Page 6 of Tempting a Gentleman
Mr. Neale looked about once more and removed his jacket. The man would be naked before the hour was up if he continued to remove articles of clothing. She imagined he’d be a fine specimen to look upon with those shoulders and narrow waist. She snapped her wayward thoughts back to the matter at hand. She was being ridiculous.
Chuckling, he asked, “Care to share your thoughts?”
His warm, teasing tone sent blood rushing to her cheeks. Emma shook her head in response.
He prowled about the room and then stopped at the foot of the stairs that led up to her private chambers. “Do you sleep here?”
Voice lost to the pounding of her heart, Emma nodded.
“All alone?” Mr. Neale’s relaxed demeanor fled, replaced by a deep frown. “With no one about who would protect you from thieves?”
“I can protect meself.”
“Humph.” He placed a foot on the first step.
“Wait. Where do ye fink yer going?”
“To search for an appropriate space for us to practice, of course.”
“But…”
He didn’t wait. He marched up the stairs and called down, “Come along, Emma. You have the perfect area up here. We don’t have much time, and since this is extremely important to Bronwyn and, in turn, my brother and thus to me…we shall need every minute you can spare.”
Damnation. Were all the men in the Neale family overbearing? She trudged up the stairs and found Mr. Neale dressed merely in his lawn shirt and trousers. His waistcoat and cravat draped over the back of the solitary wooden chair tucked neatly under her small writing desk. He dominated the small space with his size, yet he waltzed about the room as if he belonged in her private retreat. Inexplicably, Emma remained frozen on the top step. His lithe form mesmerized and thrilled her. He exuded confidence that he was probably born with. When she found herself the recipient of a charming smile that smashed her defenses, she stepped forward to the center of the loft and waited. Her heartbeat raced as he stepped forward and reached out for her hand. Ashamed of her rough hands from hours of sewing, she pulled them out of his reach and crisscrossed them at the small of her back.
Christopher asked, “Tell me, have you any experience at all?” His lips curved back into an irresistible grin. Memories flooded her mind, of boys’ lips pressed against hers as they attempted what they called kisses. No experience kissing a man like Mr. Neale.
“Emma? Have you any experience dancing before?”
“Nay. I’m afraid I’ve none. Ye’ll have to start with the very basics.”
He circled her.
Face-to-face again, he tilted his head to the side. “May I have this dance, Emma?”
She stared at his hand—palm up. His fingers were long and uncallused. She’d never cared before that her hands were not silky smooth. She whirled about to retrieve the elbow-length gloves that lay upon her tidy desk.
Tugging them on as if she was donning armor, she smiled and placed her gloved hand in his.
The glimmer in his eyes dimmed. “Do you fear me?”
She shook her head.
His brow crinkled. “Are you sure?”
She shook her head without thought.
His chuckle relaxed her shoulders. “Bronwyn warned me you might be resistant to tutelage. I think we will get along just fine, but in order for our sessions to be successful, I’ll need a little more communication from you. Part of achieving success at these god-awful ton events is executing the art of totally useless conversation. Remaining silent will relegate you to the outer walls with the wilting wallflowers. And you, my dear, are no wallflower.”
“How do ye know I’m not?”
“Any friend of Bronwyn’s must have nerves of steel. And you, Emma, are her dearest and closest friend, which means there is a clever mind in that pretty head of yours and a well-guarded heart.” He pulled her closer and whispered, “I promise not to bite if you promise to smile.”
Involuntarily her lips curved, and the man she had believed to be Lord Hadfield’s puppet transformed into an enigmatic gentleman.
Chapter Four
Christopher tried to tear his gaze from the woman’s plump lips, which were made for devouring. He took in Emma’s beautiful, tired features and was struck by the similarity of the woman’s eye color to Arabelle’s. Oddly, Emma also shared the honey-blonde hair that had lured him to endure countless ton affairs. But she wasn’t Arabelle. Emma didn’t hide her thoughts behind sweet, alluring smiles. No, the woman in his arms was like a Wordsworth poem, full of vitality with a strong undercurrent of passion. Emma was a refreshing change from the coy ladies he’d been subjected to over the past two years.
