Page 110 of Once an Angel
The carriage slowed at the corner. Emily reached for the door handle.
Lily recognized the sparkle of mischief in her eyes only too well. Her gloved hand closed over Emily's. "Oh, no, you don't. What are you up to? Going to jab the horses with a hairpin and send me careening into the Thames?"
"This joke isn't on you. I promise." She pried away Lily's clinging fingers. "Have the driver circle the block a few times, then pick me up in the park."
Ignoring Lily's protests, she opened the door a crack and eased out of the carriage. The driver clucked
the horses into motion, unaware that he had lost a passenger.
As the brougham rolled away, Lily hung out the window and hissed, "Take care, silly. The moon is already out. It'll be full dark soon."
Emily strolled across the road to the park, swinging her embroidered purse as if she hadn't a care in the world. From behind her she heard a frantic cry of "Whoa!" a horse's whinny, and the clatter of someone spilling out of a carriage in great haste. Pretending to brush a stray hair from her shoulder, she looked back just as Justin ducked behind the mottled trunk of a sycamore.
Pulling her hood up over her hair, she darted into a thicket of trees. The air was much colder here. A lacy web of branches blocked out all but the most tenacious rays of light. She followed a cobbled path around a frozen pond and past a terra-cotta cupid. Icicles dangled from his pouting lips. Dusk was falling fast.
She swung around a fragrant spruce, fully intending to circle back to the brougham by another path and leave Justin combing the park for her. The deepening shadows rendered the tangled shrubs a maze. She took one path, then another, only to find herself at the fountain again. Cupid smirked at her. She stuck her tongue out at him.
Hugging herself against the chill, she chose the only path she had not taken. It was much narrower than the others. Dead weeds sprouted through the cracked cobblestones. She was beginning to wish she were sitting in the parlor at Grymwilde, sipping hot spiced cider and listening to Edith drone on about a new embroidery pattern.
The bushes rustled behind her. Emily hesitated, regretting her folly. A woman walking unchaperoned in
a park was fair game for any scoundrel. A shiver crept down her spine. She swung around to face the looming shadows.
For a long moment there was only silence, then came the reassuring click of a walking stick against the cobblestones. She pressed a fist to her thundering heart in relief. Perhaps Justin had decided to play the game along with her.
She started to sing softly in Maori, a child's tune Dani had taught her, hoping to entice him to show himself.
A match flared in the darkness, followed by the unmistakable sizzle of flame against paper and the stringent tang of smoke. Emily's voice trailed to silence. She'd seen Justin partake of a pipe on occasion after dinner, but she'd never known him to smoke a cigarette.
She took two steps backward. "Justin?" she whispered to the encroaching twilight.
The shadows held their silence. Emily spun around to flee and crashed into something so warm and solid it could only be a man's chest. Her purse fell to the ground, spilling out her card case and an ivory array of calling cards.
The man knelt to retrieve them.
She gave his shiny top hat an aggravated thump. "You scared me half to death! Didn't you hear me
calling you? I almost . . ."
Her voice faded as he lifted his head. The rising moon shone through the trees, and she found herself gazing into the molten brown eyes of a man more beautiful than Satan himself.
Chapter 23
I am torn between wanting to shelter you and
wanting you to face this fickle world with those
bright eyes of yours wide open. . ..
The moon caressed a face of pure masculine beauty. Not a single whisker marred the purity of its
narrow planes. Except for Justin, he was the first clean-shaven man Emily had seen in London. An
ivory cigarette holder hung from his lips. His dark eyes seemed not opaque, but translucent, lit from within by a diabolical fire.
With a flick of his elegant fingers he held up one of her calling cards. "Miss Scarborough, I presume?"
She could not help staring at his hand. His nails were trimmed to precise points, their beds as pink and smooth as a baby's. He cleared his throat and Emily realized she was behaving like a churl.
