Every Bit a Rogue Read online

  While Jon continued his hunt for glassware, Emma removed her sodden bonnet and cloak, shaking off the excess water. The workshop offered much needed protection from the elements, but was damp and cold inside. She looked for a hearth or some other source of heat, disappointed to see there was none.

  “Can I help?” she asked, folding her hands to stop their trembling.

  “No need. I’ve found them.” He handed her a none-too-clean-looking glass filled with amber liquid.

  Emma accepted the offering, her nose wrinkling when she caught a whiff of the contents. “What is it?”

  “Scotch,” Jon replied. “I knew that Norris would have a bottle stashed in here somewhere. He is, after all, a Highlander.”

  Emma stared suspiciously into her glass. It smelled vile, yet she knew several men who enjoyed the liquor. It must be an acquired taste. Shivering, she brought the glass to her lips, willing to try anything to chase away the chills.

  Wisely, she took a small, cautious sip. It burned the back of her throat when she swallowed, but as promised, created a warmth that spread languidly inside her. Encouraged, she continued sipping, surprised to suddenly notice her glass was empty.

  “May I have some more?” she asked, holding out the goblet.

  “If you are having another, then so must I.” Jon’s expression barely flickered as he refilled her glass and then his own. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Miss Ellingham?”

  “Emma,” she said softly, not liking his regression to formality.

  His brow lifted and she could see amusement spark in his eyes. “I suppose it would be a waste of breath asking what you were doing in my woods in the middle of a rainstorm? Emma.”

  Emma lifted her glass and stared at him over the rim. She liked hearing her name fall from his lips. It sparked a feeling of warmth in her chest that she knew had nothing to do with the liquor she had just consumed.

  “I was hoping that a chance encounter in the woods would afford me the opportunity to engage you in friendly conversation, so you would view me as I am, not a threat but an admirer of your invention,” she admitted.

  “I applaud your resourcefulness.” The amusement in his eyes deepened. “And if that failed? What next?”

  She blew out a breath. “Well, another, albeit brief consideration, was widening my eyes and fluttering my lashes at you when we next met.”

  He barked with laughter. “Reducing yourself to insincere flirting to get your own way, Emma? You wound me with such trickery.”

  “I said that I gave that rather featherbrained plan only a very brief consideration. I didn’t employ it,” she replied, flashing him a defensive smile. “Will you at least afford me some credit for my restrained behavior?”

  “I might.” Jon finished his whiskey and firmly tapped the stopper into the bottle. “If you tell me why you abandoned your flattery plan.”

  She shrugged, seeing no good reason not to reveal the truth. “I’m not exactly certain how it is done.”

  “Flirting? Surely a woman with your good looks has had her share of suitors.”

  Now it was Emma’s turn to laugh. “I’m hardly the sort of woman who is sought after the minute they leave the schoolroom. There have been a few men who demonstrated some mild interest, but ’tis hardly a long list of besotted gentlemen clamoring for my hand in marriage.”

  “Just your hand? I would hope they were as interested in the rest of you.”

  His eyes met hers and Emma clearly saw the teasing humor in their depths. Then his gaze dipped to her breast, his eyes smoldering with heat. But only for an instant. So quickly she wondered if she had imagined it.

  Or wished for it?

  Hastily, Emma sipped on her drink, cradling the glass between her hands. Gracious, she was acting like a goose!

  “I saw Dianna in the village today,” he remarked in a hushed voice.

  Caught in mid-swallow, Emma coughed, nearly choking on her drink. “Miss Winthrope?”

  “The very same. Granted, I felt as shocked as you look right now, Emma.” He let out a laugh, but Emma heard the difference this time. There was no mirth or enjoyment in his tone—it sounded more like pain than pleasure.

  “What was she doing in the village?”

  Jon reached for the whiskey bottle and began twisting the stopper. “She has returned, apparently to stay. Oh, and she is no longer Miss Winthrope, but rather Mrs. Dickenson.” He refilled his glass, then downed the contents in one long gulp. “Actually, I should refer to her as Lady Brayer. Dickenson has inherited a title. He is the new Baron Brayer.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yes. I confess that I’m not pleased.”

  The lines of misery on Jon’s face touched Emma’s heart. It seemed grossly unfair that he should be subjected to such pain after all that he had endured. Wanting to lend some sort of comfort, she stepped forward. But the toe of her wet boot caught on the uneven ground and she tripped.

  She reached out a hand blindly for support and Jon expertly caught her by the waist. With a startled cry, Emma instinctively threw her arms around his neck to keep herself from tumbling to the ground.

  They turned their heads at precisely the same moment, bumping noses. Emma squeaked in surprise, but there was an even greater shock to come when the viscount angled his head and kissed her lips.

  Supple tendrils of pleasure shimmered inside her at the unexpected contact. His mouth was softer than she would have imagined, his lips lush and warm. She might not have had many opportunities to flirt with handsome gentlemen, but she had experienced enough kisses in her life to know that this one was shockingly powerful.

  And utterly delightful.

  Jon’s hand moved through her hair, holding her in place, but truthfully Emma had no wish to escape his spellbinding embrace. His tongue swept into her mouth, teasing and tantalizing and the warmth spread through her entire body.

  Emma’s breath quickened at the intriguing taste of him and she boldly pushed herself closer so they could drink more deeply of each other. Her eyes closed as she reveled in the delicious feelings he evoked and she found herself trembling with unexpected pleasure.

  Jon broke away and Emma heard herself sigh and whimper with regret at the loss of his lips. Yet to her awe and delight, Jon began feathering kisses along her brow, down her cheek and finally brushing his lips against the nape of her neck. Emma felt as though she was melting, her entire body shimmering with pleasure.

  His kisses made her dizzy. Or was it all that whiskey? He kissed her again—almost as though he knew her quandary—and Emma had her answer. ’Twas his kisses. They were truly intoxicating, making her breathless and light-headed.

  Emma leaned into him and they shared one final, soul-shattering kiss before Jon lifted his head. The expression in his eyes made her stomach flip and flop with restless excitement. But then he let her go and stepped away from her.

  The sharpness of her pleasure was slowly fading, yet the warmth remained. Dazed, Emma gazed at him in wonder, raising her hand to touch her swollen lips.

  “That was most improper,” she whispered in a breathless voice she did not recognize as her own.

  “Yes. Yes, it was, yet I do not regret it.” A faint line of worry furrowed his brow. “Do you?”

  “No regrets,” she said softly. “They are, in my opinion, a pure waste of time. Life, as they say, is far too short. Why spend it in misery?”

  “Why indeed.”

  The deep rumble of his voice sifted through her. Emma’s hand reached out, but she pulled it back before smoothing the hair away from his brow.

  What had gotten into her? They might have shared the most wondrous kisses; however, that did not mean she had the right to enact such an intimate gesture.

  A sudden crack of thunder reverberated through the workshop, breaking the sensual mood. Thank goodness. Emma had enjoyed their kisses—far too much than was sensible. She needed to push them from her thoughts. Immediately.

  These kisses were an anomaly, due to
too much whiskey for her and too much emotional turmoil for Jon. Seeing Dianna so unexpectedly today had rattled him.

  ’Twas perfectly understandable. More than likely he had seized the sudden opportunity to kiss her to help him escape the pain he was feeling. The kisses meant nothing to him. And while they were most delightful, Emma knew they had to mean nothing to her, too.

  “It sounds as though the storm is getting worse,” she commented, striving to return the appropriate boundaries to their interactions. Almost as if to emphasize her point, a loud pattering of raindrops pelted the roof.

  “I hope it ends before complete darkness.” Jon frowned, glancing up at the ceiling. “What of your sister and Atwood? No doubt they will be worried if you don’t return soon.”

  “Actually, they are unaware that I left the manor,” Emma admitted, fervently hoping her absence would not be detected. It would cause a minor uproar if she and the viscount were discovered here, alone.

  “That was most unwise,” Jon commented.

  Emma nodded in agreement, bracing herself to hear much more about her obviously foolish actions. “I fear I can be quite reckless when it comes to pursuing my art.”

  “Then we must ensure that you are back where you belong before you are missed,” he said.

  “Yes.” Emma inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, appreciating how he refrained from lecturing her. She scanned the workshop. “Would you like to work while we wait for the rain to stop? I’ll sit in the corner to give you privacy.”

  “With your back turned and your nose pressed against the wall?” he asked jokingly.

  “Like a naughty child?” The image made Emma smile. “’Tis a fair punishment, considering that I have not fully kept my promise to stay away.”

  “Norris and I are at an impasse, I’m afraid. We can’t do anything until the new parts I’ve designed are made.” He grimaced as another clap of thunder shook the pane of glass in the single window positioned high on the back wall. “It sounds as though we shall be here for a while. We might as well get comfortable.”

  The viscount inclined his head and Emma noticed a settee covered in dark green fabric and a matching wing chair nestled in a corner. At his invitation, Emma sat on the settee while Jon settled himself in the chair.

  “I was—”

  “Have you—”

  Jon smiled ruefully. “Ladies first.”

  “I was wondering if you always had an interest in creating and building mechanical things?” she asked. “I can easily imagine you as boy, tinkering with gears and pulleys.”

  Jon looked over at the reaper thresher, sighed, then gazed back at her. “I suppose I was an oddity, even as a child,” he mused.

  “Gracious, that’s not at all what I am implying.” Emma anxiously bit her lower lip. She was trying to be cordial and friendly and instead had succeeded in insulting him.

  “I was different from other boys. My restless nature has always been inclined to embrace the creative possibilities of solving a problem.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “I never truly pursued it, and after I met Dianna I completely abandoned that curiosity.”

  “Are you pleased to have recaptured it?” Emma asked.

  “Yes.” He sat back in his chair. “Though I had hoped to one day have both in my life.”

  Emma stared at her hands. She could understand his need. Having someone to love—and love you—could only enhance the creative side of oneself.

  “I’m still searching and trying to recapture my artistic muse,” she admitted. “Well, I was. And then I saw your magnificent machine.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “Are you trying to play on my sympathies to give you permission to paint the reaper thresher?”

  Emma inched forward. “Would it work?”

  “No.”

  She laughed, uncertain why the rejection didn’t wound. Perhaps because she knew she would eventually wear him down? Or maybe the glow of his kisses had softened the blow.

  More likely those kisses have addled my brain.

  “Tell me about your childhood, Emma. I know you have two sisters. Are there any other siblings?”

  “No. Just the girls.” Emma paused. She rarely spoke of her past, realizing it was not deliberate. The truth was, no one of her recent acquaintance had been interested enough to ask her about herself. Even Hector Winthrope, the man Carter claimed was enamored with her, had never broached the subject.

  Then again, Hector never referred to anything other than that which was of interest to him.

  “My parents died young; within a year of each other,” Emma began. “Father went first, then Mother passed, many said of a broken heart. I was five, so my memories are fuzzy, but I recall feeling frightened and uncertain and there were awful nightmares that woke me each night.

  “Uncle Fletcher and Aunt Mildred became our guardians. They were kind in their own way, but it wasn’t the same as Mother and Father. Thankfully, I had Gwen and Dorothea to ease my fears. I understand now that without my sisters’ love and comfort, things would have been even more difficult. I’m grateful too that I have some memories of the devotion my parents had for each other and for their daughters.”

  Jon met Emma’s eyes with sympathy. “As a boy, I longed for siblings. Brothers, sisters, it didn’t matter which or how many of each. To my parents’ sorrow they were unable to have any other children but me.”

  “How sad.”

  “They never overtly expressed any regrets, only gratitude they had me.”

  “They were indeed fortunate on that account.”

  Jon shrugged his shoulders, looking uncomfortable at her observation. “At what age did you begin to paint?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

  “A few months after Mother died,” Emma replied.

  His brow rose. “Coincidence?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, for the first time wondering if there was a connection. “I have always liked to draw. Gwen persuaded Uncle Fletcher to buy me a set of watercolors, hoping it would ease my nightmares. It did help.”

  Perhaps that could explain the root of her intense—almost obsessive, at times—need to express herself. Was that part of her grieving? A part that so profoundly shaped the woman she became?

  Shifting the subject, Emma asked what other machines Jon wanted to design. ’Twas a subject he quickly warmed to and they fell into easy conversation. Even the silences between them were unrestrained and comfortable.

  They grew quiet again and Emma stared for a moment at the flickering shadows the lanterns cast against the walls. She glanced over at him. His eyes were closed, his breathing even, and she realized that he had fallen asleep.

  No wonder. From what she could tell, he had been working like a demon these past few days. Apparently the physical exhaustion, coupled with the emotional shock of seeing Dianna this afternoon, had finally caught up with him.

  Emma took advantage of the unique opportunity to study Jon while he slept. She had never seen him so relaxed, unguarded. He was slumped in the chair, his long legs sprawled in front of him, his head angled back. A lock of thick dark hair fell across his brow, giving him a gentle, almost vulnerable countenance.

  There were streaks of mud on the doeskin breeches clinging to his muscular thighs and an even thicker coating of mud on his black Hessians. His cravat was simply tied, his waistcoat discreetly patterned, his deep blue coat fitted perfectly across a pair of broad shoulders.

  His looks were more rugged than classically handsome, yet no matter what label was given, they were exceedingly appealing. Even more so because of what she knew of his character.

  He was an honorable man, though his kisses earlier had shown he possessed the capacity to be every bit of a rogue.

  She smiled at that thought.

  Emma swung her legs onto the cushions of the settee and reclined against the padded arm. She was relaxed, but cold. Crossing back to where she had left her cloak, she retrieved the now dry garment. Noticin
g Jon’s greatcoat near her own, she grabbed that also.

  Slowly, carefully, so as not to wake him, Emma draped the coat over Jon. She then resumed a comfortable position on the settee and buried herself beneath her own outerwear. The warmth of the whiskey had faded, but being dry and covered kept her from shivering.

  Emma yawned. She had eaten very little dinner and consumed two glasses of potent liquor on an empty stomach. Naturally, her eyelids felt heavy. After several valiant attempts, she gave up the struggle and allowed them to close.

  It took but a few moments for her join the viscount in slumber.

  * * *

  Emma awoke with a start, jerking upright. Glancing upward, she saw a thin, gray streak of light filtering through the single small window placed high on the back wall of the workshop.

  Was that the dawn? Good Lord, had she truly spent the entire night here?

  The lanterns had gone out. Her eyes scanned the semidarkness, coming to rest on the body sprawled in the chair across from her. Tentatively, she leaned forward, stretched out a hand and gently touched Jon’s shoulder with the tips of her fingers.

  He stirred and mumbled and Emma snatched her hand back. What was she doing? Waking him was a terrible idea. It was better, far better, if she simply slipped away on her own.

  Emma tensed, waiting anxiously to see if she had disturbed him enough to rouse him, but thankfully his breathing remained soft and steady. Heart racing, she listened for the sounds outside the workshop, hearing no rain on the roof.

  A good sign. She could move faster if she didn’t have to navigate her way through a storm. It might be possible to return to her bedchamber undetected and no one need ever know she did not sleep in her bed last night.

  Holding her breath, Emma moved quietly, intent upon not making a sound. She slipped out the door, then flung her cloak over her shoulders and tied on her bonnet.

  Dawn was just breaking, but the light was faint enough to see where she needed to go. The ground was wet and slick. Knowing the last thing she needed was to fall and possibly injure herself, Emma tread carefully.

  Yet the moment her feet hit a dryer surface, she began running.