Page 31 of Chasing the Earl
Insults were much better than having her avoid him as she’d been doing since the church. Attraction sparked between them—more brilliant than the fireworks they’d witnessed yesterday. If it invoked a tenth of the arousal in her that it did in Henry, he could well understand her trepidation. It was bloody frightening, especially to people like him and Emmie.
“The tightness”—he lifted one hand and lightly touched her head—“puts you in a foul mood.” He said the last bit just to annoy her.
“I’m usually in a foul mood, my lord. I doubt my hair has anything to do with it.”
He wanted to ask her why she hadn’t waited for him at the church today, but he didn’t. It was possible he wouldn’t care for the answer.
“I’ve some whiskey.” He patted his pocket, sinking his body into a darkened alcove. “Much better than the champagne Lady Trent is serving.”
“I don’t care for champagne as a rule.”
Of course she didn’t. Champagne was a drink Emmie would find much too frivolous with all those bubbles tickling her nose. Henry took out the small flask and stepped further into the shadows. There was a small door set into the wall. Knowing South, it was probably filled with mummies and pottery. He wiggled the flask in the air. “Come, Miss Stitch.”
She watched him before turning her neck just slightly to see if anyone was looking in their direction. Smoothing her skirts, she took a hesitant step forward and stopped, looking behind her again.
He could have saved her the trouble. No one was looking. “I’ll drink it all if you don’t hurry up.” Frustrated, he shrugged and took a sip from the flask, the whiskey burning all the way down to his stomach. “Fine. Sip champagne and continue to wander about the ballroom like some tragic wren.”
The insult propelled her forward, as he’d known it would. “Tragic wren. Who on earth says something like that when describing a lady? Incredibly unkind and not true in the least. My gown is a lovely shade of amber. Like an acorn.”
“If you insist. I liken it more to tepid tea.”
Her lips twisted, but she still slipped in next to him, so close her skirts curled around his legs. The alcove was suddenly filled with the scent of honeysuckle, which stretched his poor trousers to their limit.
Troublesome little spinster.How he hungered for her. It struck him that his desire for Emmie was unlikely to go away anytime soon. Or ever.
Henry took another drink from the flask, then bent forward, brushing his mouth against the softness of her lips.
A quiver went through her, no doubt from surprise at his action, but she arched her back in his direction all the same. A silent invitation for him to continue.
“Miss Stitch,” he breathed against her mouth. “Do you want a sip of the whiskey?”
“Yes.” She moved her lips over his, nearly kissing him back but not quite.
Somewhere along the line, she’d learned how to tease a man. Henry didn’t judge her for any choices she’d made in her past, but he was feeling very proprietary about her future.
He carefully tipped the flask for her to drink before claiming her mouth again, his tongue running along the inside of her lips. “You were dribbling a bit. I couldn’t allow you to waste a drop.”
“I don’t dribble,” came her breathy reply. She pressed her slender form to his, lithe as a cat, palms sliding up his chest.
As much as Henry enjoyed sparring with Emmie, he liked her like this. Soft and welcoming. Whatever she’d been upset over earlier had been resolved. Or maybe she only wanted the whiskey.
He moved his mouth down her cheek, nuzzling against her skin as he nipped and sucked against the side of her neck. He pulled at the small ruffle around the neckline of her bodice with his teeth. “I want you out of this dress, Emmagene. I’ll tear it off you if I must.” A low sound came from his chest. “I certainly won’t miss this drab garment.”
“We shouldn’t.”
He shifted and slid around her, running his hand up her waist to cup one breast. “We most definitely should. Indiscretions are expected at a house party. Let’s not disappoint Lady Trent.”
Chapter Fourteen
This was aterrible idea.
Despite Emmagene’s resolution to put some distance between them, something she’d decided on after seeing Miss Cradditch drooling over him, all Huntly had had to do was wave a flask of whiskey and vow to tear Emmie’s clothes off and she’d found herself being kissed and groped in an alcove of Southwell’s ballroom. What of her reputation? Anyone could have seen them. She would have been ruined.
Correction: she was already ruined.
She stalked back and forth before the fire in her room, her toes making tracks in the thick rug beneath her feet. The dress had already been discarded with help from the maid who’d been assigned to her. The same girl who’d taken care of Emmagene last night and probably made her bed this morning. If Southwell’s servants were prone to gossip, which all servants were, the news that Miss Stitch had entertained a gentleman last night was already circulating belowstairs. There couldn’t be any doubt what had occurred in this room last night. Repeatedly. The maid, a drab girl whose teeth stuck out at odd angles, had looked far too smug for Emmagene’s taste.
Emmagene plopped down in a chair before the fire and waited, looking up at the clock every so often. Huntly had inferred they would have an assignation this evening. He wanted to tear off her gown with his teeth. Her heart raced at the mere thought of him doing such a thing.
