It wasn’t fair. Scandalous things weren’t supposed to happen in libraries.
She’d ended up with far more than a copy of Thomas Whateley’s Observations on Modern Gardening, that much was certain. Instead of advice on garden enclosures, she’d found herself in the arms of the gentleman against whom every other gentleman in London this season would be measured.
Measured, and found wanting.
If she’d been able to come up with a way to extricate herself from his embrace without revealing who she was, she would have done so at once—of course, she would have—but given her history with the ton, even the mere thought of telling him her name had chilled her to the bone.
After that, though…well, there may have been a moment or two when she’d foolishly thought it might be an interesting experiment to kiss a gentleman, and it wasn’t as if she’d ever get another chance to kiss the Nonesuch.
She’d had a notion that kissing couldn’t be as transporting as it was rumored to be, but then he’d stroked her hair and pressed his soft lips behind her ear, and the next thing she knew the most delicious aching heat had unfurled in her belly, and…
She’d gone a bit dizzy after that, but there had been…sensations.
The dangerous kind.
Emmeline knew all about dangerous sensations, as did anyone who’d bothered to look into human physiology. What she hadn’t expected was the feelings that accompanied those sensations.
Wretched things, feelings, especially passionate feelings.
Nothing good would come of indulging feelings. Indeed, Emmeline would prefer not to have any at all. It had been uncontrollable passions that had led her mother to run off with her lover, leaving behind her broken husband and the five daughters she’d abandoned.
She’d ruined herself, ruined them all…
Now a few stolen kisses had led to another disastrous debacle, and here were the Templetons right in the middle of it.
Again.
Except this time, she couldn’t blame her mother. This time, it was all Emmeline’s fault. If they were forced to flee London once again, Juliet would lose the wager, and then what would become of them all?
What would become of Phee, who’d suffered such heartache? Phee, who’d lost everything when their season was torn to shreds, including the gentleman who’d been courting her at the time. It had been Phee who’d taken care of them since their father’s death, all without uttering a word of complaint—Phee who’d held them together without ever asking for a thing for herself.
No one deserved to have her heart’s desire fulfilled more than Phee.
Then there was Tilly, sweet, innocent Tilly, the only one of them who hadn’t been damaged by the ruinous scandal their mother had brought down upon their heads, the only one of them who looked at the world with hope, rather than suspicion.
What was she to do? How was she meant to fix this?
Her head was so muddled she couldn’t think straight, but even so, she knew there was nothing to be done, aside from making certain no one—no one—ever discovered it had been her, Emmeline Templeton, who’d kissed Lord Melrose in Lady Fosberry’s library.
Whatever else happened, it must remain a secret.
But surely no one had seen her flee the library last night? Lady Fosberry’s guests had been safely occupied in the ballroom. The corridor had been deserted, she was certain of it, and even if someone had been lurking about, they wouldn’t have recognized her. It had been quite dark, and she hadn’t appeared in the ballroom at all that evening.
She was safe, perfectly safe—
Emmeline’s head popped up at the sound of a carriage coming up the drive. She rose to her feet, brushed the dirt from her skirts, and made her way back to the front of the garden, so she could peek through the gate.
As soon as she saw the crest, she froze—all but her stomach, which dropped down into her half-boots.
Oh, no. It was Lord Melrose.
Her stomach lurched upwards again, crowding into her throat.
Dear God, I’m going to be sick.
Her first instinct was to flee the walled garden and conceal herself in the wilderness on the northern side of the house, but cowardice was what had gotten her into this mess to begin with. She wasn’t a naughty child fleeing an enraged parent, for pity’s sake, and Lord Melrose wasn’t chasing after her with a birchbark switch in his flawlessly gloved hands.
But he likely does have a walking stick…
