“Indeed. But you never answered my question, Lady Emma.”
“Your question, my lord?”
“I asked if you take an interest in courtesans.” He nodded at the portrait of Emily Warren, her flaming torch held high, an avenging angel setting everything in her path ablaze.
“It’s an impertinent question, Lord Lymington. I don’t feel obligatedto answer it.”
“I beg your pardon. I meant no offense. It’s just that I couldn’t think of any reason why you’d wish to visitthisexhibit, particularly in company with my cousin.”
Emma made herself look directly into those glittering gray eyes, and smiled. “Perhaps I’m merely interested in Reynolds’s portraiture, my lord.”
“Ah.” One corner of his lip twitched in what might have been a smile on another man. “You do recall our conversation regarding Lord Lovell, do you not, Lady Emma?”
“I do recall it, yes. It was last night, my lord.”
There was a brief pause, then, “Did I not makemyself clear?”
“On the contrary, Lord Lymington. You made yourself perfectly clear.”
“Yet here we are. Why is that, Lady Emma?”
Emma paused, studying him. It was a pleasant spring day in London, and the rays of sun shining through a nearby window illuminated his face. In this light his resemblance to his cousin was more pronounced. They had the same angular jaw, the same prominent cheekbones and straight, proud noses, but Lord Lymington’s hair was darker, his eyes a stormy gray instead of Lovell’s lively blue.
Lord Lymington was handsome, Emma noticed with vague surprise, though he had none of his cousin’s boyish charm. “I believe it’s Lord Lovell’s business to decide who he wishes to honor with his company, Lord Lymington. He’s not a child.”
“I’m aware that he is not, Lady Emma.”
“Are you? I would have said otherwise.”
Lord Lymington’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened around the silver head of his walking stick. “Explain yourself, please.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but if you were aware of it, you wouldn’t feel the need to follow after him as if he were a naughty schoolboy. I wonder what Lord Lovell would think, if he knew you were chasing the young ladies at Almack’saway from him.”
He took a step toward her, his jaw tight. “Are youthreateningme, Lady Emma?”
Oh, dear. He didn’t care forthatat all. It was a pity Sir Joshua Reynolds was dead, because the expression on Lord Lymington’s face was worthy of the efforts of the finest artist. “Me, threatenyou, my lord?Certainly not.”
“It soundsas if you are.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lord Lymington.”
“It isn’t your place to wonder anything about Lord Lovell, Lady Emma.” Lord Lymington’s tone was clipped, every syllable resonant with authority.
Goodness. Lord Lovell had the right of it, when he said all of his cousin’s words soundedlike commands.
No, there was nothing of the boy in Lord Lymington. No guile, either, and no mercy.
And now all of his doggedness, his extraordinary persistence was focused on being rid ofher, and it didn’t appear to Emma to be a simple matter of his preferring a different lady for his cousin.
No, he seemed to object toher, specifically. Or, nother, but Lady Emma Crosby.
Unless he’d somehow discovered who she really was?
If he’d been anyone else, she’d have scoffed at the idea, but Emma’s instincts warned her not to underestimate Lord Lymington. No secrets were safe from a man like him. If she was obliged to tangle with him—and it looked as if she would be—he’d prove a fierce adversary.
Under cover of her skirts, Emma’s knees were wobbling, but she raised her chin and met his eyes. “I won’t be commanded by you, Lord Lymington. If you imagine I’ll scurry out of your way like a timid schoolgirl just out of pinafores, you’re verymuch mistaken.”
“Am I, indeed?” One dark eyebrow rose. “How refreshing.”
