Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Emmaline hummed to herself uncertainly, holding up the flickering candle to assess the angle of the halls.

Which way was the ballroom again? And did the peerage have to have quite so many rooms?

Lifting the hem of her plain linen nightgown, Emmaline hurried down the passage she thought was the right way.

Damn that man for lurking around in her thoughts all evening. Was it not enough that she had thought of Lord Seton all day while she painted him?

The only way to purge him from her mind was to put pencil to paper and draw him away. Hopefully, that would alleviate the unfortunate symptoms Emmaline was ashamed to say only grew stronger with each day spent in his presence.

She was beyond infatuated. There were no two ways about it.

Yes, something like this had happened before, and it had not worked out well for her heart. Frightening to think she was susceptible to such nonsense once again.

That young lord had toyed with her on a whim until he grew bored with the performance. He had flirted shamelessly from the first, and she had been gullible enough then to believe it was genuine. At the time, Emmaline had chalked her state of calf love to age and naivety, hoping that she had learned a valuable lesson and moving on with her life as if nothing had ever happened.

Emmaline had thought herself immune to such nonsense now at the advanced age of four and twenty, but alas, it seemed that all it had taken was a strong jawline and a set of moody blue eyes to cast the affliction over her.

She sighed and straightened her spine as she padded down the passage, determined to rid herself of this ridiculous fascination. That was all it was, another facet of her creative focus. She was sure of it.

It was quite understandable to immerse oneself completely in the subject of intense artistic study.

Emmaline would never be the type of woman to capture the attention of a man such as Lord Seton. They came from two different worlds, and he probably hardly noticed her beyond the service she was providing. That was just the way of it.

It was shameful to confess that deep in her heart, there was a small wish that things could be different.

Last night, she had tossed and turned in bed, her heart beating, agitated and despairing over her state of singledom.

Reluctantly, she had allowed a daydream to soothe her senses, one where she was born pretty and delicate, like the high-born ladies of the ton, not plump and sensible, more fit for housework than dancing in ballrooms.

In the dream, she was doing just that, circling the room on the arm of one man after another, the strains of some elegant arrangement filling the air until finally, her eyes met his across the room. The connection between them was as strong as the first day she had met him, except now his gaze returned her fever, as he crossed the room with a single-minded focus towards her and…

And what? Her body did not know, but it wanted something most fervently indeed.

That restless feeling had kept her up tonight until the clock in the hall struck twelve and Emmaline had reluctantly dragged herself from her bed and lit a candle, cursing herself for leaving her sketchpad behind beside the portrait she was very close to finishing now.

Finally, despite her jumbled thoughts, she managed to navigate her way to the entrance of the ballroom. Emmaline pushed the door open and hurried inside, carefully cupping the flame of her candle so that it did not blow out as she scurried across the large, echoing chamber to her easel.

“What cruel dream is this, come to tempt me in my hour of weakness?”

There came a velvety rough voice through the air, like a hand trailing across the back of her neck. Emmaline squeaked and spun around, clutching her nightgown as her heart raced fit to burst from her chest.

There was the source of her agony, reclining on the settee set up on the dias. His face was cast in shadow, lit only by a candle set recklessly on the floor.

How had she not noticed that there was already a light in the room when she came in?

Emmaline cleared her throat and edged nervously towards the door. No good could come of this, her mind reprimanded her primly.

“No, no. Sirens who wander the halls at night like a vision of temptation must be held to account. What are you doing here disturbing my peace?”

“My Lord, this is not like you,” Emmaline managed to whisper. Licking her lips nervously as her palms grew damp where they clutched her sketchbook.

The man cleared his throat, raising a glass to his lips and gulping the contents down. Emmaline watched helplessly, her eyes widening and automatically tracking the masculine line of his throat, exposed by his open collar, the strong lines of his forearm, indecently on display with his cuffs rolled to the elbows.

Oh, of course. He was foxed.

Lord Seton stared into the empty glass for a moment, frowning. “No one is quite themselves at this hour of the night.” He looked up, and the sombre moment seemed to pass.

“Come here.” He beckoned her with a flick of his aristocratic wrist.

Emmalline’s feet were moving before she could register a coherent thought. She had never seen this man without his control firmly in place and she found herself curious as to what he might reveal about himself.

Her toes brushed the edge of the dias, and she hesitated, the impulse to turn and run for her room suddenly strong.

His hand reached out, and Emmaline flinched, but he did not touch her, instead, he gently pried the drawing pad she was clutching from her hands. Emmaline let out the breath she had been holding, but before she could gather her wits, he had reached down again and gathered her up as easily as a basket of linens, plopping her down on his lap where he sprawled elegantly along the length of the settee.

Emmaline slapped at his hands in fright. “My Lord, you are drunk!”

“I might be slightly disguised, but I am not drunk , madam,” the man growled, gripping her waist far too familiarly until she settled, then slowly letting go, his eyes on her face as she tried in vain to get her breath under control.

He blinked, seemingly satisfied that she would not run screaming, and then he opened the sketchpad with a curious expression.

“What is it you do in this notepad all day?” he wondered aloud, turning the pages as if they held a secret inside.

Emmaline blushed, wringing her hands together as she tried to perch on top of him with some of her dignity in place.

“You have been studying me most keenly,” he observed, flipping slowly through the pages. Emmaline shifted nervously, digging her fingers into the folds of her nightgown as he perused the myriad sketches of his profile, his hands, and the fall of his hair, amongst others.

“It is my job, My Lord,” she said finally, in a small voice. Aware with every fibre of her being that the detail and number of the drawings were a direct reflection of her fascination with him.

“Benedict,” he said, glancing at her briefly and then turning a page.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Benedict,” he replied, raising a brow at the expression on her face.

“It is the middle of the night, my dear. I am in my cups, you are…” He waved his hand over her. “You are dishabille.” A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth, making him even more devastatingly handsome, if possible. “You must call me Benedict, Miss Winters, under the circumstances.”

Emmaline blinked, her cheeks flaring so hot now that they must look like two red circles. But something brave twisted in her belly. Something that whispered, see, he is not the same as the others. You can trust him.

It was an utterly foolish thought, but she was foolish. Utterly, brazenly, ninny-brained.

“Emmy,” she whispered, ducking her head shyly. She cleared her throat, trying again.

“That is what you can call me. Emmy, or Emmaline.”

“Emmaline,” he repeated back to her as if testing the sound on his tongue. It sent a shiver all down her spine and her belly flipped as if she was falling from a great height.

“That is a very good name for a midnight apparition.”