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was right.

      ‘Emma, we should accept Mr Hawthorne’s offer of help.’

      Emma scowled at him. ‘Are you in your brother’s barouche or must we all squeeze into your phaeton?’

      He had the grace to look mildly embarrassed, nothing more. ‘I hadn’t anticipated this situation, Miss Stockton.’

      ‘I imagine you didn’t.’ The tart words were out in a trice. He brought out the absolute worst in her.

      ‘I am in my phaeton.’

      ‘Well, that solves it.’ She wondered where her vaunted self-control had gone as she noted the acid in her tone. She should be speaking calmly and rationally, not like a fishwife. ‘We cannot all cram into that vehicle. It would not be at all respectable.’

      ‘Nor is this bickering in public.’ Amy’s voice cut across them.

      ‘The pot calling the kettle black,’ Charles murmured.

      Emma cast him a sharp look but said nothing. Amy was right. But she could not allow her young sister and herself to pile into his phaeton. They would be much too close.

      ‘I shall get a sedan chair.’ Charles moved to the street and hailed two down. Turning back to them, he said, ‘I will walk along side until you are safely home.’

      ‘Sedan chairs are for old dowagers,’ Amy’s disgusted voice rang out.

      Emma nearly laughed. It certainly cut across the retort Emma had planned to make. Her fury of minutes before seemed to evaporate and for the first time since her waltz with Charles Hawthorne, she felt as though her mind worked properly.

      ‘We have no need of those, Mr Hawthorne. We are country girls and quite capable of walking home.’ She looked at the still crowded street. ‘It is just that I don’t believe it would be safe.’

      ‘Then I shall escort you.’ When she opened her mouth to decline his offer, he added, ‘Or hoist you into my phaeton.’

      ‘Neither, thank you.’

      She was proud her voice was calm and not burdened with fury. Her lapse had been momentary and would not repeat itself.

      ‘Then how do you propose to get home?’

      ‘Here is our hired carriage,’ Amy said, moving toward the vehicle. ‘It is early.’

      ‘Thank goodness.’ The heartfelt words followed on the relief Emma felt.

      Charles moved into the street and motioned the coach to stop. Without waiting for the groom perched on the back to dismount, Charles opened the door and handed Amy in. She gave him a radiant smile that put the lie to her former peevishness.

      Emma noticed he did not kiss her sister’s hand even though Amy let it linger overlong in his. An unwelcome, piercing relief lanced Emma. She refused to study the sensation—or try to name the cause of it.

      Instead, she walked to the carriage door, ignoring Charles Hawthorne’s outstretched hand. She lifted her skirt and put her foot on the carriage step. He took her arm to steady her. Instantly awareness of him flooded her: his smell, the warmth of his hand on her arm. He was a man it was impossible for her to ignore, try as she might.

      Better that he did not touch her, but she knew from her previous experiences with him this evening that he was too strong for her to make him release her. He would have this his way just as he had had everything else his way this evening.

      ‘I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused you tonight,’ he murmured.

      Surprise held her immobile as his barely audible words wafted against her neck. He was apologising? She could not believe her ears.

      Turning her head, she gazed at him, realising too late that only inches separated their lips. A dip of her head and his mouth would touch hers. Just this once, she wanted to close the distance and let her senses rule her head. Her eyes widened in shock at the realisation.

      As though he knew what she wanted, his fingers tightened on her arm and his mouth parted. His eyes were as dark as the sky behind his head. Emma knew it was her imagination only that whispered he would kiss her. Her wanton desire for something she knew was wrong and the illusion caused by unclear lighting. Nothing more. She wouldn’t let it be anything more.

      ‘You have done more damage than an apology can rectify,’ she finally managed to say, her voice breathy. ‘Let me go.’

      He held her a moment longer. She thought he would say something. Her stomach tumbled.

      He released her and stepped back. ‘You are right, of course.’

      His tone was flat, as though he felt nothing, and she was infinitely glad she had not reacted on her unbidden response to him. It was her need that had prompted her to think he meant to kiss her. He did not care for her.

      She hurried into the carriage and sank into the seat opposite Amy. The vehicle lurched forward. Emma fell backwards before righting herself and squaring her shoulders.

      ‘I saw you.’ Amy’s words were an accusation. ‘You want him.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She closed her eyes, unable to look at Amy when she said the words.

      Emma admitted to herself that she lied. It was not that she wanted him in the sense of love and permanence, but for just this small period of time she wanted to feel his arms around her and his lips on hers. So, yes, she did want him.

      When she opened her eyes, Amy was a dark silhouette in the unlit interior. Emma hoped she looked the same to her sister because she knew the blush on her face would tell Amy the truth.

      She was always honest with Amy no matter how hard it might be at times. She had prided herself on that openness. Now Charles Hawthorne was the cause of her first untruth to her sister. Just another thing to hold against the man. She nearly sobbed in regret.

      They did not speak the rest of the drive.

      When the coach stopped, Amy bolted from her seat and out of the door. Emma alighted and saw Amy had used the key in her reticule to let herself into the dark house. Now there was a wedge between them when they needed each other the most.

      She turned to the coach driver and offered him the money. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘No need, ma’am. ‘Is Lordship paid me.’ The driver gave her a gap-toothed grin, indicating the amount had been more than adequate.

      Emma forced a smile and turned away. She wanted to push her money into the man’s hand if only to prove to herself that she did not need or appreciate Charles Hawthorne’s act of generosity. But that would solve nothing. She had to control herself.

      The glow from the single candle Gordon kept burning when she and Amy were out cast a puddle of pale light at her feet. The rest of the street was dark. No one fashionable lived here to be entertaining in the small hours of the morning.

      She shivered in the cool air and followed Amy into the house.

      Charles stood watching the hackney coach long after it disappeared around the corner. The tip he’d given the driver should ensure Emma Stockton and her sister got home safely and with promptness. It was the least he could do after causing the rift between the sisters.

      He turned to look at Princess Lieven’s glittering mansion. It had been an impulsive decision to come here, based solely on boredom. He had wanted to irritate Emma Stockton by offering to escort them, and when that failed, he’d wanted to amuse himself by pursuing her at the ball. He had not realised how it would escalate.

      Even he, spoiled and filled with ennui, had been uncomfortable with the argument between the sisters. He had underestimated Amy Stockton’s infatuation with him, something he rarely did. That’s what came of meddling with schoolroom chits.

      It was bad enough that he had found himself reacting to Emma Stockton’s nearness. She was a prude and high in the instep, traits he did not care

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