waking moment, and likely every sleeping moment as well. Because if he looked like that after giving her pleasure, she couldn't imagine his happiness when he found his as well.
She could not afford to find out.
Chapter 7
Her opponent, Lord Chestershire , aimed his small eyes in her direction and sneered with triumph. Marsh was there as well, licking his lips at her. Emma wished that Somerhart would make himself useful and lurk behind her chair again, but he had wandered off an hour before.
Marsh leaned close and spoke to her breasts. "It appears your luck has taken a sad turn, Lady Denmore . May I offer the comfort of my arm for a stroll about the room?"
Idiotic cur. Even Chestershire slanted the man an incredulous look. If there had remained any doubt among society that Somerhart was her lover, it had disappeared over dinner. They'd been seated at nearly opposite ends of the table, but the distance hadn't stopped Somerhart from staking his claim. He'd aimed several smoldering looks in her direction, not to mention the occasional wicked smile. Some of the guests had stared at her in openmouthed wonder. Winterhart was not known for displays of affection.
But Lord Marsh was apparently not averse to making open advances to a duke's mistress. Perhaps he just considered it another gamble. And he was right about one thing; Emma's luck hadn't held. She'd lost exactly one hundred and eighteen quid in the past hour. Marsh might as well have been poking at a badger with a sharp stick.
"Well?" he drawled, face angling closer to her cleavage. "Are you available for a bit of. . . exercise?"
"Lord Marsh . . ." She spoke through clenched teeth, though she smiled for the audience. "Kindly remove your face from my bodice."
He drew back and shot her an arrogant look. "You were not so cold this morning."
The conversation at the table stopped at his overloud words. Emma's jaw creaked. "I was on a winning streak this morning, Marsh. I could afford to be indulgent with lesser players. Excuse me, gentlemen."
"Fool," she heard Chestershire whisper as she walked away. "You could at least be quiet about it." Marsh was still protesting when Emma quit the room.
The tension in her shoulders had built up to a steady, sharp ache over the day. Not only did she have to deal with her unrelenting thoughts about Somerhart and temptation, but her fellow guests had begun to treat her differently. At luncheon, the few other ladies attending had ceased to speak whenever she drew near. They'd smiled benignly, so it wasn't that she'd fallen completely out of favor, just that their conversations were either about her or Somerhart or both.
Since dinnertime, the men had begun acting strangely too, sneaking sideways looks when she passed. Emma was growing worried that someone had espied them in the card room this morning. But no, she told herself, there wasn't enough tittering.
Her annoyance edging to anger, Emma swore off the tables for an hour and headed for the conservatory. It opened onto the music room, where delicate piano playing signaled the presence of ladies. Real ladies. Emma stole through the sweet green leaves of orange trees and orchids. The curtained glass doors of the music room were closed, so she eased the latch up and let the door fall open an inch. Music chimed into the air, followed quickly by the chatter of female voices.
There weren't many women in attendance at Moulter's retreat: most were wives of some of the older gentlemen, though there were also two well-to-do widows and a dowager countess. The countess was quite fond of piquet. And gossip, it seemed. Her voice rang out above the others.
"I can't begin to imagine what it is about her."
A gruff male voice interrupted. "Just what I've been wondering all evening."
"Well," the dowager countess pushed on, "there must be something, though she seems exceedingly average. He's been the Duke of Winterhart for over a decade, now suddenly he's thawing as quickly as
She could not afford to find out.
Chapter 7
Her opponent, Lord Chestershire , aimed his small eyes in her direction and sneered with triumph. Marsh was there as well, licking his lips at her. Emma wished that Somerhart would make himself useful and lurk behind her chair again, but he had wandered off an hour before.
Marsh leaned close and spoke to her breasts. "It appears your luck has taken a sad turn, Lady Denmore . May I offer the comfort of my arm for a stroll about the room?"
Idiotic cur. Even Chestershire slanted the man an incredulous look. If there had remained any doubt among society that Somerhart was her lover, it had disappeared over dinner. They'd been seated at nearly opposite ends of the table, but the distance hadn't stopped Somerhart from staking his claim. He'd aimed several smoldering looks in her direction, not to mention the occasional wicked smile. Some of the guests had stared at her in openmouthed wonder. Winterhart was not known for displays of affection.
But Lord Marsh was apparently not averse to making open advances to a duke's mistress. Perhaps he just considered it another gamble. And he was right about one thing; Emma's luck hadn't held. She'd lost exactly one hundred and eighteen quid in the past hour. Marsh might as well have been poking at a badger with a sharp stick.
"Well?" he drawled, face angling closer to her cleavage. "Are you available for a bit of. . . exercise?"
"Lord Marsh . . ." She spoke through clenched teeth, though she smiled for the audience. "Kindly remove your face from my bodice."
He drew back and shot her an arrogant look. "You were not so cold this morning."
The conversation at the table stopped at his overloud words. Emma's jaw creaked. "I was on a winning streak this morning, Marsh. I could afford to be indulgent with lesser players. Excuse me, gentlemen."
"Fool," she heard Chestershire whisper as she walked away. "You could at least be quiet about it." Marsh was still protesting when Emma quit the room.
The tension in her shoulders had built up to a steady, sharp ache over the day. Not only did she have to deal with her unrelenting thoughts about Somerhart and temptation, but her fellow guests had begun to treat her differently. At luncheon, the few other ladies attending had ceased to speak whenever she drew near. They'd smiled benignly, so it wasn't that she'd fallen completely out of favor, just that their conversations were either about her or Somerhart or both.
Since dinnertime, the men had begun acting strangely too, sneaking sideways looks when she passed. Emma was growing worried that someone had espied them in the card room this morning. But no, she told herself, there wasn't enough tittering.
Her annoyance edging to anger, Emma swore off the tables for an hour and headed for the conservatory. It opened onto the music room, where delicate piano playing signaled the presence of ladies. Real ladies. Emma stole through the sweet green leaves of orange trees and orchids. The curtained glass doors of the music room were closed, so she eased the latch up and let the door fall open an inch. Music chimed into the air, followed quickly by the chatter of female voices.
There weren't many women in attendance at Moulter's retreat: most were wives of some of the older gentlemen, though there were also two well-to-do widows and a dowager countess. The countess was quite fond of piquet. And gossip, it seemed. Her voice rang out above the others.
"I can't begin to imagine what it is about her."
A gruff male voice interrupted. "Just what I've been wondering all evening."
"Well," the dowager countess pushed on, "there must be something, though she seems exceedingly average. He's been the Duke of Winterhart for over a decade, now suddenly he's thawing as quickly as
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