Tempting a Gentleman Read online

  Her dad worked odd jobs for the Network, and her mum was busy raising six growing children, four of them boys. Without her assistance, her family would have to rely heavily on the Network. Her mum was the proud descendant of a founding member—Emma would rather starve than to seek out help. No. She wouldn’t let her family accept charity, even though her mum preached that wealth comes in a multitude of forms and the Network recognizes that. Not was not the case in the upper classes—Coin was king. And when the coffers of the wealthy dwindled, they married to replenish them.

  Drawing the curtains closed, she saw the shadow of a rather tall gentleman approaching. For some odd reason, she had expected the dance master to be slim and of average height. Pressing her back to the door, she waited.

  Three quick raps followed by a pause and then one solid knock. It was indeed the dance master. Quickly releasing the locks, she swung open the door. What the blazes! Mr. Christopher Neale, brother to the bloomin’ Head PORF, stood on her doorstep. Oh, she recognized the man; he was cut from the same cloth as his brother. The corner of Mr. Neale’s lips curled into a charming grin, and Emma would be a liar if she didn’t admit to the spark of interest that fluttered in her chest. Brow furrowed, she poked her head out and scanned the area.

  Mr. Neale twisted and looked about the stoop, removing his hat and gloves. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  Up close, Emma noted Mr. Neale’s warm brown eyes, fine aristocratic nose, and his firm but inviting full lips—he was a handsome devil all right, as reported amongst the Network members. Women were rumored to swoon in his presence, and now she understood why. Attempting to gather her wits, she moved behind the door as Mr. Neale barged in.

  Emma sputtered, “What the devil are ye doing here? Lord Hadfield advised I was to expect a dance master, not a gentleman known for dallyin’ about.”

  He simply smiled and proceeded further into the shop. Mr. Neale didn’t possess a charming dimple like his brother, but the curve of his lips had a profound effect upon her pulse.

  “So you already know who I am. Shall we skip the formalities? You may call me Christopher, and I shall address you by your given name. Emma, correct?”

  Her ire burst into flames—the audacity of the man to look and speak to her as if she were a pea goose. Except the twinkle in the man’s eyes blanketed her flash of anger, bringing her rage to a mere simmer. She agreed with a curt nod.

  With a lopsided smile, he said, “I assure you I’m quite proficient at dancing and an adept teacher. Landon, in his infinite wisdom, believed discretion would be best in this situation. We wouldn’t want anyone outside of our circle to know, now would we?”

  The man was a barrister. Perhaps if she used some of the knowledge she’d learned from Bronwyn, it might help place them on more equal footing. Because that damned smile was turning her insides to mush.

  Facing the closed door and taking her time to turn each lock, Emma asked, “If I feign a momentary lapse in sanity, do ye believe I’d be able to avoid attendin’ Bronwyn’s ball?”

  When she turned back around, his gaze was trained entirely upon her—assessing. Her cheeks burned under his scrutiny.

  Tapping his hat against his leg, Mr. Neale answered, “In this case, such a plea will do you no good.”

  The spark of energy she had been lacking reappeared. “Then wot would ye advise?” Something about Mr. Neale provoked her to want to spar with him, both verbally and physically. He would be a fine opponent.

  The flare of interest in his eyes was unmistakable. She hadn’t meant to evoke such a response. Emma took in a shallow breath to quiet her nerves that had sparked to life and on alert. He was an honorable gentleman. He was a rake. Being the product of a gentleman’s seduction, she would not fall for the gentleman’s charms.

  Bustling past him, she twirled about. It wouldn’t be safe to bring him above stairs. Safe for whom—her or him? She would have to figure out an alternative.

  Mr. Neale removed his greatcoat and folded it over the waiting room settee. Emma couldn’t help but stare at his handsome, lithe form as he strode over to stand by the measuring table. “There’s not much room in here.” His gaze roamed the room and then narrowed upon her. “Is something the matter?”

  “I had a hectic day, and I’ve not had a chance to rearrange things for the lesson.”

  Mr. Neale looked about once more and removed his jacket. The man would be naked before the hour was up if he continued to remove articles of clothing. She imagined he’d be a fine specimen to look upon with those shoulders and narrow waist. She snapped her wayward thoughts back to the matter at hand. She was being ridiculous.

  Chuckling, he asked, “Care to share your thoughts?”

  His warm, teasing tone sent blood rushing to her cheeks. Emma shook her head in response.

  He prowled about the room and then stopped at the foot of the stairs that led up to her private chambers. “Do you sleep here?”

  Voice lost to the pounding of her heart, Emma nodded.

  “All alone?” Mr. Neale’s relaxed demeanor fled, replaced by a deep frown. “With no one about who would protect you from thieves?”

  “I can protect meself.”

  “Humph.” He placed a foot on the first step.

  “Wait. Where do ye fink yer going?”

  “To search for an appropriate space for us to practice, of course.”

  “But…”

  He didn’t wait. He marched up the stairs and called down, “Come along, Emma. You have the perfect area up here. We don’t have much time, and since this is extremely important to Bronwyn and, in turn, my brother and thus to me…we shall need every minute you can spare.”

  Damnation. Were all the men in the Neale family overbearing? She trudged up the stairs and found Mr. Neale dressed merely in his lawn shirt and trousers. His waistcoat and cravat draped over the back of the solitary wooden chair tucked neatly under her small writing desk. He dominated the small space with his size, yet he waltzed about the room as if he belonged in her private retreat. Inexplicably, Emma remained frozen on the top step. His lithe form mesmerized and thrilled her. He exuded confidence that he was probably born with. When she found herself the recipient of a charming smile that smashed her defenses, she stepped forward to the center of the loft and waited. Her heartbeat raced as he stepped forward and reached out for her hand. Ashamed of her rough hands from hours of sewing, she pulled them out of his reach and crisscrossed them at the small of her back.

  Christopher asked, “Tell me, have you any experience at all?” His lips curved back into an irresistible grin. Memories flooded her mind, of boys’ lips pressed against hers as they attempted what they called kisses. No experience kissing a man like Mr. Neale.

  “Emma? Have you any experience dancing before?”

  “Nay. I’m afraid I’ve none. Ye’ll have to start with the very basics.”

  He circled her.

  Face-to-face again, he tilted his head to the side. “May I have this dance, Emma?”

  She stared at his hand—palm up. His fingers were long and uncallused. She’d never cared before that her hands were not silky smooth. She whirled about to retrieve the elbow-length gloves that lay upon her tidy desk.

  Tugging them on as if she was donning armor, she smiled and placed her gloved hand in his.

  The glimmer in his eyes dimmed. “Do you fear me?”

  She shook her head.

  His brow crinkled. “Are you sure?”

  She shook her head without thought.

  His chuckle relaxed her shoulders. “Bronwyn warned me you might be resistant to tutelage. I think we will get along just fine, but in order for our sessions to be successful, I’ll need a little more communication from you. Part of achieving success at these god-awful ton events is executing the art of totally useless conversation. Remaining silent will relegate you to the outer walls with the wilting wallflowers. And you, my dear, are no wallflower.”

  “How do ye know I’m not?”

&nbs
p; “Any friend of Bronwyn’s must have nerves of steel. And you, Emma, are her dearest and closest friend, which means there is a clever mind in that pretty head of yours and a well-guarded heart.” He pulled her closer and whispered, “I promise not to bite if you promise to smile.”

  Involuntarily her lips curved, and the man she had believed to be Lord Hadfield’s puppet transformed into an enigmatic gentleman.

  Chapter Four

  Christopher tried to tear his gaze from the woman’s plump lips, which were made for devouring. He took in Emma’s beautiful, tired features and was struck by the similarity of the woman’s eye color to Arabelle’s. Oddly, Emma also shared the honey-blonde hair that had lured him to endure countless ton affairs. But she wasn’t Arabelle. Emma didn’t hide her thoughts behind sweet, alluring smiles. No, the woman in his arms was like a Wordsworth poem, full of vitality with a strong undercurrent of passion. Emma was a refreshing change from the coy ladies he’d been subjected to over the past two years.

  It was time to begin her lesson.

  Christopher stepped back, placing a few inches between them. Space he needed to refocus his thoughts. Unable to release his hold on her hand, Christopher said, “The most fashionable couples’ dance is the waltz. However, there are two variations of the dance, the French and the German. With the limited time we have, it will be impossible to learn both, so we shall have to focus on the one most commonly danced, the French waltz.”

  “Why is it the most preferred?” Curious, intelligent eyes peered up at him. No simpering looks from Emma—no, she was direct and captivating.

  Lost in her gaze, he absently answered, “The French version is slower in pace. It allows the gentleman ample opportunities to gaze into his partner’s eyes.”

  Her brows creased in confusion. “Why would er man want to do that?”

  “There is much you can say through one’s gaze without words.”

  “Really? Such as?”

  She was so innocent. He chuckled, which gained him a fierce frown from his partner.

  “Your eyes tell me you are already irritated with me, and we haven’t even begun dancing.”

  She tugged her hand out of his grasp. “Does the woman have to gaze back at the man?”

  “Only if she wants to. In my experience, most ladies prefer to look into my eyes rather than at my cravat.”

  “Ye’d fink the ladies would get a crick in their neck.”

  He laughed. It was an astute observation, for, like Emma, most women only came up to the top of his shoulder. “There are four basic positions to the dance. Would you prefer I explain them or simply walk you through them?”

  “Ye’d best explain first. Me brain and me feet are at odds most of the time.”

  He’d have to address her speech as Bronwyn had advised, but he quite enjoyed her almost lyrical accent. It made her rather unique. Instead of sounding harsh or coarse, Emma’s cockney was a soft blend of vowels. He shook his head. He was here as a favor to his brother and sister-in-law, not for any other reason.

  With nowhere to sit, he began to pace with his hands behind his back. “Right, the French waltz begins with a march of sorts. The starting position would have your right foot in front, heel turned towards me, while my left foot is in front with my heel turned towards you.” He paused to demonstrate the awkward foot position. “Before we commence walking, I would place my right arm along the back part of your shoulder.” With his arm stretched out, he continued, “Good gracious, this is silly. Come. Let us do this together.”

  Emma stiffly slid into place next to him, mirroring his pose. His body jerked. Emma’s touch sent an intense bolt of vitality through to every nerve in his body. It wasn’t a sensation of lust, but one akin to being shocked into motion. As if his body had been dormant, waiting solely for her. None of his reactions or thoughts made logical sense, but it was exhilarating, and he wanted to experience more. His body clearly desired to get closer to the woman, yet she remained distant and aloof. The thought of lowering her to the bare wooden floor and pleasuring her tempted him, but he was a gentleman, and she was Bronwyn’s closest friend. He had never failed to lure a woman into granting him a kiss, yet he suspected his usual effortless charm and smile would garner him a solid left hook instead. Network women did not suffer fools, and he was here to dance, dammit, not kiss the woman.

  But he needed a willing partner. Dancing required loose, fluid movements, and Emma’s ramrod-straight back and stiff muscles would not do. Intuitively, he sensed he’d need to gain her trust first. The woman had remained wary ever since they went above stairs.

  He turned to her. “I apologize. This is my first attempt at being a dance master, and I realize now I’ve come utterly unprepared. No music. No directions. Might I suggest we adjourn our lesson until tomorrow?”

  She searched his features. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “On the contrary, it is I who has gone about matters incorrectly.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Seems to me ye’re just bein’ nice and ye’ve changed yer mind about teaching me. Ye’re not the first gentleman to not want anythin’ to do with me or to come near me.” Shoulders straight, she whirled about and began descending the stairs.

  Without time to ponder her words, he grabbed his garments and clattered down the stairs behind her.

  The woman moved fast in skirts. She was waiting for him at the door. “I’ll sort everythin’ out with Bronwyn on the morrow.”

  He reached for his coat and slung it over the top of his arm along with his cravat and waistcoat. Grabbing his hat, he sauntered over to the door and stood next to her, closer than he should. His body once again reacted to her in perplexing ways.

  “I’m uncertain what gave you the impression I’ve changed my mind, but I can assure you, there is no need to involve Bronwyn. I don’t need her help. I’m quite capable of arranging for us to meet at an appropriate location that will allow us to properly conduct our lessons.”

  Emma raised her chin and said, “Mr. Neale, ’round these parts, we say wot we mean. No pretty words, just to the point. Ye understand?”

  “I do.” Instead of feelings of rejection, her fierce determination and bluntness made him want to get to know her better. She turned reached for the latch, but before she could open the door, he put his hand over hers. “I’m not ready to leave.”

  Her whole body shivered. The room temperature was pleasant, yet his blood ran hot with Emma mere inches away. Aghast at the idea she might fear him, he snatched his hand away. “Please allow me to stay, and we can discuss how we should move forward.” As the words spilled out, Christopher questioned his own meaning.

  Shoulders slumped forward. “I’ve got a full day tomorrow, so be quick and to the point.” She glided past him and flopped into the wing back chair facing the dying fire.

  He dropped his clothing on the settee, crouched by the embers, and blew. The flare of red told him the fire could be stoked back to life with a little encouragement. But could its mistress?

  Once he had the fire roaring again, he turned back to see Emma intently staring into the flames.

  She asked, “Do ye fink we could skip the lessons if I beg off sick the night of the ball?”

  “You want me to lie to my brother?” He stood and commanded his feet to remain in place.

  “No. Why would ye need to lie?”

  “Because I’m expecting Landon to be waiting for me in my office at first light tomorrow. He’ll be expecting a full report on our progress.”

  “Wotcha gonna tell him about this eve then?”

  With a half-baked plan in mind, he replied, “The truth, of course. That we became acquainted, and that I intend to have directions with illustrations of the various positions sent over to you to study, and that we shall reconvene after work to practice.”

  “Where’re ye getting these directions and pictures from?”

  He puffed out his chest. “I’ll be drafting them myself.”

  She let out a very unladylike guf
faw. “Ye! I’m not sure stick figures will help me better understand yer long-winded explanations.”

  “Long-winded?”

  “Aye. That's wot I said.” She approached with a smirk that caught him off guard. Intrigued, he waited to see what she’d do next. Emma was beautiful when she let her guard down. She ran her hand along the outside of his arm. He slipped his hand into her small one and let her guide it to fall upon her waist. She looked straight into his eyes. “Ye didn’t flinch. I don’t bite either, but I heard ye might want to smile while ye dance.”

  He let her take the lead as she positioned his other hand on the other side of her delicate waist. He grinned and said, “I thought you said you had no experience.”

  “Is this how ye waltz?”

  “Nay.”

  “I didn’t fink so. But if yer not to be skittish about touchin’ me, I thought this might set ye at ease.”

  Flinch? Skittish? Good lord, he wasn’t a colt to be tamed. He was here to guide her. She was to be the student and he the master. How did matters get so turned about?

  When she rested her gloved hands upon his upper arms, she fitted him perfectly. He swayed slightly, and she froze.

  “To dance, we must move in unison. Follow my lead.”

  With the light pressure of his hands, he indicated which way she should move. Humming a melody, he pressed closer and led with his right leg forward, and within moments he found himself weaving her about the cramped room effortlessly. Never had he had a partner so in tune with his own body. Staring into her teal eyes, he spun her around for another two bars of the melody. His body vibrated in response to her closeness. Drawn by a magnetic pull, he lowered his head. Her lips were slightly parted, beckoning to him closer until their lips met. Her eyes closed at the soft pressure, and warmth blanketed his heart. For a split second, her features blurred with those of Arabelle’s, and he stumbled.

  He righted himself. “Beg pardon, did I tread upon your toes?”

  “Nay. But wot startled ye?”

  He had been a fool to believe himself in love withi Arabelle. It wasn’t Arabelle’s sweet, innocent features that had his heart stuttering; it was this beautiful, enigmatic woman in his arms. At Emma’s tired but piercing look, he stepped back and released her. “It’s late.” He rushed to pick up his waistcoat and donned it like a shield to protect his heart that was pounding in the middle of his chest.