Emmy wanted to look everywhere at once, but she kept her head down and tried to look inconspicuous.
She’d never been inside a gentleman’s club before, never imagined the noise, the luxury, the smell. Dice rattled in cups, roulette balls bounced and clattered in their wooden wheels, cards snapped and scraped over green baize. The air was an almost tangible fog of alcohol, tobacco, and warm bodies. Masculine shouts, curses, cheers, and groans formed a constant wave of sound, augmented by the odd feminine laugh. It was a world away from the staid formality of Almack’s with its lukewarm lemonade.
Emmy was amazed at the colossal sums being transferred at the tables. She gambled with her life every time she stole something, and it seemed that the stakes were equally high here. The whim of a single card could make or ruin a man.
A wave of anger toward the players seized her. She had good reasons for risking it all. She did it reluctantly, against her will. What excuse did they have? Why choose to skirt ruin, merely for fun, for the thrill of it? It seemed an irresponsible way to find pleasure.
Luc joined a game of whist, and she stood behind him, feigning interest. She’d never liked cards. She lacked the patience. She passed an idle glance around the room, her heart in her throat, searching for a familiar face.
Did the owners of the club spend much time on the gaming floor? Or did they stay in their private apartments, ensconced in solitary splendor? If the private half of the Tricorn was anything like the luxury of this public side—the place positively exuded subtle yet expensive taste—then they must live like kings.
Out of habit, she catalogued the exits. The main door led to the curving flight of stairs they’d taken from the marbled entrance foyer. A dining room branched off to the left. A billiard room, judging from the occasional crack of ivory balls from within, on the opposite side. She glanced up. A minstrel’s gallery, with a balcony like an opera box, overlooked the room, fed by a single door. That was where she would stand, given the choice.
Emmy recognized a few of the gentlemen in attendance. Eversleigh was impossible to overlook, in his pocket watches and a lurid yellow-striped waistcoat. He looked like a boiled sweet and seemed impressively inebriated. Lord East was there too, with an orange-haired woman who was most definitely not his wife.
Emmy’s spirits drooped a little. There was no sign of Harland, nor his friend Wolff. She hadn’t expected to see the third owner of the club, Benedict Wylde. He’d recently married Georgiana Caversteed, the shipping heiress, and it was rumored to be a love match. Emmy rather hoped he had better things to do with his evenings than oversee a crowd of intoxicated thrill-seekers.
Perhaps Harland was having dinner. Perhaps he wasn’t even in the building.
Perhaps he was with a woman. She clenched her teeth.
Luc pushed back his chair. “I need to go to the necessary, but I don’t want to leave you alone,” he murmured. “I should never have let you and Camille to talk me into this. I dread to think what will happen if somebody recognizes you. Come with me. It’s downstairs.”
Emmy nodded, and together they made their way back to the staircase. Luc was clearly enjoying himself. He had a formidable intellect; he could probably devise a method of breaking the bank if he put his mind to it, but she was just glad to see him having fun. He’d missed out on several years’ worth of evenings like this when he’d been an invalid.
The Tricorn’s giant doorman, a man named Mickey, pointed Luc in the direction of the bathroom, and Emmy took advantage of his momentary inattention to palm the key that he’d left on a table near the door.
For all she knew, it opened something completely useless, like the Tricorn’s wine cellar, or coal shed, but if she were lucky, it might prove more interesting—like the key to the back door, for example. Or to the private apartments. She slipped it into her reticule. No telling when something like that might come in handy.
As Luc lumbered off in the direction given, Emmy loitered at the far end of the corridor, feigning interest in the surprisingly good paintings that hung on the burgundy damask walls. A paneled door to her right opened, and she turned, expecting to see a servant, but instead, she encountered a familiar pair of slate-blue eyes.
Of all the—
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but Harland took one swift glance down the deserted corridor, caught her elbow, and tugged her through the door.
Emmy was too surprised to do more than gasp as he closed it behind them with a heavy click and swung her round so her back was pressed against the wall.
The noise from outside decreased to a dull hum, and she registered, dimly, that they were in some kind of secondary hallway, illuminated at regular intervals by a series of glowing wall sconces. He stepped up close, his huge chest inches from her own, his shins pressing against the front of her skirts.
Irritation mingled with shock. She was masked; he couldn’t know who she was. Did he make a habit of abducting female strangers in this manner? Was this how he conducted all his interactions with women? He just pulled them into dimly lit corners whenever he felt the need to—
She tugged her elbow from his grip and went on the attack, even as her heart thundered in her ears. “Lord Melton, you seem to have made a—”
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“You have me confused with someone else, sir.”
He sent her mask a scathing look. “Do you think I’m completely blind?”
Emmy made one last-ditch effort. “My name is—”
“Emmeline d’Anvers,” he supplied smoothly, and Emmy stilled in shock at the unexpected perfection of his French accent. From his lips, her name sounded liquid, seductive. As if he’d said it a thousand times before. Only Camille and her father had ever used that version. Luc and Sally used the clipped, Anglicized style—Emmy Danvers.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll ask you again. How did you get in?”
Emmy looked him in the eye. “Your friend Mowbray sent my brother tickets.”
His jaw tensed, and she thought she heard him mutter a curse. His gaze flicked down to her mouth—about the only part of her face he could see beneath her mask—then back up.
“You shouldn’t have come. This is no place for a lady. It could be dangerous.”
Emmy almost laughed aloud. Oh, yes, dangerous. The danger wasn’t out there, though, in the card room. It was right here in front of her. Six foot two of bristling, infuriated male.
“You’ll be ruined if someone from the ton recognizes you.”
She managed an offhand shrug. “My reputation, or lack of it, is not your concern.”
An inch of white cuff flashed as he braced his hands on the wall on either side of her head. He leaned forward, crowding her with his height, and a thrill of something that wasn’t quite fear flashed through her. It had been a mistake to come here, to taunt him. But she’d never felt so alive. Being near him elicited the same nerve-wracking rush as participating in a heist.
“You’re in my club, Miss Danvers. That makes you my concern.”
Emmy pressed herself back against the wallpaper in a vain attempt to create some space between them. The air seemed thick, throbbing with tension. They were almost nose to nose. The light from the nearest sconce outlined the harsh line of his jaw, the bulge of his shoulder. She caught a hint of brandy on his breath, and it warmed her, curled her stomach.
His eyes narrowed. “You are the most aggravating woman I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.”
“And you are the most irritating man.”
She forced herself to hold his gaze. She understood this game; to close her eyes would be to admit defeat, and she refused to flinch first. She kept her eyes on his as he brought his hand to her cheek and spread his fingers along her jaw, just daring her to move. His hand was so large, he touched both earlobes at the same time.
She shivered.
“Do you find this irritating, Miss Danvers?” he murmured. His thumb stroked her chin, then slid to the corner of her lips.
She found that she was breathing hard, little pants against his skin. Her stomach swooped as he slid the pad of his thumb to the center of her lips and snagged her lower lip, folding it down. His eyes darkened.
In a sudden move, he yanked the ribbon that held her mask. It fell to the floor, and Emmy felt instantly exposed. The tiny piece of cloth had given her more confidence than she’d realized, the illusion of safety.
“Better,” he murmured. “I see you, Emmy Danvers.”
Was that a threat? A warning?
“Considering you’re half blind, that’s quite ironic,” she managed on a shaky exhale.
His eyes were slate blue behind a tangle of dark lashes. Emmy regarded him with suspicion as he slid his hand around to the nape of her neck.
His lips touched hers with a static jolt that made her gasp. He pulled back, just a fraction, as if gauging her reaction, and then closed his eyes. He seemed to be waging an internal battle with himself. Emmy held her breath.
“Sod it,” he breathed.
There was no hesitation this time. No uncertainty. His mouth molded over hers confidently, the perfect weight, neither too soft nor too aggressive. Heat curled inside her. He increased the pressure, and her lips opened at his silent command. She gasped as his tongue tangled with her own.
Brandy and sin.
Emmy closed her eyes. He traced her lower lip then slid back for more, angling, pressing, repositioning; an endless slow burn that grew more and more urgent with every swirl of his tongue. Reason slipped away.
Madness. This was madness.
Nothing had ever felt so right. His mouth was even better than she remembered. Hot and insistent. Addictive. Her blood was a dull roar in her ears, blocking out the sound of the club only feet away.
Pretend. Just for a few moments. Pretend we’re enemies who kiss. Pretend we’re not enemies at all.
Another kiss. A deep, wet slide. Slow and languid, as if he had all the time in the world. As if he were savoring the taste of her.
Don’t stop! Don’t ever stop.
Seized with a reckless desperation, Emmy captured his lower lip between her teeth. He groaned, a low sound of appreciation deep in his throat, and her pulse leapt with delight. Interacting with him made her feel stingingly, achingly alive. She wanted to ruffle his feathers, to goad a reaction out of him.
You’re supposed to be avoiding him!
Don’t care. Closer. More.
She flattened her palms against his chest. His skin was hot beneath the cotton, his heartbeat strong. His delicious masculine weight pushed her up against the wall and an aching heaviness pulsed between her legs.
His hand slid to her ribs then up the side of her breast in a wicked slow caress. Her nipples peaked inside her bodice, and she gasped in dazed wonder. His kiss became a challenge, a gauntlet being thrown down. Who would stop first? Who would pull away, admit defeat?
Not me.
Air whooshed out of her lungs as he caught her waist and lifted her, pressing her hard against the wall. Emmy wrapped her arms around his neck and marveled at his strength as he grasped her bottom in both hands and crushed her to him.
“God—” He sounded breathless, almost pained.
“Emmy!” Another voice, Luc’s, sharp and insistent.
Harland froze. And then cursed. He loosened his arms, and she slid back down to the floor, the wall at her back the only thing keeping her upright. Cool air rushed between them.
Emmy stared at him in astonishment. What had just happened? She could barely catch air into her lungs. Her legs felt like jelly. She placed one shaking hand over her heart and took as deep a breath as her stays would allow. Good God.
He stepped back, straightening his shirtsleeves, then ran a hand through his hair.
“Emmy!” Luc’s voice echoed through the thick door, fainter this time.
Harland caught the handle of the door and swung it wide. Light flooded in. He shot Emmy a fierce look. “Go home, Emmy Danvers. And stop playing with fire.”
Emmy scooped up her mask from the floor and ran.