Page 17 of The Earl's Hired Bride
She tugged again and he realized what he was doing. Abruptly, he let her go.
“Good.” She rubbed at her hand.
He stared at her again, but something about the way he looked at her had changed. It was a look full of assessment . . . and warmth. The air prickled between them again.
She thought, suddenly, that it was a very good thing that they weren’t going to see much of each other during this masquerade.
“Let’s go in,” he said suddenly. “Are you ready?”
She swallowed. And nodded. “Ready.”
Chapter 4
He’d been feeling sofine and full of himself. He’d done it. Or Hestia Wright had. She’d found the girl who was going to save him from the nightmare of constant pursuit.
He’d thought the hard part over. The rest would be easy. All he had to do now was to let his mother take over, pay not-too-much attention to the girl and go about his business.
Except . . .
He hadn’t expected her to look so . . . different. She’d stepped toward him out of the gloom of that office this morning—and it had been like the sun coming up. She’d looked so tall and slender—and unexpectedly curvy. He’d swallowed. No wonder she’d worn that sack-like gown before. Without it, she’d be prey to random men in the streets and their eye for a voluptuous figure.
Hell—she’d be subject to the same from the men of the ton, without his protection. Especially with the way that pelisse hugged her curves and how the misty blue of it made her eyes look like the sky after a rain.
She hadn’t been self-conscious about the change, either. Rather, she’d been easy in his company. Honest and funny and not awed by the difference in their circumstances.
And she’d never heard of Hartsworth.
The shock of it still held him in sway. The prospect was so fresh and new and entirely unexpected that he felt the need to express it again.
She’d never heard of Hartsworth.
Since his earliest memory it seemed as if he’d been defined by the notoriety of his home and family. When he met someone, even as a boy, he’d seen the knowledge in their eyes, felt the weight of their expectations. He was a Herrington. He’d grown up in a castle, for heaven’s sake. Everyone looked at him and thought his life would be charmed. His path would be easy. His pockets would be full and his marriage would be a grand love match, blissful in every way.
And ever since he’d first realized that this was his heritage, this was what people saw when they looked at him; he’d half-worried, half-wondered.
What would happen if he bollixed it all up?
“The Countess is in the parlor, my lord,” the butler intoned.
“Thank you, Bridges.”
Hart waited while Emily was divested of her outerwear. He nearly cursed when he saw that the day gown beneath showcased her figure even more than the fitted pelisse. He tore his eyes away and looked up instead as she lifted off her bonnet. Her hair was ebony, as he’d glimpsed yesterday, and gathered up into a neat and elegant twist. Why then, must he fight off an image of his fingers picking it apart, pin by pin? Would it curl when it fell or would it fall straight and heavy to her—
He shook his head. She was smiling at someone. He turned his head and saw one of the maids peeking from the library, hoping for a glimpse of the next countess, no doubt. The girl caught him watching, gasped, and ducked back inside.
Emily pursed her lips.
“There you are, darling.” His mother beckoned him from the parlor.
He moved away to greet her, kissed her on the cheek and put his lips near her ear. “She’s never heard of Hartsworth, Mother.”
She drew back and glanced over at Emily, who hung back a little, and then back at him.
“I haven’t told her,” he continued. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
Conflicting emotions crossed her face. Disbelief. Speculation. “She’ll find out, Hart. It won’t take long.”
He nodded. “I know. But I’ll enjoy it in the meanwhile.”
