Still, she struggled not to cower beneath the intensity of his regard. There was no softness in him, not a hint of the polite manners she had come to expect from the gentlemen in her acquaintance. For the first time since Father’s dreadful solution to their problems had emerged, true fear crept into her belly, knotting it.
“Will you not tell me your name?” she asked again, desperation edging the fear.
Solving the mystery of his identity seemed somehow important.
At least she would have a means of thinking about him. If he gave her his name, he could no longer be a complete stranger. But then, how silly of her, applying the rules of polite society to her current situation. If this were a polite engagement, he would have to be introduced to her by someone else. And yet, this godforsaken house of ill repute was as far from a Mayfair ballroom as she could ever find herself.
“A trade, then,” he suggested, unsmiling. “My name for yours.”
She ought to give him a false name, and she knew it. But she had no wish to spend the next seven days answering to a name that belonged to another. She reasoned she could maintain her secrecy and give him nothing but her given name.
“Emma,” she offered. “My name is Emma.”
Lady Emma Morgan.
Not that it mattered now.
In this moment, she was someone else. Not the Earl of Haldringham’s daughter.
“Hart,” he said.
For a moment, she feared she had misheard him. “Hart?”
“Aye. Hart. I’ve the name since I haven’t one in my chest.” Once more, his lip curled as his gaze swept her form in thorough fashion. “Not one that feels, anyway.”
The heat of that stare, traveling over every part of her. She had never known anything like this man’s—Hart’s—frank regard. Likely, his intent was to frighten her. But she could not deny there was something intriguing about him as well. Was it the mystery surrounding him? The sordid nature of their meeting? Or perhaps it was something to do with the warning implicit in his words.
All she knew was that she had never, in all her days, met a man quite like this one.
And now, he was going to know her intimately, as only a husband should.
A shiver passed through her. “What do you intend for me?” she asked him, summoning the remnants of her tattered poise.
“Eager to begin, are you?” He flashed her a mocking grin. “You may as well come with me.”
Go with him?
Her alarm returned.
“Where will you be taking me?” she dared to ask.
“You shall see presently, love,” he said, his gaze again traveling over her. “Have you a wrap? The evening air is damp.”
His question took her by surprise. Concern for her comfort? What a curious man he was. Alternately cold and forbidding, thoughtful and warm. Or perhaps it was merely his stare that was warm.
“I did have a wrap when I arrived,” she said, thinking of how Madame Laurent had discreetly seen her attire whisked away, replaced by the scandalous gown she now wore. “I have no notion of where it has gone, however.”
“You will take my coat.” Without awaiting her response, he shrugged the garment from his broad shoulders, removing it with flawless grace.
“There is no need,” she objected, thinking of the intimacy inherent in accepting the coat from his back.
He ignored her protest, settling it around her shoulders, surrounding her in the warmth from his body and the pleasant scent of him. Spice with a hint of mint teased her senses. He bent to retrieve her mask from the floor then, before offering it to her.
“You’ll want to wear this when we leave, I expect.”
She accepted the mask, startled by the gesture. The kindness. “Thank you, Hart.”
He said nothing, merely watched as she hastily fastened the mask into place with trembling fingers. When she could not seem to tie the knot, he moved to stand behind her.
“Let me.”
At his stern command, she allowed his fingers to replace hers. As his breath fanned over her nape, she suppressed another shiver, which had nothing to do with nervousness or cold. He made short work of the ribbons, tying them and preserving the last remaining shred of her modesty.
She swallowed, trying to ignore his nearness and the mad thumping of her heart.
“Come, Emma.”
He held out his hand, callused from work, and large, so large.
Tentatively, she placed hers inside, the connection of skin on bare skin sending an unexpected jolt of awareness skipping past her wrist, up her elbow. Her instinctive reaction was to pull away, to sever the contact. But she resisted the urge.
For what choice had she?
She belonged to this man for the next sennight. Her family’s solvency, her sisters’ futures, and everything she held dear depended upon it.