His right hand landed on his chest. “Alas, we did, my dear,” he said, warming to the subject, shocked he didn’t run screaming from Cavendish Square all the way to Soho.
Rose smiled at the ladies. “You must wonder at my reluctance at such an announcement,” she said. “But you know what a stickler Ryleigh is for propriety since I’ve yet to pass the year mark of Stanford’s death. And Gabriella cannot keep a secret to save her life.”
“We shan’t say a word, Rose. Right, Ginny?” Lady Kimpton said.
“Of course not,” the taller brunette agreed. “You may count on our discretion, dear.”
His future wife inclined her head and moved up the stairs, touching her cheek against Lady Kimpton’s then Lady Brockway’s with all the grace of a queen accepting her fealty.
Another slightly less braying laugh escaped Lady Brockway, and the ladies moved past him, heading up into the ballroom.
Emerson grabbed Rose’s hand and tugged her down the rest of the stairs to a closed door and slipped inside.
Her eyes flashed. “So…we’re engaged—” Her lips parted to issue a blistering retort that was sure to flay him alive. But for once, he had no interest in the battle. Not with her pulse beating visibly at the hollow of her throat.
He yanked her close, before she could lose a single word, claiming her mouth with his. Heat roared through his veins, hotter than the fire of her fury, fiercer than the risk of discovery. She stiffened, resisting—but only for a heartbeat. Then her hands crept behind his neck and her fingers curled into his hair.
This kiss was no polite pledge, no courtly proof of “affianced.” It was possession, apology, and reckless promise in one tangled mess.
He deepened the kiss, dark and consuming, stroking her tongue with his until breathing itself became an afterthought. Her tongue dueled with his, and the staff in his trousers stiffened to good English oak. Finally, he wrenched his mouth from hers. Breath, rapid and ragged, he pressed his forehead to hers, his heart thundering against hers.
“God help me, Rose,” he whispered, his voice raw and hardly recognizable to his own ears. “I’d rather have this war with you than peace with anyone else.”
~~~
Slowly, Rose released his hair, bringing them from behind his head down to his chest, resisting an urge to clasp his lapels and throw herself at him for more. More benumbing, sense-stealingkisses. Her lips tingled, her pulse raged, and worse, she couldn’t claim she didn’t belong there, in his arms.
“We seem to habitually find the most striking places for you to kiss me,” she whispered.
“It’s quite unintentional,” he whispered back.
“And now we are betrothed? Perhaps you think you can simply claim me because you’ve need of a shield.” Her words, intended as scathing, emerged soft, the old insecurities obliterating Adventurous Rose into white powder landing at their feet. In the heat of the moment, she’d forgotten the lecture she’d heaped on herself. That she was nothing more than a pawn to Mr. Whitmore. She couldn’t keep her voice from cracking and strangled with tears. “It-it may suit your purposes to pretend we are engaged, sir, but not mine,” she bit out, completely forgetting the entire farce was her own idea.
“Damn you, Rose Stanford!” He took her by the upper arms and shook her. Not hard. But enough that the motion jumbled her initial response, her thoughts blindly pressing her point forward. “You couldn’t be more wrong.” His hands fell away, and he turned his back to her as if he were…weredisgustedwith her. But his words failed in matching his action.
“I spoke out of turn,” he said softly. “To save my own embarrassment. It was beastly of me, and I-I apologize. I shall inform Ladies Kimpton and Brockway right away. Not tonight, but tomorrow. So as not to draw undue attention to them. To you.”
Rose was momentarily speechless. “So, you don’t wish to marry me.”
In a heartbeat, Emerson spun about, his eyes narrowed on her, his expression shifting from shock to something darker—fury. His jaw clenched, and in the silence of the room, his breath came out harsh, as though he fought to master himself.
“Is that what you believe?” His voice was low, dangerous. “That I think you some tool to be wielded, some empty ornament for my convenience?” He took a step toward her, and the air crackled. “By God, Rose, if you cannot see your own worth, then you insult us both. I’ve never wanted to marry anyone more.” A laugh tinged with bitterness escaped him. “The reason I must find the source of these blackmail notes are because the threats againstyouhave escalated. And that I cannot abide.”
Nothing coherent seemed to coagulate in her head. “I-I don’t understand.”
He took another step toward her and clasped her hands within his, bringing them to his lips. “Never underestimate your worth to me again. Ever.”
Her composure faltered, and she let out her own bitter laugh. “Worth? A widow who meddles in matters better left alone, one who cannot even keep her family from laughing at her back?”
“No one would dare slight you in my presence. The question I have for you: Is marrying me out of the question? I am no titled gentleman.”
Was marrying him out of the question?She’d spent her entire marriage wishing for a title worthy of her upbringing, but this man—his values, his very staunches—emboldened her. Emerson was not Stanton. Emerson deserved her…honesty. “I-I don’t know.”
His hands released hers and flexed at his side, as if restraining the urge to seize her again. His eyes burned into hers.
She’d hurt him, and in hurting him, she hurt herself. But how could she answer such a question?
“Rose,” he said, his voice roughened with conviction, “you are not convenient. You are impossible. Maddening. Irreplaceable. If I used you, it was for salvation, not cover.”
