Page 87 of Once an Angel
"Oh dear, sir. I'm frightfully sorry." Penfeld snatched up a napkin and mopped his trousers.
The duchess entered the room at full sail, the flounces of her skirt following a good foot behind her.
"That was the third maid in as many days. The girl can't sulk in her bedroom forever. If she refuses
to be dressed, I insist you see to her."
Justin laid down the paper, biting back a groan. Dressing Emily was the last thing his frazzled nerves needed.
His mother droned on. "Your sisters and I have been planning an intimate gathering to introduce your young ward to society, followed by a splendid ball to launch her into the company of the more eligible young men." She sighed happily. "It will be such a joy having a young girl in the house again, won't it, dear?"
"A pure delight," Justin replied grimly.
He rose and slipped from the room before his mother could begin discussing the flower arrangements
for Emily's wedding or sewing the christening gown for her first child.
He smoothed his waistcoat as he climbed the stairs, steeling himself behind his only shield—a cool paternal demeanor. His sharp knock received no answer. He opened the door to find his entire view captured by the charming sight of Emily's ruffled drawers upended in the window.
She was leaning halfway over the sill, shaking her fist. "Don't come back either! It'll take a lot more
than a puny creature like you to shove me into one of those bloody contraptions."
She leaned out farther as a bonneted figure scampered out of earshot. Her pantaloons hugged the sleek curves of her thighs. Justin wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before striding across the room and catching her by the waistband. He could just see her tumbling out the window in her white drawers and lacy camisole.
She wiggled in his grasp. "I won't wear it. I won't. You can't make me. And if you try, I'll . . ." She jabbed the air with a sinister-looking hat pin before realizing who had caught her.
He stepped back, dodging her easily. "You'll what? Deflate me?"
She straightened, muttering something about "hot air." A flush dusted her cheekbones. She crossed her arms over her breasts, then folded her hands casually at the juncture of her thighs, finally giving up all attempts at modesty by resting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.
"Is there a problem?" he asked, already knowing there was. Five feet three inches of problem, exuding
a rumpled femininity that would have given a eunuch pause.
She stabbed an accusing finger at the chair. "That is the problem."
Justin picked up the object she indicated and ran his hands over the rigid whalebone. "What is it? A hat
of some sort?"
Emily realized he was genuinely perplexed. She'd forgotten how long he'd been away from society. His innocence touched her until she remembered that lush native beauties like Rangimarie would never
bother with such contrivances. All he had to do was reach his hands beneath her skirt and—
She jerked it away from him. "It's a torture device designed to fill out the shape of my rump."
Justin muttered something under his breath, then frowned. "That must be what Mother's wearing.
I thought she had a bird cage under her dress."
Emily rested the cumbersome form on her hips and struggled with the tapes. The bustle swayed like a gangly bell. Justin caught her before she crashed into a floor lamp.
"See what I mean?" she pleaded, clutching his arm. 'There's no need for all this fuss. Couldn't I just
wear a skirt like the one I wore in New Zealand?"
As he gazed down into her earnest brown eyes, memories pierced Justin's heart like beams of fragrant sunlight. Emily frolicking through the waves, her wet skirt plastered to her hips; Emily sitting in the sand, her palms pressed to her naked breasts, her hair ruffled by the morning wind and his stolen caresses.
