The Lord Pretender, page 14
“Because I defeated the man.”
Simon stared at her for a solid ten seconds before expelling a short but loud laugh laced with incredulity. “In all seriousness, what happened?”
“As I said. Apparently, you are the new club champion. And you are welcome.”
“But how…” He shook his head vigorously. “You don’t know how to box. You said so.”
“But I can dance.”
“What the deuce does that mean?”
“I don’t quite know what happened. Ask your friend, the viscount. He witnessed the entire affair.”
“Well,” he breathed. “You never cease to surprise me. Which makes you doubly dangerous, given your vendetta against me and all my friends.”
“May you never forget that.” She laughed, and he joined her in mirth. Surprisingly.
“How can I? Your lovely face appears in every mirror and your magnificent form in every glass window, and I have a sudden predilection for causing destruction with your fascinating hips.”
“And I keep smacking your impressive forehead against door lintels, so we are even.”
He looked up at her and grinned wickedly. “And what of our agreement about respecting each other’s bodily privacy? Have you kept the pact, or have you strayed?”
Emma swallowed hard. She had definitely strayed. But his private parts felt so interesting. Before she could answer, he grunted a laugh unlike anything she would have emitted. “You have not kept the pact, I see.”
“How can you tell?”
“The general redness of your cheeks.” He shook his head but did not appear to be offended. “Do you have any questions?”
She tipped her head back and forth, uncomfortable, but she did have questions. “Is it always so sensitive? And responsive?”
“Always. Your functions are slower to respond, I notice, but no less sensitive.”
She glared at him in shock. “You have touched me? There?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, er, merely wondered what might pleasure your—uh…not just yours—but any woman’s…”
As his voice faded, she almost turned away, but considered his plight. It was the same as hers, and she had behaved no differently. “Fine, then. Do you have any questions?”
He started to speak, paused, and then plowed ahead. “Yesterday, as I was climbing into the carriage and you grabbed my wrist. I felt a…I don’t know…a pull. A tightening of the lower abdomen. And it was…not unpleasant. What was that?”
She knew exactly what it was. She also knew that ladies never spoke of such things, especially to male companions. But why? Were women not allowed sexual attraction? Then the horror of what he’d said struck her. He had felt sexually attracted to her! In his body!
What the devil?
“Did I offend you?” he said.
“How…”
“Your cheeks. Redder still. Dead giveaway.”
She fumed, but only for a moment. Then she recalled how she’d seen her own body imbued with Simon’s confidence. How was that any different? “No. Not offended. Just mildly shocked. But I think I understand. Yesterday, I felt…”
When the words trailed away, Simon nodded. They closed the gap between them by half again, just before encountering two gentlemen and a pair of ladies approaching. The group moved to the side of the walkway and the men doffed their hats while the women dropped brief curtsies.
“My lord,” they said. The eyes of the ladies, though, followed Simon—in Emma’s body—and cast mild disdain. Simon appeared not to notice. But Emma did, and it infuriated her. While reaching toward the peak of the mountain, she had been cast down for the sin of having a father whose vices badly outpaced his virtues. She had been overlooked and degraded for more than two years, and now by complete strangers. She stalked onward though, and the conversation between her and Simon lapsed into silence. Fifty steps on, another pair of gentlemen approached, though more immaculately dressed than the previous party. She heard Simon’s intake of breath.
“What is it?” she whispered sidelong.
“Marsden and his eager protégé, the Viscount Witherington. Prometheans with sordid reputations. Men unworthy of their titles.”
She recognized Marsden’s name. He was the baron involved with smugglers, or so his servants believed. “What do I do?”
“Just nod and say nothing.”
Emma did as Simon instructed and simply nodded. The older and portlier of the two men halted and swept lascivious eyes over Emma’s female form. “Look, Witherington. He does not introduce his friend. Either he has found a new maid or a new mistress.”
“She clearly sports the form of the latter,” said Witherington as he consumed Emma’s figure in a manner similar to Marsden, only seemingly more hopeful.
Without thinking, Emma grabbed Simon’s hand and pulled it into the crook of her elbow. “Gentlemen, may I present Miss Emma Watts, daughter of the late Lord Heathkirk. And now you may both go to hell.”
The lords must have thought it a grand joke, for they laughed heartily in Emma’s wake. She didn’t know if they were laughing with her or at her, but she wanted neither.
…
When Emma trapped Simon’s hand in her elbow as Marsden and Witherington approached, conflicting reactions went to war within him, fighting a bloody conflict without quarter. He wanted to yank his hand free in shock, and while he was at it, pop Marsden in the nose on Emma’s behalf. But that would mean letting go of Emma, and something about the intimacy of the gesture compelled him to maintain a grip. When Emma set down the lords with the precision of a country hog butcher, the battle within him reached a fever pitch. The latter reaction to hold on triumphed, but the former seized control of his vocal cords.
“People will talk,” he told her. She peered down at him with his face, features dripping affront.
“Will they? And such talk is disastrous to you, I suppose, because you would not be seen in public with a woman like me?”
“A woman like you?”
“Yes. From a disgraced family. Nothing to offer. Plain as milk.”
Simon planted his feet to bring Emma to a lurching halt. He lifted a finger of his free hand to impale the center of her chest. “You must never again refer to yourself as plain in my presence, do you hear? Did you not see how Marsden practically violated your body with his eyes? Though he is an utter oaf, he sees what I see. What you fail to see.”
“And what do you see?” she murmured.
Simon blinked softly as his flash of annoyance subsided. “When I called you a goddess, I meant it. I keep waiting for Olympus to recall you to the heights where you belong.”
Emma stared with disbelief behind blue eyes. She nodded once. “I will try.”
“Good.”
“And shall I release your hand from my elbow?”
“No,” he said. And then surprising himself further, he added, “I rather like it.”
A smile lit her face. It was his face, but clearly Emma’s expression. “As do I.”
“Then let us give them hell together.”
They continued walking, passing many of Simon’s acquaintances and a few of Emma’s along the path as Dodie skipped behind with the ambling Mrs. Seville. Simon could not help but notice the sidelong glances, ranging from, “who is this threadbare woman walking with Lord Blackburn” to “how does Emma Watts have the gall to show her face in the company of an earl?” He found himself enjoying both reactions equally. In other circumstances, if he had known of Emma’s family disgrace, would he have been caught dead walking alongside her in public? With a fleeting grimace, he realized that he might not have—if for no other reason than to avoid the wrath of his mother and the inevitable confrontation that might shatter his pledge to his dead father. To say that she would disapprove was to call St. Paul’s Cathedral simply a church. It missed the scale entirely. How much of his lifelong and ongoing behavior had been driven by fear of his mother? Of whom she might hurt because of his actions? Of how she might trap him into submission? Those questions had been nagging him of late, thanks to his new and unique perspective.
“I hope I am not embarrassing you,” Emma said, interrupting his thoughts.
“You aren’t. Why do you say so?”
She nodded toward him. “Because I know my own face, and the expression on it appears pained.”
He sighed. “I am pained, but not because of you.”
“Because of your mother, then?”
He glanced up at Emma sharply. “How did you guess?”
She chuckled, but in a way that only Emma would. “Because the same thought has occurred to me whenever we pass someone. What would the countess say if she saw us hand in elbow, strolling through the heart of the beau monde without apology?”
“It doesn’t matter what the old dragon thinks,” said a small voice behind them. Simon jumped with a start to find that Dodie had abandoned Mrs. Seville and had caught up to them. He blinked rapidly.
“Dodie. How long have you been walking just behind us?”
She grinned wide. “Not long. Why are you holding hands? Are you courting?”
Simon yanked his hand away as Emma rapidly relinquished it. “Of course not,” he said with a stutter. “I am your uncle’s employee.”
“Indeed,” added Emma with too much emphasis. “A mere hireling.”
Dodie’s grin faded slightly. “That’s too bad. I like you together, even as you are.”
“What do you mean by ‘as you are’?” said Emma with alarm.
When Dodie skipped down the path without answering the question, Emma put a hand to her forehead. “You are right, my lord. She knows.”
Simon shook his head. “It seems so. And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Stop calling me ‘my lord.’”
“Ah. Because we must maintain the ruse.”
“No,” he said. “Because my close friends call me Simon.”
Emma cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Are we now close friends?”
“I believe so, given that we have the run of each other’s bodies.”
“Despite my intention to ruin you?”
He laughed, too loud and too long. “Yes, despite that. What is a friendship without a little deadly rivalry for sport?”
“You consider this sport? Just a simple game?”
“A game, yes.” He shook his head. “But not simple. You are the most dangerous opponent I have ever faced, friend or foe.”
Disbelief once again seized Emma’s expression. “More dangerous than your mother?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
He stared straight ahead to gather his reasoning. “Because the countess is predictable in her subtle savagery. You, however, are…”
She waited ten seconds before prompting him. “What am I?”
“Unexpected,” he said.
“Is that a good thing?”
“In my world, it is the best of things.”
They continued onward in light conversation, trying not to lose Dodie ahead or Mrs. Seville behind. And though they were walking an unencumbered path, Simon experienced the distinct feeling that they had just crossed a great divide.
Chapter Twenty
Emma spent Saturday and Sunday practicing the fine art of avoidance. She avoided the staff as best she could, limiting interactions to as few words as possible. She resisted the urge to sneak to Red Lion Square to face Simon. Her ongoing bafflement over the emotional walk in the park made that resistance easier. She more or less hid from Dodie and remained taciturn at supper and curt at bedtime. She did not venture out, other than to the courtyard late in the evenings to gather fresh air. Another week of interactions with Simon, in the guise of tutoring sessions, lay before her, and then a meeting with the reclusive scientist, Armistead. And after…who knew? She worried how Simon was faring, though. He had fewer places to hide at Number Thirty-Seven. Regardless, Emma’s strategy proved effective as Sunday came and went without incident or discovery.
Then the wheels fell off spectacularly.
Emma rose Monday morning with the sun as was her custom, broke her fast early, and found a book to read in the library. At nine o’clock, she sent the Blackburn coach to fetch Simon at Red Lion Square and asked Mrs. Seville to begin rousing Dodie from bed. She had not finished the first page when Hinton appeared in the doorway.
“My lord.”
He wore a familiar expression—restrained terror. Emma sighed and snapped the book shut. “Has the countess come calling?”
Relief crossed his features. Nobody wanted to be the bearer of bad news. “Yes. Shall I show her in?”
“Why not? I haven’t had a good tussle yet today.”
Emma stood when the countess flowed into the library and bore down on her. Instead of mauling Emma, Simon’s mother seized her hands and rose on tiptoes to peck Emma’s cheek.
“My glorious son. You look well. Then again, you always do, given that you inherited my looks and not your father’s.”
Emma cocked an eyebrow at the woman’s self-assured superiority. Two could play that game. She adjusted her cravat and settled languidly back in her chair. “Perhaps you might explain the purpose of your visit?”
The countess eyed him coolly. “May I sit?”
“As you wish.”
The dragon perched on the edge of the library’s lone settee, her spine bolt straight and purple plumes grasping forward over her head. “You seem unusually blunt this morning, so allow me to reciprocate. I have planned a dress ball and I have issued invitations to every diamond of the first water to be had this Season, including Lady Cecilia.”
“Wonderful. I hope you all have a lovely evening.”
The eyes of the countess narrowed nearly imperceptibly, given away by the fine lines that appeared on either side. “Don’t be obtuse, Simon.”
“My apologies. I was trying for subtle disregard.”
The countess leaned toward Emma, her eyes flashing. Emma expected a tirade. Instead, the woman produced a warm smile that impressed her. She could usually recognize a forced or false smile, but this one looked almost genuine, no doubt the product of a lifetime of practice in the art of getting one’s way.
“My son,” she said. “I can see that you are in a disagreeable mood, so let me be clear. I require your attendance at my ball. The promise has been made and your absence would blot our family name.”
Emma’s first instinct was to decline with a smile and see how much the countess would squirm, beg, or rage. However, inconvenient reason intervened. Hadn’t Simon admitted his inability to defy his mother’s schemes? And if she acted out of character, might that expose the bizarre truth? She began to sigh but shifted to a low growl, remembering that she was still the earl.
“I wouldn’t dream of blotting the family name. When is this glorious event to occur?”
“Friday.”
For a moment, Emma’s mask nearly slipped. Friday! Four days hence? And before they could meet with Armistead? She invited calm with a steady breath. It was time to think and fight, not to cower and run. Within seconds, a brilliant notion exploded in her brain. “Very well. However, I have one stipulation.”
“A stipulation?”
“Yes. You must add Miss Watts to your guest list.”
Emma knew the suggestion was risky. However, she couldn’t imagine maneuvering through an entire ball without Simon’s inside knowledge of the countess’s house, staff, and connections. Simon’s mother clearly had other concerns.
“The tutor? That woman?”
“The very same. Her father was a baron, after all.”
“That does not matter. Her family is disgraced and destitute, and perfectly unsuitable for my affair. And she is a tutor, for God’s sake. A hired servant. I might employ her to serve hors-d’oeuvres, nothing more.”
Emma unwound Simon’s tall frame and straightened it. “Those are my terms. Both of us or neither, dear mother.”
The nostrils of the countess flared, and Emma half expected a spout of flame to emerge. However, she restored that false smile instead, uncanny in its authenticity. “Very well, then. I will invite your servant girl. In fact, watching her compete against her worthier peers might prove an entertaining diversion.”
“Prepare to be surprised, then.”
In truth, Emma worried how Simon might react when he heard the news. She could imagine anything from glee to despair and all points in between. Meanwhile, the countess peered at Emma, her eyes narrowing, seeking, searching, sifting. Feeling suddenly exposed, Emma stood from the chair.
“Well, Mother. Thank you for the visit. I shall look forward to your ball with great relish. Now, if you might be so kind, I am expecting another visitor and would not wish to ignore you.”
The countess rose slowly in a continuous graceful motion. Her painted-on smile had diminished to a smirk. “If I did not know better, I would suspect that you are scheming against me.”
“I have learned from the best.”
The countess nodded appraisingly. “Perhaps you have. But I must be off. Much to do, many to see.”
She swept from the room without sparing her son a second look, and the closing of the great door marked her departure from the house. Emma put her fingertips to her temples to massage them. The woman really was a schemer! No wonder Simon held such a low opinion of Society women after having witnessed his mother’s plots every day of his life for more than two decades.
“What have you done to my uncle?”
Emma jumped with a start and spun to find Dodie lurking just inside the library doorway. Emma clasped her hands at her waist to still the abrupt tremor.
“Dodie! There you are.”
The girl folded her arms. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. What have you done to Uncle Simon?”
Emma fumbled for a response. “What do you mean? I am your uncle.”
