Page 249 of Once an Angel
He shook his head ruefully. "If Emily keeps shedding garments at this alarming rate, she'll be naked by night-fell." Groaning at his own words, he dropped his face into the soft folds of the garment. "Where
is she?" he growled.
* * *
They found Emily wandering the gilt cavern of the ballroom, her hands tucked at the small of her back.
A sparkling wall of French doors fronted the long room. Justin hovered behind the translucent panel of
a lace curtain, his hunger to watch her smothering his flare of guilt for spying on her so blatantly.
"Looks a bit out of pocket, doesn't she?" Penfeld said.
Justin gave a noncommittal grunt. She did look tiny beneath the vaulted ceiling. How did she feel in this strange house, surrounded by strangers? he wondered. He remembered how desolate his own childhood had been. The enormous house had seemed a maze of endless doors, dusty corners, and gloomy attics. Every table and chair had rested on carved talons or claws, and he'd been half afraid to sit for fear they'd lurch into motion and carry him off. His mother and sisters had whispered their own language while his father remained safely cordoned behind the unrelenting oak of his study door. Just as he had done today.
"She might be bored, sir. Perhaps if you spent some time with her . . . ?"
Justin dug his fingers into the curtain, unable to hide his horror at that suggestion. He didn't trust himself enough to eat breakfast with her. How long would it take before he reached over to correct a wayward curl? Smooth a puckered ruffle? Lick the sugary muffin crumbs from her lips?
As they watched, Emily stood on tiptoe to run her curious fingers over the medallioned wall. Without the crinoline her skirt clung to the curve of her hips. He almost grinned to see her bare toes peeping out from beneath it. Gracie would be fortunate not to find one of her slippers floating in the soup tonight.
She cast the double doors at the end of the ballroom a furtive glance. What was she going to do now? Justin wondered. Peel off her dress and frolic like a wanton nymph beneath the gasoliers? His throat tightened.
Emily flung out her arms and spun around. The dimity skirt ballooned around her ankles. She danced in silence, but Justin heard another melody, marked by the stamp of Maori feet, beguiling in its wailing simplicity. He wanted to march in there and take her in his arms. To sweep her around the room until
the swells and hollows of their bodies made music like the bow and strings of a finely tuned violin.
Groaning back his despair, he caught Penfeld by his starched lapels and shoved him against the nearest wall. An Oriental vase rattled in protest. "Take her, Penfeld. Take her out for the afternoon. She's your charge. Amuse her."
"B-b-but, sir," the valet sputtered. "I fear I'm not very amusing. The rest of the staff find me hopelessly dull. However shall I entertain her?"
"How the hell should I know? Take her to the 200. Walk her in the park. Buy her a bloody puppy. Just get her out of my sight." He freed Penfeld and raked his hair into nervous spikes, forgetting it wasn't
long anymore. "Just make sure she wears a cloak. And a hat. And shoes— two of them."
As Justin strode away, still muttering under his breath, Penfeld tugged thoughtfully at his whiskers.
"A puppy. I do say, a splendid suggestion."
Eight hours later Justin was pacing the parlor, trying not to flinch at each incisive tick of the black
marble clock on the mantel. His mother and Edith kept vigil with him, their ringleted heads inclined toward their embroidery. Lily and Millicent had retired at a respectable hour with all the dreary
husbands, even Edith's, in tow.
The long-case clock in the foyer gonged. Once. Twice. Ten times. Justin's oath shattered its echo.
Edith stabbed herself with her needle, but the duchess didn't even flinch.
He paced to the window and braced his weight on the sill with both hands. The night's chill seeped through the frosted panes. Was he going to have to hire a detective to return Emily from a simple shopping expedition? he wondered. He must have been mad to send her out with Penfeld. But these weren't the teeming streets of Auckland. London was Penfeld's orderly domain. Justin fought despair, refusing to give in to his fear that Emily might have taken this opportunity to flee from him yet again.
He should have taken her out himself. Even if it meant being trapped in the confines of a carriage with
her ethereal scent. Even if it meant sitting for hours with her warm thigh pressed to his own. His torment was nothing compared to her safety.
He turned around and leaned against the windowsill. His mother was watching him beneath hooded lids, her eyes sharpened to a lively glint. Justin knew she hadn't always been stupid. Olivia Connor had chosen long ago to veil her intelligence behind insipid vaguery, but at times he still caught a glimpse of the Fleet Street shopgirl who had memorized Debrett's Peerage to land not one of the many impoverished dukes haunting London, but the only peer of the realm with a thriving shipping empire. To hold the affections
of her rigid husband, she had learned to betray everything else she held dear—even her son. Especially her son.
