LITMIR.BIZ

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the double entendre his words had implied. His countenance showed nothing but good humour. Perhaps her thoughts dwelt so much on his possible seduction of her sister that she read meanings into his words that weren’t there. Somehow she doubted it.

      She moved to stand between them. ‘Shall we be on our way?’

      She heard Amy’s huff of irritation and ignored it. She just wished she could as easily ignore the sense of Charles Hawthorne’s nearness. She wanted nothing to do with him yet her body betrayed her. She straightened her shoulders, determined to control herself, and marched through the door Gordon held open.

      Outside was a magnificent ebony barouche that would hold four people comfortably. The top was down for the fine weather and the crest of Lord George Hawthorne, Charles’s older brother, adorned the door. The urge to turn on the odious man who had let them carry on thinking he was in his racing carriage was nearly too much to resist. He had made fools of them.

      Instead, she allowed the footman, dressed in the Hawthorne livery, to open the carriage door and assist her. She sat facing the magnificent team of four matched bays and patted the velvet-covered seat beside herself to indicate Amy was to sit there.

      Charles Hawthorne placed himself with his back to the horses. They were no sooner settled than he signaled the driver to start. The carriage moved forward with a smoothness that spoke volumes about the quality of the vehicle. Emma remembered riding in this carriage once with Lord George Hawthorne. She had enjoyed the movement then as well.

      Her eyes met her host’s and she suddenly regretted her determination to join the pair. He had such an unsettling effect on her.

      ‘A tuppence for your thoughts?’

      His deep voice penetrated her senses, seeming to sink into the depths of her being. There was something about this man that spoke to her of things done in dark, private places even though she deplored his morals and the way he led his life.

      ‘Oh, la, Mr Hawthorne,’ Amy said. ‘I am thinking of what an enjoyable drive we shall have.’

      His voice tinged with irony, he replied, ‘I hope we will.’

      Emma was grateful to Amy. She must have made a mistake when she had thought he was asking her. A silly mistake.

      Against her will, Emma listened to the man exchange quips and banter with her sister until they turned smartly through the gate and into Hyde Park, taking their position in the throng of carriages and horses promenading on Rotten Row. Anyone who was anybody, and many who weren’t, crowded the park at this time of day during the Season. It was the height of fashion to be seen here, and Emma, always honest with herself, had to admit being here did Amy no harm.

      Amy beamed, her Cupid’s bow mouth open to show perfect white teeth. She raised her gloved hand every few minutes to wave at an acquaintance. Emma decided that much as she had not wanted them to come here with Mr Hawthorne, it pleased her to see her sister so happy. Surely Amy would soon receive an offer.

      Charles Hawthorne sat directly across from Emma and when she wasn’t careful, her knee brushed his. It was an unsettling sensation, she decided, as his knee grazed hers for the sixth time. Much as she hated to admit it, the experience was so startling she kept count.

      Darting a glance at him and seeing the amused curve of his fine lips, she wondered if he meant to touch her in so intimate a manner. Immediately, she decided not. He was interested in Amy, not her. She had too many freckles and a spare figure that not even the high-waisted gowns in fashion flattered.

      He could have his pick of the ladies of the ton or those not so high in the instep. He would never give her a second glance if he weren’t pursuing Amy for reasons Emma knew had to be far from honourable.

      ‘A tuppence for your thoughts, Miss Stockton.’

      Warmth spread through Emma’s body at his use of her name and made her wonder if he had really meant her the first time. She chased that thought away. Everything about this situation was disconcerting.

      ‘I am wondering why everyone wants to be in London when the countryside is at its best at this time of year.’ She couldn’t help a wistful glance at the green trees and emerald grass. ‘There are days when I miss home very much.’

      His eyes intent, he murmured, ‘How very interesting. I thought you enjoyed London.’

      She met his gaze without thought. ‘I don’t know why you should think anything about me, Mr Hawthorne. You don’t know me.’

      ‘I know some things.’

      ‘Such as?’

      He glanced at Amy and shrugged. ‘That you have been in London for the Season these past three years. That your family’s country estate is in Yorkshire. That until three years ago, you were in mourning. You did not come to Town until after that.’

      She listened to him, thinking he must have heard everything from his older brother when she and George Hawthorne had been engaged for all of three months just two years before. It seemed a lifetime.

      ‘You are well-informed. I would have thought me too boring a subject to hold any interest for a man of your persuasions.’

      As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. They sounded as though she were begging for a compliment, not as the insult they should have been. Why did this man—with nothing to recommend him that she valued—manage to make her feel disturbingly alive?

      ‘You don’t have a high opinion of me.’

      ‘No, I don’t.’

      ‘Em, how can you be so rude?’ Amy’s voice cut into what had seemed a small cocoon where only Emma and Charles Hawthorne existed. ‘If I said such a thing, you would threaten to put me to bed with only bread and milk.’

      Emma shook herself, thankful to Amy for interrupting a discussion that was becoming too revealing. She angled to smile at her sister. ‘I might have done so several years ago, but you are too old for such measures now.’

      ‘Hah! And thank goodness for that.’ Amy laughed. ‘I have seen that glint in your eyes many times these last weeks. You always have it when you wish to discipline me.’

      Bantering with her sister eased some of Emma’s uncanny awareness of the man sitting across from her. Even when his knee once more touched her own, she managed not to feel as though her stomach spiralled. She was more aware of him than she wished.

      Charles Hawthorne raised his hand to wave and the carriage slowed. They paralleled a dark-haired, dark-eyed, vivacious woman who sat on a prime piece of horseflesh as though she had been born to the saddle.

      Harriette Wilson, the famed courtesan, smiled at Charles Hawthorne.

      Emma’s face paled and her fists clenched. This was not done and showed a tremendous lack of respect on the man’s part toward her and her sister. She glared at him.

      ‘Harriette,’ he said, his fine voice making the name sound like a caress, ‘how are you today? You look in fine mettle.’

      The woman smiled back, her entire body seeming to light up. ‘Charles, you devil, I am in great spirits.’ Her teasing gaze turned challenging. ‘Do you intend to introduce me?’

      His grin widened. ‘I would not have hailed you if I did not.’ He turned so his intensity held Emma like a vise, his countenance as serious as Emma had never seen it. ‘Miss Stockton, Miss Amy, I would like you to meet Miss Wilson. A friend of mine.’

      Emma nodded her head. Good manners and an innate tendency not to hurt others kept her tone pleasant and kept her from looking away without acknowledging the introduction. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Wilson.’

      Amy’s voice rose. ‘Miss Harriette Wilson? The Harriette—’

      Emma cut ruthlessly across her sister’s excitement. ‘That is enough, Amy. I am sure Miss Wilson has no desire for her name to be shouted for all to hear.’

      The mounted

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