her own life too.”
Her eyes widened. Yes, she chafed against the restraints placed on her, but while she might confess as much to her dear friend Margaret, this was not a fit topic of conversation with a gentleman, much less a rake. Again, she rose. “I really must go.”
He rose too, with a rueful and most charming smile. “I have offended you. My sincere apologies, Lady Whitehead.” He gestured toward her chair. “Please. I promise to be more circumspect. Shall we discuss composers, perhaps? Who is your favorite?”
She had no experience with a situation such as this. Still, he was a houseguest and she was a widow, and surely chatting about music in the library was the most harmless of activities. The truth—and she always tried to be honest with herself—was that she wanted to stay. There was something intriguing about the man, perhaps because he was so different from the Englishmen she’d known.
Her reason for staying was not—it most certainly was not—that his presence sent those pleasurable tingles and throbs racing throughout her body.
Ah now, was she still being honest with herself?
“Don’t give in to those tingles and throbs,” Georgia advised. And yet, of course Emma would, because this novel was erotica.
As Georgia read on, she couldn’t help but compare Emma’s first meeting with the Comte to her own with Woody. The Comte, handsome and suave, also proved to be well educated, knowledgeable about music, and interesting company. He charmed and flattered ina sophisticated way that appealed to a femininity, a sensuality, that inexperienced Emma had never before felt in herself.
As Emma’s attraction to the man grew, Georgia could almost feel it herself. A man like that would be hard to resist.
Woody Hanrahan—the Neanderthal—was a completely different matter. Forcing him from her mind, she turned back to the story.
“We must play together,” the Comte said, flashing that dimple again.
“Play?” Emma asked, breath catching in her throat. What on earth did he mean, and why did it sound so wicked?
“I play the pianoforte. We would make beautiful music together.”
He spoke of musical instruments, and yet his suggestive tone and the gleam in his dark eyes hinted at something far more personal. If she did not know better, she might believe he was attracted to her, but why would he choose a drab widow when there were younger, prettier women who would welcome his company? It must be second nature for him to flirt with every member of the gentle sex.
“Come with me to the music room,” he said, holding out his hand. “Lord and Lady Edgerton are visiting an ailing neighbor, so there will be no one to hear and judge. We may play whatever our hearts most desire.”
She clasped her hands tightly together, resisting an absurd impulse to put one of them in his. Bad enough she was alone with him in the library, but somehow the idea of playing music—beautiful music, the kind of music that stirred her body and soul—seemed far less appropriate. After all, the man had a reputation as a seducer. “I don’t believe it would be proper,” she stammered awkwardly.
“Proper?” He withdrew his hand and his lips curled. “And is being proper so very important to you?”
Knowing her cheeks were rosy, she said, “Of course. I am not the kind of woman you are used to.”
“Which makes you even more a delight.” He studied her, head
tilted to one side. “But I must ask, Lady Emma, what kind of woman do you believe I am used to?”
Surely her entire body had flushed as pink as Margaret’s prize roses. Regretting that she’d left her fan in her bedchamber, she said, “Sir, this conversation is most improper. Let me just say that I have heard of, er, your troubles in Paris.”
“Ah, the gossipmongers have been at work. You have heard that a woman’s husband caught us
in flagrante delicto.
”
Despite her shocked gasp, he carried on. “Yes, it is true, and he issued a challenge to a
Her eyes widened. Yes, she chafed against the restraints placed on her, but while she might confess as much to her dear friend Margaret, this was not a fit topic of conversation with a gentleman, much less a rake. Again, she rose. “I really must go.”
He rose too, with a rueful and most charming smile. “I have offended you. My sincere apologies, Lady Whitehead.” He gestured toward her chair. “Please. I promise to be more circumspect. Shall we discuss composers, perhaps? Who is your favorite?”
She had no experience with a situation such as this. Still, he was a houseguest and she was a widow, and surely chatting about music in the library was the most harmless of activities. The truth—and she always tried to be honest with herself—was that she wanted to stay. There was something intriguing about the man, perhaps because he was so different from the Englishmen she’d known.
Her reason for staying was not—it most certainly was not—that his presence sent those pleasurable tingles and throbs racing throughout her body.
Ah now, was she still being honest with herself?
“Don’t give in to those tingles and throbs,” Georgia advised. And yet, of course Emma would, because this novel was erotica.
As Georgia read on, she couldn’t help but compare Emma’s first meeting with the Comte to her own with Woody. The Comte, handsome and suave, also proved to be well educated, knowledgeable about music, and interesting company. He charmed and flattered ina sophisticated way that appealed to a femininity, a sensuality, that inexperienced Emma had never before felt in herself.
As Emma’s attraction to the man grew, Georgia could almost feel it herself. A man like that would be hard to resist.
Woody Hanrahan—the Neanderthal—was a completely different matter. Forcing him from her mind, she turned back to the story.
“We must play together,” the Comte said, flashing that dimple again.
“Play?” Emma asked, breath catching in her throat. What on earth did he mean, and why did it sound so wicked?
“I play the pianoforte. We would make beautiful music together.”
He spoke of musical instruments, and yet his suggestive tone and the gleam in his dark eyes hinted at something far more personal. If she did not know better, she might believe he was attracted to her, but why would he choose a drab widow when there were younger, prettier women who would welcome his company? It must be second nature for him to flirt with every member of the gentle sex.
“Come with me to the music room,” he said, holding out his hand. “Lord and Lady Edgerton are visiting an ailing neighbor, so there will be no one to hear and judge. We may play whatever our hearts most desire.”
She clasped her hands tightly together, resisting an absurd impulse to put one of them in his. Bad enough she was alone with him in the library, but somehow the idea of playing music—beautiful music, the kind of music that stirred her body and soul—seemed far less appropriate. After all, the man had a reputation as a seducer. “I don’t believe it would be proper,” she stammered awkwardly.
“Proper?” He withdrew his hand and his lips curled. “And is being proper so very important to you?”
Knowing her cheeks were rosy, she said, “Of course. I am not the kind of woman you are used to.”
“Which makes you even more a delight.” He studied her, head
tilted to one side. “But I must ask, Lady Emma, what kind of woman do you believe I am used to?”
Surely her entire body had flushed as pink as Margaret’s prize roses. Regretting that she’d left her fan in her bedchamber, she said, “Sir, this conversation is most improper. Let me just say that I have heard of, er, your troubles in Paris.”
“Ah, the gossipmongers have been at work. You have heard that a woman’s husband caught us
in flagrante delicto.
”
Despite her shocked gasp, he carried on. “Yes, it is true, and he issued a challenge to a
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