Alex merely shook his head, a wry grin spreading across his face. “Well, my love,” he said, “I imagine my sister has just remembered that she doesn’t have a harpsichord.”

Chapter 8

During the next few weeks, Emma’s life settled into something of a routine, albeit a rather exciting and entertaining one. Overnight, she had become one of the most sought-after members of London society. It was quickly decided (by whomever it is that decides these things) that, while her red hair was regrettable, the rest of her certainly wasn’t, and so she was hailed a beauty, despite those fiery locks. Some of the more conservative matrons deemed her a little too bold (especially with “that red hair”), but most of the ton decided they rather liked talking with a female who could converse on topics other than ribbons and petticoats. And so Emma and Belle (who had acquired a similar although blonder reputation the previous year) went laughingly from party to party, enjoying their popularity immensely. For Emma, this time was a delightful interlude in a life that would surely take her back to her father in Boston where she, as his only child, would eventually defy current industry standards and take over his shipping business.

The only complication was, of course, the Duke of Ashbourne, who had emerged from his selfimposed exile and taken his place in society with a vengeance. No one had any doubts as to the reason for his sudden reappearance.

“He is positively stalking Emma,” Caroline once grumbled.

To which his “prey” had shrewdly replied, “I’m not sure if he likes me or if he just likes to stalk.”

Of course that statement was only half true. During the previous few weeks, Emma had seen Alex almost every day, and the friendship between them had developed into a fairly strong one. Emma was certain that Alex truly cared for her as a person and not just as some sort of prize to be won. Still, the friendship was often fraught with sexual tension, and, well, Alex did seem to enjoy stalking.

He was as quick as a lion and enjoyed surprising her. Once Emma had gone to a musicale he had said he did not plan to attend. She had been standing idly next to an open window when she felt a warm hand grab hers. She had jerked away, but the hand held firm, and she had heard a familiar voice whisper, “Don’t make a scene.”

“Alex?” Her eyes darted about. Surely someone noticed a hand snaking through the window.

But the rest of the partygoers had been involved in their own flirtations and didn’t notice Emma’s flustered expression. “What are you doing here?” she whispered urgently, keeping a benign smile pasted on her face.

“Come out to the garden,” he had ordered.

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. Come out to the garden.”

Emma, cursing herself fifty times for a fool, had made up a story about a tear her dress and stolen away. Alex was waiting for her in the garden, hidden among the trees.

“What are you doing here?” she repeated as soon as she found him.

He grabbed her hand and yanked her deeper into the shadows. “I figured you missed me,” he replied cheekily.

“I most certainly did not!” Emma had tried to pull her arm back, but he wouldn’t let go.

“Now, now, of course you did. It’s all right to admit it.”

Emma had grumbled and muttered something underneath her breath about overbearing aristocrats, but one look at his wicked smile was all it took to force her to admit to herself that she had missed him. “Did you miss me?” she countered.

“What do you think?”

She felt herself grow bold. “I think you did.”

He had looked at her mouth then, looked at it with such longing and intensity that Emma was sure he was going to kiss her. Her mouth went dry, her lips parted, and she felt herself sway toward him. But all he had done was drop her hand with startling abruptness, flash her a smile, and murmur, “Until tomorrow, love.”

In a blink of an eye, he had disappeared.

It was moments like these that had tied Emma’s feelings into a tangled knot of confusion. No matter how many nights she laid awake thinking about him, she could not seem to sort out her thoughts about Alex.

On the one hand, his domineering attitude provoked her to no end. He was constantly trying to boss her around, although, Emma thought smugly, he was finding that to be no simple task. On the other hand, he was proving to be quite convenient as his mere presence effectively scared off most of her persistent suitors, which was fortunate since she hadn’t wanted any suitors in the first place. She was always in demand at parties, but she had skillfully managed to avoid any awkward proposals of marriage.

To complicate matters, Emma was discovering that Alex was truly an entertaining escort and companion. He constantly challenged her intellect and, although he said the most outrageous things to her, she never tired of his company. She privately vowed, however, that he would never hear such high praise from her lips—his ego certainly did not need any polishing. But what most confused Emma was her physical reaction to the man. The mere sight of him somehow set her entire body quivering with expectation. Expectation for what, she wasn’t exactly sure, although she imagined Alex knew. Once, when she was confiding her feelings to Belle (who was already up to Hamlet in her grand Shakespearean quest), she said that the only way she could describe her reaction to him was that she experienced a “heightened sense of reality.”

“It’s corny and trite, I know,” Emma had remarked, “but it just seems that I’m so aware of everything when he’s near. The scent of the flowers is stronger. My lemonade tastes sweeter, my champagne more potent. And it’s so difficult not to look at him, don’t you think? It’s those green eyes of his; he should have been a cat. And then I get short of breath, and my skin tingles.”