The Gentleman Rogue. Margaret McPhee

their mouths explored. He was hard for her, felt her thigh brush against his arousal, felt the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the slide of her hand beneath his jacket to stroke against his shirt, against his heart.

      And then her palm flattened, pressed against his chest to stay him.

      Their lips parted.

      ‘It is broad daylight, Ned Stratham!’ Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were dark with passion and shock. ‘Anyone might see us.’

      He twitched his scarred eyebrow.

      She shook her head as if she were chiding him, but she smiled as she got to her feet.

      He stood, too.

      A whistling sounded and a man’s figure appeared from the corner, trundling his barrow of fish along the road—Ernie Briggins, one of the Red Lion’s best customers. ‘Morning, Ned.’

      Ned gave a nod.

      Ernie’s eyes moved to Emma with speculation and a barely suppressed smile. ‘Morning, Emma.’

      ‘Morning, Ernie.’ Emma’s cheeks glowed pink.

      Ernie didn’t stop, just carried on his way, leaving behind him the lingering scent of cod and oysters and the faint trill of his reedy whistle.

      Emma said nothing, just raised her brows and looked at Ned with a ‘told you so’ expression.

      ‘I better get you safely home, before any more rogues accost you.’

      ‘I think I will manage more safely alone, thank you. Stay and enjoy your view.’ Her eyes held to his. ‘I insist.’ She backed away. Smiled. Turned to leave.

      ‘Emma.’

      She stopped. Glanced round.

      ‘I’m going out of town for the next week or so. I have some business to attend to. But I’ll be back.’

      ‘Developed a compulsion for the porter, have you?’

      ‘A compulsion for something else, it would seem,’ he said quietly. ‘We need to talk when I return, Emma.’

      ‘That sounds serious.’

      ‘It is.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Will you wait for me?’

      There was a silence as her eyes studied his. ‘I am not going anywhere, Ned Stratham.’

      Their eyes held, serious and intent, for a second longer. ‘I will wait,’ she said softly.

      They shared a smile before she turned and went on her way.

      He watched her walk off into the sunlight until she disappeared out of sight.

      A man might live a lifetime and never meet a woman like Emma de Lisle. But not Ned.

      A fancy new dress and Emma wouldn’t be out of place in Mayfair. Ned smiled to himself and, lifting his hat, began the long walk back across town.

      * * *

      The letter came the very next morning.

      Emma stood in the rented room in the bright golden sunshine with the folded and sealed paper between her fingers, and the smile that had been on her face since the previous day vanished.

      It had taken a shilling of their precious savings to pay the post boy, but it was a willing sacrifice. She would have sold the shoes from her feet, sold the dress from her back to accept the letter and all that it might contain.

      Her heart began to canter. She felt hope battle dread.

      The paper was quality and white, her father’s name written on the front in a fine hand with deep-black ink. There was no sender name, no clue impressed within the red-wax seal.

      She swallowed, took a deep breath, stilled the churn in her stomach. It might not be the letter for which her father and she had both prayed and dreaded all of these two years past.

      The one o’clock bell tolled in the distance.

      She placed the letter down on the scrubbed wooden table. Stared at it, knowing that her father would not finish his shift before she left for the Red Lion, knowing, too, that he would probably be asleep by the time she returned. She was very aware that the answer to what had sent her mother to an early grave and turned her father grey with worry might lie within its folds.

      Kit. She closed her eyes at the thought of her younger brother and knew that she could not get through the rest of this day without knowing if the letter contained news of him. Nor would her father. He would want to know, just the same as Emma. Whether the news was good...or even if it was bad.

      She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, fastened her bonnet on her head and, with the letter clutched tight within her hand, headed for the London Docks.