II
Jefferson slouched back into his favorite arm chair at the gentlemen's club he and Robert frequented and swirled the scotch in his glass. The footman had looked at him rather cheekily when he'd ordered the expensive liquor instead of his usual coffee. It was nine o'clock in the morning, after all. Quite early in the day to be imbibing in his favorite alcohol. He rubbed a hand wearily over his eyes and sighed. Not a wink of sleep, and he was feeling the effects, but every time he'd closed his eyes, he would see her … Lady Emma Morrison with her beautiful tear-bright eyes and lovely pursed lips. What was he going to do about her?
Why could he think of nothing but their one brief kiss months before? He'd thought of it many times while he'd been at Rochefort going over the accounts, the memory distracting him more than once. Now he was lying awake, day dreaming of taking her to his bed. And there would be more than a kiss involved if he had his way. But she was an innocent. He couldn't just take her off and enjoy her and then send her on her merry way. No, he'd have to marry her and that was something he couldn't do.
Now his best friend in the world was Emma's ward. He wondered if Robert would be so understanding if something happened between he and Emma. It could put a definite strain on their friendship. Robert would probably invite him into the ring to have that conversation. Jefferson shuddered. He himself was no slouch in the boxing ring, but he was nowhere the pugilist Robert was. Maybe he should get in the ring with Robert. A split lip would be a nice reminder to keep his lips off the delectable Lady Morrison.
As if thinking about him conjured him out of thin air, Robert entered the club and dropped into the chair opposite Jefferson. "What's going on with you, Jeff? First you missed dinner with the family last night and then breakfast again this morning. And you're drinking before lunch?" the duke asked, eyeing him suspiciously. "Who is she?"
Jefferson shrugged. "Sorry, Robbie. I have a lot on my mind, and I didn't sleep well." He refused to answer the latter part of that loaded question and barely refrained from choking on his scotch. Leave it to Robert to see right through the bullshit.
"I'd be willing to bet you haven't had anything to eat, either," Robert said, taking the cup of coffee offered to him by the footman. "Since when are you not shoveling food into your gullet?"
Jefferson raised a brow. "Here's a better question for you. How is it you're not with the wife? This is the first time you've been to the club in how long?"
"Beside the point," Robert grumbled and added sugar to his coffee. "She and Emma are off shopping for last minute gifts. And, by the way, you are not getting out of spending the holiday with us."
Jefferson perked up at the mention of Emma. "How was she this morning?"
"Belle's fine. Irritable as all hell, but her health is good, the doctor assures me."
"Emma. Remember her?" Jefferson asked with an amused sigh. "She was crying her eyes out just yesterday in the garden."
"Oh." Robert grinned sheepishly. Of course, his first thought would be of his wife. "Emma seemed to be in good spirits when they left. Mother said she was relieved Emma wanted to get out of the house. She has been keeping to her room for the better part of six months. Just don't understand the abrupt change in her, though I have to admit an end to her melancholy is more than welcome."
Jefferson had a good idea of what may have drawn her out, but wasn't about to share that information with Robert. It was private. She'd opened up to him and finally released some of the guilt she'd been bottling up inside her. She would be able to heal and move on with her life. A life without him. Why was that thought so depressing … and maybe a little distressing as well?
"Speaking of Emma," Robert continued. "I won't be arranging a marriage for her, but that doesn't mean she doesn't need to marry. The dear girl will be nineteen next month. She needs to settle down and have a family."
Jefferson's hand tightened around the glass he held. "She still has plenty of time, and I'm sure Belle likes having her around," he said stiffly.
"She does at that," Robert muttered thoughtfully. "I, of course, will settle a sizable dowry on her. I think I might include that lovely little estate in Northumberland I just had renovated. Belle doesn't like the cold, so there's a good chance we'll never have use for that particular property."
Jefferson's mouth gaped open. "The estate in Northumberland can hardly be considered little. It's damn near the same size as Sheffield," he sputtered.
"Exactly. She'll be married off in no time a'tall," Robert said, draining his cup. He knew Jefferson had been trying to relieve him of that property for the better part of ten years. Belle was convinced the earl was the perfect match for Emma, that she could feel it. Who was he to argue? He just had to play his part in this to help them on their road to happiness.
"Yeah, to a bloody gold digger!" he growled, outraged Robert would stoop to such a tactic. "They'll be coming out of the woodwork. You can't do that to her."
"Do what? I'll be quite selective as to whom I consider. I'm not going to let her marry anyone I don't approve of," Robert insisted.
Jefferson was too agitated now to sit still. He tossed the scotch back and set the glass on the table next to him, rising angrily to his feet. "Well, I hope you have the decency to take her feelings into account. She might choose someone completely unsuitable. And knowing Belle," he dropped his tone to a whisper. "With her gift, she'll try to talk you into letting Emma marry the blighter."
Robert chuckled. "Where are you going?" he asked, more than pleased at Rochefort's little display of jealousy.
"To see just what the darling girl has to say on the subject," Jefferson snarled, stalking out of the club and bounding into his carriage, shouting directions to his driver.
*.*.*
"No, no, no, milady," Mr. Peers chastised once again. "You must start on the left foot."
Emma grinded her teeth together in frustration and counted to ten. These dance lessons had been Belle's bright idea when she'd discovered Emma had all the grace of a rampaging Rhino on the dance floor. So, it was a great relief to her when the ballroom door banged open and Jefferson barged in. She took in his appearance, noting the deep frown. He was furious and that anger was directed at her.
"Out!" he ordered her dance instructor.
"Milord, this is highly inappropriate. Her Grace asked me to instruct Lady Morrison in the art of the waltz to ready her for the ball tomorrow night," Mr. Peers protested in his nasal whine.
Jefferson grabbed the little man by his cravat and pulled him close to his face, his eyes full of menace. "If you don't get out, you won't ever have to worry about dance instruction again, little man," he whispered. "Because I'll break both your bloody legs," he continued, his tone rising on each word until it echoed through the room.
Mr. Peers left the room at a fast trot, Emma noted. She turned on Jefferson with a raised brow. "And just what was that about, milord?"
"What ball?" he asked at the same time. "And you can cease with that milord crap."
Emma frowned at him in confusion. What was he so irritated about and why did she feel it was somehow her fault? "The Countess of Grandville's annual Christmas Eve masque. Did you forget?" she asked, completely ignoring his other complaint.
Jefferson raked his hand through his short hair. "No, I was just surprised you would be going."
"Belle wants me to go. She says I'm not going to find a husband sitting at home and that the Grandville ball will be a perfect opportunity to look over potential suitors. Robbie has quite unceremoniously cut my mourning period short," Emma explained, a note of bitterness tinging her voice. "After all, I can't expect to impose on my family forever. I need to marry."
Jefferson knew she was right, but the prospect of every gold digger in London chasing after her for her dowry left a nasty taste in his mouth. "I'll escort you tomorrow night."
"I beg your pardon?" she asked in surprise.
"Don't look so shocked, little rabbit. When news of the immense dowry Robbie has settled on you reaches the ton, all manner of riff raff will be breaking down the door with flowers and candy trying to woo a yes from your sweet lips," he bit out sourly.
"Why, Jefferson, you actually sound like you care."
Jefferson cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. "What are friends for, love? Have to make sure to keep the rogues and bounders away from you."
Like you? Emma smiled warmly. "It will be lovely to have you escort me and offer your protection. Thank you."
Jefferson wasn't prepared for the quick kiss she placed on his cheek. His eyes darkened and his jaw tightened from the pleasure of it. How could an innocent kiss inspire such desire? It wasn't full of passion like the one they'd shared before, but it still had the same effect.
"Now can I please continue with the dance lesson? Apparently, Belle seems to think I dance rather like my mother," she grimaced.
"Perish the thought," he shuddered, remembering his aching feet after having danced with Lady Regina. "I shall assist you."
Emma cast him a sideways glance through her narrowed emerald eyes. "I don't know. I don't want to damage your toes."
"I've danced with you before."
"Yes, but you were scolding me at the time and didn't notice I was trodding all over your toes," she said with a painful smile. "I don't think this is a good idea."
Jefferson held his arms open to her and waved his hand for her to come forward. "Come on, Emma."
"Jefferson, I —"
He ignored her protests and pulled her into his arms, holding firm to her hand and sliding the other around her waist, much lower than he normally would. Emma's breath caught in her throat as he pulled her close to his chest.
"Chin up, rabbit. Look at me, not at your feet," he instructed and began humming the tune to a waltz. "On three."
On the count of three, Jefferson stepped forward with his left foot and Emma immediately crushed his toes with the heel of her right. "I'm so sorry. I forgot. I know I'm supposed to step with the left foot first."
Jefferson limped to a nearby bench and sat down, pulling his boot off to inspect his injured toes. Emma knelt at his feet and took his foot in her hand, rubbing away the hurt. Jefferson stiffened at her gentle touch, watching her nimble fingers ease the ache from his toes. He wanted to reach out and lift her onto his lap and let her ease another ache. He shook his head to clear his wayward thoughts and removed his foot from her lap.
"Take your shoes off, Emma," he commanded in a hoarse whisper. "If you don't have those sharp little shoes on, it won't matter how many times you step on my toes."
"You don't have to do this, Jefferson. I can just as easily ask Mr. Peers to resume his instruction," she argued, slipping her shoes off and placing them on the bench next to him.
"I want to," he said softly, more than a little surprised to realize it was true. He wanted her in his arms, the feel of her pressed tightly against his chest his greatest desire … even if it was something as innocent as a dance.
Emma stepped into his arms once more, shivering from the contact of her breasts pressing into his chest. She shouldn't let him hold her so closely. She knew she'd never let another dance partner take such liberty, but this was Jefferson, the man she desired and could never have. Why shouldn't she enjoy the moment with him? She looked up into his eyes and felt the desire he'd introduced her to so many months ago, her lips parting on a tiny gasp.
"Don't eat me with your eyes, Emma. Not unless you want me to take you to my bed," he warned, his own eyes mirroring the passion in hers. He was a cad for saying such things to her, but he couldn't help himself. The way her lips parted on a stunned gasp and the rosy blush which rose in her alabaster cheeks made it all worth his while.
Jefferson didn't give her a chance to respond as he began to hum. Emma remembered to step with her left and was able to follow him as he turned about the room. She was beginning to get dizzy, but whether from the twirling or his closeness, she couldn't be sure. He leaned close to her, his breath teasing the tendrils near her ear which had escaped the pins and she missed a step. Jefferson stepped to avoid crushing her toes with his booted feet and stumbled, taking her to the floor. He turned his body so that she landed neatly atop him, breaking her fall.
He laid his head back against the polished wood floor and grinned up at Emma. She returned his smile, her hands splayed against his chest. "Well, let's not do that tomorrow evening at the masque. Don't think Lady Grandville would approve," he teased.
"I'm so sorry. Did I hurt you?" she asked, her voice catching as he moved his hips beneath her.
Jefferson held her gaze as he cupped her face in his hands, his touch gentle. "No, sweetheart, you didn't hurt me." He urged her closer until her lips were almost touching his. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes heavily-lidded with desire, his voice a mere whisper.
"N-No, I had a soft landing," she said, her eyes lowering to his mouth. She wanted so badly to close the gap between their lips, and wondered if he would push her away, or if he would give in and kiss her again.
"Tell me what you want, love," he demanded, his hands moving into her hair, pins scattering across the floor.
Emma licked her lips, her mouth gone dry with the emotions welling up inside her. "I want —"
"Want what?" he coaxed.
But he wasn't destined to discover what she would've said as a voice intruded into the silence of the ballroom. "Emma!" Belle shouted. "What happened?"
Emma scrambled to her feet and stared wide-eyed at Belle. "I'm sorry, cousin, we fell. It was an a-accident," she stammered breathlessly, making excuses as to why she was lying atop the Earl of Rochefort.
"Jefferson?" Belle asked a bit dubiously, her brow arching in suspicion.
Jefferson pulled himself up off the floor to stand next to Emma, taking her hand in his. "I will see you tomorrow night, milady." He stopped next to Belle and kissed her cheek before exiting the ballroom, whistling a merry tune.
"Emma, what is going on between you and Jefferson?" Belle asked, suspicion and ill-concealed delight clouding her voice.
Emma looked away guiltily and moved to the bench to retrieve her shoes. "Nothing, Belle. Jefferson was teaching me how to waltz and he tripped over my big feet. When he fell, he pulled me down with him. It was all very innocent." Emma hated lying to her cousin after all she'd done for her, but she didn't want anyone to know how she felt about Jefferson Madden. At least until she herself knew for certain.
"Hmm," Belle murmured thoughtfully. "And what was that about tomorrow night?"
"Jefferson is escorting me to the Grandville masque. He's afraid once news of my dowry reaches the ton's ears, I'll be in need of his protection."
Belle watched her cousin flounce from the room, a satisfied smile etched on her lips. Yes, my dear Emma, but who will protect you from Jefferson?
*.*.*
What is she doing here?
What is she doing here with Rochefort?
You mean you haven't heard?
Sheffield is marrying her off. He's settled an enormous dowry on her.
She's going to be the most sought-after woman in England.
But to be out and about so soon after her parents' untimely deaths.
Scandalous!
Did you hear her dowry includes the ducal estate in Northumberland?
You don't say!
Heard it from Sheffield himself.
My word!
Jefferson ground his teeth together and tucked Emma's hand in the crook of his arm, leading her around the ballroom. He'd known this was going to happen the moment they entered the Grandville ballroom. Gossiping harpies, he thought with disgust. And of course, not one of them would dare give Emma the cut-direct while she was on his arm. He could feel her tension as they strolled around the room, tension which was a hare's breath from becoming full blown panic.
"Relax, rabbit," he whispered near her ear. "You look beautiful."
Emma glanced down at the ivory ball gown she was wearing and smoothed her hand over the skirt. Belle had chosen it for this evening, and she had excellent taste. Emma was looking forward to when she married so she could dispense with the pastels. She wanted to wear the deeper darker colors the matrons of the ton favored. Bridgette, her maid had piled her hair atop her head in artful ringlets and a matching domino covered her face.
Jefferson led her to the dance floor and swung her into his arms. "Smile, Emma. Remember that everyone is watching."
"No pressure there." Emma pasted a false smile onto her lips, that artful smile her mother had taught her. Always smile, my dear. No matter how much pain you might be experiencing, never let them see your weakness. But her eyes showed everything she felt. Jefferson squeezed her hand reassuringly.
"Left."
Emma stepped with her left foot and followed Jefferson's lead. "I hate this, Jefferson. I want to go home."
Jefferson winced as she missed a step and crunched his big toe, continuing without pause. "You'll be alright, Emma. I promise not to leave your side."
She could feel the eyes boring into her. Her heart was beating a rapid tempo, distracting her from the concentration required to follow her partner across the floor. She was a bundle of nerves and she felt as though she would collapse in a heap of ivory silk at any moment.
"Emma, look at me," Jefferson hissed against her ear, his tone harsh. Certainly not what she'd come to expect from him.
Emma raised her eyes to his and he could see the panic reflected there. He pulled her closer until her breasts were pressed into his chest. She forgot to breathe. Her eyes moved to his lips, desire replacing the panic in her deep green gaze. Jefferson breathed a sigh of relief as he felt her relax into him.
"Better?"
"C-Compared to what?" she asked, her voice husky with the new emotion. "Oh, this was such a bad idea."
"You can do this, rabbit. One dance and then you can sit and hold court just like the little princess you are," he murmured condescendingly. "And I get to stand back and play chaperone."
Panic returned with a vengeance at his words and she missed another step. Jefferson groaned and pulled her tighter. "I'm beginning to think you're doing this on purpose."
"What?" she asked, her breathing becoming uneven and broken as a new wave of desire washed over her.
"I think you're smashing my toes deliberately so —"
"I am not," she protested.
"- I'll hold you tighter," he finished with a devilish grin. "I think you're right where you want to be." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, dark with promise. "I think you enjoy being in my arms."
"I-I feel safe with you, Jefferson," she answered, trying to see his eyes behind the black domino he wore.
"Oh, Emma, I'm the last person in the world you should feel safe with."
"Why?"
"Because right now you're eating me with your eyes and all I can think about is —"
"What?"
"-how you'll look at me when you're lying beneath me in my bed," he whispered softly, watching with satisfaction as her lips parted on a gasp.
"Jefferson," she began, collecting her thoughts. "You can't say such things to me. You've made it quite clear you don't ever plan to marry, and you know that I must." She was angry now. Angry she couldn't have the one man she desired. Stubborn ass! she thought as he led her off the dance floor.
Jefferson led her to an empty chair to the right of the dance floor and dropped a kiss on her hand. "I won't be but a moment," he promised and left in search of refreshments. He hadn't felt the need to argue with her about marriage. He wouldn't condemn her to the stigma of his birth, but that didn't mean he wouldn't attempt to seduce her. It was becoming a burning need in him to possess her. He couldn't even bloody well dance with her without wanting her. He smiled to himself as he plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray on the refreshment table and carried them back to where he'd left her.
Holy hell! The wolves were circling and jockeying for position, crowded around her and obscuring her from Jefferson's view. He'd only been gone for a moment, but they'd seen it as a prime opportunity to curry favor with Emma. Jefferson drained his glass and deposited it on a passing tray, stepping forward through the throng to hand Emma the other.
"Make way, you lot," he commanded, scowling at Lord Newberry and Lord Wascom. He should've known those two would be among the suitors. He handed Emma her champagne and leaned down to whisper, "Are you alright?"
Emma nodded, that same false smile pasted on her lips. "A bit overwhelmed, but I should be fine," she assured him.
Jefferson moved around the chair to stand just behind her, there to lend his assistance should anything get out of hand. He didn't like this one bit. She was still grieving for her parents and here Robert and Belle had sent her out amongst the wolves to find a husband, a husband only interested in one thing, her dowry. They were no better than Regina, he thought in disgust. No, not quite that bad. They wanted what was best for her and he was being selfish, wanting to keep her all to himself.
He hailed a passing servant and asked for Grandville's best scotch. Rubbing his hand over his domino to relieve the pressure behind his eyes, his watchful gaze fell on Malcolm Wendell as he moved into the crowd to greet Emma. Jefferson tensed, wondering why the man couldn't take the hint. He stepped in front of Emma and blocked his path.
"Can I help you with something, Wendell?" Jefferson asked, his deep voice full of menace.
Lord Wendell drew back in vexation. "Not at all, Rochefort. Just wanted to offer my condolences to Lady Morrison."
"She's busy."
"I'm certain she can spare a moment or two," Wendell insisted, attempting to step around Jefferson.
"I said no," Jefferson asserted, stepping into his path once more.
Wendell's composure faltered and his face took on a reddish tint in his anger. "What are you, now, Rochefort? Her watchdog? Her suitor?" he sneered.
Jefferson's eyes narrowed on the smaller man. "I'm her friend and escort. Just think of me as her protector, Wendell, sworn to guard her against miscreants such as yourself."
Emma slipped her hand into his and squeezed gently. "Jefferson, I find it rather warm in here. Might we take a stroll in the garden?" she asked, diffusing the confrontation before it escalated into a scene for the gossip mill.
Jefferson looked down at her anxious smile and felt the anger drain from him. "Of course, milady," he said softly and turned his back on Wendell, leading her though the open French doors.
"Want to tell me what's going on with you and Wendell? It seems you two can't be in the same room without nearly coming to blows."
Jefferson led her down the garden path, removing the black domino from his face and rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Let's just say I don't care for his character."
Emma removed her own mask and let it dangle from her free hand. "You mean there's more to it than him being a lecherous toad?"
His frown deepened, casting his shadowed features into stark relief. "He was at school with me and Robbie. He and Killian had the room next to ours and we were all friends, more or less."
"Killian?" she asked curiously, never having heard him talk about his other friends.
"Lord Killian St. James, Earl Easterly. He disappeared in the war after his ship went down. Bloody shame, too. He was a good friend," Jefferson said, lost in thought.
"And what of Wendell? It doesn't look as though you two were ever friends."
Jefferson sighed, his brows drawing together darkly. "I don't want to tell you the details and frighten you, Emma. Just know he doesn't have a healthy appreciation for women."
Emma shared his frown, wondering what Wendell could be capable of. "What does that even mean, Jeff? He hurts them?"
"Yes, rabbit. Hurt is a relatively mild word for how he treats them. I don't want him anywhere near you," Jefferson said, turning and grabbing her upper arms. "I don't ever want you to be alone with that man. Promise me."
"I pr-promise," she stammered, frightened by the vehemence in his voice.
Jefferson drew her into his embrace, resting his chin atop her hair. "I don't want you to be hurt, Emma. I don't know if I will always be there to see to your protection and I couldn't bear it if you were harmed."
Emma pressed her face to his neck, seeking his warmth, his closeness. He had her pressed tightly to his chest, cocooned in his arms and she could feel the desire stirring within her. "Why, Jefferson? Because I'm your friend?"
Jefferson swallowed against the knot which formed in his throat. "Yes, because I'm your friend, Emma."
"You don't treat me like your friend, Jefferson," she said softly, her hands moving up his chest to twine about his neck. "You want —"
"What do I want, little rabbit?" he asked, cupping her face in his large hands.
"I don't know," she answered honestly, dropping her hands to his arms and looking up into his smoky gaze. "Why don't you tell me? Because no matter how much I try to understand you, I can't."
"What do you want to hear, Emma?" he asked, brushing his lips across hers with a feather light touch. "Do you want to hear how I can't get you out of my head? That no matter how much I drink to wash the image of you from my mind, I can't forget how beautiful you were that night in the kitchen with desire shining in your eyes?" Jefferson brushed his lips to hers once more, catching her lower lip between his own. "Do you want to hear about how much I want to taste you again?"
Emma couldn't move with his hands cupping her face, one thought prevalent in her mind. She wanted to be closer. She knew he was seducing her with his words, but she didn't care. She was overwhelmed with the desire he was making her feel. She wanted him to kiss her as he'd done before, burning her with his touch.
"Yes," she whispered against his lips, her breath mingling with his.
Jefferson dropped his hands from her face and stepped back, taking a deep breath of the cold night air. What the hell was he doing? This was Emma Morrison, whom he'd vowed to protect, not seduce. He was to see that she found a husband, not a lover. And he was the worst of the wolves here at the Grandville masque.
"I'm sorry," Jefferson apologized, raking a hand through his hair. "Emma, I didn't mean —"
Emma lowered her eyes so he couldn't see the hurt there and fumbled with her mask. "You didn't mean to make me want you again? You seem to be making a habit of that lately," she bit out with a choked laugh. "I do hope you make up your mind soon."
"About what?"
"About what you really want," she said in little more than a whisper and left him standing there in the middle of the garden.
"Well. Just. Shit!" he cursed. He watched her return to the ballroom, knowing he needed to follow. The more time he spent in her company, the more he wanted her. He wanted her in his bed, in his house and in his life. He wanted to shield her in his arms from the Lord Wendell's of the world. He wanted to make her feel loved and wanted her love in return. But he couldn't offer her his name.
The alternative, however, was unthinkable. He'd have to stand by and watch her choose a husband. He didn't know if he could live with the thought of someone else touching her, stirring her passions and taking her to their bed. Jefferson was beginning to think of her as his and the thought of another touching her left a sick knot in his stomach.
Jefferson returned to the ballroom and growled at a footman to bring him a bottle of scotch and a glass, pulling a chair against the wall with a clear view of Emma's court. Bloody asses! And of course, she was charming and lovely to each and every one of them, like the true lady she was. He'd drunk his way through half the bottle before he felt it necessary to cut in on Lord Newberry as he twirled Emma about the dance floor.
"Jefferson, you're drunk!" Emma hissed into his ear. He was holding her too close and everyone was staring, but he didn't seem to care.
"I'll have you know, rabbit, I don't even have a slight buzz." He spun her about, not missing a step. "If I was drunk, I would've tossed you over my shoulder and carried you out of here already. See? Restraint. Don't have so much of that when I'm drunk."
Emma blanched, the color draining from her face. "What are you playing at now, Jefferson? You're going to cause a scene. For someone who never wants to marry, you're doing a fine job of ruining my reputation."
"Not to worry, my darling. Robbie wouldn't have allowed you out of the house on my arm if he didn't trust me to be on my best behavior," he said, drawing her closer until she was pressed tightly to his chest.
"You're being a brute, Jefferson."
"But you love me anyway, rabbit," he returned, enjoying their banter.
The breath caught in her chest and she looked up into his eyes for the first time to catch the wicked gleam there. Uh-oh! Most definitely drunk and in a lustful mood. "Jefferson, we need to leave. Now."
"The dance isn't over," he whispered against her ear, making her shiver. They'd made another circuit of the dance floor when he asked, "Why is it you only tremble for me, Emma?"
Oh, my God! Now is not the time for one of his passionate speeches.
Emma decided to see if she could shock him sober. "Because, Jefferson Madden, you are the man I want. I tremble with passion for you and no one else. You awakened these feelings of desire and want and need in me, yet you don't have the courage to claim me for yourself. It's your touch I want to feel, your lips I want to kiss, and I'll never have you. Instead, I'm going to have to settle for one of these poor imitations to marry and I'll forever wonder what it would've been like to have you."
Emma left him there on the dance floor with his mouth gaping open, his brows somewhere near his hairline. Good! she thought with satisfaction. Of course, everything she'd said had been the truth, but she was certain he'd been so drunk, he wouldn't remember a word of it come morning. She collected her cloak and had a footman bring the carriage around to take her back to the townhouse. She wouldn't leave him stranded. She would send the carriage back for him, but she couldn't trust herself to share the carriage with him in his present mood. She couldn't trust herself not to give in to his seduction or worse … to seduce him herself.
A/N: Well well well, what a mess! Emma's coming to realize she shouldn't have to settle for anything less than what she wants, apparently. Poor Jeffy doesn't stand a chance, does he? Next chapter: Emma plays dirty and Jefferson seeks comfort in the snow … or should I say relief? Thanks to all those who reviewed, favorite, kudoed, followed, subscribed and whatnot. Remember, dearies, you are the reason I post every day! Much love! See you tomorrow!