Frowning at her naked hands, Emma wished that she could solve the problem of her lack of evening gloves as easily as the hem had solved the problem of her footwear. Suddenly, she recalled her mother's gloves, a remnant of her genteel youth, a memento she had kept until her death, and Emma had kept since. She leaned over, pulled her portmanteau out from under the bed and withdrew the gloves from the side pocket. The soft kid leather was only slightly yellowed with age, the seams a little frayed, and there was a smudge of black on the tip of the right index finger.

She thought that even their faded glory would be better than no gloves at all, and so she slipped them on. The fingers were a trifle overlong, but the gloves reached to her elbows. Emma felt they completed her ensemble quite nicely. At least, she hoped they did. Just as she hoped the gown looked as fine as it felt.

Freeing her long hair from the pins that confined it, Emma picked up her mother's ivory inlaid brush and ran the bristles through her unbound tresses. Then she twisted the whole into a simple knot at the base of her neck in a looser, softer style than the one she customarily wore.

She had no diamond pins to sparkle in her hair, no necklace to grace her throat. Nonetheless, she felt the fairy princess of her fantasy, for this was the finest gown she had ever worn. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves she stepped from the room, raised her hands, and pinching her cheeks for color. She had seen the eldest daughter of her mother's employer do that once. It had made the girl look vibrant, fresh. Emma hoped it would do the same for her.

Although, she supposed it might simply make her look like she had eaten something that gave her a rash.

The servant's staircase brought her close to the kitchen. Emma paused, considering a quick visit to show Cookie her finery, but she could well imagine Mrs. Bolifer's face s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up in that pinched frown, the one that screamed disapproval. No, she would not let the housekeeper ruin one moment of her evening. Even sensible girls had a right to their dreams, no matter how frivolous or unlikely they might be.

Emma continued on her way then paused outside the doorway of the dining room. She smoothed her gloved hands over her skirt as her stomach somersaulted with nerves. Never in her life had she attended a dinner party. Or walked through the park with a handsome man. But tonight, she had been given the opportunity to pretend, and she intended to enjoy it to the fullest.

Tomorrow, she could go back to being Miss Emma Parrish, poor relation, spinster, governess, daughter of pitiable Elizabeth Parrish who had made a terrible, unforgivable blunder and paid for it the rest of her life. Tonight, she was Miss Emma Parrish, the loveliest lady in the room. She bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. She would be the only lady in the room, but that did not signify.

Emma stepped into the dining room. The wainscoting and dark color of the walls seemed to pull the room inward, making its large proportions seem less than they truly were. The rich mahogany dining table was laid for two, one setting at the head, and the second to the immediate right, rather than at the foot. Dinner and side plates, gleaming silverware, and three crystal gla.s.ses for each diner. How very formal they looked. And ever so intimate, pushed to one end of the large expanse of tabletop.

A candelabra glittered with the flames of several candles. Sniffing delicately, Emma could ascertain none of the foul odor that normally accompanied a tallow candle. Wax candles were frightfully costly, yet it seemed that this dinner warranted them. And then she recalled Mrs. Bolifer's blunt observation that Lord Anthony hated the smell of tallow.

"Miss Parrish, your punctuality is commendable."

Drat the man. He had done it again. Come upon her and caught her unawares.

Emma turned, her breath catching in her throat as she saw Lord Anthony, his broad shoulders delineated by the dark cloth of his evening coat. A white neck cloth graced his throat. Oh, handsome, handsome man. The corner of his mouth was curved slightly, hinting at a smile. She ventured a smile in return. "Good evening, my lord."

He stepped closer. She tilted her head back, holding his stare. Parting her lips, she tried to draw enough air to fill her suddenly starved lungs. Her lips felt swollen, hot. How odd; they had felt just fine only a moment ago. Lord Anthony's nostrils flared as he stared down at her, and the dark centers of his eyes dilated until Emma thought she would be pulled inside of him to drown in the infinity of his soul.

Whirling away from him, she struggled for control. Was she to be condemned to the onslaught of insanity each time Lord Anthony entered a room?

"How lovely the table looks," she mumbled inanely, resting one hand on the ornately carved back of a mahogany chair as she looked at him over her shoulder.

His gaze flicked briefly to the table before settling back on her. He scanned her, his eyes resting for a heated second on the bared skin just above her decolletage, before moving on to take in the remainder of her person. Emma's heart lurched as his eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened in disapproval.

"Where did you get that dress?" The tone was not rude. He spoke softly, deliberately enunciating each word. "Where did you find it? Some dusty old trunk?"

Perhaps it was the lack of inflection that frightened her.

Emma swallowed, confusion and unease squelching the sizzling attraction she had been subject to only a moment past. Her bewilderment robbed her of eloquent speech.

"You gave it to me. At least, I thought...what I mean to say is that when I found it, I thought you had-"

A rapid slash of Lord Anthony's hand through the air was enough to still Emma's attempted explanation, freezing the words on her tongue.

"Come with me." Again that toneless voice. The overly controlled cadence of his elocution implied a fury so great as to be barely contained.

Emma stepped away, her head moving slowly back and forth. "Perhaps I should return to my chamber."

"Perhaps you should. But not just yet."

This, then, was Lord Anthony's temper. This frozen fury that permeated the air like a bitter winter wind. And the cause of it...she had no idea.

She sidled around the chair, deliberately placing its bulk between them, as if that paltry barrier could offer protection.

"Come with me," he said again, reaching across the chair and closing his fingers around her wrist. "I do not know your intent in donning that gown, Miss Parrish, but you were misguided." The anger was there, leashed like a wild beast, writhing and undulating, desperate to burst free.

Emma tugged tentatively on her trapped limb. Though he did not apply enough pressure to hurt her, Lord Anthony's firm grasp ensured that she could not escape.

"My lord, my sole intent in donning this gown was to dress for the evening meal. Obviously, you do not approve. Now, if you will unhand me, I think it best for me to return to my chamber." Again she pulled on her wrist, adding a little twist as she attempted to free herself.

"Unhand you?" His brows rose in surprise and he glanced at his fingers where they curled about her wrist, as though they belonged to someone other than himself. "Forgive me."

Without further preamble, he dropped her hand. The suddenness of the release caused Emma to stumble back a pace.

"You may return to your chamber if you wish. But first, there is something I will show you." He gestured gallantly, indicating that she should precede him from the dining room, and when he spoke, his voice was low and rough. "After you, Cousin Emma."

Pressing her lips together, Emma stepped around his formidable frame. Despite his apparent return to congenial behavior, she knew he made no request but, rather, demanded her compliance.

"I really-" she began, only to stop midthought as Lord Anthony stepped to her side and placed her hand on his arm. The muscles beneath the smooth, black cloth of his evening coat were firm and taut. Emma glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was a large man. A strong man. A frightening man.

A man who bound his emotions with a fence forged of strongest steel.

He will not hurt me. The words represented a certainty, not a spurious hope. She could not say from whence the thought came, but she was comforted by its presence, confident of its veracity. She thought of his expression when he realized he held her wrist, his grasp in no way painful. Still, he had looked surprised. A little appalled. Forgive me. She cast him a sidelong glance. No, he would not hurt her.

He made no further effort to restrain her. Emma accompanied him spurred now by her own curiosity and free will, and they walked in silence, their way lighted by a candelabra that Lord Anthony took up in his free hand.

Stopping before an ornate gilt frame, his expression cold and forbidding, he set the candelabra on a small table that stood to one side. "Delia," he said softly, his fingers resting briefly on the edge of the painting.

Emma looked at the picture of her dead cousin. A chill stole over her, and the gown she had worn as her fairy tale dream suddenly felt like a shroud. Her skin shrank from the cool silk, and a faint nausea turned in her stomach.

"She is wearing this gown," Emma whispered as she stared at her cousin's perfect porcelain beauty. "Why would you give me Delia's dress?"

"Indeed, why would I? That dress is particularly repugnant to me. She was wearing it the night-" He shot her a sidelong look and then continued, "I thought it was burned years ago."

She glanced at the portrait, at Delia arrayed in this very gown, looking confident and lovely, just as Emma remembered her. "If you did not give it to me, then how did it come to be lying across my counterpane?"

Lord Anthony scowled but made no reply. She met his gaze unflinchingly. There was no warmth in him now. He stared down at her with a remoteness that acted as a solid barrier between them.

"I had no idea. About the gown, I mean." Emma looked away from his grim expression, back toward Delia's portrait. His reaction clearly indicated that he could not bear to see another attired in the belongings of his beloved.

Such a bitter tonic, that realization. She had wondered if he loved her still, his Delia, and now she had her most unwelcome answer.

"You must have loved her very much," she whispered. Impulsively, she reached forward, twining her fingers through his and squeezing gently. Offering small comfort in the face of his loss.

Silence was the only reply, but she could feel restless emotion shifting the currents of the air, cold eddies that licked the edge of her skirt, up and under, raising gooseflesh.

"No wonder you were so angry when you saw me garbed in this dress." She cleared her throat nervously when he yet held his silence. "Are you angry still?"

He turned to her then, and Emma realized her mistake. His predator eyes glittered with all the dark fury he had earlier held in check. "I am angry, though that single word can hardly aspire to adequately describe the black pit of utter rage that burns my entrails like an evil humor."

His fingers closed firmly around hers where she had so foolishly linked their hands, and she felt the surge of his temper hovering just under the surface, a writhing thing that once unleashed might be impossible to control.

Leaning close, he held her gaze, mesmerizing her. "So you see, Miss Parrish, you are wrong on two counts, and right on only one. I did love Delia once, if love can be named as the obsession of youth. And then I hated her, with the powerful hatred of a man. Hatred strong enough to wish her gone from my life. Gone from this earth. Gone to Hades where she could meet her just match."

"No." Emma whispered, pulling her hand from his with a desperate twist, backing away from him in disbelief. His intensity frightened her.

"I wished Delia dead," he said flatly. "I hated her with enough pa.s.sion that I dreamed of wrapping my hands around the delicate white column of her throat, snapping her neck like a dried twig. And for that I cannot grant forgiveness to myself. What think you now, Miss Parrish? Do you still cast your maiden's glance at me? At my lips? My chest? My thighs?"

She took another step back. Dear heaven, he knew her every thought, had seen each languid, longing glance....

He stalked her, both with his words and with his body. For each step Emma retreated, he pressed forward, until the wall pushed against her back and she could retreat no more.

"No," Emma whispered again, leaning against the cold, unyielding wall as if she could seek protection there. What he was saying was too terrible to consider. And she had thought him lost in his lamentation at the early death of his beloved. Foolish girl. He spoke of darkest thoughts and deeds. Tears welled in her eyes, and a single drop escaped to roll down her cheek. She could not believe it of him. Did not want to believe it of him.

"There are demons in my soul that you can have no wish to see." Words wrenched from him, rough as gravel.

"Do you name yourself murderer? Do you?" She choked on a sob, every rumor, every ugly insinuation she had ever heard churning together with this horrific confession into a repulsive and frightening brew.

One last step and he was before her. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his maimed hand and wrapped a dark tendril of Emma's hair around the scarred remnant of his finger, then rested his open palm on the column of her throat where her pulse beat a frantic rhythm. And she could not will herself to pull away.

"Tears, Emma? For Delia?" His voice rolled over her, rich and deep and tantalizing. She could smell the faint intermingled scents of sandalwood soap and brandy and man, so tempting and lush, even in now in the moment of her utter distress.

Emma shook her head, dashing at her tears.

"For me, then, Emma. Do you cry for me?" Now his tone was faintly mocking.

"For myself." She answered with pained honesty, the words insufficient to express the cause of her sorrow. Yes, she cried for Delia, dead these many years. And for Lord Anthony, this beautiful man with his tormented soul. But, most of all she cried for herself. For as she listened to the words he spoke, the stark utterance that painted him a monster, she still could not chase away the near overwhelming urge to press her lips to his, to breathe hope and succor into his bleak world. To ease his pain.

To be the one who could save him.

Emma cried because she was well and truly lost. She might sooner try to save Lucifer himself.

As if he read her deepest thoughts, he angled his head, moving closer until their breath mingled and Emma could feel the beat of his heart against her own. She stood, frozen, a bewildering yearning spilling through her, drawn to him despite the tortured confessions of his soul. Drawn to him because of them. She was certain that he knew of her longing, of the hot need that poured through her veins, the ache that cried out for his touch.

Perhaps her yearning had been there from the first moment when he had touched her in the coach. Or the moment when she had watched him hold Nicky in his arms, smiling down at his son. Mayhap it had grown from each look they exchanged, or each time she had watched from a distance as he bestowed a kindness upon a servant. She did not know. But the craving for him had grown until it writhed to unholy life within her, until she trembled with the force of it.

She had been warned about this from the time she was a small child, told time and again that she must not fall prey to the same mistake as her mother. Dragging in a shuddering breath, she tried to fight the demon of her desire, tried to recall all the reasons that she must beware of Anthony Craven, beware of the terrifying, captivating lure of him.

The full length of his hard body pressed against hers, trapping her between hot man and the cold wall at her back. The smell of his skin undid her, and she moaned softly as she brushed her face against his neck, his jaw. Wrong, so wrong, but the temptation of him made her blood sing. She wriggled against him, aware of the press of his pelvis to hers.

He laughed, low and dark, the sound fully lacking in humor. And she thought he would kiss her now. Oh, please let him press his lips to hers, those lush sensual lips. She moved her thighs together beneath her skirt. The longing to push against his disturbing weight warred with the longing to fist her hands in the fine cloth of his coat and drag him nearer still, to breath the scent of him until he filled her lungs, her heart, her every sense.

Breath hissed from between his teeth. She wondered if he was as overcome as she.

But he did not kiss her. He brought his mouth against her ear, and she was stunned at the hard twist of disappointment that clutched at her.

"Run away, Emma," he whispered, even as his hand wrapped around the nape of her neck, his thumb caressing her collarbone. "Does my admission, nay, my confession, not strike the fear of G.o.d in you? Fly away from me."

He made a harsh sound in his throat, and Emma felt the cold rush of air that replaced the warmth of his body as he slapped his open palms against the wall and pushed himself away from her. The chill brought the return of sanity. And the rush of mortification. Something about this man caused her to reject all that she knew, to forget her mother's lifelong admonitions, to yearn for him in a way that consumed her.

With a small cry, she sagged against the wall, her thoughts churning like the darkest clouds of a winter storm.

"I do not fear you." She was horrified to realize that she spoke the truth. Fear him? No. Instead, she wanted him with an intensity that burned like a hot coal in the pit of her belly. This was madness. Fear was the wiser course.

Lord Anthony chuckled, a hard sound that might have been aimed at her, or himself.

"Fear what I may do to you, Emma. For if given the chance, do it I shall." He turned from her and walked away, his withdrawal marking his words for the lie they were, for he had done nothing to her. Nothing at all.

And to her true and utter horror, she wished that he had. She melted to the floor in a heap of rumpled silk and damaged dreams.

His self-accusatory words rippled through her thoughts, and she realized that despite all he had said, there were truths yet unspoken. Perhaps those truths lay in what he had not said.

"You said you dreamed of killing her," she called out.

The dwindling sound of his footsteps stopped abruptly, and the silence was heavy with secrets and implications.

"You said you dreamed of killing her," Emma whispered, her voice choked with her tears. "You never said you killed her."

He did not answer, and for a long while Emma huddled on the floor, the harsh rasp of her breathing gradually calming as she gathered her shattered nerves into some semblance of order. The steady sound of his footsteps resumed, ricocheting hollowly in the cold, empty gallery, imitating the echo of his silence in Emma's heart.

CHAPTER SIX.

"It would seem we are of like mind, Miss Parrish. Bothered by unpleasant dreams?"

With a wary sense of resignation, Emma looked up from her plate of cold beef, cheese and bread, her heart pounding at the sound of Lord Anthony's mellow voice. She was unnerved at having to face him again so soon after the debacle in the portrait gallery. He had haunted her thoughts in the hours since, chasing the possibility of sleep from her mind. And now he was here in the kitchen, standing before her in glorious disarray, breeches slung low on his hips, white shirt tossed casually across his shoulders, apparently driven by the same wakefulness and hunger that had brought her to the kitchen in the wee hours of the night. Strange, strange man that he did not simply ring for a servant to bring him food.

"Bothered by the practical need of an empty belly, my lord," she replied. "And you? Haunted by nightmares?"

"By the past," he said and then looked as though he wished he had not.

He studied her for a moment before striding forward, heedless of his half-naked state. Emma stared in fascination at the hard planes of his chest, the supple ridges of his abdomen. Her mouth felt dry. She had the appalling, alluring thought that she'd like to touch him, to run her hands over his smooth skin, to press her palm to his chest and feel the steady thud of his heart, the rhythm of his blood pounding in his veins.

A fine dusting of dark hair shadowed his chest, narrowing to a thin line that ran down his belly to his breeches. If she reached out, laid her finger on that line of hair, traced it, a mysterious path, to the final outcome- With a sharp intake of breath, she lowered her eyes, but the image of his linen shirt hanging open, revealing the ridges of his belly and the hard planes of his chest, was branded in her mind. Had the man no modesty, no decency?

"What-" she exclaimed, startled, as he pinched his thumb and forefinger on the flame of her candle, then set his own in the center of the table.

"I detest the stench of tallow," he said.

"Tallow is frugal," she pointed out.

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes-the endless verdant green of them-dark and glittering, hard and bright. She thought he must surely discern her thoughts, her wanton, wicked thoughts.