slipped on her wrap. “Jane,” she called, her voice tight.
The maid appeared. “I’ve called for your chocolate, my lady.”
“Never mind that. Where is Miss Lockhart?”
Jane blinked in confusion. “Abed—”
“Not abed. She’s gone.”
“But…that’s impossible, my lady.” Jane dashed from the room to the guest suite.
Rose followed and watched as Jane spun in a slow circle. “Perhaps she’s breaking her fast,” her maid said, sounding flabbergasted.
