her back to him, she cast him one last teasing look over her shoulders. “But don’t worry. You rank with the best of the men I’ve kissed, I assure you.” Then she strolled away, smiling to herself in triumph even as she prayed he wouldn’t follow her.
But Jordan was completely incapable of following her. What the devil? Who the deuce is that woman?
That seductress masquerading in Emily’s body had acted like one of the Fashionable Impures auditioning a new lover, not like the virginal innocent who’d kept him tossing restlessly in his bed for months now. He rubbed his lips. He could still taste her sweet, spiced breath and smell the lavender in her hair.
Lavender—Emily had smelled of lavender!
But many young women used lavender water. More to the point, could his sweet rector’s daughter have put on such a performance? She’d balked at telling one small lie. And she’d certainly never kissed like that.
Good God, he was hard as oak from that kiss. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped away thebeads of sweat on his brow. If she were Emily, where had she learned how to flirt and kiss and drive a man to utter distraction? He’d nearly deflowered her right here in Merrington’s garden.
Deflowered her! He snorted. As if that woman could possibly be a virgin. Emily Fairchild had most certainly been a virgin, but he had his doubts about Lady Emma.
Or had she merely been trying to confuse him? If it hadn’t been for that kiss, he would’ve sworn the woman was Emily. She tasted and looked and smelled like Emily. And she had a connection to Lord Nesfield.
His blood ran cold. Yes, there was that.
Muttering foul oaths under his breath, he adjusted his clothing to cover his still-obvious arousal and walked slowly toward the house. He glimpsed a human shape in the shadows of a nearby tree, but assumed it was another couple dallying in the dark garden, and walked on, deep in thought.
If it had been Emily, she’d been awfully stubborn in her lies. Could even Nesfield have coaxed the prim rector’s daughter into pretending to be his niece? And why? The man would need a strong reason for giving a nobody like Emily both a new identity and a lavish coming out.
A nasty thought cut viciously through his mind, stunning him with its ugliness. What if Emily were Nesfield’s mistress? Nesfield would never marry a rector’s daughter, but he might try to arrange an advantageous marriage for her once he was done with her…as payment for services rendered.
He shook his head. That was absurd. Nesfield could hardly have taken Emily as a mistress, then discarded her in two months’ time. Nor could Jordan believe that the Earl of Dundee and his wife would cooperate in such a scheme.
Nonetheless, Emily couldn’t have done this without Dundee’s cooperation. And Nesfield’s.
The thought of Nesfield and Emily plotting together was enough to make him doubt his suspicions. How could Emily, the girl who’d quoted scripture at him and refused to lie, be capable of such a deception?
But how could two women be so much alike? And how could he be attracted to them both?
Devil take her, whoever she is , he thought sourly as he climbed the steps to the balcony, then crossed to the ballroom. She’d knocked him back on his heels with her little display out there, then left him craving her voraciously.
He entered the clamor of the ballroom and paused, searching the roiling knots of dancers for the little chit. She’d infected him with some disease to make him want her like this—that was the only explanation for such insanity. If he had any sense at all, he’d leave at once and put her out of his mind.
Instead he stood there, scouring the room for a glimpse of her pearl-twined hair and shimmering white gown, the gown he’d pawed only minutes ago in his eagerness to taste her bare flesh.
“You look as if you’ve been hit on the head with a mallet,” came a familiar voice at his side.
He glowered at Ian’s grinning
But Jordan was completely incapable of following her. What the devil? Who the deuce is that woman?
That seductress masquerading in Emily’s body had acted like one of the Fashionable Impures auditioning a new lover, not like the virginal innocent who’d kept him tossing restlessly in his bed for months now. He rubbed his lips. He could still taste her sweet, spiced breath and smell the lavender in her hair.
Lavender—Emily had smelled of lavender!
But many young women used lavender water. More to the point, could his sweet rector’s daughter have put on such a performance? She’d balked at telling one small lie. And she’d certainly never kissed like that.
Good God, he was hard as oak from that kiss. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped away thebeads of sweat on his brow. If she were Emily, where had she learned how to flirt and kiss and drive a man to utter distraction? He’d nearly deflowered her right here in Merrington’s garden.
Deflowered her! He snorted. As if that woman could possibly be a virgin. Emily Fairchild had most certainly been a virgin, but he had his doubts about Lady Emma.
Or had she merely been trying to confuse him? If it hadn’t been for that kiss, he would’ve sworn the woman was Emily. She tasted and looked and smelled like Emily. And she had a connection to Lord Nesfield.
His blood ran cold. Yes, there was that.
Muttering foul oaths under his breath, he adjusted his clothing to cover his still-obvious arousal and walked slowly toward the house. He glimpsed a human shape in the shadows of a nearby tree, but assumed it was another couple dallying in the dark garden, and walked on, deep in thought.
If it had been Emily, she’d been awfully stubborn in her lies. Could even Nesfield have coaxed the prim rector’s daughter into pretending to be his niece? And why? The man would need a strong reason for giving a nobody like Emily both a new identity and a lavish coming out.
A nasty thought cut viciously through his mind, stunning him with its ugliness. What if Emily were Nesfield’s mistress? Nesfield would never marry a rector’s daughter, but he might try to arrange an advantageous marriage for her once he was done with her…as payment for services rendered.
He shook his head. That was absurd. Nesfield could hardly have taken Emily as a mistress, then discarded her in two months’ time. Nor could Jordan believe that the Earl of Dundee and his wife would cooperate in such a scheme.
Nonetheless, Emily couldn’t have done this without Dundee’s cooperation. And Nesfield’s.
The thought of Nesfield and Emily plotting together was enough to make him doubt his suspicions. How could Emily, the girl who’d quoted scripture at him and refused to lie, be capable of such a deception?
But how could two women be so much alike? And how could he be attracted to them both?
Devil take her, whoever she is , he thought sourly as he climbed the steps to the balcony, then crossed to the ballroom. She’d knocked him back on his heels with her little display out there, then left him craving her voraciously.
He entered the clamor of the ballroom and paused, searching the roiling knots of dancers for the little chit. She’d infected him with some disease to make him want her like this—that was the only explanation for such insanity. If he had any sense at all, he’d leave at once and put her out of his mind.
Instead he stood there, scouring the room for a glimpse of her pearl-twined hair and shimmering white gown, the gown he’d pawed only minutes ago in his eagerness to taste her bare flesh.
“You look as if you’ve been hit on the head with a mallet,” came a familiar voice at his side.
He glowered at Ian’s grinning
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