Again, the axis of her world tilted. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” she whispered.
His head turned, his eyes catching and holding hers. “I…was distracted.”
By her.The words hung between them unspoken.
Her fingers tingled and crept up of their own volition. The knots in her stomach coiled tighter, and tighter still as his roughened jaw scraped her palm. Her eyes closed, she leaned forward and met…air. Her eyes flew open.
He met her gaze while opening the door then gently pushed her over the threshold. “Don’t forget your sister’s concern, my lady.”
The latch barely sounded as it connected behind her, but sound it did.
Deafening her in the corridor with its finality. He hated her.
~~~
Emerson touched his forehead against the door and waited out his thrumming blood. Lady Stanford would be the death of him if this crazy scheme of his didn’t get him hanged or transported first. It had taken every ounce of control he possessed not to take her against Martindale’s library door. She put up a hardened front that equaled Haber, his warehouse foreman.
Faulk’s rough existence had survived losing both sides of his family as an infant in the Seven Years’ War. Since then, the man had survived only by his wits. But Emerson had seen the drive behind his eyes, and he was a big part of Whitmore’s Wholesale success.
Emerson recognized that same drive in Lady Stanford, but hers was tempered by…vulnerability? Inside, the woman was built of spun sugar or some other fragile substance that dissipated when doused with no more than warm water. Bringing up that observation would likely solicit a kick in his private parts.
It was also important to remember the primary reason for his association with the pretentious Lady Stanford. His search,not her body. Which had yielded nothing but a note from Martindale’s heir. Some nonsense on letting his father know he was fine, not to worry, and that he would be home as time permitted. Cryptic but not suspicious.
Voices filtered through the door, jerking him to his precarious position.
“Oh, er, Lord Martindale, it appears I’ve twisted my ankle…” Lady Stanford’s normally soft resonance penetrated the door.
Christ.Emerson scanned the chamber for an appropriate hiding place, and he dove behind the only possible place—a settee set away from the wall near the windows—right as the door swung back.
“Um, no, my lord. I just thought to have your assistance back downstairs.” Lady Stanford’s squeal was almost breathless. Emerson prayed she didn’t collapse.
“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear. Almost all your siblings and their husbands are in the ballroom at this very moment. Whom shall I summon for you?”
“I-I don’t wish to keep you from your guests, my lord. If I could just have a moment, I’m certain I shall be fine.”
“Nonsense.” Martindale’s voice drew closer, then the settee dipped. Certainly the pungent scent of orange blossoms rained over Emerson’s senses. “You no longer have a man to look after you. I’ll ring for my wife—”
“Truly, my lord. I insist younotinvolve your wife. I’m humiliated enough.” Her voice held an indestructible filament Emerson couldn’t name. An actress she was not if she was vying for a distressed damsel.
Silence ensued.
A second later, his whalebone stays creaked—something Emerson easily detected, considering how well acquainted he was with the devices he sold to merchants for the vain and titled. Martindale caved with a sigh, giving testament to a long marriage, Emerson suspected. “All right, my dear. If you insist on this madness, I shall limit my plea to one of your brothers-in-law. Which one shall be up to you.”
Emerson envisioned the standoff—each with their arms folded across their bodies—which only brought to mind Lady Stanford’s cleavage on proud display in that red gown she wore. Not at all appropriate for a widow who should be observing mourning. Amerrywidow was different, however.
“I suppose Huntley shall suffice. Lord knows the man is strong enough to cart a wild animal down the stairs,” she muttered. “But—” She raised her voice. “Lady Huntley isnotto accompany him.”
“Not to…” Martindale let out another sigh, this one, frustrated, sounded farther away. He’d moved to the door. “And how do you propose I manage that, Lady Stanford? I take it you know your sister.”
Emerson was hard pressed not to laugh. Of course, that could change in a heartbeat should he be discovered.
“What of Stockton, my lord?”
Emerson froze. What the devil was she up to?
Martindale sputtered. His disbelief bounded against the walls while Emerson’s slithered along the Aubusson rug beneath his forehead. “Pardon?”
“Is Baron Stockton in attendance?” The innocence in her tone took Emerson aback. He wanted to shake her senseless, then kiss her.
