He looked away from her, dizzy with sudden longing, confusion, and desire. “I think I know better than youdo, Lady Emma.”
“Of course, you know better thanIdo. My question, Lord Lymington, is if you know betterthanhedoes.”
Lady Emma looked troubled, as if she’d spent time considering the question of Lovell’s happiness, as if she had a sincere interest in him, and was concerned about his future happiness.
And Samuel…didn’t like it? Was that what the sudden clench of his fists meant, the tightness in his chest? He turned the strange reaction over inside himself, prodded and poked at it, and…
No. He didn’t like it. Not because he wasjealousof her attentions to his cousin, of course. The very idea was absurd. That is, he couldn’t deny he’d been intrigued with her since the night he’d seen her at the Pink Pearl, but he was as wary of her as he was fascinated by her.
In any case, she was all wrong for Lovell. Even if he wasn’t hopelessly besotted with Lady Flora, Samuel would never encourage a match between Lovell and Lady Emma. They’d flirt and charm each other to exhaustion, without ever exchanging an honest word between them.
He glanced at her. She’d turned her gaze back to the river, and he seized the rare moment to study her face—her creamy skin and pert nose, her full, sensuous lips and surprisingly firm chin, the wisps of golden hair at her temples—without her noticing.
Samuel had seen many lovely ladies in his time—ladies with faces lovelier than hers, even—but when she was like this, without her usual flirtations and wiles and artifice, her face touched him in a way no otherface ever had.
He couldn’t explain it, and he didn’t care to dwell on it. He wasn’t the sort of man who indulged in fanciful notions, and for all that Lady Emma bewitched him, he didn’t trust her. “Come. It grows late. I’m certain your grandmother is wonderingwhere you are.”
“Yes, I daresay she is.” Lady Emma let him hurry her along the pathway until they caught up to Lady Flora and Lovell. “Oh, Lady Emma, Lord Lovell was just telling me the most amusing story about a nonsensical wager over a footrace in Black Hawk Lane.”
Lady Flora was flushed with laughter, and the elation on Lovell’s face eased the tightness in Samuel’s chest.
“Lady Emma, you look like a breath of fresh air, with the wind having put such color into your cheeks.” Lovell gave her an admiring look, but he made no move to take her arm. “Or has my cousin been making you blush?”
“Nonsense, Lord Lovell. Lord Lymington is a perfect gentleman.”
“It’s time we returned the ladies to their grandmothers, Lovell.” Samuel covered Lady Emma’s gloved hand with his. “It’s nearly time to dress for the evening.”
“Is it so late as that? Why, the time flies with such company.” Lovell gazed at Lady Flora with a look that made her cheeks color, then offered her his arm. They fell into step behind Samuel and Emma, and the four of them made their way back toward Rotten Row.
“The footrace was between the Earl of Barrymore and a butcher named Mr. Bullock,” Lady Flora was telling Lady Emma, still laughing over it. “Lord Barrymore thought he had the best of it, as he’s quite fit and Mr. Bullock rather stout, but Mr. Bullock demanded a head start, and to choose the course. Well, you know how narrow Black Hawk Lane is, and…Lady Emma? Are you coming?”
They’d reached Rotten Row, which was still crowded with people, despite the late hour. Some sort of commotion was unfolding on the far end of the pathway, and a dozen or more people had paused, craning their necks to get aglimpse of it.
“Lady Emma?” Lady Flora frowned at her friend. “What is it?”
Lady Emma had stopped on the pathway, her head turned toward the crowd of people squeezing past each other to get a look at a dashing, high-perch phaeton passing by on South Carriage Drive. It was done up to perfection in a shiny powder blue with gold-painted wheels, and carried along by a splendid matched pair of pure white horses.
But it wasn’t the smartness of the equipage that had everyone gawking.
It was the lady at the ribbons, a spectacular dark-haired beauty, her charms set off to perfection by a pink gown in thelatest fashion.
“Oh, my goodness,” Lady Flora breathed, patting her chest. “Who is that lady? She’s ever so elegant, isn’t she?”
Lady Flora had addressed this question to Lady Emma, but Lady Emma seemed to be frozen in place as she watched the phaeton approach, anddidn’t answer.
“That lady is Helena Reeves.” Samuel was the only person in the vicinity who wasn’t watching Miss Reeves, and gasping over her expert handling of the ribbons.
He was watching Lady Emma.
Helena Reeves was a courtesan, and like many of London’s courtesans, she’d begun her career under the tutelage of Madame Marchand.
Samuel kept his gaze on Lady Emma as the phaeton approached, his eyes narrowed. “She’s with Viscount Wingate, driving his pair. It’s rumored he’s considering making herhis mistress.”
Lady Flora gasped, her cheeks flooding with color. “M-mistress?”
Samuel knew better than to discuss mistresses in front of an innocent young lady. If he’d been in his right mind, he would have steered Lady Flora and Lady Emma in the opposite direction down Rotten Row.
But he wasn’t in his right mind, and neither, it seemed, was Lady Emma, who appeared to be rooted to the spot. The carriage drew closer, then closer still, the lady inside winking and grinning at the crowd, clearly enjoying every moment of the stir she was causing.
