arms.
Emily Carroll! Of all women, how could it come to be her? She had made it clear she disliked him, and she was not the sort of lady he usually liked. She was quiet, watchful, where he liked blithe gregariousness, daring and humour. Yet last night had been beyond daring—it had been sheer lunacy. How did it happen?
Nicholas rubbed his hand over his face, trying to erase the vivid memory of her mouth under his, soft, sweet, eager. The feel of her body against his touch. He knew all too well how it happened. Lady Emily was tipsy on Vauxhall’s potent punch, and he was a little foxed himself. Alcohol and masks were never a wise combination. They always gave the illusion of freedom and anonymity, of lack of consequences.
Well, there was no such thing as lack of consequences. He knew that all too well. His own father had lived his life grabbing whatever he wanted, heedless of its effects on his family name or the people around him. For him, there were no consequences; Nicholas and his poor mother and his siblings were the ones who lived with them. When he himself married Valentina, he didn’t care what happened next, he only cared about his love for her in that moment. And Valentina died because of it.
Since he lost her, he had been so careful. So determined not to be like his father. Until last night.
He had only followed Emily when he saw her stumble away from the colonnades because he was worried about her safety. He didn’t want to think too closely about why he watched her all evening in the first place. Ever since they ran into each other on her arrival, he had been acutely aware of where she was, her laughter with her friends, her tears at the sad song—the glasses of punch she consumed.
He could scarcely believe it when her friends let her wander off alone, and when she went off down the dark pathway. Had she no clue of the danger that awaited a beautiful woman in such places?
Of course she did not. Most young ladies did not grow up as his sisters had, knowing the ways of the world and sophisticated about its dangers. So he had followed, to make sure she was left alone, and when he saw her fall.
He caught her. And it was as if something deep inside of him, something cold and dormant since Valentina, sprang to life. And not just the thing in his breeches, either.
Emily, or rather the tipsy, black-haired lady with Emily’s green eyes, had put her arms around him and made him feel strong and protective and—and needed again. The power of the lust that seized him when he merely touched her foot, felt the warm, rose-scented, feminine life of her, shocked him. It was powerful and primitive, completely instinctive—and not something he would ever have associated with Lady Emily Carroll.
Nicholas kicked at a chink in the pavement, making passers-by veer away from him with startled glances. When he first kissed her, he hadn’t been thinking at all—that burning lust completely took over, and he had to taste her. At first she seemed quite surprised, not sure what to do, but then—oh, hell, but then she responded to him with a gasp, reached out to him, learned the patterns of their kiss.
She learned quickly, ardently. And he forgot they were in a public garden, on the ground amid the trees. He forgot he was the Duke of Manning and she was Lady Emily Carroll, daughter of an earl who was his father’s old friend. They were only a man and woman who wanted each other, needed each other.
He had, blast it all, touched her backside. And a lovely, shapely backside it was. If the fireworks hadn’t gone off, who knew what would have happened. Lady Emily fled and rightfully so, though he watched to make sure she rejoined her friends and seemed unharmed, though shaken.
He had first followed to make sure no one attacked her on the dark walks, and it turned out he was the attacker. He was just like his father after all. No, he was worse. His father’s amours, culminating in his elopement with Lady Linwall, had all been worldly women at his own level.
He himself seemed to lust for young, innocent ladies tipsy on arrack punch, who did not even know who he really was. He was a fool and a cad.
He paused before a jeweller’s window display to compose himself. People were beginning to look at him like he was a wild animal as he strode past them muttering to himself. After the gossip over his “heroics” in the park, he did not need any more attention at all.
But there in that window, nestled on a cushion of white satin, was a square-cut emerald pendant surrounded by diamonds. The stone was the exact colour of Lady Emily’s eyes, brilliant, summery grass-green. If she was any other woman he was trying to apologise to, he would buy that and send it to her with a poetic letter. Probably one written by someone else, since he had no poetry in him at all, but the sentiments would be heartfelt.
Lady Emily, though, was definitely not just any woman. She didn’t even know it was him last night, and was probably ill with mortification today. The last thing she needed was an emerald the size of an egg landing on her doorstep.
No. If he did not want to be like his father, there was only one thing to do. Go to Lady Emily, confess his identity and propose to her. Her parents would surely be ecstatic.
But Emily would not be. She did not like him, and if she found out it was him at Vauxhall she would like him even less. Yet she would feel obliged to marry him—and they would end up as mismatched and unhappy as his own parents had been.
He thought of his mother, alone and miserable at Fincote Park. He would never wish that on Emily, would never want that bright flame he glimpsed so brightly last night to go out.
What was the right thing to do? He was damned if he knew, and the pounding headache from all that punch now throbbing behind his eyes was not helping him at all. There was only one thing he could do at the moment. Go in the shop and buy that pendant. Just in case.
By the time he emerged after purchasing the emerald, as well as gifts for his sisters and his little niece, Katherine, the crowds had grown thinner. It was late in the day, nearly time for Society to converge on Hyde Park again.
Would Emily be there? he wondered. And would she be with George Rayburn? He remembered when he first encountered her at the park, before the runaway carriage. She had been walking with Rayburn, and the man had a damnably lustful, possessive glint in his eyes when he looked at her. He hadn’t seemed at all happy when Emily walked away with him, Nicholas, though Emily herself had given no indication of how she felt towards Rayburn, or indeed towards anything at all. Was the man a serious suitor?
How would she have reacted if it was Rayburn at Vauxhall last night? That thought sent an unexpected, blinding jolt of raw jealousy through him.
“Why, your Grace! What a pleasant surprise to see you here this afternoon,” a woman called from behind him.
Nicholas spun around to see Emily’s mother, Lady Moreby, along with her pretty but gossipy daughter-in-law, Viscountess Granton. Blast it all—it seemed he had no luck the last few days.
The ladies fluttered towards him, all ruffled parasols, feathered bonnets and excited smiles. He would have to make polite conversation with them, all the while knowing what he had done at Vauxhall.
The emerald seemed to burn right through his coat.
“Lady Moreby, Lady Granton,” he said with a bow. “How very nice to see you again.”
“And you,” said Lady Moreby. “Doing a bit of shopping, your Grace?”
She glanced up at the jeweller’s sign, then she and her daughter-in-law exchanged one of those speaking, cryptic glances. He was almost certain he did not want to know what it meant.
“I will be seeing my sisters soon, and wanted to bring them a gift from town,” he said.
“Ah, yes, your dear family!” cried Lady Moreby. “I so enjoyed seeing them again last summer, and was very sorry not to encounter them this Season.”
“I fear family matters have kept them in the country,” Nicholas said.
“Of course. And the Season is almost over, and we shall be going to the country ourselves soon.” She exchanged another look with Lady