Page 4 of The Best Husband Money Can Buy

Emma smiled at that. Unless Anthony had changed beyond recognition, he would never cheat.

Then she lowered the paper, her expression sobering. She was a fool, of course. She had never really known Anthony well. The last time she’d seen him, he had been a man grown while she was still a girl in the schoolroom. She’d spun dreams around him, cherished his occasional friendly words, and loved him with the innocent fervor of a very young girl. In another year or so, she would surely have outgrown her infatuation, if she had continued in her old life.

But everything had changed irrevocably when she was fifteen, and she had never had a real chance for romance. The closest she had come was when a drunken guest at her former employer’s had cornered her for a kiss. It had not been an enjoyable experience. No wonder her old dreams about Anthony had stayed alive in her heart.

She glanced back at the dossier, and realized that Anthony had rooms on Bruton Street, literally around the corner from Grillon’s Hotel. It wouldn’t hurt to walk by. In fact, it might be a good idea to call on him. As his cousin, it wouldn’t be too improper for her to do so. A single short visit should be enough for her to strike him from the list of prospects. Then she would be free of her childish dreams, and able to put him from her mind forever.

Quickly, before she could become frightened by her own temerity, she donned her coat and went off to call on her cousin.

Her resolve faltered when she reached the building where Anthony lived. It contained several sets of rooms for gentlemen, with Anthony’s flat on an upper floor. She stared at the plain facade, wondering if she dared enter. It wasn’t too late to turn back, and doing so would probably save her great humiliation.

But she had to know. Jaw set, she went up the steps and into the common hallway. There was a desk for a porter, but he was away from his post. Not sorry to be unobserved, she continued upstairs.

Anthony’s flat was easily identified by a card in a small brass holder on the door frame. To her surprise, the door itself was slightly ajar. She knocked lightly.

When no one answered, she pushed the door farther open. Then she gasped, horrified by the sight of bodies lying on the floor of the drawing room that lay just beyond the tiny vestibule. The flat looked like a massacre had taken place.

Then she heard heavy snoring and smelled the sour scent of spilled wine and sickness. Her nostrils flared as she moved forward into the drawing room and examined the scene more carefully. Apparently she had arrived the morning after an orgy. Empty wine bottles were everywhere, along with least a dozen disheveled young men and almost as many women. Not, clearly, the respectable sort of female.

But none of the drunken men were the one she sought. Emma paused uncertainly, knowing that a sensible woman would leave instantly and have strong hysterics outside on the street. But she had already come this far, and she did not want to leave without seeing Anthony. She might not have the courage to return.

An open door at the far end of the drawing room led to a shadowed bedroom. Inside, she could dimly see a bed with a man who might be Anthony sprawled on his back on top of the rumpled counterpane. She preferred not to consider what condition he would be in, or what might be sharing his bed.

She began picking her way among the tangled bodies, doing her best not to touch any. Halfway across the room, one of the sleepers groaned, then rolled over and caught her right ankle. “Nice ankles,” he said hazily. “C’mere, darlin’.”

He tugged with one hand while his other fumbled with his unbuttoned breeches. She jerked free, stamped smartly on his fingers, and continued toward the bedroom.

A manservant emerged from another door, which led to a small kitchen. When he saw her, a look of horror came over his face. “I beg your pardon, miss, b…but his lordship is not receiving.”

Emma paused. “Is he in the bedroom?”

“Yes, but this is no place for you,” the valet said desperately. “Leave your card, and I’ll see that he receives it.”

Emma arched her brows and used the manner she had learned from the Dowager Duchess of Harlington. “You needn’t be concerned about my reputation. Lord Verlaine is my cousin, so there can be no impropriety in my visit.” Ignoring the valet’s sputtered protests, she resumed her progress.

Luckily the sleeping man was more or less decent, though his coat and cravat were off and his shirt gaped at the throat, revealing a distracting triangle of bare flesh. Anthony, as handsome as ever, with waving dark hair and the powerful build that looked so much better on Vaughn men than on unfortunate females like her.

She studied the strong-boned, never-forgotten face. It had been so many years. Even in his present condition, rumpled and unshaven, he was magnificent.

Suddenly his eyelids flicked open. She caught her breath, wondering how she could have forgotten the impact of those piercing, light blue eyes. The force of his gaze made her feel like a butterfly pinned in a specimen box.

She was on the verge of flight when he said in a rumbling voice, “You’re obviously a Vaughn, but damned if I know which one.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m your cousin, Emma Vaughn Stone. You probably don’t remember me, but my family always spent Christmas at Harley.”

For an endless moment he regarded her unblinkingly. “Ah, yes. Little Emma Stone. A third cousin or some such.”

“Second cousin once removed, I believe.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “Though I wouldn’t swear that’s the precise relationship.”

He regarded her dourly. “I once fished you out of the lake when you broke through the ice when skating.”

“I remember. Not one of my better moments.” She had clung to him like a monkey, shivering violently, after he pulled her from the water. He’d immediately carried her up to the house, talking soothingly the whole time. Looking back, that was probably the day she had fallen in love with him.

He sat up and swung his legs over the bed, moving with a wariness that said a great deal about his previous night’s activities. “Did you come here to play memory lane? If so, your timing is very poor.”

She agreed, but now that she had begun, she wanted to get this interview over with quickly. “My purpose is quite different. Would it be possible to have a serious conversation with you?”

He groaned and buried his head in his hands. “Miss Stone, the last thing on earth I want is a serious conversation with anyone.”

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