Caught. Smashing his head against glass didn’t wake him, but a touch—barely that—did?
“You are awake,” she said.
“Mm. What are you doing?”
“Trying to sit, but you have my hand.” Her backside hovered in the air behind as she bent in two. She’d meant to hold this posture but a moment to push that lock of hair back, but now he held her firm, and she had nowhere to go.
Sitting upright, he peered around the side of her. “I see.” Then he yanked her forward.
She tumbled toward him with a yelp and landed on the bench beside him. Beside him? Ha. Half on top of him. She scurried to put any sort of distance between his body, hard and warm, and her own, soft and… eager. Eager? No! She lunged for the other side of the coach.
But he caught her round the waist, his arm a chain. “Please sit over here. We must speak, and I do not wish to yell.”
They would not have to yell, even if they sat in opposite corners. The coach was large, but notthatlarge. She sat next to him anyway as he loosened his hold on her, his arm falling away. He folded his hands behind his head, stretched his neckside to side with a yawn, and propped one boot on top of the bench opposite. Long and lean and so very capable. InThe School of Venus, the young maid exclaims she has touched her suitor many times and felt no pleasure, and her cousin points out she’s touched only clothes, not skin. With clothes on, the Duke of Clearford was a fine, strong man indeed, and the few times they’d touched, kissed, the pleasure had been breathtaking. What would he look like without his clothes? How would touching him feel then?
Emma pressed her cheek against the cool glass of the window. Curse Aunt Georgie for giving her that book. And curse Rosalie for encouraging the reading of it. Curse Rosalie, too, for rejecting Samuel’s suit. Because a tension thrummed between them, as if a wall had been broken down, and some space, full of potential, needed filling.
She filled it with her shaky voice. “What is it we must speak of, Your Grace?”
“Accommodations. We must stop for the night. The horses will need a rest, and it is too dark to continue safely. If whomever Felicity is with cares for her half so much as I…” He cleared his throat. “He will stop tonight, too.”
“It is likely. I hope it is so.”
“The driver has instructions to stop in Huntingdon. Is that agreeable?”
“It must be.”
He leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head, dark hair falling over his face. “I am at a loss.”
She scooted closer to him. Didn’t notice until it was done. “All will be well.” No guarantee of that, but saying it seemed to make him stronger. He looked up, setting his jaw in an unbreakable line.
He glanced out the window. “We’re slowing. Almost there.” A pause, his hands limp between his knees. “You should know about Lady Huxley.”
“Oh?” Emma’s heart beat with wild wings like a bird caught in a cage. “What of her?”
“We are not to wed, and my courtship of her is over.”
“I am terribly sorry.”
“I am not.”
Emma should not be feeling so light, so happy, but there it was—a beautiful breeze lifting her.
The coach wheels creaked over gravel and dirt.
“Lady Emma,” he said, soft and low and in the tones he used while kissing her (she should not know that, not at all), “I am a failure as a brother and as a man.”
“No, Your Grace! Not at all.”
He nodded, then straightened, his gaze locking onto her. “I know my faults. But… I also know what happens between us now. Do you?”
Where were the shadows to hide her? Where was the darkness to swallow her whole? Because no matter how many hours past midnight, Samuel’s smile beamed sunlight into the coach.
“Y-Your Grace, I know you think we must—”
“Lady Emma,” he said, his voice low and hungry, “will you call me Samuel?”
“W-we should not.”
