Chapter 4

At that soft question from the viscount, Emma stilled, feeling suddenly exposed. She stared at him helplessly, not liking the feeling of vulnerability wrapping its arms around her. Was she truly scared?

"Tell me," he entreated, subtly shifting closer. "Sometimes things are best expressed to a stranger whose thoughts would hold no judgment. Or do you wish me to get someone for you?"

He was a patient gentleman, for he prodded her no further as she gathered her thoughts and quieted the storm threatening to break within her. That patience calmed and soothed her, for it was very different from the wild, impetuous energy she was used to from her siblings.

"Have you ever wanted something…very badly, but you deny yourself its very existence," she asked, pushing the words from a throat that felt scratchy.

He regarded her with fascination. "No."

The immediate and implacable answer shook her. "Such a privilege and freedom I cannot imagine, my lord."

"The world is never changed because everyone simply accepts what to do," he murmured. "It is changed when expectations are very deliberately smashed, Miss Fairbanks."

"I do not aim to change the world, my lord," she said with a soft laugh, surprised by his reply. "Only…" Myself perhaps.

"Only what?" he prompted, stepping scandalously closer.

This is so very dangerous, she mused, almost scared by the breathless feelings sweeping through her. Their family had been called the ‘very bad Fairbanks' or sometimes ‘those no-good Fairbanks' by the people in the village of Penporth. That moniker had followed them to town like a foul air, yet Emma had not minded, at times amused by others' perceptions, when they simply wanted the one life they were granted with a happy heart.

Unexpectedly, for the last two years, she had been bound by the idea that they had to be terribly proper and circumspect in everything they did. That was the only way to attain a measure of contentment with their lot in life. Each day proved to Emma that this notion was especially not true for her. There was no joy in living when she was forced to wonder if everything she felt and did met society's expectations.

"I fear my current inclinations are selfish," she said softly. "I wish to only pursue what makes me…happy."

His steady gaze cut into her like the sharpest of knives. "I get the feeling you are not used to being selfish, are you, Miss Fairbanks? You've always put others' needs and wants before yours."

Emma swallowed. "I…I love my family."

A shadow darkened his eyes, and he looked away from her. A pang went through her heart when she recalled that Nicholas had mentioned the viscount had no family. It was at least the explanation her brother gave whenever he invited the viscount to a family outing. Emma simply could not imagine being alone without her sisters or brothers and her mother. It was…it simply could not be envisioned.

His lips finally quirked in a smile that seemed cynical to her. "You can love your family and still think of yourself, hmm? It always astonishes me that people live for others, even willing to die if one died."

That dark jadedness in his tone surprised her, and she recalled then not even her brother knew very much about the viscount.

Emma lifted her shoulder in an elegant shrug. "I daresay it is possible since my siblings have done it. But all they did was marry…nothing so very…ruinous."

His eyes gleamed. "I am intrigued. What is it you wish to do exactly if I might be intrusive enough to ask."

"Enter an inn and drink a pint of ale. Ladies do not drink ale, you know, nor are we to sit in an inn," she said with an exasperated air.

Her answer seemed to surprise him. "Ah, expecting something naughty, were you, my lord?" Undoubtedly, he was familiar with their ‘bad Fairbanks' moniker.

The space between them crackled with heated awareness. His slow smile had her curling her toes inside her silver dancing shoes. "Perhaps."

"Oh, I want those too," she said softly, canting her head. "Kisses that are supposed to leave you breathless."

"Breathless?"

"I've been told it is entirely possible."

He made an odd sound in his throat but made no comment.

"I just need to find the right scoundrel to dance close to temptation with…, and I am quite determined to find him." There, she'd said it, and now Emma waited for his response with keen anticipation.

"Daring and not without risk," the viscount drawled, his eyes darkening. "Are you very certain of those wants, Miss Fairbanks?"

"Very," she said, her breath catching in her throat.

"Tell me, have you ever had a gentleman in your bed, Miss Fairbanks?"

The unexpected and provocative question stunned her. "Do all kisses lead to…bed?"

That wicked half smile touched the corner of his mouth, and his eyes gleamed. "The good ones, Miss Fairbanks, the very good ones."

"Only Lord Peter has been in my bed."

He looked suitably shocked at this announcement, then his gaze hooded. A long, fraught silence fell, and he murmured, "I see."

That dark throb in his tone unexpectedly sent a shiver of delight over her. "Is that jealousy I hear, my lord."

"Ridiculous," he said icily. "I am not the sort that feels envy."

Emma hid her smile, at once pleased and befuddled why the notion of the viscount being jealous pleased her so. Of course, she would never tell him that Lord Peter, a perfect creature in her estimation, was a loveable golden retriever puppy she'd rescued a year ago. He certainly slept in her bed and in her arms, and she loved Lord Peter with her whole heart.

It suddenly occurred to her that it was rather strange to be standing with Lord Barlow in this secluded garden, having this particular conversation. "I must return inside, my lord, before I am missed. Perhaps one day we will finish this conversation…or not."

"Then off you go, Miss Fairbanks."

Her wretched feet would not move, as if they controlled her and not the other way around. Emma knew it was because the instant she'd recognized the viscount, the sense of ennui afflicting her had vanished like a wisp of smoke. Unexpectedly, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and the viscount reached out and touched her cheek. The touch was light and almost hesitant, so at odds with a gentleman she knew to be a self-assured scoundrel who had no compunction about taking what he wanted.

"Why do you feel regret?" she asked, guessing at the emotion darkening his eyes.

"I am very tempted, Miss Fairbanks, to be the scoundrel you want. Never before have I felt the likes of such persuasions, especially with an innocent."

Oh, God. He had subtly shifted closer, and his heat and sandalwood scent wrapped around Emma's senses. It was unbearably tempting to press her mouth to his. An answering hunger seemed to brighten the green of his eyes, and Emma truly thought he would have tugged her into his arms.

The viscount stepped back, and a sigh that held true regret left him. "I bid you good night."

"I—"

The look he gave her made the words catch in her throat. He lowered his hand and moved backward deeper into the shadows until he was obscured from her sight. Emma wanted to protest the abrupt change in their…she was not sure what to call this improper meeting between them; however, she dipped into a curtsy, whirled around, and hurried discreetly inside the ballroom.

No one seemed to have missed her presence, and when Phoebe complained of a headache, Emma happily agreed to leave with her sister and mother. She was silent and introspective for the short carriage ride home while her sister and mother chatted animatedly. Once inside, Phoebe went into Penny's room, where Emma knew they would chat long into the night until dawn. They were only two years apart in age and were as close as how Emma had been with Ellie and Ester.

Emma went into her room and removed her clothes without the aid of a servant, quickly stripping and tugging on her nightgown. Lord Peter rose from where he had slept in the center of her bed and padded over to her. She sat at the window's ledge, taking him to cuddle into her arms as she overlooked the back gardens, resting her forehead on the cool windowpane. Several minutes trickled past, and the lure of sleep did not come. Even Lord Peter had bounded from her arms and went to sleep by the fireplace.

I am very tempted, Miss Fairbanks, to be the scoundrel you want.

Emma had no notion of how long she sat there, recalling the banked invitation to wickedness in the viscount's gaze. Had she imagined that want or that keen regret? With a sigh, she stood, tugged on her robe, and padded from her bedchamber. Perhaps some milk or a slice of cake would help her settle, and then she might sneak into the library and read a book.

Once in the hallway, a sliver of light beneath the music room doorway snagged her attention. She frowned. Her bare feet were silent as Emma padded across the parquet floor to slowly ease the ajar door a bit wider. She paused as her mother's voice reached her.

"I miss you so much, John," her mama said softly from where she stood by the large open windows looking up at the night sky. Her mother was also in a light blue nightgown, her dark brown hair unbound and rippling to her waist. Her mama seemed lonely and sad. The image brought a lump to Emma's throat. Papa had been dead for several years, and her mother was still a beautiful woman at fifty. Her features remained unlined, her body a bit more plumb than when her figure was younger but still remarkably lovely. Her mother had never sought to remarry. Her happiness was found in situating her children happily in life.

Emma stepped inside the music room, only to falter when her mother said, "I am worried about our darling Emma, John. I've already told you our girls are very happy, but I am not so certain of our Emma. She seems more withdrawn than usual, and though I have been patient in my questioning, she has not revealed what ails her. I wish you were here, though I believe you are looking down on us from heaven. How could you not be, my darling?"

Emma pressed a palm to her chest as if that would stop the raw ache pulsing through her chest. Tears stung the back of her throat and eyes as her mother continued talking to her husband as if he were right there with her. Mama talked of her pleasure in seeing her children do well and her worry about Emma finding her place in the world.

"Our grandchildren are just wonderful, John. Baby George smiled today at Colin, and he looked so much like you when—"

Emma gently closed the door on the rest of her mother's words and rested her forehead against it.

I shall find my place, mama, I promise it, she silently vowed, hurrying away upstairs to her bedchamber. She hurriedly changed into her dark blue riding habit and boots, headed outside, made her way to the mews, and quietly saddled up her stallion. Restless energy coursed through her veins, a desperate need to feel the wind cutting across her skin and the feel of the stallion's power beneath her thighs.

Dark green eyes gleaming with cynical amusement wafted through Emma's thoughts, and her heart stuttered. Right then, she knew the next time she saw Viscount Barlow, she would dare to be a little wicked and take something she wanted. No, something she needed, for Emma could no longer exist in a cage.