She tittered. "Don't be so harsh on the boy. Has it been so long that you've forgotten your first whiskers?"
Justin's hand froze in its motion, then fell limp at his side. He resisted the urge to check the looking glass, afraid he might discover his hair had gone snow white.
This time he didn't wait for the last note of the waltz to sound. As soon as Penfeld started to shift his bulk, he flung himself over the valet's legs and plunged through the crowd.
He took Emily's arm firmly and forced himself to make a genteel bow. "Would you be kind enough to grant me the pleasure of your company for a dance?"
She opened the card affixed to her wrist by a golden thread and studied it. A charming line of concentration furrowed her brow. "I'm afraid not. My dance card is full." She patted his sleeve.
"Perhaps another time."
Stung by her careless rejection, Justin's grip on her arm tightened, but before he could protest, a familiar voice chimed between them. "Why, good evening, Your Grace. Charming ball, is it not?" Cecille du Pardieu bobbed him a schoolroom curtsy that made him feel at least eighty. "Come along, Emily dear. There's a young gentleman who's simply dying to meet you."
He had to admire Cecille's opportunism. Emily was the obvious belle of the ball, and claiming her now could only enhance Cecille's own reputation. Hooking her arm in Emily's, she dragged her away, chattering as if they had always been the best of friends. They disappeared in a crowd of laughing,
jostling young people.
He dragged his creaking bones back to Emily's chair and sank into it. When Sims, standing back at a discreet distance, offered him another glass of champagne, Justin took the entire tray and balanced it
on his knees, leaving the perspiring footman empty-handed.
"Dry, sweeting?" his mother chirped.
"Parched," he replied. As he tossed back a glass, his hungry gaze combed the crowd for a hint of
chestnut curls garlanded with roses.
* * *
Justin rolled the fluted stem of the champagne glass between his fingers. The ballroom was nearly as empty as the tray sitting at his feet. His head gave a warning throb.
It was well after midnight. A crowd had gathered at the door where the duchess and Millicent were bidding farewell to the last of their guests. He ought to be with them. But doubting his ability to stand, much less converse socially, he remained sprawled in his chair.
He didn't relish the prospect of climbing the winding stairs to his big, lonely bed. Penfeld sat beside him, humming tunelessly under his breath. Justin was surprised the valet hadn't fainted dead away from mortification. He had long ago clawed away the tie Penfeld had knotted with such painstaking care, and draped it around his collar.
He narrowed his eyes as Emily untangled herself from the last knot of her admirers and started across
the ballroom, her kid slippers whispering on the polished tile. Her silk roses might have wilted a bit under the strain, but she still looked as fresh as a spring rain in the desert.
She approached, smothering a yawn into her glove.
"Tired?" Justin gave his knee a pat of invitation and quirked a devilish eyebrow.
Her cheek dimpled in reproach. She brushed past him, leaned over, and kissed Penfeld's cheek.
"G'night, Penny."
"Penny?" he muttered. She was already turning away. "What about me?"
She stopped, the curve of her bare shoulders alabaster in the fading light. Justin crossed his arms over
his chest and stared straight ahead, regretting the childish challenge the instant it left his lips.
Emily turned in a swirl of silk. The scent of rosewater and vanilla jolted his senses. She bent to give his cheek a peck, but before he even realized he was going to do it, Justin turned his head, grazing her mouth with his own. The contact was brief, warm, and sweet. He knew it wasn't fair, but he was unable to deny himself a fleeting taste of her lips.
"Come, my dear." The duchess appeared at Emily's elbow. "Won't you escort an old lady to her room?"
As his mother drew her away, Emily looked over her shoulder at him. He leaned the back of his head against the wall, oddly sobered by the rebuke in her eyes.
* * *
The clock on the landing below chimed twice. Emily turned over in her bed as the hollow bongs rolled through the house. Why should sleep elude her now? The night had been a smashing success. She
ought to be savoring her triumph, dreaming of the hectic days to come as she accepted the invitations Penfeld had assured her would come pouring in tomorrow.
Instead, she lay staring wide-eyed into the shadows, unable to erase from her mind her last glimpse of Justin as he sat alone in the dimming gaslights, surrounded by a sea of limp confetti.
His own behavior at the ball had caused quite a stir. He had appeared the height of rakish splendor with his tie unknotted and his long legs sprawled before him in disreputable indolence. Whispers about his roguish past had flown through the staid crowd on wings of fascination. Oddly enough, while such innuendo would have been the ruin of a woman, it only enhanced his reputation and made him all the more desirable to the eligible girls and their mamas. Emily wondered what they would think if they could have seen him sweating in the fields like a common farmer or reading the Bible to a tribe of rapt natives.
His rakish pose did not fool her. She had seen the hollowness in his eyes as he watched her go. She touched her lower lip, remembering the jarring brush of his lips against her own.
She rolled over. Champagne glasses had littered the floor around Justin's chair. Had Penfeld remained to help him to bed? What if he stumbled over something in the dark and fell? Lord knew, there was plenty to stumble over in this cluttered museum. Her father had once lost a friend who, after imbibing too much gin, took a tumble down the stairs and cracked his head. Emily sat straight up, beset by a vivid image of Justin's body sprawled on the first-floor landing, his white shirt stained with blood.
She climbed out of bed and drew a robe of woolly cashmere over her nightdress. As the toys and fairy-tale books had disappeared from her room, other things had appeared-an olivewood stationery case lined in velvet, a delicate box of rose-leaf face powder, a handsome leather diary inscribed with her initials. Gifts not for a child, but for a woman, all placed by magical, unseen hands.
Leaving Pudding drowsing in front of the fire, she padded down the stairs. Silence enveloped her in its dark cloak, making her realize how badly she missed Justin's music.
She pushed open the door to the ballroom. A pale splinter of a moon shone through the oriel windows, bathing the long, empty room in a silver wash. She felt foolish. Of course, Penfeld would have rescued his master by now. She shivered as the chill of the marble tile crept into her bare feet.
She was turning to go when a voice came out of the shadows, as husky and intimate as a touch.
"You still owe me a dance, Emily Scarborough."
Chapter 24