He went still. Then he tilted his head back to look at her. “Who?”
She repeated the name.
Slowly Mr. Dashwood put down his cue and came around the table toward her. “How do you know him?”
Emilia blushed. “He was once friends with my father and uncle. And—and he knows Lord Fitchley.” She tried not to think of his threat to tell Fitchley she was in London. She also tried not to think of how very alone she was with Mr. Dashwood, in his private, dimly lit billiard room. And he with his jacket off and his forearms bare, right in front of her.
He folded those arms and looked down at her for a long moment. “And was his only interest in Charlotte?”
Her face was on fire. “But that’s terrible! He’s not remotely respectable—”
“Of course he isn’t,” he cut in. “But your expression is more than outrage for Charlotte. He frightened you.”
She took a deep breath—unfortunate, as she seemed to breathe him in, leather and brandy and man. “I would prefer to avoid Lord Fitchley, and I fear Mr. Parker-Lloyd will tell him where to find me, and Charlotte, and...”
“And Lucinda,” he finished for her.
Emilia jerked her head in a nod. It was just layers upon layers of bad.
He was quiet for a moment. Emilia glanced up and caught him studying her, his amber eyes dark. He looked exhausted. No wonder, she thought, remembering that he’d not been home to sleep. Up close she could see the circles under his eyes. His jaw was covered with a shadow of whiskers, as if he’d not shaved today, either. She wondered if he’d even eaten.
“It was my fault,” she said in a low voice. “If I’d thought more clearly, I would have sent for the dressmaker to come to us—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He held up one hand, his fingertips almost touching her lips, and Emilia was struck dumb. “You aren’t to blame. Charlotte wanted nothing less than to visit Bond Street and see everything, and I agreed to it. Why should she, or you, have to hide away on the chance that a reprobate like Parker-Lloyd might happen past?”
“If he had no interest in me,” she began.
This time he touched her lips, one fingertip to quiet her. “Then it might be Charlotte he fixed upon, which isn’t any better. Don’t blame yourself.”
“No?” she said stupidly.
He shook his head, looking down at her.
His fingertip was barely in contact with her lower lip, but she thought she could feel that touch with every nerve in her body. It seemed to set off some kind of resonance within her, a faint hum that made her skin prickle.
He shifted his weight, fractionally closer to her. His head tipped to one side as he studied her with those turbulent, glowing eyes. His finger moved, slowly, gently, along her lower lip. For a moment the world seemed to pause around them, and Emilia forgot to breathe. If he didn’t kiss her... if hedidkiss her...
A tap at the door broke the spell. Dashwood looked away, his hand falling. “Come,” he called, and Emilia retreated a step, her heart racing for a different reason now. She must be losing her mind.
The manager popped his head through the door. “More trouble in the kitchen, Dash. Guillaume caught one of the maids—” He caught sight of Emilia and closed his mouth.
“I’ll be there in a moment.” Dashwood was rolling down his sleeves. The manager glanced accusingly at Emilia again, and shut the door.
Blushing, she swung her cloak around her and crammed her bonnet back on her head as she searched for her gloves. One was on the table with her bonnet, but the other was missing. She turned in a circle, looking for it, only to find it in Mr. Dashwood’s outstretched hand. Emilia took the glove with a murmured word of thanks.
“Miss Greene.” A wry smile curved his mouth, which perversely only made Emilia’s heart beat faster. Rumpled and tired and amused sat very well on him. “You did right, coming to tell me. I’ll see to Parker-Lloyd.”
She exhaled in relief. “Oh, thank you.” He turned away and pulled on his jacket, then opened the door for her.
He led her through the corridor toward the entrance. The club had grown louder and livelier while Emilia had been there, and the click of faro boxes and chatter of roulette wheels competed with the dull throb of voices. As they turned into the main hall, the footman waiting there opened the door, admitting a throng of gentlemen, boisterous and well-dressed.
Suddenly Dashwood halted in front of her, spinning around. Unprepared, Emilia plowed into him, and he swept one arm around her as he flung out his other hand and dragged aside a drapery. Before she could protest, or even form a coherent one, he shoved her into the alcove behind it, stepping in with her and pulling the drape around them.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
She gave a muffled squeak as Nick crowded her into the service nook. They kept supplies for the main salon in here: cards, dice, counters, everything but markers, which were kept under lock and key in Forbes’s office. It was a tiny space, carved out of an alcove that had once displayed a statue or a painting in the house’s former days. There was barely enough room for one, let alone two.
Unless those two were pressed up tight against each other. Her hands were flat against his chest, the brim of her bonnet bumping his chin. Nick could feel every breath she took, and a shudder of lust tore through him.
