Cheryl Holt by Too Hot to Handle Page B

have a reason to go up and knock.
    He contemplated their peculiar conversation. She couldn’t see him, so she was the first person in ages who’d stared at his face without revulsion, who’d talked without flinching, gawking in horror, or wrenching away in disgust.
    Intrigued, he retreated, even as he conjectured as to how he might contrive to parlay with her again.
    Nervous and excited, Emily tarried in the foyer. Through the opened front door, she could view the Winchester coach that had delivered Pamela and Margaret Martin toLondon. The luggage was being unloaded, the girls about to be handed down.
    Her heart pounded with anticipation and dread. What would she think of them? What would they think of her?
    Too much had happened too quickly, and she was having a difficult time absorbing it all. She was stunned to find that despite rumors as to Lord Winchester being a ne’er-do-well, when he wanted something badly enough, he was a veritable whirlwind of activity.
    With a snap of his fingers, he’d had them transferred from their despicable accommodations and ensconced in his own. Rose had a cheery spot in the nursery, while Emily and Mary had been given spacious guest suites. They hadn’t been boarded with the servants, an honor and distinction about which she’d complained, but he’d been adamant, and as she was discovering, when Michael Farrow made a decision, it was impossible to oppose him.
    He was more stubborn than any individual she’d ever known.
    Alert and vigilant, he stood beside her. If he was nervous, too, he hid it well.
    He’d sworn that there’d be nothing improper between them, and so far, he’d kept his word, but her meeting him, her observing his carnal antics, had rattled loose her inhibitions. Restless, edgy, she was disturbed in ways she couldn’t define, which had her absurdly eager to race to perdition. It was torture, loitering next to him, and she was mortified to admit that with the slightest encouragement, she’d leap into his arms and beg him to corrupt her.
    “How old are they?” she questioned, anxious to breakthe tension that sizzled whenever she and the earl were together.
    “Pamela is sixteen, and Margaret is nine,” he answered.
    “How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”
    “I don’t believe I ever have.”
    “Then why would their father entrust them to you?”
    “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he bluntly claimed.
    He glanced away from the carriage and focused on her, leaning in so that their bodies were nearly touching. Sparks erupted; the air crackled and heated.
    She was swept up in the blue of his eyes, and she hated how easily he overwhelmed her. Anyone watching would conclude that they were involved in a torrid affair, which was the last assumption she needed to have drawn. There were servants everywhere and she jumped away from him, but—knave that he was—he moved with her so that the strident stimulation continued. She was convinced that he recognized how thoroughly he unsettled her and he received an enormous kick out of having her so flustered.
    He whispered, “Tell me the truth: Would you consign your children to such a dubious fate as having me for their guardian?”
    “Never in a thousand years, you bounder.”
    He chuckled, then sobered. “I’m glad you’re here.”
    From how he was gazing at her, she was certain he was recollecting their kiss, that he might actually be speculating as to whether he could get away with doing it again. The notion terrified her. Would he dare such a thing, with the majority of the staff hovering about?
    At the idiotic caprice, she scoffed. It was preposterous to imagine that he was attracted to her, and she had toremember that he was an insatiable libertine. He thrived on flirtation and worse, and any attention he paid her was feigned.
    She scowled, which had him chuckling again, and she whipped away as the girls left the carriage. They proceeded inside, and Emily evaluated them.
    They were both fetching,