Page 137 of Once an Angel
living beneath your roof for over a month. They'll never accept us."
"Then they can all go to hell and I can take my bride to New Zealand for a Maori wedding." He waited for a long beat of silence. "What do you say? Will Cecille forgive us if we announce our engagement at her fete?"
Emily swung around, smiling through a blur of tears. "She forgave me for stuffing the dead mouse in
her boot, didn't she?"
Justin folded her into his arms, ignoring the curious stares. "Stop that, now. Penfeld would never forgive you for soaking all the starch out of my lapels." He held his handkerchief to her nose. "There now. Blow. That's a good girl. Feel better?" At her nod, he said, "Come on, then. You've faced down cannibals and dragons. Surely a few matrons and snobbish swells don't scare you." Emily nodded again, this time more violently. "Well, if you must know, they scare me too, but there's no help for it. If they get mean, I'll send for my mother to defend us."
As he led her toward the open floor where people were dancing, Emily shyly clutched his sleeve. No one appeared to notice them. All eyes had turned to a new arrival from the foyer. A curious murmur rippled through the drawing room.
As the crowd parted to reveal the object of their fascination, Emily groaned aloud. "Not again. Do the countess and Mrs. Rose always travel in the same social circles?"
Justin's arm went rigid beneath her hand. She looked up. His face had gone stark white, drained of the last vestiges of tan.
She squeezed his arm, alarmed. "What's wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
He shook her hand away and stood in utter stillness, his face drawn into a wary mask over his bones. Emily searched the room for a clue, but all she saw was the debonair stranger she had met in the park
and the bordello charming his way through the guests. Impeccably attired as always, he drifted from group to group, tossing off a smile here, a witty remark there. A fluted champagne glass dangled from his elegant fingers as if he'd been born with it. Admiring glances followed his path.
"Why, he's as handsome as everyone says, isn't he?" Emily jumped as Cecille popped up behind them. Her stage whisper would have startled a deaf person. "All the girls are in a swoon over him. He's Italian, and you know what they say about Italian men." She giggled slyly. "And a millionaire at that. They say
he made his fortune in gold."
As he paused near them to kiss a simpering beauty's hand, Cecille saw her chance. She darted out, grabbed his arm, and dragged him over. Justin and the stranger stood eye to eye.
Cecille began, "Your Grace and Emily, I should love to introduce you to—"
"Hello, Justin," the stranger interrupted. His voice was as smooth as cognac and lightly accented, as
Emily had remembered. Smiling, he lifted his glass and took a lazy swallow of champagne.
"Hello, Nicky," Justin replied. Then he drew back his fist and smashed it into the stranger's smug face, sending him reeling into the column behind him.
Spattered by champagne, Cecille finished in a daze. "—Mama's new and dear friend, Mr. Nicholas Saleri."
Chapter 31
There may come a time when you must face life
without my love. . . .
Emily swayed. Cecille caught her before she could fall. The crowd stood in silent shock.
Nicholas sat up, bracing his back against the column. Blood spattered his immaculate shirtfront and trickled from a corner of his mouth. A lank strand of ebony hair dangled over his eyes. He smoothed
it back, regaining his composure quickly.
Waving away the footmen who rushed to assist him, he struggled to his feet. "It's a pleasure to see you again, too, Justin."
Weaving slightly, he bowed and brought Emily's limp hand to his lips. "Always a delight, Miss Scarborough. You have the look of your father about your eyes."
Emily stared at her hand, dazed. His blood smeared her knuckles. She tried vainly to wipe it away on
her skirt, leaving an ugly stain.
"Keep your filthy hands off her," Justin snarled, taking a step toward him.
