In the chamberthat was undeniably his, Emma awaited Hart’s return, haunted by the chill air, the maddening connection she felt whenever he was near, and trepidation for what would inevitably come next.
Her deflowering.
Deflowering.
Such an odd, uninspiring word to describe what would happen. She was not a flower, and nor was she a plant. When the highest bidder took from her that which polite society believed had already been given, nothing would change. At least, not outwardly. When one was ruined, one did not have far to fall from grace.
Mind swirling with unanswered questions, Emma paced in her bare feet, taking in her surroundings, desperate for some answers. First, who, exactly, was the man who had paid so handsomely for her? His identity remained cloaked in secrecy, along with their location—somewhere, presumably in a seedier part of London, judging from the unfamiliar scenery and the buildings she had glimpsed on darkened streets.
She wandered the periphery of the chamber, searching for more clues. The carpet was not luxurious, but neither was it threadbare. The room was generous enough in size. The streets below appeared busy, even for the late hour. There was, permeating the building, a scent of tobacco smoke and spirits. The number of gentlemen coming and going suggested she had been brought to a gaming establishment of some sort. Perhaps the kind her father frequented.
She felt vaguely ill at the notion that Hart could also have been the man responsible for her father’s downfall into dun territory. But either way, she had no proof. There was a writing desk, a pitcher and basin on a table by the far wall, a chair pulled near to the hearth. Only one, she took note, with something suspiciously like relief. It was the height of foolishness to fret over whether or not this man enjoyed intimacy with other women. After the week was over, she would never see him again.
In truth, there was precious little in this room to distinguish it from any other in which she had dwelled. The wallcoverings were new and unfaded, but there was nary a picture to adorn them. Everything was neat and tidy, the mantel bereft of the ornamentation she was accustomed to seeing. Even the large, dark armoire inhabiting the space between the window and his writing desk was Spartan. Dark trousers, carefully arranged shirts and cravats.
The scent of him hit her, familiar and pleasant, reminding her she was prying and Hart would be returning at any moment. She ought to have investigated when he had initially deposited her here, as if she were an object to be put away rather than a person, leaving her with nothing more than a hasty, curt instruction to remain within and that he would return.
A knock sounded at the door, making her jump and quickly slide the drawer closed. It would not do for him to discover she had been making herself so familiar with his personal space. She had no wish to anger him. Hart had not given her cause to fear him, but she had scarcely met the man. He remained very much a stranger.
A stranger who, despite his handsome face and the stirrings of yearning he inspired in her, could be capable of anything.
She waited for the door to open as it had before, for him to authoritatively sweep into the chamber. But nothing happened, save another knock.
“Come,” she called.
The door opened, and to her surprise, it was not Hart on the threshold at all, but rather, a light-haired young woman. His sister, perhaps?
“May I?” the other woman asked, her tone hesitant.
Emma noted she held a pair of slippers in one hand, her other arm draped with gowns and petticoats. She could not help but to find it odd that she, as a guest, should be required to grant permission to Hart’s own sister to enter the room.
“Please,” she said, gesturing for the other woman to enter, daring to hope she could find a friend in her unexpected guest. “I am Emma.”
“I am Lily,” the younger woman said, crossing the threshold and closing the door with a well-placed kick of her boot-shod foot. It snapped closed with more force than necessary. “Hart said you need some new rigging and I was to lend you some of mine while you’re staying on with us.”
Rigging.She supposed that meant garments.
“Yes,” she said weakly, rubbing her hands over her bare arms, keenly aware of her scandalous gown. “Some new…rigging would be most appreciated, Lily. Thank you.”
The younger woman eyed her with unabashed curiosity as she drew nearer. “You look as if you’ve come straight from The Garden of Flora.”
Emma swallowed against a rush of shame. “That is because I have.”
Lily’s brows rose. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing here at The Sinner’s Palace?”
The Sinner’s Palace.
So she was at some manner of gaming establishment, then.
“Did your brother not tell you?” she asked, feeling curious herself.
“I’m afraid not. He ain’t particularly leaky when it comes to his secrets.”
“Ah,” she said, noting the hint of East End in his sister’s accent as well, more notable for her unique phrasing.
It would seem Hart had gone to Lily for aid, requesting gowns without an explanation, and then had promptly disappeared. Perhaps he did not ordinarily purchase the innocence of ladies on auction blocks, then. The thought was hardly comforting, but better than nothing, she supposed, watching as Lily draped the gowns over the edge of the bed.
The bed Emma would be sharing with Hart.
Tonight.
Soon.
Too soon.
“Are you one of Madame Laurent’s ladies?” Lily asked, her voice free of censure.
It was as if Emma had entered a different world. And in a way, she supposed, she had.
“No,” she said, unsure of how to explain her presence here, the convoluted means by which she had arrived in this moment, a reluctant guest at a place called The Sinner’s Palace. “I am not.”
“Then what are you, if you don’t mind my asking?” Lily returned, her look turning speculative. “You speak like a nob.”
“I am…” Her words trailed off as she struggled to explain, for it seemed to Emma her life had been segmented into parts, different roles she had played. “I am your brother’s guest.”
Reluctantguest.
That sounded preferable to prisoner, and a prisoner was incarcerated against her will. Emma was here of her own volition. Driven by the necessity of desperation, yes. But her own free will, all the same.
“It’s all plummy.” Lily flashed her an unrepentant grin. “Hart loves his secrets, so I might as well know he’d have one of his own.” She reached into the pile of gowns and removed a simple night rail. “It’s late, so I expect you’ll be wanting this one first. I’ve more if you need them, depending on how long you’re thinking to stay.”