And yet those piercing, dark-rimmed silvery eyes had noticed her, had scanned her face so intently, the breath had simply disappeared from her body. Warm, strong, bare hands had cupped her face as if she were some delicate creature.
Her heart had started galloping in her chest...
She’d told herself to be sensible, that it was nothing; simple good manners to show concern.
They’d stood so close she could see the fine-grained pores of his skin, the shadow of masculine bristles that darkened his jaw and a pale, almost invisible scar along the bottom of his chin—a saber cut? Or a bayonet injury from the war?
And then... when he’d slowly lowered his mouth to hers, gently, so lightly at first, and then... all thoughts had been driven from her brain. There was only his mouth, moving over hers, searching, tasting...
Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop dwelling on it, foolish woman.It was a whim, an impulse of the moment. He was probably a rake.
She hung up her cloak, laid out her nightgown across the bed and started to strip off her clothes, as fast as she could because the room was cold and getting colder.
Rose and Lily used to talk about their uncle, the soldier-hero, seeming both proud and fond of him. A shame they seemed so hostile to each other now. But then people who had a family often took it for granted.
She slipped into bed and breathed a thankful sigh as her frozen toes encountered a solid patch of warmth. One of the maids—probably Milly—had slipped a hot brick into her bed. Oh, blessed, blessed heat.Thank you, Milly.She pressed her feet against the cloth-wrapped brick and waited for them to defrost.
She’d had a little adventure, that was all. Something to recall with pleasure. Without regret.
She’d lied when she’d claimed she was her own mistress. Usually when Emm went anywhere in public she wasaccompanied by the other teachers who lived in: Miss Thwaites and Miss Johnstone, both of whom moved at a snail’s pace. Neither of them had been interested in attending a talk by the Female Reform Society, so she’d slipped out alone. And not for the first time.
Miss Thwaites and Miss Johnstone had spent most of their adult lives at the Mallard Seminary. Sometimes, when Emm lay in her bed, hearing the murmur of the two older ladies talking, the thought that she was going to end up just like them made her almost desperate.
But what else could she do?
Tonight she’d had a small adventure, she reminded herself. She’d attended a political talk, gotten caught up in a fight, walked alone after midnight through the deserted streets of Bath on the arm of a tall, handsome gentleman—and been thoroughly, magically kissed.
All of the delights of scandalous behavior and none of the consequences.
If anyone had seen her walking alone with Lord Ashendon at that hour, the repercussions would be unpleasant at the very least. Miss Mallard would be far from pleased; the teachers at Miss Mallard’s Seminary had to be like the wife of Caesar—beyond reproach. On pain of instant dismissal.
But nobody had seen them. Emm grinned to herself as she snuggled down in the bedclothes and waited for the heat to spread. She was as rebellious at heart as Rose and Lily. Just older and wiser and more discreet.
Her sheets smelled faintly of lavender and roses. Emm collected the flowers in season, dried them and filled little muslin bags of the mix to keep her linen smelling sweet. On chilly nights like tonight, it was a pleasant reminder of summer. And gave out echoes of her childhood. The smell of happiness.
Pity she couldn’t bag or bottle the smell of Lord Ashendon to remember him by. She closed her eyes, remembering his cologne, sharp and spicy, and a little exotic, and the faint scent of wood smoke and tobacco in his clothing.
And the underlying scent of man, dark and virile and enticing—not like any kind of man she was familiar with.
Grimes, the school porter, the only man allowed in the building, smelled of coal dust and snuff and beer and unwashed old man. Miss Mallard’s nephew reeked of sweat and cheap pomade. The vicar smelled of starch and soap and peppermint drops, and after church, when he stood too close, there was usually a whiff of sweet, dark communion wine.
Lord Ashendon had smelled a little of brandy—not reeking or anything, just a hint on his breath and in his mouth. She wouldn’t have recognized it, except that Papa had drunk brandy and the scent had called him to mind.
Her eyes flew open.Brandy!Of course.
Lord Ashendon had been drinking. He’d been out with his friend, he’d said so.
So he was drunk—not so drunk you’d notice; he held his liquor well—but it explained everything. He’d no doubt kissed her because he was drunk, and she was female, and there, under his nose. And because he’d decided she was the kind of female who attended political events and got into brawls. And who thought nothing of walking alone after midnight.
Mystery solved.
Emm pulled the bedclothes tighter around her, but despite the warm brick, despite the blankets and her warm flannel nightgown, the cold crept through her.
***
“Miss Westwood, Miss Westwood.” Someone was knocking on Emm’s door. She blinked blearily awake. It seemed only a few minutes since she’d gone to bed, but it was light outside. “Miss Westwood!”
“Come in.” The door opened and a maid entered carrying a jug of warm water covered with a cloth. “Oh, Milly, thank you for that hot brick last—”
