“But I could not be under such an obligation—”
“Please.” He put one finger to her bleeding lip. “I should consider protecting you a very great honor.”
She ought to protest further, but his touch seemed to tangle her already tattered thoughts. As she sat speechless, he slowly traced his gloved finger around the circumference of her swollen lip.
The soft brush of chamois against her stinging skin mesmerized her, sent little ripples of sensation throughout her body. Her startled gaze flew to his.
His finger stopped its tracery. He drew in a sharp breath and met her eyes with a glance so intense she felt herself drawn almost physically closer. The steady pulse of his warm finger quivered against her lip.
When at last he removed his hand, the only thing she could think to stutter was, “Y-you have soiled your glove.”
Cheverley looked at the bloodstain on the fawn surface. He raised his finger and kissed the spot. “I shall treasure it. Don’t worry, Madame, that villain will trouble you no more. You have my word on it.”
Evan whistled as he walked back down the street, a bounce in his step. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils still filled with the enchanting scent of lavender, his senses still heightened by the heady euphoria of holding that slender arm, touching those delicate lips.
He’d roust his solicitor from the tea table and ensure the runners were dispatched immediately. The mere thought of that slimy little villain putting his foul hand on Madame Emilie’s perfect face sent a blistering rage through him. He would check back personally to make sure guards were posted this very day.
But he shouldn’t be too angry at the fellow who had provided him such a perfect opportunity to act the rescuer, he reminded himself as the rage cooled. Surely the divine Madame would look kindly on him for intervening. Be she ever so virtuous, surely she could imagine a way to repay his concern, one that might be immensely gratifying to them both.
Not that he would so much as hint such a thing. Indeed, doing so would relegate him to the same crass category as the unspeakable Mr. Harding. The Earl of Cheverley normally had only to express interest, and the chosen lady hurried to do his bidding. The impossibly beautiful Madame, however, seemed reluctant to accept even protective assistance from him, despite the real danger in which she stood.
Vividly he recalled that sizzling glance, her smoldering touch. She was aloof, and yet undeniably responsive.
Winning her would not be easy, he recognized, his instincts piqued by the challenge. Once she was won, however, he could imagine no more enjoyable a task than lifting every burden from her slim shoulders and sheltering that exquisite body close.
A discreet little house in Mayfair, perhaps? With furnishings in the first stare of elegance, a loyal staff, gowns, jewels, carriages, whatever she wished. He would move heaven and earth to grant her every whim. He imagined dressing her in amethysts and deep plum satin to match those incredible eyes. Imagined even more vividly undressing her….
Excitement tingled in his veins, and something else tingled lower. Not for months had he felt so alive, so buoyed with anticipation.
He would ensure her safety, of course, whether she smiled on him now or not. But sooner or later, he vowed, she would.
Chapter Two
Emily saw the man immediately after she unbolted the shop door the next morning. As she stared through the fog-wisped air, shocked into immobility, the burly figure lounging in a doorway opposite snapped to attention and gave her a jaunty wave. The bright red waistcoat under his buff frieze jacket proclaimed him a runner, apparently detailed, as Lord Cheverley had promised, to protect her.
Her immediate rush of relief was succeeded by a worry that gnawed at her all morning as she fashioned her bonnets and waited on customers. His lordship was obviously a man of his word. Could he, as he claimed, construe it his public duty to ensure private citizens such as herself were not molested in their homes and businesses? And the wages of the watchman now loitering on the street outside—did she truly, as he insisted, have no need to concern herself over the matter?
Her thoughts went round and round, but always returned to the same point. Despite his lordship’s promises, she could not deem it prudent to permit him to fund her protection.
For one thing, the very thought of accepting so great a boon from one entirely unrelated grated against every principle upon which she’d been raised. More ominously, as bitter experience had taught her twice over, rich and influential men like my lord of Cheverley did nothing without calculation. Debts owed would be called in sooner or later, generally when most advantageous to the lender. Worse yet, she thought with more than a touch of annoyance, the earl’s immediate, high-handed action—taken without any consultation as to her preferences—had stuck a spoke in the wheel of Josh Harding’s game, a curb that villain was unlikely to forgive or forget.
She recalled the strength of the bully’s rough hands jerking her close, the stench of his wet tongue assaulting her mouth. An involuntary shiver skittered down her spine. She had few illusions as to what sort of vengeance he would choose if he could get her once more in his power.
Which meant, unless she were prepared to relocate her business—a financial impossibility—she was likely to need protection for some considerable time. Yet more reason to stand alone now, for who could predict how long the quixotic Earl’s interest in her welfare would last?
Perhaps it would be possible to have his solicitor maintain the defensive policies already set in motion. She should consult the man immediately. And determine safety’s unpalatable price.
That unpleasant conclusion reached, she instructed Francesca to take over the shop, and embarked on the long walk to the offices of his lordship’s counselor.
The bored-looking young clerk who answered her knock subjected her to an insolent inspection her glacial manner did nothing to discourage—until she stated that her business concerned the Earl of Cheverley. Instantly the clerk turned respectful, ushering her to a seat and announcing he would immediately inform his master of her presence.
Yet another indication of the Earl’s power, she thought uneasily as she leaned back to rest her tired shoulders. The chair on which she sat was luxuriously appointed in leather; heavy damask drapes hung at the windows, and a Turkey carpet graced the floor. The entire establishment reeked of exclusivity and expensive cigars.
Suddenly she was transported in memory to a room very like this, where a lifetime ago a defiant young lady had informed her sire she intended to embark, not on the London Season planned for her, but on a vessel bound for the Peninsula, as the bride of Lieutenant Andrew Waring-Black. When she remained steadfast in the face of her father’s adamant disapproval, he alternately mocked, threatened and finally raged he’d see her dead first. “Where do you think you would find yourself, missy, when that impertinent jackanapes got himself killed? Destitute in some heathenish land, that’s where, earning a living upon your back!”
“Mr. Manners will see you now.” The clerk’s deferential words startled her out of reverie. Clenching her fingers on her reticule, Emily followed him.
Behind a huge desk sat a thin man with spectacles perched on his narrow nose. Shelves of legal tomes lined the walls; a leather armchair astride another tasteful carpet poised before the desk. A lamp glowed, adding the piquant scent of its flaming oil to the melange of cigar and lemon wood polish. The heavy curtains were drawn, as if the occupant did not wish even the daylight to intrude into his sanctum. The polite but piercing look he fixed on her said he resented her intrusion as well.
“That will be all, Richards,” Mr. Manners said. The clerk, who had been staring at her again, hastily bowed himself out. “A chair, Mrs. Spenser?”