The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,56

. . . did you just . . . ?”

“Yawwwn?” he offered, a second one of those tired expressions stretching out his syllables as he completely turned the tables on her this time. “Indeed.”

Emma gasped. My God, he’d gone and stolen her affected boredom as well. “You are unconscionable, Charles,” she hissed. Had there ever been a thought that he truly wished to resume their betrothal, this was the decided death knell. Because no gentleman would dare go about stealing her ideas and her affected mannerisms.

“Because I yawned?” He flashed a pearl-white smile that shone even brighter in the dark, and wrought the havoc it always had upon her heart. “Given you yourself did so just moments ago, Emma, and given the late-night hour, I thought you would be completely understanding if I were to do something as rude as— Oomph,” he grunted as Emma stuck a finger in his chest.

She bit the inside of her cheek to conceal the pain inflicted upon the digit by that solid wall of muscle. “Listen here, and listen good, Charles. I’ve put up with a great deal where you are concerned over the years, but I absolutely draw the damned line at you stealing my idea.”

“Do you want to know the truth, Emma?”

She dropped her hands upon her hips. “Always.”

“Your idea is not original. You’re no different from a café or salon, a place where people go to come together, and if you encourage free thought as you say and suggest, then it’s fairly hypocritical to go about ordering similar clubs to close.”

That blunt, inflectionless charge pulled a gasp from her as she staggered back.

And then promptly tripped over her slippers and came down hard on her buttocks. Of course.

This damned night. It hadn’t gone at all as she’d planned. But then it never had where Charles was concerned, and the reminder of it only filled her with the sudden, unexpected urge to cry.

The floorboards groaned as he joined her . . . as he joined Emma in her humiliation and shame.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice thick to her own ears, still unable to get to her feet . . . or look at him.

As effortlessly as before, he swept her into his arms and carried her over to the leather folds of his desk chair. With an infinite gentleness, he lowered her into the seat, the leather groaning with the addition of her weight.

Dropping her head along the back of his seat, she stared overhead at the ceiling and let her shame be complete. “It is these blasted slippers.” Before he could speak, Emma shot out a foot, revealing the satin scrap upon it. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Except, she did. She’d known that the women he kept company with were the scandalous, sophisticated sorts who wore the most daring garments.

Charles, however, proved polite enough to not challenge Emma on her lie.

“Ah, but surely you know there is a good deal to be said for a comfortable slipper,” he murmured. Sinking to his right knee, Charles reached for her skirts.

Emma sat completely motionless as he inched the fabric of her red satin gown up.

Up.

Up.

Up.

Higher still, until the heavy fabric pooled about her knees and the cool night air kissed her bare limbs. Her translucent silk stockings, purely ornamental, did nothing to ease the cold. Nay, they added a heightened sense of awareness to the air around her. And his touch. That, too.

Unlike before, when Charles had been flippant and teasing, a change had overtaken him.

The energy in the room grew heavier and keener as he raised her foot, cradling it in his right palm, and with his left, he drew the end of her laces, pulling at that silk thread with a deliberateness that sent her pulse clamoring. Never taking his eyes from hers, he loosened the other side of her lace, and then drew off her heeled slipper.

“There,” he murmured. “That is better, is it not?”

So much better. A little moan spilled from her lips at the exquisiteness that came with that freedom . . . and the tenderness of his touch. So very much better. But not even for the reasons he suggested, comfort seeming an irrelevancy compared with the heat pooling low in her belly. Somehow, Emma made herself nod, the gesture feeling shaky and uneven.

She needn’t have bothered; he’d already returned his focus to her feet.

The next slipper followed suit until her feet, but for her silk stockings, were bare, and he looked down