the terror she had exhibited in the coach the previous night. “I am rarely disturbed by things that go bump in the night, my lord. My constitution is normally quite steady.”
“Indeed. Not prone to overwrought imaginings, Miss Parrish?”
She had no answer for that because he had already seen her at her worst, with ridiculous flights of fancy spurring her to uncharacteristic behavior. Worse, she had spent the night exactly as he described, struggling to fall asleep as she waged an out-of-character battle with her overwrought imaginings, and then again, on her way to breakfast, when she had been so certain she was being followed…. Had that been nothing more than foolish fancy?
No. She thought not.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked up to find her employer staring with marked intent at her mouth. She sucked in a quick, ragged breath.
Lord Anthony was not looking at her in a way that a gentleman might look at a lady.
And she liked it. She liked the way he stared at her, his gaze warming her, touching her, making her body tingle in a foreign and wicked way. The realization shocked her, leaving her feeling disoriented and uncertain.
As if from a distance she heard the sound of Nicky’s voice, and she latched onto his words as though they were a signal light in a wild storm.
“...and I escorted her to breakfast, and here we are,” he said.
“You were very helpful, Nicky.” She turned to him, smiling encouragingly, grateful for the distraction, only to find her progress stopped short.
She glanced down at Lord Anthony’s lean fingers where they yet curled along her forearm. The length of time that he had maintained the contact was quite improper, and Emma frowned in confusion, half relieved, half disappointed when he finally let his hand drop away.
Nicky bounced up and down in his seat as his father rounded the table and leaned forward to place a kiss on the child's brow. Emma masked her surprise at this outward display of fatherly affection. Somehow she had assumed that Lord Anthony would be a disinterested parent, at best. Then she recalled the man's admonition that she not raise her voice to his son, and she had the bewildering sensation that she had somehow misjudged the situation. Whatever information she had about this father-son relationship was based on gossip, supposition, and the opinion of Aunt Cecilia, who was herself a bitter and cruel guardian. Clearly these were not solid groundings on which to form an impression.
Lord Anthony moved around the table and held Emma's chair, the one across from Nicky. She felt awkward as she made her way to her seat, her skirts brushing against her employer’s muscled legs as she took her place, the sandalwood scent of him teasing her, making her long to draw nearer still and inhale until she had enjoyed him to the fullest.
She was acutely aware of a fluttering sensation low in her belly, and she felt certain it was caused by neither hunger nor fear. The experience was new to her. It made her feel hot and restless, and she fought the urge to press her thighs tightly together beneath her skirts. This, then, was attraction. Dangerous, foolish attraction. The kind that had drawn her mother into a web of heartbreak.
Emma sought to steady her galloping pulse. She, who was the product of her mother’s unfortunate liaison with a nobleman, who had spent her life burned by the brand of illegitimacy, knew better than to fall prey to the physical allure of her employer. On that path lay only danger and disaster.
Doubly so, given that Lord Anthony was a widower rumored to have murdered his wife, Emma’s own cousin. The thought felt wrong, and that wrongness made Emma wary. She did not know this enigmatic man, and she would be most wise to avoid swift judgment of him, whether to good or evil.
She glanced up once more. He was watching her, his changeable eyes glinting like finest gems, his expression revealing little.
And still her blood pounded, thick
“Indeed. Not prone to overwrought imaginings, Miss Parrish?”
She had no answer for that because he had already seen her at her worst, with ridiculous flights of fancy spurring her to uncharacteristic behavior. Worse, she had spent the night exactly as he described, struggling to fall asleep as she waged an out-of-character battle with her overwrought imaginings, and then again, on her way to breakfast, when she had been so certain she was being followed…. Had that been nothing more than foolish fancy?
No. She thought not.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked up to find her employer staring with marked intent at her mouth. She sucked in a quick, ragged breath.
Lord Anthony was not looking at her in a way that a gentleman might look at a lady.
And she liked it. She liked the way he stared at her, his gaze warming her, touching her, making her body tingle in a foreign and wicked way. The realization shocked her, leaving her feeling disoriented and uncertain.
As if from a distance she heard the sound of Nicky’s voice, and she latched onto his words as though they were a signal light in a wild storm.
“...and I escorted her to breakfast, and here we are,” he said.
“You were very helpful, Nicky.” She turned to him, smiling encouragingly, grateful for the distraction, only to find her progress stopped short.
She glanced down at Lord Anthony’s lean fingers where they yet curled along her forearm. The length of time that he had maintained the contact was quite improper, and Emma frowned in confusion, half relieved, half disappointed when he finally let his hand drop away.
Nicky bounced up and down in his seat as his father rounded the table and leaned forward to place a kiss on the child's brow. Emma masked her surprise at this outward display of fatherly affection. Somehow she had assumed that Lord Anthony would be a disinterested parent, at best. Then she recalled the man's admonition that she not raise her voice to his son, and she had the bewildering sensation that she had somehow misjudged the situation. Whatever information she had about this father-son relationship was based on gossip, supposition, and the opinion of Aunt Cecilia, who was herself a bitter and cruel guardian. Clearly these were not solid groundings on which to form an impression.
Lord Anthony moved around the table and held Emma's chair, the one across from Nicky. She felt awkward as she made her way to her seat, her skirts brushing against her employer’s muscled legs as she took her place, the sandalwood scent of him teasing her, making her long to draw nearer still and inhale until she had enjoyed him to the fullest.
She was acutely aware of a fluttering sensation low in her belly, and she felt certain it was caused by neither hunger nor fear. The experience was new to her. It made her feel hot and restless, and she fought the urge to press her thighs tightly together beneath her skirts. This, then, was attraction. Dangerous, foolish attraction. The kind that had drawn her mother into a web of heartbreak.
Emma sought to steady her galloping pulse. She, who was the product of her mother’s unfortunate liaison with a nobleman, who had spent her life burned by the brand of illegitimacy, knew better than to fall prey to the physical allure of her employer. On that path lay only danger and disaster.
Doubly so, given that Lord Anthony was a widower rumored to have murdered his wife, Emma’s own cousin. The thought felt wrong, and that wrongness made Emma wary. She did not know this enigmatic man, and she would be most wise to avoid swift judgment of him, whether to good or evil.
She glanced up once more. He was watching her, his changeable eyes glinting like finest gems, his expression revealing little.
And still her blood pounded, thick
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