CHAPTER3
Hart watched from the gaming room’s periphery. The action on the floor showed no sign of stopping. Drunken lords were doing precisely what it was they were meant to do within the walls of The Sinner’s Palace: spending profligately. Wagering coin they would regret in the morning. Drinking far too much. The scent of wine and spirits was heavy on the air, mingling with tobacco smoke. The gentlemen happily going about their evening—now morning, for it was half past three—were oblivious to everything but their own merriment, which was exactly how the Suttons wanted it.
The more men forgot about the world beyond the walls of their gaming hell, the easier it was to remain, drinking, gambling, finding other entertainments of a more sordid nature when the mood inevitably struck. On nights such as these, with The Sinner’s Palace thriving around him, all lights and sounds and exuberance, Hart damn well loved being a part of it.
But he was lingering where he was not needed for a different reason. And that reason had golden hair that cascaded down her back and eyes that were more brilliant than what he imagined the clearest country sky would look like on a summer’s day. That reason possessed a pair of breasts so fine he could not stop thinking about filling his palms with them, and legs. Floating hell, she had legs he wanted wrapped around his waist, a mouth he wanted on his cock, and…
Damnation. This was what damnation felt like, he was certain. Wanting something so badly, his teeth ached and yet knowing it—she—could never be his. Knowing he could look but not touch. That Lady Emma Morgan was his to destroy and not his to desire.
He had a far different reason for her presence here at The Sinner’s Palace, in his room, in his bed. His bed. Was she in it? Certainly she would have fallen asleep by now. Although he had stationed one of the younger guards near her door so that she would not be tempted to run, he could not avoid her forever. He was no immortal; he would need sleep.
A hint of movement at the edge of his vision stole his attention, briefly making him think he had conjured Lady Emma. A flurry of white and pale gold. Damn it, he had lingered far too long, staying up too late. He was beginning to go bleary-eyed. He turned to the door connecting the gaming room to the hall and froze.
Lady Emma hovered on the threshold, wearing nothing more than a night rail that was indecently sheer and that bloody stupid silken mask. Her hair was still unbound, her feet yet bare. And the sight of her was enough to send an instant bolt of lust straight through him. There was something about the blasted woman that called to him in a way no one before her had, and he did not bloody well like it.
In fact, he loathed the feeling. With every lick of desire came the rebutting sting of thoughts of Loge, reminding him his beloved brother was still missing. And that Lady Emma’s father was likely responsible.
Still, his protective instincts roared to life when some of the patrons became aware of her presence. One of the lords—Viscount Elmsley—called out for her to sit on his lap. Another made a bawdy call of appreciation, whilst another asked for her to sing a vulgar song. Damn it. The Sinner’s Palace provided amusements for its patrons, but Lady Emma was not one of them.
Hart surged forward, his feet moving before his mind, eating up the distance between himself and his lovely captive, who was meant to be sleeping soundly in his room. What the devil had Daniel been doing, that he had allowed her to slip from Hart’s chamber and into the public area like this? Hart was going to tear the stripling a new arsehole before he was done with him.
Thankfully, he reached Lady Emma before anyone else, catching her by the elbow and guiding her firmly from the gaming room, making certain they were secured in the private hall before speaking.
“You are not meant to be here,” he growled, irritated with her as much as with himself for his damnable reaction to her.
Why did he have to want her so much?
And why could she not be asleep in his chamber where she belonged?
And why could he see the shadow of her nipples beneath that night rail?
His mouth went dry as the wall sconces flickered their light over her, limning all her feminine curves in glorious abandon.
“I wished to speak with you,” she said, as if she were not nearly naked, the only thing separating her from being ravished by the drunken lords next door and for that matter, him, a scrap of goddamn cotton.
His cock was already half-hard, his self-loathing complete.
That is Lily’s night rail she is wearing, you daft arsehole.
Yes it was, but to his eternal dismay, Lily was not the one wearing it. The incomparable Lady Emma was. And his reaction to her was visceral and uncontrollable, regardless of the garment’s owner. Besides, he had most certainly never witnessed his sister in her bedtime attire.
“You wished to speak to me,” he repeated, astounded with her for her daring.
Angry with himself for his inability to banish his desires.
“Yes.” She held his gaze, apparently unaffected by his ire. “You left me without a word of when you might return, and I could not sleep.”
She could not sleep? Saint Hugh’s bones, he had paid to take her innocence and then allowed her the comfort of his own bed for the evening. And she was the one for whom slumber remained elusive? Perhaps his mattress was not thick enough for her ladyship. Or his chamber was not suitably elegant. He knew Haldringham was pockets to let, but that did not mean his daughter would not be accustomed to the trappings of nobility. The quality’s notion of poverty was a far cry from that of the masses.
He raked a hand through his hair, on edge and weary and frustrated. “I do not answer to you, madam.”
“I never suggested otherwise,” she said calmly, as if she were not standing in the midst of his gaming hell, half-naked. “However, I would like to know what is expected of me.”
“What is expected of you is to do as I say, and I told you to remain in that bleeding room until I gave you permission to leave,” he snarled, feeling very much like a beast.
A beast who wanted to take Lady Emma in his arms and carry her away to his bed. And fuck her senseless.
Where is your damned loyalty?
Her lower lip quivered, that full, plump invitation to sin.
“You did not say I was to be a prisoner.”
A prisoner. Christ.
“You are hardly a prisoner. I see no shackles on you,” he countered grimly. “You are beneath this roof because I have paid handsomely for the privilege. Or have you forgotten so soon?”
Her chin went up in a return of her defiance. The defiance he could not help but to reluctantly admire. She may have landed herself in a precarious position, a position no earl’s daughter should ever occupy, but she was clinging to her courage and her pride.
“I have not, sir.”