Emma allowed Charles to lead her to one of the French doors that opened onto a veranda.

Flambeaux cast dancing flames that reached for the stars and sent golden light into the garden. Twenty steps down and they were surrounded by the heady, musky scent of blooming roses and twining honeysuckle.

Charles turned to face her and his eyes danced with amusement and tenderness. “I had wanted to pursue you slowly. I see it is not to be.”

Flummoxed by his words, she stood mute, taking shallow breaths that did nothing to ease the sense that she was racing toward something that would change her life forever.

The scents of growing flowers mingled with the intoxicating smell of the man standing too close to her. But she didn’t move away. Her legs were incapable of saving her.

His head bent so his warm breath fanned her face, caressed her lips just seconds before his mouth touched hers. She stood transfixed.

Never had she thought to experience anything this powerful.

GEORGINA DEVON

has a bachelor of arts degree in social sciences with a concentration in history. Her interest in England began when she lived in East Anglia as a child and later as an adult. She met her husband in England, and her wedding ring set is from Bath. Today she lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, two dogs, an inherited cat and a cockatiel. Her daughter has left the nest and does Web site design, including Georgina’s. Contact her at www.georginadevon.com.

The Rake’s Redemption
Georgina Devon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

M iss Emma Stockton looked around Lady Jersey’s filled-to-overflowing ballroom. Everyone who was anyone in the ton milled about, some dancing, many talking. It was a fashionable crush.

She felt Amy shift beside her. ‘Em, might I go to speak with Miss Julia? She’s with her mother.’

Emma glanced in the direction her younger sister indicated. ‘Yes, but remember, if anyone asks you to dance, you may only do so twice and then not consecutively. And no waltzing.’

Amy pouted but nodded before moving away.

Emma watched her headstrong sister as worry gnawed at her stomach. It seemed they went nowhere that Amy did not flaunt Society’s rules. Had she thought more about it, she would have never told her not to do something. It only provoked Amy’s stubborn streak into action. But it was done. She would keep a close eye on her spoilt sister.

She sighed and cooled herself with a delicate ivory-and-lavender silk fan that had belonged to her mother. The torpid air moved slowly.

She stepped farther into the room, thinking she would get a glass of punch, when she spotted him—the Honourable Charles Hawthorne. Although in her jaundiced opinion there was nothing honourable about the man.

He moved with an animal grace few men possessed. His hair, as dark as Whitby jet and just as glossy, was cut short in a Corinthian style that suited his masculinity to perfection. His broad shoulders seemed even wider than normal in the perfectly fitted black evening jacket, and his narrow hips and strong thighs could not have looked better if he padded them with sawdust. He was everything a maiden might want in a man.

Too bad he was a rake of the first water. Even worse that he pursued her younger sister in a manner guaranteed to ruin Amy before she even had a chance to meet an acceptable young man. And more than anything, Amy needed to meet an eligible party.

Their brother and father continued to gamble what little was left of the family wealth and to sell off land and homes as fast as others sold horseflesh in an effort to keep ahead of their debtors. Had her engagement to Lord George Hawthorne, Charles Hawthorne’s older brother, ended in marriage things might be different. But that had not happened.

As she looked at him, Charles Hawthorne turned to look at her as though her attention drew his. His dark eyes met hers and a frisson skittered down Emma’s spine. She told herself it was apprehension. Nothing more.

She stood and watched him move in her direction. Part of her wanted to turn away and run, fearing the fascination he held for her. But a stronger part wanted to confront him and tell him to leave her sister alone. Either way, by the time her feet seemed capable of moving, he was upon her.

‘Miss Stockton,’ he drawled, making a leg that showed his physical attributes and natural grace at their best. ‘What a pleasure to see you here.’

She grimaced at him and managed to incline her head in what she hoped was a superior nod. No matter how her stomach twisted in what might be attraction as easily as dislike, she could not bring herself to return his compliment. She settled for, ‘Mr Hawthorne.’

He smiled as though he understood perfectly her dislike for him, his fine lips quirking at one corner. ‘I hope Miss Amy is with you?’

She scowled even as she felt a flush of anger mount from her neck to her freckled cheeks. Being a redhead was not easy when one tried to appear collected.

‘Amy is here under my protection. I do not wish you to approach her.’

His smile turned into something calculated. ‘Of course you don’t.’

‘I don’t suppose you would consider leaving?’ Even as the words left her mouth she regretted them. They made her look weak, as though she could not control her sister.

‘I could. But I have no plans to do so—yet. Perhaps later. There are other haunts where my presence is more appreciated.’

She nearly choked on her indignation. ‘A gentleman would not allude to such establishments in front of a lady.’

He shrugged. ‘I am sure you don’t consider me a gentleman.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Then we understand one another.’

Her eyes narrowed. Before she could say the scathing words welling in her mind, Lady Jersey joined them and put black kid-leather-covered fingers on Charles Hawthorne’s forearm.

‘There you are, Charles.’ She smiled graciously at Emma. ‘And Miss Stockton. I am so glad you were able to come. I saw your sister with Julia Thornton.’

‘My lady, thank you for inviting us.’ Emma made a short curtsey to the older woman, who was also one of the patronesses of Almack’s, the ton’s most sought after arena for introducing young ladies to marriageable gentlemen. Lady Sally Jersey was a woman no one wanted to alienate.

Lady Jersey waved the thank-you away. ‘If you will excuse us, Miss Stockton, I have something to discuss in private with Mr Hawthorne.’

Emma forced a gracious smile to her lips and backed away. She hoped the woman was going to take away Charles Hawthorne’s entrée to Almack’s and have him booted out of this ball. It would be safer all around for Amy, who was too young and flighty to go against her own desires where the wretched man was concerned.

One glance at their laughing faces, the glow of pleasure on Lady Jersey’s features and the way her fingers remained on Charles Hawthorne’s arm, told Emma she was going to be disappointed. The older woman seemed to be reveling in the charm only Charles Hawthorne could exert.

Emma snorted in disgust.

Charles allowed Sally Jersey to steer him away from Emma Stockton, but he watched the younger woman long enough to see her snort. He nearly laughed.

‘Now, Charles Hawthorne,’ Lady Jersey said, drawing his attention back to her. ‘I hear your business establishment is making you a very wealthy man. How long has it been? A year now? Two?’

He looked down at the slightly plump and very socially powerful woman and gave her his best smile, the one that promised secret things. ‘Two, but Lady Jersey, surely you should not be talking to me about something like that. Trade is so dirty.’

Her mouth pursed but her eyes danced. ‘I suppose if I were a strait-laced chit like Emma Stockton I would not mention it to you. Or her headstrong sister, Amy, whom you pursue so brazenly and who, I must admit, encourages you shamefully. But I am a matron of the world. I know that sometimes we do things considered unacceptable by society in order to survive.’

‘Ah, so experience has its privileges and its delights.’ He allowed the look he gave her to speak volumes.

She flushed, a feat not easily accomplished by someone of her character and experience. ‘You are a rogue, Charles Hawthorne. And a rake. But charming in all cases.’ She tapped him lightly with the closed fan she held. ‘I find I cannot bring myself to bar you from Almack’s—in spite of your unusual method of feathering your nest. Just yet. But be careful. There are others who feel more strongly than I, who would prefer to see our doors closed to you. They say your family name and personal attributes aren’t sufficient to overlook your involvement in trade. Were you a woman your fate would already be sealed.’

‘How fortunate for all involved that I am not a female,’ he murmured.

She chuckled and again swatted him with her fan.

He bowed deeply to her. ‘But you are not small-minded, and I thank you for defending me. Life would be vastly boring without Almack’s to entertain me every Wednesday.’

She laughed up at him. ‘Take a care, my fine young buck, that you don’t allow your sarcasm to overcome the honey of your words.’

‘I shall,’ he promised, returning her amusement with his own. ‘Would you care to dance? It is a waltz.’

Her eyes narrowed appraisingly. ‘Perhaps. It certainly would do much for my standing as a woman.’

He guessed at the cynicism underlying her words. ‘You need no increase in your standing, Lady Jersey. But I need to boost mine.’

‘Nicely said.’ She inclined her head regally. ‘I believe I will endeavour to help you.’

He held his arm for her to place her fingertips lightly as he guided her to the floor. Several heads turned. Some people smiled. He noted Emma Stockton was not among those who approved. No matter. He did not live his life to please her. Actually quite the opposite. Her pique at him over her sister was one of the few things he looked forward to. It seemed every other woman toadied to him to some degree. She was a breath of fresh air with her disapproval.

He smiled at the woman in his arms, but his thoughts were on a particular ginger-haired woman.

Emma watched the byplay and wondered at his skill. With no visible effort he was charming one of the most important women in London society. How could she expect someone of Amy’s inexperience to resist a man who could bring a woman of Sally Jersey’s age and experience to heel?

When he led Lady Jersey out for the waltz, it was all she could do to keep her mouth from dropping. He was the most audacious creature. If rumour were true, and she found there was normally a kernel of truth in everything, he was as wild with his money as he was with women.

She watched the couple, unable to turn her attention elsewhere. Whatever else she thought of the man, he was a delight to behold. A sigh escaped her. He was not for the likes of her or her sister. Just as his older brother had not been for her.

Emma forced her gaze elsewhere as she smoothed the lavender folds of her evening gown. She had purchased it many years before, the fine damask silk and simple lines perfect for half-mourning. She was fortunate the subdued colour complemented her complexion and hair even though it was not the first crack in fashion. But that was as far as her vanity would go. Having only received one offer of marriage and then having had to decline because her future groom carried on openly with another woman, she accepted her lot as a spinster. Many married men kept mistresses, but most were more discreet than her former fiancé.

When she had Amy respectably settled in marriage she would look for a job as a governess. Her education had been thorough, and by then she fully expected the males in her family to have gambled away everything.

In the meantime, she must find Amy.

A quick look around showed Amy in the midst of a group of young men and women close to her age. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. Emma decided to find the punch she had originally been interested in before Charles Hawthorne had sidetracked her.

She found the refreshments in a side room and filled a cup with punch before returning to the ballroom. The waltz was just ending. Automatically, before she even realised what she was doing, her gaze found Charles Hawthorne.

He made his bow to Lady Jersey and added a kiss to the back of her hand as she laughed up at him. When he took his leave, he sauntered toward Amy, who turned to him with a brilliant smile on her face. Amy’s full red lips and sparkling blue eyes, framed by golden curls, seemed to make her shine in the warm glow of hundreds of candles. He took her proffered hand and raised it to his lips.

For an instant only, Emma nearly felt the pressure of his flesh on the back of her hand before she shook off the unsettling sensation. She moved toward the couple without conscious thought. She was Amy’s chaperone and she had a duty to protect her.

Helplessness settled over her like a heavy mantle as she watched the couple move to the dance floor. Knowing she could not reach them through the throng of people, she bit her lip in consternation as Amy curtseyed and her partner bowed in the opening moves of the dance. All she could do now was wait—and be thankful it wasn’t a waltz. The dance was only done in private homes and considered too fast for a young woman in her first season.

She tapped her foot and waited for Charles Hawthorne to return Amy to her side. Instead, when the dance ended, the couple headed to a pair of open French doors. She wasn’t surprised, yet still, fury clawed up Emma’s spine. That man and her sister flaunted her dictates at every turn.

Even if she ignored every person between herself and the doors, they would still be outside much longer than she liked and by the time she got there, they might have moved on. If she remembered correctly, Lady Jersey had a beautiful garden. She had to follow them.

Charles escorted the young minx into the cool night air. A dimple showed in her cheek and her brilliant blue eyes peeked up at him through thick blond lashes. He knew he should have refused to bring her out here without a chaperone, but Amy Stockton intrigued him. As experienced as he was, and he was very experienced, she always managed to amuse him with her hoydenish ways. Very often she crossed that fine boundary between acceptable and not, and she seemed to care nothing for the consequences.

Then there was Emma Stockton. He found it very entertaining to watch Amy’s older sister sputter and futilely try to clip the wings of this chick.

He settled Amy near a wrought iron bench close enough that the light from the ballroom fell onto the girl’s skirts. A damask-red rosebush climbed the stone balustrade behind her, scenting the warm air.

‘What can I do for you, Miss Amy, that is so secret we must come out here?’

She gave him a smile nearly as roguish as the one he was famous for. ‘Well…you are a rake and you do flout conventions all the time.’

He nodded, wondering where this was leading and beginning to think he was going to have to bow out of her proposed escapade—and he didn’t even know where her wiles were heading. Not even he would compromise a girl barely out of the schoolroom.

‘I am all those things, but that does not mean I am your pet monkey to do as you bid me.’ He kept his tone light to counterbalance the baldness of his words.

She sat down and beckoned him to join her. He shook his head and propped one elegantly clad foot on the base of the balustrade. ‘I think not,’ he murmured.

She pouted. ‘But you won’t be able to hear me if you insist on staying so far away.’

‘You amaze me with your audacity, Miss Amy. Don’t you know well-bred young ladies keep their distance from men of my reputation?’

‘Oh, pooh! As though I care about that. I am in London to enjoy myself.’

‘And to find a suitable husband.’

‘You would do very nicely.’

He shook his head and wondered what he had got himself into. ‘I have no intentions of marrying anyone, let alone someone as young as you are.’

‘You are not being very gallant.’

Her brows drew together into a ferocious frown that he was sure normally got her whatever she wanted. He had used that ploy himself when he was younger and it had always worked. It was time to burst her bubble before the two of them got into something he could not extricate himself from.

‘I am being blunt and honest.’

‘Then why do you always come to my beck and call?’

He pondered that. ‘For the pleasure of doing as I please. You see, like you, I have been spoilt and am used to having my own way.’

‘Exactly.’ She gave him a triumphant smile. ‘That is why I know you are just the one to do this.’

He raised one brow.

‘Oh, yes.’ She was so excited her breath came as though she were running. ‘There is a masquerade tonight. I want to go.’

He stepped back from her. ‘Then go.’

‘Don’t be stupid. I need someone to take me.’

‘Ask your sister.’

‘Ask me what,’ Emma Stockton said.

Her voice was so cold that Charles immediately decided to see how far he could provoke her. It was a pastime he found entertaining.

He turned and watched her stride across the balcony until she stood barely a foot from them. Her auburn brows formed a tight V and her usually full, peach-tinted lips formed a thin line of anger and disapproval. He found himself delighted.

It always amazed him that he reacted to her this way. She was not voluptuous or even particularly beautiful, but she was striking and for some reason he couldn’t understand—didn’t want to spend the time trying to understand—she always made him want to bait her.

‘Your delightful sister has plans for later this night. I told her that she should ask you.’ He kept his voice to a soft drawl, which he knew would irritate her. It always had in the past. Ennui was so difficult to assuage.

Emma turned her attention on her sister. ‘Amy?’

The younger Stockton scowled at her sister for all she was worth, while casting appealing looks at Charles. ‘Really, Em. It is nothing. Mr Hawthorne is making something big out of something that doesn’t exist.’

Charles nearly shook his head in amazement. Instead he laughed. He couldn’t help himself. The girl was a minx and the person assigned to control her couldn’t. He nearly pitied Emma Stockton.

‘What is so amusing, Mr Hawthorne?’ Emma Stockton’s voice dripped acid. ‘I find this entire situation skirting the boundary of acceptability. But then, I suppose, you already know that and choose to do as you wish. It seems to be a trait in your family.’

Her sarcastic words, perfectly aimed, sobered him. ‘If you had a sword, Miss Stockton, you would have scored a very solid hit.’

‘I know that.’

‘Oh, stop bickering you two,’ Amy’s light voice intruded. ‘You are ruining the evening. It is supposed to be about fun and excitement and the two of you make it seem awful.’

Charles found he could not look away from Emma Stockton, no matter what the girl said. The woman seemed fit to explode. Colour mounted her high cheekbones and her grey eyes seemed lit from within. Suddenly, he had had enough of taunting her.

He made a brief leg. ‘I will be about my business, ladies. I wish you a good evening—what is left of it.’

He departed without a backward glance, glad to be away before Emma Stockton went up in flames. Even he, as selfish and hedonistic as he was and bent on entertaining himself during a dull Season in any way possible, didn’t want to be around for the fireworks he knew were to come.

Emma felt Charles Hawthorne’s departure in spite of herself. It was as though the warmth had fled, leaving only her cold anger at him and her sister.

‘Amy, you know you should not be out here with a man of Charles Hawthorne’s ilk. Think of your reputation.’

Amy defiantly met Emma’s gaze. ‘There is nothing wrong. The doors are open and—’ she half turned and swept her arm in an indication of the gardens below ‘—there are people walking on the paths. Nothing would have happened.’

Emma wondered if she had ever been this headstrong and bent on achieving her own purpose no matter what the cost. She didn’t think so. From the first, she had realised someone needed to be responsible and help Mama. Her anger softened at the memory.

‘Amy,’ she said gently, ‘it is not a matter of anything happening. Exactly. It is a matter of propriety, and young girls don’t go outside alone with a man like Charles Hawthorne.’ Amy stood so they were eye to eye. ‘Well, we might have been brother-and sister-in-law. Surely that counts for something.’

‘Amy,’ Emma said reproachfully, ‘you know better than that. If I had married Lord Hawthorne, things would have been different. But I didn’t, so you can’t use that as an excuse. Society will forgive much in a man that it won’t forgive in a woman. Always remember that.’

‘Humph!’

Amy made to flounce around her sister but Emma grabbed her sister’s arm and held tight. ‘You still haven’t told me what the two of you came out here to discuss.’

Amy simultaneously tossed her head and tried to wriggle from Emma’s grasp. Emma let her go.

‘Nothing.’

‘Amy.’ Emma felt her patience shredding.

‘Oh, all right. There is a masquerade. I wanted him to escort me because I knew you wouldn’t.’

Emma gasped in spite of herself. ‘You are the most brazen girl. You would have ruined yourself for a couple of hours of pleasure.’

‘No, I wouldn’t. I would have worn a mask. No one would even know who I was.’

‘So, is he taking you?’

Amy half turned away, giving her sister a look from the corner of her eyes. ‘And if he is?’

‘Don’t goad me, Amy. I am not in the mood for it.’

And she wasn’t. Already she found herself wanting to lock her sister in her room with only bread and water, but Amy wasn’t a child anymore even though she acted like one. Next, she wanted to land Charles Hawthorne what her brother Bertram would call a facer. But she would do neither.

‘You are never in the mood for fun, Emma. That is the problem with you.’

Emma glared at Amy.

‘Oh, all right. No, he isn’t taking me.’ Her voice fell. ‘I was surprised. He is always game for anything.’

Emma silently groaned at her sister’s naiveté. ‘And what if you had been recognised? He might be reckless, but he’s not stupid. Your reputation would be in shreds and someone might start thinking he should marry you—something I very much believe he has no intention of doing.’

A flush spread across Amy’s fair face. ‘He certainly made that plain.’ She smoothed the fine white muslin of her gown, her eyes not meeting Emma’s. ‘But men change…if they want something badly enough.’

‘No, they don’t.’ Emma snapped the words, hearing the fatal misunderstanding so many of her sex seemed to have regarding men. ‘They don’t change.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Amy persisted. ‘Besides, Em, I am tired of this conversation. And he is not taking me to the masquerade. So, as far as you are concerned, things couldn’t be better.’

Emma would have begged to differ, but knew it did no good to argue with Amy when she had her mind made up. All she could do was try her best to be an obstacle in the young girl’s reckless path. To lecture Amy would only make her sister try harder to achieve what she ought not.

Chapter Two

E mma alighted first from the hired carriage they rented when need dictated. They lived in a genteel yet shabby part of London. The walk to Lady Jersey’s ball would have been too far, even for women raised in the country. Delicate ballroom slippers were not made for long distances and wearing one’s half boots and carrying one’s slippers to a fancy ball was not done.

Amy followed Emma. ‘Em, what engagements do we have tomorrow?’

Emma turned to pay the coachman, who tipped his hat before driving away. She moved to the front door, pulling a key from her reticule. ‘I believe we are at home tomorrow afternoon, Amy. At night, we should have been at a rout at the Princess Lieven’s but it has been postponed until the next evening.’

‘Nothing tomorrow afternoon,’ Amy murmured.

Amy’s voice held impatience and something else that Emma always dreaded. Excitement. She didn’t need Amy to say any more to know her sister had arranged or was planning something that would not be to anyone’s liking but Amy’s.

‘Why do you wish to know?’ Emma worked to keep the growing apprehension from her tone. Provoking Amy to further indiscretions was the last thing she needed to do.

‘Oh, nothing.’ Amy waved her gloved hand in an airy sweep. But there was a sparkle in her blue eyes that spoke of mischief.

Rather than press the issue, Emma said, ‘Then you had best get some sleep.’

A glance at Amy showed the young girl had missed Emma’s irony. Yes, Amy was definitely concocting something.

Emma inserted the key in the lock and pushed open the door. No servants waited up for them. It wasn’t fair to ask their old butler, who did many other things now because they were short of staff, to wait up. Nor would she ask the housekeeper who now filled in as lady’s maid. They rose at dawn, so she would not ask them to stay up until dawn.

Emma watched Amy trip blithely up the stairs, a bounce in the girl’s step that spoke of suppressed energy and excitement. Amy was enjoying her first Season immensely.

Emma remembered her own and wished she had been as young and unconcerned. But she had been twenty during her first Season. Her debut had been delayed three years while she nursed Mama and then for the year of mourning. When she’d finally come to London, she had known above all else that she needed to marry well.

The only man with the position and wealth to help her family and who had proposed to her had been Charles Hawthorne’s older brother, Lord George Hawthorne. It was to have been a marriage of convenience and both of them had known that. Then Hawthorne had met another woman and his actions with her had been so blatant that Emma had felt herself constrained to call off their engagement. While she had not expected a love match and had not been heartbroken, she had been humiliated. Nor had she wished to keep another person from finding happiness. For the most part, the only thing she regretted was that now Amy needed to marry well. Amy deserved better than that.

Her shadow wavered against the wall, catching her attention from the corner of her eye. A single candle burned in a brass holder set on a table. Nothing else adorned the entryway of the rented house. Her father and brother had sold off the silver long ago to pay gambling debts. Debts of honour.

She stared at the flame for only a few seconds. Crying over spilt milk or badly needed money frittered away for pleasure that did no one any good was not going to change anything. The best hope Amy had was to marry well. If the man could also pay to get their father and brother out of debt, then so much the better.

Charles Hawthorne could not fill either of those requirements. No matter that he was a devastatingly attractive man with a devilish charm even she found hard to resist.

Thank goodness he had not agreed to take Amy to the masquerade. Emma knew too well she would be hard-pressed to keep so close a watch on her sister that Amy could not escape or make it uncomfortable for Emma to prevent her. She nearly chuckled aloud at the picture of herself stretched on the floor across Amy’s bedroom door, for that is what she would have to do to keep Amy in check. Or tie her sister to the bed.

However, she had no doubt something else equally unacceptable would arise, for Charles Hawthorne had made it clear he had no intention of changing his atrocious behaviour where Amy was concerned. He would ruin her sister without a second thought, and Amy would let him.

Too much was at stake. She dared not let Charles Hawthorne and Amy continue down the path they were on. She had to do something to stop the man. The well-being of her sister and their entire family depended on Amy marrying well.

Yet, if she thought Amy loved the man she would think seriously about trying to convince their father to allow the match. But she knew her young sister well enough to know Amy enjoyed the notoriety of his attention because he was considered unattainable by every woman in society. Amy did not love Charles Hawthorne. Nor did he love her. That knowledge allowed Emma to entertain plans to sever the connection with a clear conscience.

But what to do about Charles Hawthorne?

A door opening down the hallway caught her attention. Who would be up at this hour? She had told all the servants to go to bed, and Amy had mounted the stairs. Footsteps echoed on the bare wood.

‘Who is there?’

‘Just your brother,’ Bertram Stockton drawled, his tall, skinny frame silhouetted by the light coming into the hall from the open door to the room he had just left. ‘Where have you been? It’s rather late to be out unescorted.’

His criticism raised her hackles.

‘We have been to Lady Jersey’s ball. We took a hired carriage since we do not have one of our own—for reasons you know very well. And I am old enough to not need an escort and to be a proper chaperone for our sister.’ Her irritation was instantly replaced by concern, for London and Bertram were not a good combination. ‘What are you doing in Town?’

His hazel-eyed gaze slid away from her. She knew he was going to lie to her. Perhaps it was better. She knew all too well why he was here, and she could do nothing to stop him.

His gaze returned to her. ‘I am up to check on you and Amy. Disturbing rumours have reached Father and me about Amy and Charles Hawthorne. After what his brother did to you, Father decided it would be best for all of us if I came and stayed. Provide a brotherly presence and all that. Besides which, the man is not someone we wish in the family. A rakehell of the first order. No, not at all what we wish for Amy.’

‘But a rich rakehell,’ Emma said, unable to stop the sarcastic retort. ‘We could use that commodity.’

Most days she felt no bitterness toward her brother and father for their recklessness at the tables, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop them. She tried to clean up the mess they left behind. Mother would want her to.

One day after Emma had got into a fight with Bertram over his gambling debts and the hardship they created, Mother had explained that some things were better left unsaid. Harsh words changed nothing and only created trouble between the people involved. Emma had followed that advice since, although at times like tonight, it was hard not to let her anger burst out.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to release the destructive emotions. They did no one any good, least of all herself. She could not change anything.

‘Your tongue is sharp tonight, sister.’

Emma took a deep breath and opened her eyes. ‘I am tired and surprised to see you. You sent no note so there is no room ready for you.’

‘The housekeeper saw to all of that.’

‘When did you arrive?’

‘An hour ago. You were out.’

‘You woke Mrs Murphy?’

‘Naturally.’ He shrugged. ‘That is why one has servants.’

He was right, of course. ‘There is not much available. We have had to move once already and our spare rooms are at a premium.’

‘And they are of less than top quality.’

She bristled. ‘And why do you think that is, brother?’

He had the grace to flush. ‘Mama always managed to make do.’

A pang of guilt because of her ire assailed Emma. Their mother had been wonderful. She had kept the houses that eventually became one house as though they still had an income of consequence. Whenever something had happened, Mama would smile and say, ‘Your Papa is an impetuous man, but he is always generous and loving.’ She had said the same about Bertram, and it was true more often than not. Then Mama would shoulder the new burden with a smile on her face.

It was because of Mama’s memory and her love for her husband and son in spite of anything they did that Emma kept going, kept trying to stay one step ahead of the trade people and money lenders. Mama would want her to.

But things had become worse after Mama’s death. Both Papa and Bertram gambled unchecked, and there was no Mama to look on the bright side.

‘Mama had more to make do with.’ Emma’s exhaustion laced the words.

Right now, with Bertram standing in front of her, and knowing he would gamble away still more money and heirlooms while he told himself he was providing brotherly support and protection, it would be very easy to feel defeated. Emma squared her shoulders. She would not feel sorry for herself. She would look on the bright side and carry on. Mama would want her to.

‘We would not be in this position if George Hawthorne had not acted dishonourably or if you had held him to the engagement.’ Bertram’s voice was both accusing and whiny.

Emma looked at the brother she loved in spite of his faults and wondered when the boy who had shown her how to trout fish and joined her in madcap escapades had changed to the man standing before her. This man was weak, and he blamed others for his situation instead of himself. Regret filled her heart for what Bertram had become.

‘We had this discussion at the time, Bertram. I did what I thought best.’ She did not want to continue in this vein. It led nowhere. ‘Now, I am going to bed.’

Even as he opened his mouth to continue, she turned her back to him. When she heard his voice, she ignored it and went up to the next floor and her room. Tomorrow would be a long day with Amy to curtail and Bertram’s gambling to worry about.

Emma looked up from her third cup of hot chocolate, one of her few indulgences, as Gordon, the butler, entered the breakfast room. She smiled at the old man who had begun service with her family as a footman and was now at the pinnacle of achievement.

‘Yes, Gordon?’

‘Miss Stockton, you remember requesting us to keep an eye on Miss Amy?’

Emma set the half-empty china cup down and carefully folded her hands in her lap. Something had happened which she would not like.

‘Yes, I do.’ She was glad her voice sounded calm when she really wanted to scream in frustration.

‘Well, Miss Amy has just sent one of the hired kitchen girls on an errand.’

‘Do you know what kind?’

The butler shook his grizzled head. ‘No, Miss. The girl was gone when Cook told me. Seems Miss Amy got to the girl just as Cook entered the kitchen to prepare your breakfast.’

Neither he nor Cook could question Amy. Emma sighed. ‘Where is Amy now?’

‘I believe she went back to her room.’

‘No doubt back to bed. It’s very early considering the time we returned last night.’

She rose and dusted toast crumbs from her plain black bombazine dress. She had bought it the first year after Mama’s passing. It was still in too good a condition for her to be rid of it, although the harsh lines and dark colour were not the most flattering for her.

‘Thank you, Gordon.’ She went past him into the small hallway and made her way to the stairs before stopping. ‘Is my brother at home?’

‘Yes, Miss. I believe Master Bertram is sleeping.’ He cleared his throat, an unconscious habit he had when he thought he should say something but didn’t want to.

She would help him. ‘Did my brother come in several hours ago?’

‘Yes,’ Gordon murmured.

She wasn’t surprised. She had expected Bertram to go out after their talk last night. In fact, she would have been shocked had he not.

‘Thank you again, Gordon.’ Somehow she found a smile for him, knowing it was weak but the best she could do.

Emma turned back to the stairs and mounted them slowly, keeping her back straight even though it felt as though the weight of the world rested on her. She was not surprised by anything the butler had told her. Both her siblings had acted just as she expected them to. But the consequences of their actions would make life more complicated for her.

When she had promised Mama that she would care for them and Papa, come what may, she had never expected it to be this difficult. Now all she could do was her best.

Emma rapped on Amy’s door. When there was no answer, she entered. She was in no mood to cater to her sister.

Amy sat up in bed, her blond curls spread around her shoulders in glorious disarray, her cheeks rosy with excitement and her blue eyes dancing. Emma had no doubt Amy’s note had precipitated something Emma would not like and that Amy would like very well.

‘Good morning, Em.’ The younger girl was all innocence.

Emma moved into the room. ‘Good morning, Amy. I hear you have been to the kitchen.’

Amy blushed and Emma marvelled at how beautiful her sister was. When Amy refused to look at her, Emma sighed.

Amy tossed a curl over her shoulder. ‘I went for a bite. I was hungry.’

Emma made a moue of irritation. ‘Amy, when will you stop these high jinks? I know you gave a note to the hired girl. I am sure you sent it to Charles Hawthorne. I don’t know what you said, but it is not done. Not done at all.’

Amy’s face paled into obstinacy. ‘You carry on as though Charles Hawthorne can single-handedly ruin all my chances. Really, Em, you worry too much.’

Emma spluttered in her sudden anger. ‘You do not worry enough!’

‘Pooh!’ Amy threw back the covers and slid out of bed. ‘If you know exactly who I sent the message to, then why are you berating me? I’m surprised you haven’t sent another message telling him to ignore mine.’

‘Then you did send it to him.’

Amy’s attention snapped back to her sister. ‘You didn’t know.’

Emma shrugged. ‘A calculated guess based on what I know of you. You just confirmed my suspicion. Thank you. Now I shall send a note.’

‘Don’t forget,’ Amy said, mimicking her sister’s tone, ‘it isn’t done to send a message to a single man one isn’t related to.’

‘You should have remembered that before you put me in this position.’ Emma didn’t try to keep the tartness from her voice. ‘I have had enough of this, Amy. If you don’t behave, I shall tell Father you must return to the country.’

Amy pulled on her finely woven wool robe, for it was still cool in the mornings, particularly since Emma ordered no fires to be lit in order to save on costs. ‘You know he will not agree. I am the fatted calf.’

There was only a touch of bitterness in the younger girl’s words, but it was enough to stop Emma. Neither one of them was happy with the position they found themselves in. Neither one of them had created this situation, but both of them were paying for it.

Emma’s anger melted. Amy was only doing her best to enjoy her first and only London Season. She would be wed all too soon, sacrificed on the altar of gambling.

Unable to swallow her sorrow for her sister, Emma said, ‘You are too young for this and I wish I could spare you, but I cannot. Just as you are correct in saying Father will not allow me to send you home.’ She went to the door, turning back to say, ‘I will tell Mrs Murphy you are up.’

Emma left, feeling worse than when she’d arrived. Added to that was the requirement to send a note to Charles Hawthorne telling him not to do or respond to whatever was in Amy’s note. One complication after another.

In her room, Emma sat down at the scratched and stained writing desk and pulled a piece of thick paper from the drawer. The note to Charles Hawthorne was not easy. Several copies later, she was satisfied enough to sand the sheet before folding it into a twist. She would give it to a footman who had been born on their family estate. She could trust him not to speak of this. Once that was done, she could settle into her daily supervision of the housekeeping and accounts.

That afternoon Emma sat near the window in the parlour that looked out on the back garden, using the afternoon light to see. She looked up from her darning on a pair of silk stockings when Gordon entered and cleared his throat.

‘Yes?’ She smiled at the elderly butler.

His brow furrowed. ‘Mr Hawthorne is at the door, Miss Stockton. He says he is come to take Miss Amy driving.’

Emma’s stomach seemed to plummet in a pleasurable sensation and her fingers tingled. Her weakness tightened her mouth. The man was nothing but trouble.

‘He ignored my note,’ she muttered.

‘It would seem so, Miss.’

‘Please send him away.’

She ignored a traitorous pang of disappointment. He was not to be trusted and he was only amusing himself with her innocent sister. He was nothing to her.

‘Yes, Miss.’ Gordon said the words without inflection but the gleam in his eye told Emma he would enjoy doing her behest.

The door closed behind him just as Amy’s raised voice came from the foyer. Emma didn’t have to think. She knew if she didn’t get to Amy, the chit would take off with Charles Hawthorne and the devil take the hindmost. She dropped her darning without a qualm, even though there was the chance it might come undone. Seconds later, she was in the hallway.

‘Amy!’ She marched to the couple. ‘And you!’ She turned to glare at Charles Hawthorne.

He was dressed casually but impeccably. His navy jacket fit his broad shoulders as if it had been moulded to him. His buff breeches were equally tight, showing muscular thighs that, try as she might, Emma couldn’t quite ignore. And his top boots were shined to a mirror glow. He held his beaver hat in gloved hands.

He quirked one black brow and said with a sardonic drawl, ‘Miss Stockton, how nice of you to come and see us off.’

Emma halted several feet away from them and forced her attention from the man to her sister. ‘Amy, you are not going driving.’

Amy tossed her head, her blond curls bouncing beneath the brim of her stylish straw hat. Her mouth was a mulish line. ‘Of course I am, Em. There is nothing wrong with accompanying a gentleman in an open carriage through Rotten Row. It is nearly five and everyone will be there.’ She slanted a sly look at Charles. ‘And it will do wonders for my reputation when the other gentlemen see me squired by Mr Hawthorne.’ Her gaze slid back to her sister. ‘Even you must admit that Mr Hawthorne sets the tone.’

Emma closed her eyes briefly and wondered why she even bothered when Amy was so determined to throw her reputation to the wind. When she opened her eyes, it was to Charles Hawthorne’s ironic grin.

‘Much as it pains me to seem so arrogant,’ he said, his tone saying nothing of the sort, ‘your sister is correct. I am generally considered a paragon of fashion.’

Emma snorted before she realised it. Scarlet suffused her face but she would not let herself look away from his now laughing eyes.

‘It is true, Mr Hawthorne, that no one has ever accused you of modesty.’

He made her a mocking half bow.

‘No matter how attractive such an attribute would be for you,’ she finished before turning back to Amy. ‘You are right, it is perfectly acceptable. And the weather is delightful. I believe I shall accompany you.’

Amy’s mouth dropped before she gathered her wits. ‘But, Em, where will you sit? Mr Hawthorne drives a high-perch phaeton that will only hold two and his tiger.’

Emma considered her dignity for a second before throwing it to the wind. ‘I shall sit between the two of you.’

‘We will be tight as clams,’ Amy groused, using a term she had coined when young. She had tried to open a clam bought at the fish market and been unable to. Ever since, when something was hard to open or tight, she used the phrase. ‘Really, Em, it is too bad of you to be this way.’

Ignoring Amy’s words, Emma said, ‘I will only be a moment to get my hat and a pelisse.’

Not waiting for an answer, she hurried up the stairs to her room. She rummaged through her closet for the pelisse and hat, yanking the short jacket on without bothering to button it and cramming the hat onto her head with no regard for her styled hair. She trusted the old butler to do his best to delay them, but she was not giving that pair the opportunity to leave before she got back down.

She arrived downstairs breathing quicker than when she had left, but they were still there.

Amy continued where she had left off. ‘It will be horribly crowded with three. I wouldn’t wonder if Mr Hawthorne will be so cramped that his driving will be affected. That would not be good, for I know he is considered a fine whip.’

Still smiling, Charles said, ‘Thank you for the compliment, Miss Amy. I shall do my best not to lose your trust in my abilities.’

Emma cut him a look, wondering if he had meant the double entendre his words had implied. His countenance showed nothing but good humour. Perhaps her thoughts dwelt so much on his possible seduction of her sister that she read meanings into his words that weren’t there. Somehow she doubted it.

She moved to stand between them. ‘Shall we be on our way?’

She heard Amy’s huff of irritation and ignored it. She just wished she could as easily ignore the sense of Charles Hawthorne’s nearness. She wanted nothing to do with him yet her body betrayed her. She straightened her shoulders, determined to control herself, and marched through the door Gordon held open.

Outside was a magnificent ebony barouche that would hold four people comfortably. The top was down for the fine weather and the crest of Lord George Hawthorne, Charles’s older brother, adorned the door. The urge to turn on the odious man who had let them carry on thinking he was in his racing carriage was nearly too much to resist. He had made fools of them.

Instead, she allowed the footman, dressed in the Hawthorne livery, to open the carriage door and assist her. She sat facing the magnificent team of four matched bays and patted the velvet-covered seat beside herself to indicate Amy was to sit there.

Charles Hawthorne placed himself with his back to the horses. They were no sooner settled than he signaled the driver to start. The carriage moved forward with a smoothness that spoke volumes about the quality of the vehicle. Emma remembered riding in this carriage once with Lord George Hawthorne. She had enjoyed the movement then as well.

Her eyes met her host’s and she suddenly regretted her determination to join the pair. He had such an unsettling effect on her.

‘A tuppence for your thoughts?’

His deep voice penetrated her senses, seeming to sink into the depths of her being. There was something about this man that spoke to her of things done in dark, private places even though she deplored his morals and the way he led his life.

‘Oh, la, Mr Hawthorne,’ Amy said. ‘I am thinking of what an enjoyable drive we shall have.’

His voice tinged with irony, he replied, ‘I hope we will.’

Emma was grateful to Amy. She must have made a mistake when she had thought he was asking her. A silly mistake.

Against her will, Emma listened to the man exchange quips and banter with her sister until they turned smartly through the gate and into Hyde Park, taking their position in the throng of carriages and horses promenading on Rotten Row. Anyone who was anybody, and many who weren’t, crowded the park at this time of day during the Season. It was the height of fashion to be seen here, and Emma, always honest with herself, had to admit being here did Amy no harm.

Amy beamed, her Cupid’s bow mouth open to show perfect white teeth. She raised her gloved hand every few minutes to wave at an acquaintance. Emma decided that much as she had not wanted them to come here with Mr Hawthorne, it pleased her to see her sister so happy. Surely Amy would soon receive an offer.

Charles Hawthorne sat directly across from Emma and when she wasn’t careful, her knee brushed his. It was an unsettling sensation, she decided, as his knee grazed hers for the sixth time. Much as she hated to admit it, the experience was so startling she kept count.

Darting a glance at him and seeing the amused curve of his fine lips, she wondered if he meant to touch her in so intimate a manner. Immediately, she decided not. He was interested in Amy, not her. She had too many freckles and a spare figure that not even the high-waisted gowns in fashion flattered.

He could have his pick of the ladies of the ton or those not so high in the instep. He would never give her a second glance if he weren’t pursuing Amy for reasons Emma knew had to be far from honourable.

‘A tuppence for your thoughts, Miss Stockton.’

Warmth spread through Emma’s body at his use of her name and made her wonder if he had really meant her the first time. She chased that thought away. Everything about this situation was disconcerting.

‘I am wondering why everyone wants to be in London when the countryside is at its best at this time of year.’ She couldn’t help a wistful glance at the green trees and emerald grass. ‘There are days when I miss home very much.’

His eyes intent, he murmured, ‘How very interesting. I thought you enjoyed London.’

She met his gaze without thought. ‘I don’t know why you should think anything about me, Mr Hawthorne. You don’t know me.’

‘I know some things.’

‘Such as?’

He glanced at Amy and shrugged. ‘That you have been in London for the Season these past three years. That your family’s country estate is in Yorkshire. That until three years ago, you were in mourning. You did not come to Town until after that.’

She listened to him, thinking he must have heard everything from his older brother when she and George Hawthorne had been engaged for all of three months just two years before. It seemed a lifetime.

‘You are well-informed. I would have thought me too boring a subject to hold any interest for a man of your persuasions.’

As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. They sounded as though she were begging for a compliment, not as the insult they should have been. Why did this man—with nothing to recommend him that she valued—manage to make her feel disturbingly alive?

‘You don’t have a high opinion of me.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Em, how can you be so rude?’ Amy’s voice cut into what had seemed a small cocoon where only Emma and Charles Hawthorne existed. ‘If I said such a thing, you would threaten to put me to bed with only bread and milk.’

Emma shook herself, thankful to Amy for interrupting a discussion that was becoming too revealing. She angled to smile at her sister. ‘I might have done so several years ago, but you are too old for such measures now.’

‘Hah! And thank goodness for that.’ Amy laughed. ‘I have seen that glint in your eyes many times these last weeks. You always have it when you wish to discipline me.’

Bantering with her sister eased some of Emma’s uncanny awareness of the man sitting across from her. Even when his knee once more touched her own, she managed not to feel as though her stomach spiralled. She was more aware of him than she wished.

Charles Hawthorne raised his hand to wave and the carriage slowed. They paralleled a dark-haired, dark-eyed, vivacious woman who sat on a prime piece of horseflesh as though she had been born to the saddle.

Harriette Wilson, the famed courtesan, smiled at Charles Hawthorne.

Emma’s face paled and her fists clenched. This was not done and showed a tremendous lack of respect on the man’s part toward her and her sister. She glared at him.

‘Harriette,’ he said, his fine voice making the name sound like a caress, ‘how are you today? You look in fine mettle.’

The woman smiled back, her entire body seeming to light up. ‘Charles, you devil, I am in great spirits.’ Her teasing gaze turned challenging. ‘Do you intend to introduce me?’

His grin widened. ‘I would not have hailed you if I did not.’ He turned so his intensity held Emma like a vise, his countenance as serious as Emma had never seen it. ‘Miss Stockton, Miss Amy, I would like you to meet Miss Wilson. A friend of mine.’

Emma nodded her head. Good manners and an innate tendency not to hurt others kept her tone pleasant and kept her from looking away without acknowledging the introduction. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Wilson.’

Amy’s voice rose. ‘Miss Harriette Wilson? The Harriette—’

Emma cut ruthlessly across her sister’s excitement. ‘That is enough, Amy. I am sure Miss Wilson has no desire for her name to be shouted for all to hear.’

The mounted woman laughed and her attractive face turned beautiful. No wonder men thought her irresistible. Emma found her appealing.

‘I am not shouting,’ Amy said indignantly.

Emma scowled at her, hoping to quiet her.

‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance,’ Harriette said solemnly.

Tension Emma had not seen before eased from the courtesan’s stiffly held back. Harriette Wilson had expected to be snubbed. Emma felt sorry for the other woman who had much more freedom than any respectable female, but also suffered more slights and less security. Upon the realisation, Emma gave the other woman a slight smile, her only regret being that Amy was in the carriage and being introduced to Britain’s most well-known, sought after and successful courtesan. This would do Amy’s reputation as much damage as being pursued by Charles Hawthorne.

For her sister’s sake, Emma regretted her show of friendliness but she could not have done differently. It was not Harriette Wilson at fault here, but Charles Hawthorne for stopping, and she would tell him so at the first opportunity.

Chapter Three

N early an hour later, they swept through the gate and out of Hyde Park. Emma still fumed.

‘Did you enjoy your outing?’ Charles Hawthorne asked Amy, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

The young girl sparkled in the afternoon sun. ‘Very much so.’ She laughed with enjoyment. ‘And you are such a rogue to introduce us to Harriette Wilson. Although, I must admit to being fascinated by a woman who earns her living like that.’

Emma did nothing to disguise her groan. ‘Amy, if you please, that is more than enough. Ladies do not discuss women like Miss Wilson.’

‘Oh, pooh! Ladies don’t do anything that is interesting.’

Even as she silently agreed with Amy, Emma knew she had to stop Amy’s fascination with the other woman right now. ‘You seem to be doing quite a few things that are interesting to you.’

‘Sarcasm?’ Charles Hawthorne murmured. ‘It will accomplish nothing.’

Emma gave him a bland look. Right now was not the time to let him know what she thought of his actions. She was spared any further temptation to do so with Amy present by the carriage pulling up to their house.

Charles Hawthorne hopped out and turned immediately to help Amy down. She giggled. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ Her eyes flirted as she allowed him to guide her to the front steps.

‘My pleasure.’ He put his gloved hand over hers where it rested on his forearm.

His head bent to Amy’s and he said something Emma couldn’t hear as she followed behind, having been helped down by the groom. No doubt he was flirting as outrageously with Amy as she was with him. A tiny ball of frustration and another emotion Emma didn’t want to examine formed in her chest.

She reached them just as the front door opened. ‘Amy, please give me a few moments alone with Mr Hawthorne.’

Amy looked from one to the other. ‘So you can scold him?’

Emma ignored the challenge in her sister’s voice. ‘Please honour my request.’

‘Don’t let her box your ears, Mr Hawthorne. She has a predilection for that.’ Amy tossed her head.

‘I am more than capable of taking care of myself, Miss Amy.’ He took Amy’s gloved fingers and raised them to his lips.

A flush of pleasure made the already pretty girl beautiful. ‘You always know exactly what to do.’

Emma thought she would lose control and step between the two like a knife cutting through cloying syrup. She managed not to do so by a strong effort of will.

The door closed behind Amy before Emma turned to Mr Hawthorne, who looked at her with one black brow lifted as though daring her to do her worst. It was more provocation than she could resist.

‘How dare you flirt with her in such a way, kissing her hand! It is much too sophisticated for a girl like her. Save it for a more experienced woman. Isn’t it bad enough that Amy allows you to pursue her in a most unseemly manner when all and sundry know you have no intention of offering marriage?’

His blue eyes were nearly black and impossible to read. ‘Would my pursuit be acceptable if I intended marriage?’

She blinked. His answer was totally unexpected. ‘Do you?’

He grinned. ‘No, but you seem to put such emphasis on that being the reason my interest isn’t acceptable.’

‘You are twisting my words and you know it.’ She took a breath to try and ease the beating of her heart. ‘You are the most odious man.’

‘I try.’

His sardonic words sped her pulse in spite of herself. ‘You try very hard and always succeed. How dare you introduce us to Harriette Wilson.’

‘Not that woman? You surprise me.’

Now it was her turn to flush. ‘She is a person even though men consider her something to be bandied about. I do not fault her for doing what she must to survive.’

‘Neither do I.’ He met her gaze, his serious look brooking no argument. ‘I respect her as a woman who moves in a man’s world, and does so successfully. I will not be a hypocrite and ignore her when I meet her out—no matter who is with me.’

Unwilling respect blossomed in Emma. No other man of her acquaintance would have been so bold and flouted convention to introduce the infamous courtesan. None would even acknowledge her if they were with a woman of their own class.

‘Then you did not introduce us to irritate me or disgrace Amy?’

‘Contrary to what you think, I stopped for the reason I told you.’

Emma searched his face for the truth. She could not tell what he thought, but his mouth was not curled into the sardonic smile he seemed to have perfected. An unwelcome awareness of him penetrated her anger, which was already crumbling because of his reason for introducing the courtesan.

She realised he stood too close. She could see the fine lines around his eyes and the dark stubble that would soon need to be shaved. A hint of pine mingled with that of starch. His breath smelt of mint. Under it all was the richness of a man’s scent, musky and exciting. The day had turned unaccountably warm.

She stepped backwards and her half boot left the step. She tottered. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm. His fingers held her through the layers of material, seeming to sear into her flesh. A shiver coursed her spine, first like ice then like fire. The last thing she wanted was to react to him like this.

Anger at her own weakness made her voice harsh. ‘You can release me.’

His gaze hardened. ‘And let you fall off the step?’

She notched her chin up and set her back foot down onto the next level. ‘I won’t fall now.’

His hand fell away. ‘You are welcome.’

She felt a blush of embarrassment mount her cheeks. There had been no call to be rude no matter what his touch did to her. Her mama would be appalled if she had seen this. ‘Thank you.’

He stared at her, his gaze going from her eyes to her cheeks to her lips. Against her will, she felt the heat consuming her intensify. Heaven help her if he ever did anything more. She was a fool. An utter fool.

‘Good day, Miss Stockton.’

He turned on the heel of his mirror-polished Hessian and strode to the carriage, where he opened the door himself and leapt inside with the grace of a natural athlete. He did not glance back at her when the vehicle started forward. It was she who continued to stare.

The man was insufferable. He had to be for she could not allow him to be anything else. Becoming enamored of him would do her no more good than it did Amy. Less.

Charles stared straight ahead as he was conveyed to his brother’s town house to where he would return George’s carriage. His fingers still tingled from touching Emma, and the scent of sweet peas lingered in his mind. His stomach tightened. Obviously he had been too long without a woman if he was reacting to a spinster like Emma Stockton.

The drive had been as entertaining as he had expected when he chose to ignore Emma Stockton’s note ordering him to refrain from doing whatever her sister had requested. There was very little that gave him as much pleasure as provoking her. But the unsettling problem was that he responded to her physically as well as mentally.

He was jaded. Nothing more. Upon longer exposure to the woman’s tiresome meddling, she would lose her allure.

The carriage pulled up in front of George’s house and Charles shook his head to clear his thoughts. The last thing he wanted was to forget himself and mention the Misses Stockton. He and his sister, Juliet, had been down that path many a time and not to his good. Juliet was a strong woman who spoke her mind, and she didn’t like his dallying with Amy Stockton.

He exited the vehicle and went inside, nodding at the family butler. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Good afternoon, Master Charles.’

‘Is anyone at home?’

‘Lord and Lady Hawthorne are in the salon with Master Robert. Lady and Sir Glenfinning are with them.’

Charles considered visiting his siblings, but decided against it. He would send a note of thanks to his brother instead of doing it in person. He was in no mood to watch Juliet with her new husband, a liaison he had been against. Adam Glenfinning reminded him too much of himself to make a good husband.

‘Please have my horse sent ’round.’

The butler nodded. ‘Will you be in the saloon?’

‘No, I will wait out front.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Charles watched the old retainer motion to a nearby footman, who was sent to the mews. Not many people could afford to house their horseflesh in the city. George could.

Charles quickly stepped outside. Clouds bunched up overhead and a breeze moved the tree branches. He sniffed, smelling moisture in the air. It would likely start raining before he got home.

A groom leading Charles’s horse came around the corner. Charles tossed him a coin and mounted the large bay gelding. If they hurried, they would beat the worst of the weather.

The rain started just as he turned the corner of the street where his house was situated. He settled the bay before running to the back door and into the kitchen.

The aroma of roast beef and potatoes hit him like a warm blanket. Alphonse, the French chef he employed, stood by the spit, supervising the basting of a large piece of meat. He was a tall man with a rotund middle that spoke of good eating. Grey hair stuck out from under the white hat he wore, giving him a wild look he did not deserve, and his bushy grey mustache was the envy of every young boy who worked for him.

The chef turned. ‘Monsieur.’

Charles grinned. ‘That smells like heaven, Alphonse.’

The Frenchman nodded his head regally, knowing the compliment was only his due.

A small black-and-white whirlwind sped across the slate floor, coming to a sliding halt at Charles’s feet. Bright brown eyes and a black button nose peered out from a mop of hair while a long pink tongue lolled nearly to the ground. Soft barking sounds told Charles he was loved.

Squatting down, Charles ruffled the dog’s long ears. ‘How have you been, Adam?’ The mutt of disreputable breeding looked up at him. ‘Very well, I take it.’ Charles glanced at Alphonse. ‘Has Adam been impertinent?’ Charles knew the answer.

‘But of course. He demands the best slices.’

‘Just like his namesake,’ Charles muttered, thinking of his sister Juliet’s new husband.

He loved this dog that had been a stray, even though he had named him after his unwelcome brother-in-law, who was also of dubious lineage. It had been one of his more subtle rebukes to his sister during her affair with Adam Glenfinning. As usual, it had done no good. Juliet had gone her own way.

For a moment the picture of Emma Stockton as she had looked on her porch not more than an hour ago flooded his mind. Her hair had spiralled from beneath the brim of her unfashionable straw hat. Her grey eyes had been challenging yet vulnerable, a trait he was beginning to find caught him off guard more than he cared. Even the freckles marching across her short nose in no pattern or order drew his admiration.

He shook his head to get rid of the portrait. He was not the sort of man to dwell overly long on a woman, particularly one who fit none of his criteria for beauty. She was too thin and too tall, along with everything else about her that irritated him.

‘Woof!’ Adam’s wet tongue on Charles’s hand came immediately after the demand for attention.

Charles stood. ‘You are a demanding scoundrel.’ The dog seemed to smile as though he knew there was no rebuke. ‘I am going to my office. Alphonse, please bring me something to eat.’

‘Yes, monsieur.’ There was a pause. ‘And what about that canine monster you spoil so shamelessly?’

‘He will need sustenance as well.’

‘Humph!’

Charles smiled as he left the kitchen. Alphonse might fuss and complain, but more than once Charles had caught the Frenchman accidentally dropping a piece of meat on the floor.

Adam trotted close at Charles’s heels, his sniffing getting louder as they neared the office. The room was near the kitchen so the tantalising smells made Charles realise he was as hungry as Adam. They would eat while he balanced his books, a duty that had started as tedious and which he now found satisfying.

It was nearly midnight that evening when Charles looked around and realised he had made a mistake. He had allowed his cronies to talk him into coming to Crockford’s gambling hell.

It was his first time in such an establishment in nearly three years.

Candles were everywhere, lighting a scene of licentious pleasure. Men lounged in chairs, bottles of liqueur beside them. A few demireps clung to the arms of their protectors. Several green-baize-covered tables were crowded by gamblers.

A man sat at a faro table with a visor over his eyes and his coat turned inside out, hoping for luck—or, perhaps, having luck. Charles knew all too well what the man was feeling: the thrill of waiting for that winning hand; the need to play again and again no matter what happened. It was like taking another sip of alcohol. The need intensified rather than diminished.

The urge to join a table was nearly overwhelming. All his hard-earned abstinence seemed like nothing. He should never have come.

His hands broke out in a sweat. Moisture beaded his brow.

He needed to leave.

He managed to smile at the man nearest him. ‘I have decided this place is a bore,’ Charles drawled, glad the need didn’t show in his voice. He sounded as bored as he claimed to be.

The other man raised one brown eyebrow. ‘As you wish, Charles. I will stay awhile. Crockford’s is known for its high stakes and I feel lucky.’

Charles smiled again. ‘Luck is a fickle lady.’

The man shrugged. ‘As is any woman.’

‘So be it.’

Charles took one last look around the crowded room, knowing as he did so that he tempted himself. But he also knew he was strong enough to resist. He had learned the hard way what ruin this vice could bring.

He turned away and sauntered toward the door. Several men watched him, a knowing look in their gazes. His downfall was not ton gossip, but nor was it secret. He nodded to acquaintances, determined that no one would know how hard this was for him.

A flurry of activity caught his eye just as he neared the exit. Some of the richest men in England circled a table more crowded than the others.

Charles knew someone was betting heavily and either winning or losing. He could not resist even though he knew that going over exposed him more than he should to the urge to gamble. Better not to even go near.

But go he did.

Faro. Sinclair Manchester was the bank and Richard Green was the lamb.

Memories flooded back. Five years ago he could have been Green.

Charles kept his face void of the anger and pain building in him. How dare Manchester fleece such a young boy?

Manchester was a tall, thin, effete man who dressed impeccably and seemed to mince when he walked. His silver-tipped ebony cane, which leaned against the wall behind him, was an affectation as effective as the quizzing glass hanging from his waistcoat. His sandy brown hair was cut in a perfect Brutus, the wisps dressed to frame his narrow and angular face. He was a dandy.

Charles considered himself a Corinthian. The two of them could not be a greater contrast. Particularly in the present situation. He turned to Green.

The boy’s blue eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. His blond hair was cut short like Charles’s, and his lapels were reasonable. He could turn his head. Perspiration dotted his brow. His smile was forced.

‘Charles,’ Manchester’s light tenor voice said, ‘come to pay us a visit? Join in. I am very lucky at the moment.’

Charles flicked him a glance. ‘Perhaps, later, Manchester.’ He turned to the young man. ‘Good evening, Green. I see you play deep.’ Charles watched the young man, wondering how he was going to get him out of this and deciding the sooner the better.

‘Y-yes.’ His stiff smile widened into a rictus.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t.’ Charles turned back to Manchester. ‘If you will excuse us, Green and I have things to discuss.’

‘Really, Hawthorne, don’t be a wet blanket.’ Manchester raked in the chips piled before him.

‘Ah, but I must,’ Charles drawled, placing his hand on Green’s shoulder and squeezing as he shifted the boy away from the table.

‘Ah, ex-excuse me.’ Richard Green went where Charles steered him, but said over his shoulder, ‘I will make my vouchers good tomorrow, Manchester.’

A twinge of pain caught Charles unawares. Seeing this youth, not yet a man and no longer a boy, in such a pass brought back unpleasant memories of where his reckless disregard for money had eventually landed him. Gambling deeply was only for those who had been left a fortune, not a younger son. The discomfort was enough to make him thrust Green roughly toward the door so the boy stumbled before gaining his footing.

‘Keep moving,’ Charles said through clenched teeth. ‘You are not staying here.’

Green’s eyes widened until they seemed to be two blue china saucers. ‘But, the night has just started.’

‘Be quiet.’ Charles scowled at the young man. ‘You are foolish beyond bearing.’

‘I-I s-say, you c-can’t order me about.’

Charles’s brows rose. ‘Can’t I? I am doing so and you will thank me for it.’

The boy’s red face blanched. ‘You are Charles Hawthorne?’

‘Yes, and you are on your way out.’

He realised Green had been so deep in the fever some people experienced while gambling that the boy hadn’t heard Manchester’s greeting. The realisation increased Charles’s anger. He propelled the youth toward the front door and through to the street.

‘I hope your carriage or horse is nearby because you are leaving.’

‘I—’

‘Yes?’ Charles held him. ‘You what?’

‘You go too far. You have no right to do this.’

The young man’s words finally penetrated the red haze that seemed to surround Charles. He unclenched his fingers that gripped the boy’s arm like a vise and let his hand fall away. Seeing this child in straits he had been in and paid dearly for had made him forget the circumstances. All he could do was throw the fool out.

‘You are going home, Green. You play deeper than your pockets. This is a gambling den, not a shearing house.’

The youth drew himself up straight, coming just short of Charles’s six-foot height. ‘I will do as I please.’

‘Not if I have any say.’ His flat voice brooked no argument. ‘And a word of warning. You may think you are immune to the repercussions of your behaviour, but you are not. No one is.’

Seeing a hackney coach coming around the corner, Charles motioned for it to stop. The driver pulled up and Charles yanked open the door and pushed Green inside.

‘Go home.’

He slammed the door shut and turned away, ignoring the boy’s sputtering anger. If only someone had done as much for him.

Chapter Four

A my tweaked Emma’s paisley shawl. ‘When are you going to get new gowns? These are so old-fashioned.’

Emma pulled the shawl over her shoulders and kept moving toward an open settee in Princess Lieven’s ballroom. She was not about to give Amy the satisfaction of seeing that her comment had hurt. Amy knew why Emma had no new gowns.

Amy was peeved because Emma had refused Charles Hawthorne’s offer to escort them here. The man was too brazen. He wasn’t family, and his bringing them would have set tongues wagging. Especially after the ride in Hyde Park yesterday.

She reached the seat and sank down with a thump. Graceless, but she didn’t care.

Amy sat beside her, careful to spread the skirt of her pink muslin gown so it wouldn’t wrinkle. ‘You ignored me.’ Her tone and posture were a challenging pout.

Emma swallowed a sharp retort. Her voice was still more acerbic than she intended. ‘You know why, Amy. So don’t vent your displeasure over something we both know can’t be helped.’

‘Humph!’

Amy angled away, her back an unyielding wall between them. For an instant, Emma raised her hand to touch her sister’s shoulder. All they had was each other. Then she let her arm fall. For once she wasn’t willing to be conciliatory. She was tired and worried and wanted to be done with all this. She didn’t want to apologise for something that wasn’t her fault.

Amy stood abruptly. ‘I am going to find Julia Thornton.’

For a second Emma considered telling Amy to remain. Then she shrugged. Denying Amy would only make her more rebellious. At least Julia would have her mother with her or be surrounded by a bevy of young men and women closer to Amy’s age.

As Amy flounced away, Emma turned her attention to the other guests just as Charles Hawthorne made his bow to their hostess. Sensation chased down Emma’s spine. She told herself there was a draft. The man had offered to escort them here. It shouldn’t be a surprise to see him, and there was no other reason for the funny feeling that engulfed her.

Nor should it be a surprise to see him make his way toward her. He likely thought Amy would be back immediately.

Emma watched him in spite of all her good sense. He was the most sensual man she had ever seen. Everything about him indicated that he was a rake. His black hair with the lock that insisted on falling over his forehead made him look like a pirate—or what she imagined a pirate would look like. His broad shoulders swung loosely in a well-fitted evening jacket. His muscular legs with their long length and strong shape showed to perfection in tight-fitting breeches. He was perfect.

‘Enjoying something?’ He stood before her with a sly smile on his sharply handsome face.

She jolted and blinked and wondered where her common sense had gone as she gave him a curt nod. ‘Mr Hawthorne.’

He made a perfect leg. ‘Miss Stockton.’

Her eyes narrowed at his mocking tone. ‘What brings you here, Mr Hawthorne? My sister is elsewhere.’

‘So she is, Miss Stockton.’

Emma felt her temper sizzle, intensifying the warmth spreading across her cheeks. ‘Then you had best be on your way.’

‘I thought I might linger here.’ He indicated the empty spot by her.

The breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to speak coldly. ‘I think you would be very bored, Mr Hawthorne.’

‘I think not.’

Without further leave, he sat beside her. His thigh barely brushed hers, bringing back the uncomfortable awareness of him that made her chest tight. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Emma tensed to rise but his hand clamped on her forearm. She paused.

‘Do you want to give the gossips more ammunition?’ he murmured.

She glanced around to see many eyes on them. She sank back down and muttered, ‘How dare you put me in this position. It is bad enough that you do this with Amy. It is a shame you insist on including me in this mockery.’

He quirked one eyebrow. ‘Why do you think this is a mockery?’

‘Isn’t it?’

He didn’t speak for long moments, his gaze meeting hers. ‘I don’t believe so.’

She told herself her heart wasn’t lodged in her throat. A warm glow started in her stomach and spread out. ‘Well, I do. I told you no earlier, and you are not a man who likes to be told no. I believe you are amusing yourself at my expense and I want this to stop.’

‘Then dance with me and I will leave afterwards.’

‘Absolutely not.’ Particularly as she recognised the music the orchestra was starting to play. A waltz.

He shrugged. ‘Then I will go and ask Miss Amy.’

Emma blanched, knowing her sister would accept to spite her and to accomplish a coup that would make her the envy of all the other silly young chits. A waltz with Charles Hawthorne.

Emma felt like she had been outmaneuvered, and she knew she was outgunned. ‘Surely you jest. It is my sister you are interested in.’

For a fleeting moment she thought he looked disgusted, but it was over so quickly she decided she had imagined it. He looked his usual arrogant, confident and mocking self.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I am no fool.’ But she began to fear she was. She wanted this dance he had maneuvered her into. Wanted it badly. ‘But you have forced me to accept.’

He stood and extended his gloved hand. She dropped her gaze, unwilling to see him study her as she put her fingers into his.

Gloves separated their flesh, yet Emma felt like his warm skin touched hers. This was crazy, she thought, sucking in a deep breath and looking up at him, determined to act as though this dance was the last thing she wanted.

His dark eyes held hers. Was there a question in his? Did he wonder what she thought?

She notched her chin higher and turned to the floor. He led her out. She turned to face him, his strong jaw at eye level for her. He had a dark shadow on his cheeks that gave him a reckless air he didn’t need. He was already overpoweringly attractive.

The scents of musk and male wafted over her, mingling with the smell of burning wax from the hundreds of candles. Dimly she sensed other people moving around. The sound of the orchestra was muted. It was as though she stood in a room with only this man. Everything else might be in her imagination.

His right arm circled her waist and held her firmly in place a foot from him. The regulation distance. Anything closer would be considered scandalous.

Her mind told her they were adequately separated. Her senses told her he pressed her to his chest. It seemed she felt his heart beating against hers and his warmth enveloping her.

He moved and his hand guided her to move with him. She felt melded to him, as though they had danced like this before. Blood pounded through her body.

‘Are you feeling well?’

His deep voice flowed over her and twined around her. All her aversion to him seemed to have gone up in smoke the instant he touched her. No wonder Amy made a scandal of herself for this man. And how could she blame her when she, an older woman who had once been engaged to this man’s brother, was now following him in a dance that mimicked things done between a man and a woman in dark places?

Emma shook her head. ‘Well? I am as well as can be expected when coerced into a dance I did not want.’

‘Are you so sure of that?’ He gave her a knowing look that seemed to see through to her racing heart.

‘You gave me no choice.’

He swung her in a circle, forcing the breath from her lungs. If not for the firm hold he had of her waist, she would have stumbled.

‘Liar.’

She dragged in air. ‘I am not. You threatened to ask Amy if I did not agree.’

‘I gave you a choice.’

‘A very poor one.’

They moved rapidly around the room, circling and circling, skirting other couples. His arms never faltered, supporting her strongly and her body felt safe to follow his lead—wherever that might go.

‘But a choice.’ He finished the discussion, his tone brooking no more argument.

Her hackles rose. ‘A poor choice is no choice at all. I know that too well.’

His mouth thinned and she thought he would say something, but the music stopped. They stopped with it. She stepped from his embrace and tried to pull her hand free from his. He held tight.

‘Let me go.’

His mouth curved into a smile that held no humour as he brought her fingers to his lips. Even through the gloves she felt the firm softness of his kiss. An arc of fire coursed its way up her arm. Her determination floundered.

He released her and bowed. ‘Thank you, Miss Stockton, for a very informative dance.’

She stared at him, the heat still coursing through her. ‘Informative?’

He turned away as though he didn’t hear her. She stepped toward him, wanting to twirl him around and demand what he thought he was doing, toying with her as though she was a plaything. Instead she pivoted on her heel and moved in the opposite direction from him.

Somewhere in this room was the settee she had taken refuge on earlier. She reached it seconds before Amy descended on her.

‘What do you think you were doing?’ Amy said, her voice a whispered screech. ‘I thought he was a disreputable rake that no respectable woman should associate with. Yet, you waltzed with him.’

Emma’s fingers still tingled from his touch. Now they shook with irritation. ‘He is everything I always say he is, but he gave me no option.’ She steeled her voice. ‘And I am old enough to do as I please.’

‘So, you like him.’ Amy’s blue eyes were grey with anger. ‘That is why you tell me to stay away from him. Because you want him.’

Emma’s raw nerves snapped. ‘Don’t be a ninnyhammer, Amy. It is bad enough that you are flighty.’

Amy’s rosebud red mouth formed a perfect O. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘How could you, Em? First you dance with the man I am attracted to, and then you insult me so.’

Emma’s head began to pound. This was getting out of hand. She rose. ‘I think it is time we left.’

Amy stepped back. ‘No. I have promised Mr Kennilworth a dance. I shan’t shirk my duty.’

Sharp words about Amy’s frequent failure to honour her word hung on Emma’s tongue but she bit them back. Things were so bad she did not want to make them worse. ‘When you are done, we are leaving.’

Amy sniffed and turned away, her shoulders stiff. Emma watched her young sister and wondered what mischief Amy would get up to now. Likely she would manage to dance a waltz with Charles Hawthorne even after Emma’s sacrifice to prevent it.

She longed for a hot drink and a warm bed. What should have been a pleasurable outing in the home of one of the ton’s most powerful women had turned into a nightmare thanks to Charles Hawthorne. The man should be ousted from Society.

Emma rubbed her temples, hoping to ease some of the tension pounding through her head. Perhaps a breath of fresh air would help. She made her way to the open windows, watching for Amy as she went.

Amy was where she said she would be. Emma knew her sister didn’t care much for Mr Kennilworth, but she had used him as an excuse to remain.

Emma stepped into the cool night air with a sense of relief. Nothing would happen during the country dance.

The music filtered to a murmur that failed to muffle the sound of female voices. Several feet away, their backs to her, two women laughed. Emma retreated, not wanting to interrupt them. She heard her name and froze.

‘Did you see Emma Stockton in Charles Hawthorne’s arms? She looked absolutely besotted. No wonder she chides her sister for chasing the man. She wants him herself.’

The second woman giggled. ‘As though he would be interested. He is playing with both of them.’

‘So true.’

Emma felt the blood leave her face before raging back as mortification claimed her. The cool night was suddenly unbearably warm.

She twisted on her heel and sped back into the hot, crowded ballroom. The dance was only half done. What would she do? She felt like the fool she had chided herself for being. Surely she hadn’t looked besotted. She couldn’t stand the man, no matter what her body did. Her mind found him despicable and…and…

How could she have reacted to him so much that others noticed? She had thought she had more self-control.

She paused inside the doors, out of view of the two women, and scanned the room. Amy curtseyed to Mr Kennilworth as the dance ended.

Emma’s nemesis laughed at something Princess Lieven said before she swatted his arm with her closed fan. Very much as Lady Jersey had done. Were all of them susceptible to him?

She looked away.

What was happening to her? She had never felt this way about George Hawthorne. Truth be told, she had felt nothing for him. That was why it had been easy for her to break their engagement. Her only regret was that her action had necessitated Amy marrying for money regardless of anything the girl might feel.

‘Are you feeling all right, Miss Stockton?’

Emma jerked as his rich voice came from just behind her. Her fingers trembled as she twisted around. ‘I am fine. Please go away.’

‘Touchy.’ He stood his ground, his eyes darkening.

Her headache returned with a vengeance. ‘Mr Hawthorne, I am merely watching my wayward sister flirt with the latest object of her attention.’ She tried to keep her unease out of her voice and realised she sounded tired and petulant.

‘She is a handful.’

‘Quite.’

He chuckled. ‘George would sympathise with you.’

She stiffened at the name of her former fiancé. ‘Are you referring to your peccadilloes?’

He wore a rueful expression. ‘What else? I’m sure my past isn’t a secret.’

In spite of her distrust, growing attraction and overall sense of being out of her depth, she replied, ‘I only know what I have seen this Season. You dabble in trade to great profit and do as you please without regard to others. The last is very like Amy.’

‘Yes, Miss Amy and I share a dislike for being dictated to and for wanting our own way. Perhaps the youngest child is like that.’

‘Spoilt.’

He smiled. ‘Exactly. But sometimes we go too far.’

She sensed he spoke about something besides their shared willful disregard for propriety. ‘Such as?’

‘Here you are, Emma,’ Amy’s hard-edged voice intruded, ‘entertaining Mr Hawthorne. Again.’

For the first time in many years, Emma felt as though she was in deeper water than she could navigate. Charles Hawthorne seemed ready to confide something intensely private, a trust she was not sure she wanted. And now Amy’s biting words showed again how hurt she was by the situation between Emma and Mr Hawthorne. There was only one thing to do.

Emma took a deep breath. ‘Amy, dear, it is time we left.’ She took Amy’s arm and started moving even as she said, ‘Good evening, Mr Hawthorne.’

He did nothing to stop them, and Emma found herself ridiculously grateful for his restraint. She knew that if he had tried to delay them, Amy would have allowed it. She propelled her sister to the entry, hoping no one else would intercept them and that Amy would not dig in her heels.

Neither happened.

They reached the front door where a footman retrieved their wraps. Emma released Amy. Already she felt as though she had overreacted.

Things were falling apart. Amy’s headstrong rush into adventure, Charles Hawthorne’s pursuit, Bertram in London and, worse than all of the others combined, her own reaction to Charles Hawthorne.

Amy stepped outside and Emma belatedly followed. Their hired carriage was nowhere. It wasn’t scheduled to pick them up for another two hours.

Amy, blond brows furrowed, turned on Emma. ‘Now what will we do?’

Two women alone, the last thing they could do was walk. Hoping to see a hackney coach, Emma moved to the kerb so the flickering light from the gas lamps lit beside the imposing door cast her shadow onto the cobbles. The crush of coaches filled with guests still arriving filled the street. Carriages would arrive until the morning sun lit the eastern sky as members of the ton moved from one party to another.

‘Let me help,’ Charles Hawthorne’s voice intruded on Emma’s simmering nerves.

‘Did you follow us?’

‘And if I did?’

She glared at him. He was the last thing she needed. He was the source of all her problems, or so it seemed. ‘I have had quite enough of your help to last me a lifetime, thank you.’

His face inscrutable, he looked from one to the other. ‘Is Bertram coming for you?’

Amy’s laugh was brittle. ‘I should think not. He is in some gambling hell losing what little we have left.’

Emma gasped. ‘Amy!’

Amy’s mouth turned mulish. ‘It’s the truth.’

Everything was unravelling. ‘It is none of Mr Hawthorne’s concern.’ She rounded on him. ‘Just as our situation is none of your concern.’

‘Then how will we get home?’ Amy’s pale blond hair was coming undone from the spray of white roses that was her only adornment.

Emma wanted to shout at her, but there was nothing to say. They had no way home unless a hackney carriage appeared out of thin air or their hired coach miraculously materialised.

She darted a glance at the man responsible for this awful situation. He stood watching her, his face unreadable. If he had only left them alone.

She was sure the freckles stood in stark relief on her nose and her cheeks shone like ripe apples. Not an attractive picture—and just the thought of that made her angrier. She ground her teeth, even as she realised this fury was not like her.

Emma took deep calming breaths, refusing to meet his gaze. People milled around them, some looking, others careful not to.

‘We are presenting the polite world with fuel for its wagging tongues,’ he said dryly.

He was right.

‘Emma, we should accept Mr Hawthorne’s offer of help.’

Emma scowled at him. ‘Are you in your brother’s barouche or must we all squeeze into your phaeton?’

He had the grace to look mildly embarrassed, nothing more. ‘I hadn’t anticipated this situation, Miss Stockton.’

‘I imagine you didn’t.’ The tart words were out in a trice. He brought out the absolute worst in her.

‘I am in my phaeton.’

‘Well, that solves it.’ She wondered where her vaunted self-control had gone as she noted the acid in her tone. She should be speaking calmly and rationally, not like a fishwife. ‘We cannot all cram into that vehicle. It would not be at all respectable.’

‘Nor is this bickering in public.’ Amy’s voice cut across them.

‘The pot calling the kettle black,’ Charles murmured.

Emma cast him a sharp look but said nothing. Amy was right. But she could not allow her young sister and herself to pile into his phaeton. They would be much too close.

‘I shall get a sedan chair.’ Charles moved to the street and hailed two down. Turning back to them, he said, ‘I will walk along side until you are safely home.’

‘Sedan chairs are for old dowagers,’ Amy’s disgusted voice rang out.

Emma nearly laughed. It certainly cut across the retort Emma had planned to make. Her fury of minutes before seemed to evaporate and for the first time since her waltz with Charles Hawthorne, she felt as though her mind worked properly.

‘We have no need of those, Mr Hawthorne. We are country girls and quite capable of walking home.’ She looked at the still crowded street. ‘It is just that I don’t believe it would be safe.’

‘Then I shall escort you.’ When she opened her mouth to decline his offer, he added, ‘Or hoist you into my phaeton.’

‘Neither, thank you.’

She was proud her voice was calm and not burdened with fury. Her lapse had been momentary and would not repeat itself.

‘Then how do you propose to get home?’

‘Here is our hired carriage,’ Amy said, moving toward the vehicle. ‘It is early.’

‘Thank goodness.’ The heartfelt words followed on the relief Emma felt.

Charles moved into the street and motioned the coach to stop. Without waiting for the groom perched on the back to dismount, Charles opened the door and handed Amy in. She gave him a radiant smile that put the lie to her former peevishness.

Emma noticed he did not kiss her sister’s hand even though Amy let it linger overlong in his. An unwelcome, piercing relief lanced Emma. She refused to study the sensation—or try to name the cause of it.

Instead, she walked to the carriage door, ignoring Charles Hawthorne’s outstretched hand. She lifted her skirt and put her foot on the carriage step. He took her arm to steady her. Instantly awareness of him flooded her: his smell, the warmth of his hand on her arm. He was a man it was impossible for her to ignore, try as she might.

Better that he did not touch her, but she knew from her previous experiences with him this evening that he was too strong for her to make him release her. He would have this his way just as he had had everything else his way this evening.

‘I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused you tonight,’ he murmured.

Surprise held her immobile as his barely audible words wafted against her neck. He was apologising? She could not believe her ears.

Turning her head, she gazed at him, realising too late that only inches separated their lips. A dip of her head and his mouth would touch hers. Just this once, she wanted to close the distance and let her senses rule her head. Her eyes widened in shock at the realisation.

As though he knew what she wanted, his fingers tightened on her arm and his mouth parted. His eyes were as dark as the sky behind his head. Emma knew it was her imagination only that whispered he would kiss her. Her wanton desire for something she knew was wrong and the illusion caused by unclear lighting. Nothing more. She wouldn’t let it be anything more.

‘You have done more damage than an apology can rectify,’ she finally managed to say, her voice breathy. ‘Let me go.’

He held her a moment longer. She thought he would say something. Her stomach tumbled.

He released her and stepped back. ‘You are right, of course.’

His tone was flat, as though he felt nothing, and she was infinitely glad she had not reacted on her unbidden response to him. It was her need that had prompted her to think he meant to kiss her. He did not care for her.

She hurried into the carriage and sank into the seat opposite Amy. The vehicle lurched forward. Emma fell backwards before righting herself and squaring her shoulders.

‘I saw you.’ Amy’s words were an accusation. ‘You want him.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She closed her eyes, unable to look at Amy when she said the words.

Emma admitted to herself that she lied. It was not that she wanted him in the sense of love and permanence, but for just this small period of time she wanted to feel his arms around her and his lips on hers. So, yes, she did want him.

When she opened her eyes, Amy was a dark silhouette in the unlit interior. Emma hoped she looked the same to her sister because she knew the blush on her face would tell Amy the truth.

She was always honest with Amy no matter how hard it might be at times. She had prided herself on that openness. Now Charles Hawthorne was the cause of her first untruth to her sister. Just another thing to hold against the man. She nearly sobbed in regret.

They did not speak the rest of the drive.

When the coach stopped, Amy bolted from her seat and out of the door. Emma alighted and saw Amy had used the key in her reticule to let herself into the dark house. Now there was a wedge between them when they needed each other the most.

She turned to the coach driver and offered him the money. ‘Thank you.’

‘No need, ma’am. ‘Is Lordship paid me.’ The driver gave her a gap-toothed grin, indicating the amount had been more than adequate.

Emma forced a smile and turned away. She wanted to push her money into the man’s hand if only to prove to herself that she did not need or appreciate Charles Hawthorne’s act of generosity. But that would solve nothing. She had to control herself.

The glow from the single candle Gordon kept burning when she and Amy were out cast a puddle of pale light at her feet. The rest of the street was dark. No one fashionable lived here to be entertaining in the small hours of the morning.

She shivered in the cool air and followed Amy into the house.

Charles stood watching the hackney coach long after it disappeared around the corner. The tip he’d given the driver should ensure Emma Stockton and her sister got home safely and with promptness. It was the least he could do after causing the rift between the sisters.

He turned to look at Princess Lieven’s glittering mansion. It had been an impulsive decision to come here, based solely on boredom. He had wanted to irritate Emma Stockton by offering to escort them, and when that failed, he’d wanted to amuse himself by pursuing her at the ball. He had not realised how it would escalate.

Even he, spoiled and filled with ennui, had been uncomfortable with the argument between the sisters. He had underestimated Amy Stockton’s infatuation with him, something he rarely did. That’s what came of meddling with schoolroom chits.

It was bad enough that he had found himself reacting to Emma Stockton’s nearness. She was a prude and high in the instep, traits he did not care for. Yet, he had nearly kissed her.

It must be the scent of sweet peas she wore. He had always liked them. It could not be her.

Irritated with himself and his behaviour, he pivoted on his heel and strode down the street. A few minutes later, he remembered his tiger and phaeton were at Princess Lieven’s. He stalked back and signaled a footman to call for his carriage.

Chapter Five

H aving slept suitably late to compensate for not getting to bed until six in the morning, Charles sauntered into White’s Club in the early afternoon. He moved towards the bow window where Beau Brummell, Alvanley and others had once sat to watch any female brave enough to walk along St. James.

He nodded to several acquaintances and angled to where his brother sat near the window reading The Times. Charles sank into the overstuffed leather chair closest to George. His brother was tall and slim with golden brown hair and matching eyes. Their sister took after George.

Charles stretched out his long legs with a sigh of pleasure. ‘What are you doing away from your beautiful bride and bouncing baby Robert?’

Lord George Hawthorne looked up and smiled at his brother. ‘I was reading the paper, quietly minding my own business.’ His gaze shifted to his brother’s coat, and he rolled his eyes. ‘And what are you doing with a sweet pea in your lapel?’

Charles grinned. ‘Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.’

‘Just like old times, huh?’ George set down the paper he wasn’t going to read for awhile. ‘I left Rose and Robert in the company of Juliet. Adam is at Tattersall’s looking at horseflesh. They plan on touring the Continent, and he wants to take his own conveniences.’

‘Oh, Adam.’ Charles scowled as he thought of his disreputable brother-in-law.

‘Still on that note?’ George shook his head. ‘He’s reformed, and he makes her happy.’

Charles’s scowl lightened marginally. ‘True on both counts, but that doesn’t mean I have to like the situation.’

‘What about you and the Stockton chit? Is your behaviour any better?’

Charles bristled. ‘You are no one to be talking about the Stocktons and how we treat the women in that family.’

George paled but he held Charles’s gaze. ‘You are right. I did poorly by Miss Stockton. The only redeeming feature of that incident—which I tell myself—is that I did not love her and she didn’t love me. Ours was to be a marriage of convenience. I am now married for love and happier than I have ever been, and Miss Stockton has the chance to find a man who will value her like I could not have.’ He stared into space for a minute. ‘Love is a powerful emotion. I found just how much it could change me.’ He looked back at Charles. ‘I hope some day you have the experience.’

‘Yes, yes.’

Charles found himself unwilling to talk about Emma Stockton and her finding a suitable marriage partner. Something about the topic made his stomach twist. Nor did he want to talk about finding love. So far, he was not impressed with what love had made his siblings do.

‘As for the sweet pea in my lapel.’ He grinned again. ‘I am performing a test.’

One of George’s golden brows rose.

‘Yes, a test. To see how many sheep there are in the ton.’

‘Sheep in the ton? In other words, how many men will have a sweet pea in their lapel by this evening or tomorrow.’ George shook his head. ‘You are incorrigible.’

Charles made a mocking bow from his sitting position. ‘I try.’

Even as he bantered with George, raised voices caught Charles’s attention. Glancing in the direction of the commotion, he saw a group sitting by a window. One of the men was Bertram Stockton. All Charles’s former ire at his brother-in-law, the injustices done to Miss Emma Stockton and young Green several nights before, and other emotions he could no more describe than he could banish, surfaced.

‘What is that good-for-nothing doing here?’

George looked over his shoulder. ‘You mean Stockton?’

‘Who else?’

‘I imagine the same thing we are. Looking for company and entertainment on an otherwise boring afternoon.’

‘He shouldn’t even be in London.’

George’s eyebrow rose again. ‘And why is that?’

Charles gave him a scathing look. ‘Because the man is in debt—he’s deep in the River Tick and likely going deeper. He will make it impossible for Amy Stockton or Miss Stockton to make suitable marriages because of the family debt they will expect their prospective husbands to pay off.’

‘Ah, that explains your interest and irritation.’ George drawled the words as he put one hand up to cover the smile he couldn’t stop. ‘And what about your past? Aren’t you the pot calling the kettle black?’

Charles sat up straight. ‘My peccadilloes are in the past. And what I did only impacted on me. My losses made no difference to your future or Juliet’s. I hurt no one.’ A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘I learned the hard way and don’t want to see anyone else in the position I was in several years ago.’

‘I am sorry for that.’

Charles knew George blamed himself for the plight Charles had got himself into. ‘Don’t be. I did it to myself and I am doing my best not to do it again. My business interests pay me well even though trade is not considered respectable by the ton. I do not gamble anymore and I stay within my means. It was a hard lesson to learn.’

‘I know. I didn’t know any other way to help you.’

‘There wasn’t.’

Still, if he let the memories take him, they were painful. He did his best to keep them at bay. Just as he stayed away from gambling dens, knowing how hard it was to resist temptation. The other night had been the first time in three years that he had entered a gaming establishment. But his club was different. More than gaming went on here.

‘I am merely out to make enough money to do the things that are important to me.’

‘And those things are…’

Charles waved a hand to indicate White’s. ‘Belonging here. Good horseflesh. My estate…’

‘And women.’ George’s voice held a hint of exasperation.

Charles’s eyes flashed. ‘You are certainly on your high horse today. I shouldn’t think what I do is any concern of yours.’

George smiled gently. ‘Everything someone in my family does is of concern to me. I care for you.’

‘I am not duelling and I am not breaking any laws.’ Charles felt as though he were in the witness box defending himself to a judge. ‘Nor am I going to mend my current ways.’ He sighed. ‘I have made the only major change I intend to.’

George nodded. ‘And I know it was hard for you. I admire your strength. But think how hard it was for you and maybe you will find a little compassion in your heart for Bertram Stockton.’

‘I didn’t lose my family’s fortune and force my sister to put herself on the Marriage Mart to save us from ruin.’

‘True. Even when you lost everything, I was able to cover your debts. Today you are more careful with money than I am even if you are still reckless with women.’ He paused to consider. ‘But then, women encourage you shamelessly.’

Tired of the subject and more than a little defensive, Charles stood. ‘I am going to go and see what is going on.’

‘It really isn’t any of your business,’ George said reasonably.

Charles looked down at him, his black brows a V of ire. ‘Someone must stop the man from gambling away what he doesn’t have.’

‘That someone isn’t you,’ George said pointedly. ‘And you don’t know if they are gaming.’

Charles stared at his brother, knowing George was right. His impulsiveness and tendency to fight for the underdog—or in this case, underlady—had nearly put him into a position that was untenable for him and for the Stockton ladies. It was not as though he was engaged to either one of them or owed them more than common courtesy and manners required. No matter that baiting Miss Emma Stockton seemed to occupy more of his thoughts than it should.

He sat back down with a thud, his usual gracefulness gone. ‘You are right.’ Charles beckoned for one of the waiters. ‘A bottle of port.’

‘A little early isn’t it?’

‘No.’

As though the waiter’s movement had started a chain reaction, Bertram Stockton broke off whatever he was saying to the man beside him and looked at Charles. Their eyes met. Charles looked away without acknowledging the other man, giving Stockton the cut direct. He was being unreasonable, but couldn’t help his anger over the burden Emma Stockton bore. She was an underdog.

The port arrived at that instant and Charles sniffed the cork, approved the wine and then accepted the glass poured by the waiter. He took a long swallow, wishing he could wash away the bad taste left in his mouth from Stockton’s presence, and knowing he couldn’t. So he watched the man who was to blame for Emma Stockton’s situation.

Charles finished his wine and poured another glass. He didn’t even like Emma Stockton. He merely enjoyed irritating her and even that was to stop. He had no wish to further compromise either her or her younger sister. Nor did he want to be responsible for another rift between the sisters.

Perhaps it was time to stop provoking Miss Stockton.

Bertram Stockton said something to the man he was with and turned and headed toward Charles. Charles’s eyes narrowed to slits as he watched Stockton approach. The man had nerve after receiving a direct cut.

‘Charles Hawthorne.’

Charles gazed up at the man who had a paler version of Emma Stockton’s red hair and hazel eyes instead of Miss Stockton’s striking grey ones. He was in no mood to be polite.

‘I don’t believe we have anything to discuss.’ Charles’s tone would have chilled every bottle of wine White’s had.

Stockton turned an unbecoming shade of red. ‘I am not here to discuss anything with you.’

‘Good,’ Charles drawled. ‘Go away.’

‘Gentlemen,’ George interjected, ‘it is time my brother and I left.’ He stood. ‘Good to see you, Stockton.’

Stockton turned his attention to the man who had all but jilted his oldest sister. ‘I can’t say the same, Hawthorne.’ He turned back to Charles. ‘As for you. Leave my sister alone.’

Charles stood. His height and lean physique gave him the advantage over the other man. ‘And what if I don’t?’ He insolently took another sip of port.

‘Then we will meet on the field of honour.’

Charles nearly spewed the wine at Stockton’s absurdity. ‘You jest. From what I hear, you can’t fence and you can’t fire a pistol from ten feet and hit the target, let alone fight with your fists. What field of honour do you propose we meet on?’

Every word had been meant to insult, and the mottled red on Stockton’s face gave Charles a modicum of satisfaction. When George put his hand on Charles’s shoulder and squeezed hard, Charles didn’t need the reminder that his behaviour was irrational, not to mention rude to the point of being inexcusable. He already knew that. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

On one level, Charles sensed the attention of every man within sight. Still, he focused on the man in front of him as time seemed to stand still while he waited for Stockton’s response.

Stockton was tall and thin, with a dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He looked like a youth even though Charles knew him to be at least George’s age. His clothes were of the latest style. His Hessians gleamed in the watery sunlight coming through the nearby window. A quizzing glass hung from his waistcoat pocket and his gloves were pristine. His shirt points were high enough to make it impossible for him to turn his head. A dandy.

Stockton took one of those immaculate gloves from his hand, the gesture not as smooth as Charles knew the man would have liked. The fine kid-leather stuck as though Stockton’s palm sweated.

A tiny cruel smile formed on Charles’s perfect mouth. Anticipation tightened his gut. He refused to think about the emotion or wonder why he felt it. He just waited.

A quick swipe and Stockton’s white glove slapped Charles’s jaw. The impact made a sound like that of a shot, and though it wasn’t loud, Charles was sure every man in the room heard it.

‘That is for introducing my sisters to Harriette Wilson. The entire town is talking about them.’

Fury leached the colour from Charles’s face. Stockton was right, he shouldn’t have introduced the women to the courtesan and particularly not in Rotten Row. Still, a challenge was a challenge.

‘Pistols,’ Charles stated without hesitation.

As the one challenged, it was his right to choose the weapon. He would have preferred fists for the sheer pleasure of the physical exertion, but that was more ungentlemanly than even he was prepared to go. Nor was it considered a duel, and this was a duel.

‘Send your second ’round.’ Stockton’s voice was flat, his face so pale the freckles stood out like splotches. ‘Do not see my sister from this point on.’

Charles’s smile widened, showing white, predatory teeth in a slash. ‘I shall do as I please, when I please, Stockton. Best you learn that now.’

Stockton pivoted on the heel of his boot and strode off, not sparing a glance for anyone else. Charles wondered that the man left what appeared to be a game of chance, a pastime Stockton preferred before all others.

‘The fox is in with the hens now,’ George said dryly. ‘I’ve seen you do some harebrained things before, but this takes the wager. Whatever got into you?’

Charles shrugged and swallowed down the remainder of the port in one long gulp that made his Adam’s apple move above the perfect crease of his cravat. ‘The man irritates me. Always has.’

George frowned. ‘You don’t even know the man above a passing acquaintance.’

Charles looked sideways at his brother as he carefully set the empty glass on the table. ‘I know about the man. That is enough.’

George shook his head. ‘Don’t you mean, you know his sister?’

Charles glanced around, saw all the attention still on them and motioned with his hand. ‘White’s isn’t the place to discuss this.’

George moved to the door. ‘This wasn’t the place for any of this.’

They collected their beaver hats, canes and top coats from the servant and exited onto St. James Street. Charles set his hat at an angle and swung his ebony cane with its silver tip. Now that it was done, he felt a fierce gladness. There was no going back from a duel of honour.

‘It isn’t your place.’ George’s sober voice intruded on Charles’s thoughts. ‘Stockton had the right of it. You have been paying a too marked attention toward Amy Stockton. She’s barely out of the schoolroom. It isn’t like you to pursue someone of her innocence. Nor is it proper. And that is just for starters. I won’t mention the introduction which is indeed the latest crim con.’

Heat rose in Charles’s cheeks. ‘Was it right for you to pursue Rose when you were engaged to Miss Stockton?’

‘No.’

‘Then leave off, George. Stockton is a cad who has wagered his family fortune until there is nothing left. Emma Stockton became engaged to you in hopes you’d bail her family out of debt. When you put her in the untenable position of having to call off the engagement because of your far from respectable behaviour, you put paid to that plan. Now she is considered the spinster on the shelf and Miss Amy is the fatted calf set on the Marriage Mart as the sacrifice for her father and brother’s vices.’

George’s voice cut sarcastically through Charles’s tirade. ‘And you have appointed yourself seducer and knight in shining armour all in one package? You’re overdoing it.’

Some of the jauntiness left Charles’s walk. He knew George was right. What George had done had been wrong, but that didn’t make what Charles had just done right.

George continued. ‘Not to mention what this duel will do to Miss Amy and Miss Stockton’s reputations when it gets about. As you say, Miss Stockton is on the shelf, but Miss Amy had the opportunity to make an advantageous marriage.’

‘Had being the key word?’

Disgust at George’s honesty and his own stupidity made Charles as sarcastic as his brother. He had botched things up, but there was no going back. If he retracted his acceptance of the duel, he’d be branded a coward and his standing in the ton ruined. All the social pleasures he enjoyed would be denied him. His way of life would be over. He was not ready to give that up merely to keep from meeting Bertram Stockton at dawn.

They were halfway to George’s town house when the rain started. ‘Bloody nasty ending to a bloody nasty day,’ Charles groused.

George looked at his younger brother, who had never been known for his patience and often known for his impassioned impetuosity. ‘You can still back down.’

‘No. I can’t.’ Charles stared at the rain-slicked cobbles, feeling the water drip from the brim of his beaver hat. He slapped his thigh with the ebony cane and cursed his own stupidity. ‘It would ruin me.’

‘I see.’

Charles stopped and rounded on his brother. ‘No, you don’t. You have everything. I have to make my own way in the world. I am doing that through trade. Already I am on the fringes of acceptable society. If I were branded a coward, not even my male friends would acknowledge me. Bertram Stockton isn’t worth the sacrifice.’

George’s eyes widened and he stepped back. ‘I didn’t realise you felt that way. I can arrange a larger settlement for you.’

Charles sighed and ran a hand down his face, wiping away the water that dripped from the brim of his hat. ‘No. No. I don’t envy you the inheritance. Never have. But I never want to repeat my stay in the Fleet. And my business investments will ensure that.’ He paused. ‘If I back down, I will be a laughing stock. It is bad enough already being a criminal.’

His mouth twisted. He turned away and stepped forward, trying to ignore the fact that things were getting too complicated.

A carriage pulled up alongside them and one of the windows opened. Adam Glenfinning leaned out.

‘Care for a ride?’

George grinned. ‘You are in the nick of time. I can feel the wet sinking through my coat, and I know it has ruined my boots.’

Charles scowled at the man who had recently married his sister. ‘I’ll walk, thank you.’

Adam looked at him as though he wanted to say something very scathing. ‘Suit yourself, old man.’

George glanced at Charles. ‘I’ll walk with you then.’

‘No,’ Charles said. ‘Go with Adam. Just because I am deranged enough to stay in this downpour doesn’t mean you should.’

George studied his brother for a long moment. ‘I’ll see you at the house then.’

Charles nodded and waved them on, continuing to trudge through the wet. The last thing he should have done was to provoke Bertram Stockton into challenging him. He had honestly not thought the man had the stomach to do so. He had misjudged him and now he had to face the man and delope for he could not in good conscience shoot the man when he was right. And he had to consider what to do about the reputations of the two Stockton sisters. He was the worst thing that could have happened to them.

He groaned. This was complicated.

Inside the carriage, George sat opposite Adam and took off his wet beaver. ‘Ruined.’

‘I wasn’t in the nick of time?’ Adam said with a sardonic twist of very fine lips.

His brown eyes held a glint of amusement that went very well with the deep creases bracketing them. He was a large man with not an ounce of fat on him. Unlike his wife’s brothers, he was not a style setter, but his clothes were wellmade and well-fitted.

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