her husband’s illegitimate son. Tiny. Blond. The very image of Charles. And it hadn’t been resentment she’d felt for the boy, born through circumstances he’d had no control over. But rather . . . the searing, red-hot burn of . . . jealousy and shame, all rolled up together. Over the fact that Charles had created a child with another.
All the while, he’d been assiduously avoiding any and every interaction with Emma. It had felt like the greatest failing on her part, the absolute inability to make the man she was slated to marry care about her—in any way.
Charles had looked up, and she’d promptly released the curtain, pressing herself against the back of the carriage bench . . . as she’d been confronted with all the ways in which she’d deluded herself about a marriage between her and Charles.
It had been a reminder that, where she’d spent her childhood and young adult years wondering about their future, her someday husband had been living a life without a thought of her in it.
No, he’d never expressed an interest in a relationship with her. Any interest at all, really.
Until that day at the lake.
Until she’d broken it off.
Until now.
“Get on with it already,” Olivia called in a furious whisper from across the street, jerking Emma out of the past and into the present.
She used the rail to steady her legs the remainder of the way; the unevenness of her steps now having less to do with the fine articles on her feet and everything to do with her impending meeting, she climbed up the seven steps.
Raising her hand, she lifted the polished brass fleur-de-lis door knocker and brought it down hard.
That metal clang echoed damningly loud down the still of the nighttime streets.
And as she stood there, huddling in her cloak, images filled her head of people poking their heads out to find her on Charles’s stoop. Not that, in her satin crimson cloak and arriving at the hour she had, they would suspect it was her. And yet . . . that reassurance brought little calm.
There came the shuffle of approaching footsteps on the other side of the black lacquer door panel, and then fiddling on a lock.
The door opened, and a sleepy-eyed butler looked about; his gaze settled on her, then widened.
Emma husked her voice and spoke. “I am here to see Lord Scarsdale.”
How many times had such similar words been uttered at this very threshold? And why, if she didn’t care about Charles and she’d moved on from his betrayals, did the idea of it still hurt?
“I . . .” Charles’s butler scratched at his tousled hair.
“He is expecting me,” she lied, taking advantage of the servant’s sleep-dulled mind.
Except the young man seemed to find himself. “His Lordship isn’t taking visitors at this time. Said he isn’t to be disturbed.” He made to shut the door, but Emma slid around him and let herself into the foyer.
Her heart raced faster as she found herself that much closer to the goal with which she’d set out that night. “Oh, trust me. He’ll want to see me.”
And he would, even if she had to go search him out herself.
“If you would be so good”—she lowered her voice another shade, attempting those sultry tones likely belonging to every woman who’d entered through these front doors—“as to provide His Lordship word that he has a very important guest, one who is very eager to see him.”
The butler hesitated, moving his gaze over the textured layers of her crimson cloak, then swallowed audibly. “If you’ll wait but a moment, madam?” With that he bustled off, climbing the curving staircase and heading down the hallway that fed off the right side of the main landing.
The moment he was out of sight, Emma hurried into movement and set herself on the same path to Lord Scarsdale.
Chapter 10
THE LONDONER
GENTLEMEN WILL BE GENTLEMEN
Even as the Earl of Scarsdale is seen frequently at his clubs, well into the early-morn hours, his personal club continues to thrive. Is there nothing he cannot do?
M. FAIRPOINT
RapRapRapRapRapRap.
An incessant banging cut across Charles’s slumber . . . and forcing his eyes open, he blinked and wrestled back the fog of sleep.
His gaze took in the inky-black cover of his chambers, the low fire in the hearth, the crack in the curtains that revealed the dark night sky.
Stretching an arm sideways, he grabbed the small, ebonized table clock from his nightstand and dragged it close to his face so he could make out the