Chapter Twelve

AN HOUR LATER, BORED and somewhat disillusioned, as Lady Marston would barely permit her to speak to any persons and had threatened and taunted and embarrassed several swains away when they'd dared to approach, Emma wished the evening might end. The sooner she was back at the earl's townhome, the sooner she might sleep, and then the sooner the morning would come, and she could be away. She might have liked to dance again, but feared the earl might be correct, that she would fail miserably unless in his arms. She'd watched with some delight several of the reels and cotillions but did not feel that she was prepared to put herself upon the floor with only an unsupported hope that she could properly perform any of the steps.

She glanced at the very ornate clock above the arched entryway. The lateness partially explained her fatigue; she was normally abed by now, as she was typically up with the sun. Dear Lord, but she would be tired tomorrow.

"We shall head downstairs for supper now," said Lady Marston then. "I dislike standing in line like some beggar come to the soup kitchen. If we move now, we might find ourselves near to the front as it will not be served for a quarter hour, at least."

Emma demurred. "Honestly, I cannot imagine putting anything in my belly at this hour of night."

Lady Marston harrumphed. "That would explain your waiflike figure. Very well, stay here with Lady Walcott. Do not leave her side."

"Yes, my lady. "

The old woman waddled away, using the cane more than she had for most of the night, causing Emma to wonder if she truly did have need of it. Feeling guilty that she'd left the lady to her own devices, Emma was just about the chase after her, offer her arm for added security when she saw that a man approached Lady Marston. They shared a laugh over something, and the gentleman extended his arm, which Lady Marston latched onto without hesitation.

The Gray Lady was deep in conversation with another matron, all but ignoring or forgetting Emma's presence that when a man approached and stood before Emma, she smiled automatically, welcoming the diversion. He was exceedingly handsome, almost too handsome, if such a thing were possible.

"I have made inquiries," the man said. "I couldn't not wonder who you might be, and how I might possibly be able to know you, Miss Ainsley."

"You have me at a disadvantage," she replied, facing him fully. He stood about the same height as the earl, with shoulders nearly as wide, and leveled a pair of vivid blue eyes upon her. The eyes, she noted, held evidence of frequent good humor, as told by the tiny, crinkled laugh lines in their corners.

"Tristan Noel, and please excuse my bluntness, but let us talk about you." He leaned forward and said in a quiet voice, "I fear the minutes available to me for this audience will be cut short once Lady M gets wind of it."

Emma bit her lip, smiling. "Have you been spying on me, sir? Or, is it my lord ?"

"Call me sir or mister or the right honorable , or perhaps my beloved . Whatever pleases you."

"Very fanciful. "

"I have been spying on you. But only most of the evening. Couldn't believe my good fortune when Lady M dared to leave you unattended, even as it is common knowledge that she never met a buffet she did not like. And Lindsey seems to have quit scowling at you from across the room, that I deemed it a fine time to make myself known."

"You are very observant, I should say, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel."

"You left off the my beloved ." He winked at her. "Shall you dance with me?"

"I shall not."

He thumped his hand over his heart, as if mortally wounded.

"Lady M, as you say, would not take kindly to that," Emma explained. "But I might walk with you."

"That will do. For now. Even as I don't suppose you will allow me to direct you away from this crush, somewhere private."

"I would not."

They began walking, Emma hoping that the Gray Lady did not call out that she was to remain in her presence. They stayed to the perimeter of the room, the man's hand at her elbow when it was required that they move around other persons.

"Miss Ainsley must come complete with some wondrous name between those two very impersonal words."

"It does."

"And shall you tell me what that word might be?"

"That word would be my given name," she answered evasively, unable to keep the smile from her face. "I believe yours is Tristan. I have one as well. Everyone does, usually bestowed at birth."

"You are teasing me horrifically, Miss Ainsley. "

"Actually, I am thinking what a clever man you are, to have made so simple a question resound with such whimsy."

"And yet this very clever man has yet to learn your name, indicating that my dreams will now be so damnably anonymous, with only a Miss Ainsley dancing through them. So now we are walking, but I beg that you not let us be waylaid by others, who may have also noted Lady M's absence and would be tempted to make use of this time."

"I shall not. Tell me, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel, is this how you find yourself in the company of many young women? Pouncing on them when no chaperone is near?"

"I should think, Miss Ainsley, that my methods might be applauded, for their creativity and for the vast amount of patience I have displayed."

"Poor Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel —"

"Your beloved."

"—whose schemes are so vastly under-appreciated."

"Miss Ainsley of the secret given name, what brings you to London? And how long might the city be charmed by your presence?"

"I've come on a mission, actually."

"Of the mysterious sort?"

"Naturally. Is there any other kind worth the mention?"

"There is not."

Oh, but she liked Tristan Noel very much. What good company!

"And this would normally be the moment when you revealed your secret mission," he prompted.

"Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel, it wouldn't be very secret if I bandied it about now, would it? "

"It would not. Unless, of course, you knew for sure that the ears into which you might speak it, would not, in turn, speak further of it."

"I know of no ears that can speak, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel."

"Oh, Miss Ainsley," he uttered, his grin at the moment devilishly handsome. "I am so glad you've come to London on a secret mission, but we are wasting time just now, and we must desist with this tomfoolery that I may—"

Emma clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a burst of a giggle.

"What have I said?"

"Tomfoolery. What a fabulous word. I wish people used it more. Thank you for doing so, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel."

"Anything to please you, Miss Ainsley." He stopped walking and took her hand to hold her near. When next he spoke, and while Emma still smiled at him, he moved his gaze back and forth from her face to something over her shoulder. His own smile faded, his tone became serious, and his speech came quickly. "I fear our time is about to be abruptly and sorrowfully cut short. I will call on you on the morrow. Tell me where and say that you'll receive me."

"I will be gone on the morrow."

"You must not be."

"But I will."

"I will find you—"

"Beckwith."

Emma froze, the sound of the earl's voice behind her causing quite a panic, and no small amount of guilt .

She and Tristan Noel turned at the same time. He released her hand as they did. The earl stood there, glaring at them, having watched their hands separate. Well, more specifically, he glared at Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel, who must actually be my lord Beckwith .

"Lindsey," Beckwith returned, employing the same frosty tone.

"Hello again, my lord," said Emma.

The earl spent a few more seconds leering with malevolence at Lord Beckwith before saying, "Come, Miss Ainsley, Lady Marston requests your presence." He lifted his hand.

Emma stared at his hand, actually debating refusing him. But no, she could not. She'd come to London to help him, not cause him...whatever it was that had hardened his expression and lit that fire in his eye.

Placing her hand in his, she turned to Lord Beckwith and smiled at him once more. "It has been a pleasure, my lord."

Beckwith's gaze held hers. He nodded but she could see that he wanted very much to say more. She made note of the pulsing cords in his neck, above his creamy silk cravat. With a fierce scowl that he bothered not to hide, he glanced again at the earl, and then bowed to Emma, his gaze softening.

"The pleasure was entirely mine, Miss Ainsley."

And then the earl pulled her away from the man, and the ballroom, leading her downstairs, where Emma assumed Lady M waited.

His hand upon her arm was firm—not painful, but rather noticeably weighty—as he steered her down the steps and then, surprisingly, into a darkened room upon the first floor, nowhere near the buffet and his godmother. Once inside the room, lighted only by the bare moonlight spilling in through a wall of windows, the earl closed the door and spun her around.

Through gritted teeth, he declared, "You may not—must not!—find yourself alone, and holding hands, and giggling for Christ's sake, with any man. And never—not ever!—with Beckwith. And you absolutely may not allow him or any other to avail himself so easily of your charms."

"I did not—"

"You did," he clipped. "You smiled at him, and goddammit, he ate it up, took it as the invitation it was meant to be."

Emma stared, aghast. And very angry. He was being unreasonably ridiculous. "You have accosted me and stolen me from the public room, and whisked me away into a darkened and vacant room, and have used this wretched tone with me, and now think to instruct me on what I may or may not do...because I smiled at a person?"

And here was that famous scowl again, the breathing through his nose, tick in his cheek, stormy-eyed look of which she been the recipient on too many occasions to count. My God, did he dislike her that much? As noted previously when he'd favored her with so many similar looks, his eyes moved from her angry gaze to her lips and back again.

And then his hand, still holding hers, yanked her toward him, and with such might that she all but crashed into his chest. Only her free hand, lifted and pressed between them, saved her from actually colliding with him. She opened her mouth to protest this savage treatment, but found her words swallowed by his kiss.

He crushed his mouth to hers, over hers, releasing her hand now to wrap her up in his arms, his hold strong, his kiss punishing. Emma whimpered under his lips, which instantly diminished the severity of his embrace, though he did not abandon the kiss. His hands splayed across her back, one reached up to the bare skin above the back of her gown, his fingers leaving prickling flames in their wake. His mouth glided over hers, his tongue was thrust between her lips. She moaned again, but not in fear. Her fingers clung to the thin lapels of his jacket, her face was lifted to him, her tongue met his and a heat began to build in the pit of her belly. Awkwardly, knowing only what his previous kiss had taught her, Emma pushed her hands up his jacket, over his broad shoulders, and into the hair at his nape. She slanted her head, giving him better access, returning his kiss with equal fervor, while pressing herself against the hard length of him. He kissed and licked and teased and savored, and she could do no more than follow his lead, happy to go wherever he might take her.

One of his hands left her back, slid around the front, between their bodies, and cupped the full weight of her breast at the exact moment that Emma was aware of his growing erection, pressing just below her belly.

Awareness gripped her. She lowered her hands and used all her wobbly strength to push him away. Gasping, she touched her fingers to her swollen lips and stared at him. He was breathing heavily, and that scowl was still in place, or was returned.

And finally, Emma thought she understood. The scowls and darkened looks were not particularly portraying anger at her. She had to truly consider that all those times she'd caught him staring so feverishly, so frighteningly at her, he was only besieged by this need. To kiss her. Were they not scowls at all, but only the earl fighting himself, trying not to kiss her? Dear Lord, that suggested so many occasions of an internal battle, waged with himself, to...not kiss her? Could this be true?

But why would he not want to kiss her? She knew her own practical and cautious reasons for hoping he did not kiss her, even as so many parts of her wished that he would. But what might his reasons be for not allowing himself to kiss her?

Her own response—dear God, his kisses were dangerous!—was another baffling thing altogether.

Lady M's earlier words, her warnings uttered inside her fine carriage trilled in Emma's mind just now. He is toying with you, nothing more.

She took out her frustration on him, the annoyance of not really knowing what was happening between them, the fear that Lady M had simply told the truth. In a ragged whisper, she insisted, "You need to make up your mind what it is you're doing with me, or what you think of me, or what....You cannot one day tell me I look ravishing and then kiss me. But manage to look as if you don't want to kiss me. And then act like nothing had happened. And then so wonderfully dance a waltz with me and now scold me for only speaking to a man and then...and then kiss me again even as you look as if you cannot stand the sight of me. I don't understand this behavior. Do you? Do you even understand what you're about? What motivates your kisses and your surliness and your sometimes very pleasant treatment of me?

He stared at her hard. Finally, when she thought he might make some apology to her, he spoke, but his words only left her more befuddled.

"Are the kisses in any way related to the sometimes very pleasant treatment ? "

It was perfect, actually, his flippant response. Perhaps she'd only just this evening, in the midst of that kiss and the immediate aftermath, convinced herself that he might have genuine and serious interest in her; maybe he, too, was plagued by thoughts of her, as she was so bloody often about him; maybe his wanting to kiss her was rooted in true affection; maybe this would not be her one and only visit to London, maybe she would be on his arm again.

Reality crashed, with his words, and just in time.

How ridiculous I am . I am falling in love with him, and I remain only a passing fancy to him, still the chambermaid from Hertfordshire that may or may not have been his father's mistress.

So the part of him that wrestled so often, trying not to kiss her—if she now understood everything accurately—was only whatever small amount of honor he did possess that would refuse him the opportunity to ruin her? Perhaps—and what did she know, really?—his baser self was attracted to the chambermaid, but his righteous self would not condone acting upon it, taking up with so low a creature.

It didn't matter. From the day she'd met him, they'd rather been at odds. It was wisest and safest that it remain that way.

"I will, for the remainder of the evening, comport myself with greater restraint," she told him, mentally shaking herself free of his hold, though he touched her not at all just now. Giving him what she truly hoped was a disdainful scowl, she turned on her heel and left him.

She did not seek out Lady M, but found a quiet place upstairs, a room removed from the ballroom. The music room, she surmised easily, as a grand piano sat in one corner of the red papered room, and close to that, sat a tall and golden harpsicord, whose strings she idly plucked as she passed.

"Ah, a melancholy note, if ever I heard one."

Emma jumped, yanking both her hands to her chest, and turned to find an elderly man sitting by himself upon an oversized red striped settee.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I didn't realize the room was occupied."

The man lifted tired green eyes to her, under thick brows that likely showed more hair than the top of his head, though above and around his ears, wiry gray hair was combed fashionably forward, toward his cheeks.

"Do not apologize, my dear," he said kindly.

"Are you all right, sir?" She wondered and stepped much closer, concerned as he seemed to be listing to the left.

At her voiced worry, he straightened himself. "Oh, I'm just fine. Biding time until we might go home." He put his arm upon the roll arm of the settee and propped his chin in his hand.

"May I?" Emma asked, and sat in the middle of the settee when he nodded and smiled at her. "Who might you be waiting for? Who is the other part of we ?"

"My son," he said, his tone suggesting he'd been waiting for a while.

"Have you eaten? I can fetch you—"

He lifted a wrinkled hand and fluttered his fingers. "You are kindness itself, my dear, but I am not very hungry."

Emma thought to ask, "Do you mind the company, or shall I leave you alone?"

The man pulled his chin from the palm of his hand and turned sideways to really look at her. "You are a very sweet young lady. I wouldn't mind keeping company, but a nice girl like you probably wants to be dancing and watching some young fools fight over her."

Emma laughed at this. "This girl does not, sir. I am Emma Ainsley, and I am happy to keep you company. I think I've had enough of the fools, young and old, for the evening."

"Pardon me for truly being too weary to stand and make a respectable bow to you, Miss Ainsley." But he shifted slightly and offered his right hand. "Hadlee. Very nice to meet you."

Emma put her hand in his and he squeezed it politely.

"May I ask you something? It's a little embarrassing."

He straightened, seemed livelier, suddenly. One thick brow rose above widened eyes. "Sounds intriguing. Ask away."

"I am not...anybody, rather an imposter here, truth be told, though I've come with the sponsorship of Lady Marston," she was quick to clarify, as his brow had furrowed with her first words. "I don't want to shame myself or the good lady, but when you introduce yourself as simply Hadlee...what does that mean? Is that your title? Your surname? And how should I address you?" As he appeared non-plussed, she bit her lip and covered her face with her hands. "How humiliating," she murmured into her hands.

"Now, now, Miss Ainsley," the old man said, reaching over to pat her hands, pulling one away from her face. "You only surprised me, that is all. Do not fret. I gave you my title, Hadlee. When a person introduces themselves with only one name, you should assume a my lord . If I were not of the nobility, I would, I suppose, present myself with my given name and surname." He scrunched up his lips. "Maybe just the surname. I am not entirely sure. Very pleased to meet you. I am Mr. Fiske ." He seemed to consider this further. "I don't think anyone outside the peerage would say, Hullo, I am George Fiske ."

Emma slapped her hand against her chest. "George Fiske?"

The man laughed, the sound ancient and craggy. "Haven't heard that in many years. I've been Hadlee for so long."

"But you are George Fiske?"

He nodded. "Yes, have been my whole life. But you cannot address me as such in front of other persons. They tend to get a little—"

Emma blurted out, "I found your letters. I have your letters to Caralyn Withers."

And now it was his turn to be astonished, to have his jaw fall open and stare at her as if she'd just announced she'd found the Holy Grail. But Emma nodded at him, her heart pounding with excitement.

"How do you know Caralyn—who are you?"

Shaking her head, Emma assured him, "I am nobody, I promise. But I'd been...staying with the Earl of Lindsey, at his house in Hertfordshire. I was...well, I was snooping one day, just looking around such a grand old house, and I found a stack of letters. I found the letters you wrote to Caralyn." She smiled at him, while his face had gone as white as the marble floor. "What happened? Is she your wife?" Her eyes widened. "Is she here?"

His entire thin body seemed to sink into the furniture, his shoulders slumped, his hands fell to his sides, his gaze dropped to his lap.

"My lord?" Caralyn Withers was not his wife, she surmised. Emma's heart and shoulders sank as well. "I'm sorry. How thoughtless of me. But I was so excited to know it was you—I didn't even think that maybe...." She stopped when he began to shake his head.

"Do not be sorry. I was only startled. I-I haven't heard that name in forty years."

Emma sat silently, allowing the old man to collect himself and his thoughts.

After many long minutes, his shiny gaze found hers. "Forty years."

Softly, Emma said, "I cried over those letters. They were so beautiful."

He gave a grimaced smile. "I was mad about her."

"I know. It's all written so plainly. What—may I ask what happened?"

His frail shoulders lifted in a shrug. "She didn't love me."

"That cannot be true," Emma insisted, though wasn't sure of this at all. But it mustn't be true. With a nervous laugh, she admitted, "I fell a little in love with the George Fiske who penned those gorgeous words."

He sat back, straightening himself, slid his hands up and down his thighs. "I loved her the very moment I first saw her. She had come to London with Lady Julianne Morrissey, as her companion. She wasn't of the nobility."

Emma did not interrupt but knew that name, Morrissey. It was, essentially, who she was pretending to be, a Morrissey relation.

George Fiske turned and favored Emma with a kindly smile. "Like you, she stood out. You couldn't not notice her. Of course, so many were turned off by her lack of good family, being only the poor relation. Ah, but she was remarkable, had the most amazing eyes, and her laugh was akin to angels singing, I swear to God." He grinned again, at his own fancy, Emma was sure. "We met, we talked, we fell in love. Or so I thought. When the season was nearing an end, I begged her hand. She turned me down."

"But why?" Had been the burning question inside Emma for so long.

"She never said," he answered, his voice cracking. "All those letters and I had only one reply...asking me to stop." He stared straight ahead, seeing only the past perhaps. "God, but she was stubborn, was so sure I was not sincere, meant only a dalliance." With a smirk toward Emma, he admitted, "I was, truth be known, a bit of a rogue back then."

Emma smiled. George Fiske was very kind, perhaps mellowed with his advanced age. She tried to imagine what he might have been like, or looked like, in his youth.

"But where is she? I had a sense she left Benedict House rather in a hurry."

George Fiske sighed, a great sadness oozing out of him. "I visited that house, and Caralyn just before Christmas, 1774. Lady Morrissey was very ill. Caralyn could, or would, barely make time for me. When her lady died three days before Christmas, she just disappeared—no notice, no word of where she might be going. She just...up and left...me."

"Lord Hadlee, I am so very sorry."

"You needn't be. It was so very long ago."

"But you miss her still."

He made a face. "Only when I think of her." He turned to Emma then, shifted actually to face her. "But you said you currently have the sponsorship of Lady Marston? She knew Caralyn Withers. They were rather brought up together, along with Lindsey' s mother, Barbara Morrissey. Lady Julianne was Barbara's great aunt, if I recall correctly."

"Then Lady M might know what became of your Caralyn," Emma suggested with some hopefulness.

He shook his head. "I badgered her at the time. She hadn't any more of a clue than I had. Curiously, Lady Marston—she was simply Lady Leticia back then—and I were expected to marry at one time. But I'd found Caralyn and she'd latched onto Marston, that we'd both begged off. Families weren't too happy, but they allowed it—the Marstons were a very wealthy family."

"But you have a son, so you must have married after all."

A slow and thoughtful nod preceded his response. "Amelia Frere. Few years older than I. Seemed a safe choice, wouldn't try to steal my heart from Caralyn, not that she could have. She wasn't...awful. She just wasn't Caralyn. Been gone now a decade, maybe more."

Emma chewed upon her lip as well as a thought. "Lord Hadlee, would you like to have those letters returned to you?"

His face brightened, his brows lifted. "Do you think I might?"

Emma laughed, "They are yours, my lord. Of course, you should have them."

He inclined his head and rubbed his hands on his thighs once again. "I would like that."

Emma passed the remainder of the night with George Fiske in the music room, barely giving any thought to the earl or Lady Marston, who may or may not be searching for her, or at least wondering where she might be. People came and went from the music room, others looking for quiet, away from the crush and noise of the ball itself. More than once, a young couple burst into the room, clearly hopeful of finding it empty, quickly departing when they realized it was not. After about a half hour, in which time Lord Hadlee and Emma traded more life tales and anecdotes of years gone by, a man stepped into the room, and did not leave upon spying the unlikely pair upon the settee but strode with purpose toward them.

"My son," Hadlee announced. As lively as he had been in the last half hour, his tone now soured. "Too much like his mother," he whispered to Emma, then increased the volume of his voice to say, "Ah, there you are, Peter."

The man, whom Emma decided was not at all a younger version of George Fiske, stood before the settee and ogled Emma with a practiced leer. It was quite discomfiting.

"Bloody Hades, Peter," Lord Hadlee groused, "leave off with...whatever that pitiable expression is meant to convey. I read only desperation and nonsense."

"But won't you introduce me, Father?"

Peter Fiske was short where his father was lanky, was round as his sire was thin, and possessed a complexion of some misfortune, being blotchy and pocked. But his eyes, Emma noted, repelled her the most; dark and wild, alternating nervously from narrowed to widened, he gawked at Emma as if she were naught but a delicacy upon the buffet, and he a starving man.

George Fiske stood from the seat. "I will not. She's untarnished yet, to know persons such as you." He extended his hand to Emma, bringing her to her feet as well. "I will see you returned safely to your Lord Lindsey."

"I can take her," offered Peter, while spittle followed this suggestion out of his mouth .

Both Lord Hadlee and Emma rather towered over Peter Fiske.

"She's not a pet, in need of a stroll," Lord Hadlee sniped at his son and pulled Emma away from him. "I swear to God, Miss Ainsley, I tried for years to like him. I just cannot."

Emma pursed her lips at this sad circumstance, though she had recognized relatively quickly how different were Lord Hadlee and his son.

They stepped out into the hall and actually ran into Lady Marston and the earl, who was settling the woman's cloak about her shoulders near the front door.

"There she is!" Lady M called out, sounding none too pleased. And then her breath noticeably caught as she saw who escorted Emma presently.

"I've been looking for you for twenty minutes," the earl said with some reprimand, seeming unconcerned that they had an audience.

Perhaps they did not. Emma ignored the earl and watched the silent exchange between Lady M and Lord Hadlee, hardly believing her eyes when she spied a flush creeping up the old woman's cheeks.

"Been a while, eh, Leticia?" Asked Lord Hadlee.

"It has, George."

Emma's head whipped around, looking at Lady M, trying to imagine from where this unknown person, of the quiet and lyrical voice and the blushing cheeks and soft eyes, had come. Emma covered her mouth with her hand, quieting her little snicker. Lady M was behaving like an overcome fifteen-year-old.

She's in love with him , Emma realized, her lip dropping open. Oh, my .

"We might be getting a little too old for this, Letty," said Lord Hadlee, his brow wiggling, his grin crooked.

"Speak for yourself, Georgie," Lady M returned, stomping her cane playfully. "This thing will see me through many more years. That, and two snifters of brandy daily."

Lord Hadlee chuckled. "Good to see you, Letty."

"You as well, old man."

Emma watched Lady M walk away, appearing straighter and taller than she thought she actually was. She glanced up at Lord Hadlee. He hadn't a clue, she realized, watching him put the woman out of his mind the minute she'd turned away. He faced Emma and asked, "Shall I really come down to your little cottage and collect my letters?"

Emma took his hands in hers and smiled up at the dear old man. "You absolutely must." She turned and found the earl, standing with Emma's cloak tossed over his arm, watching her exchange with Hadlee. "Might Lord Hadlee be welcomed at Benedict House?"

"Of course," allowed the earl, clearly befuddled, even as he was so politely agreeable.

Emma smiled at Lord Hadlee. "Send word to Benedict House of your plans. They will get any note to me." She reached up and kissed his weathered cheeks, left then right. Squeezing his hands, she nearly squealed, "I am so thrilled to have met you. I cannot wait for your visit."

"What's this? Benedict House?" Peter Fiske, having come into the foyer as well, wanted to know.

George Fiske ignored his son. "You have made my day—my year, I daresay," he said to Emma, tightening his cool fingers around hers. "I shall see you sometime in the next few weeks. "

Emma allowed the earl to place her cloak over her shoulders. She further allowed his hands to settle there for a moment longer than they should have. She waved to Lord Hadlee and turned to leave with the earl, catching sight of Tristan Noel, idly lounging near a pillar by the stairs. He was grinning at her, and then dared to wink at her, even as she was sure the earl might have noticed this. And suddenly she didn't care. She smiled at Tristan Noel and waved to him as well.

"Good night, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel," she called out as she took the earl's arm and stepped out of the grand house.

Of course, her brazenness did not go unchastised. Once inside the earl's black-as-night carriage, with only the lantern hanging and swaying within to give light, the earl announced, in a frosty tone, "Miss Ainsley, it would behoove you to recall whose sponsorship you bear. You should not have behaved so...familiarly with a man as esteemed as Lord Hadlee. And you certainly should not have been so careless with Beckwith. He is a libertine of the first water."

"Yes, my lord," she agreed readily, which seemed to both surprise him and mollify him. She didn't care for his—or Lady M's—attitudes for what they deemed proper behavior. Beckwith and Lord Hadlee had been the highlight of her evening. And while she was unaccustomed to the beau monde's mindset regarding public behavior—

"Just like that? No argument?" The earl interrupted her musing.

Emma let out a weary sigh. But gave him what he wanted. "Lady M spent the evening being progressively nastier to any person who attempted to speak with me, that it became rather embarrassing and bade me wish the floor might open up beneath me. You chased away a man with a feral scowl and only because he spoke with me—that man being so bold as to actually talk to me rather as if our minds and persons were of equal rank—the gall of him! And then, if I recall correctly, it was you who actually accosted me in a dark room, laying your hands and your lips upon my person in a most intimate and scandalous manner—which by the way, Lord Beckwith did not do. Please do go on, my lord, instructing me on genteel and acceptable conduct. I am all ears."

The entirety of the ride, after Emma's remarks, was made in complete silence.