Teresa Medeiros - Once An Angel

The stranger propped his foot on the settee. The impeccable cut of his trousers hugged his long, elegant leg. Cocking an eyebrow, he offered Emily the cigarette. Shaken by her narrow escape from the jovial George, she snatched it and took a deep drag.

A paroxysm of coughing seized her. The man slapped her on the back. "Sorry. Turkish tobacco. Strong stuff. I should have warned you." He pried the cigarette from her shaking fingers, brought it to his lips, and inhaled deeply. Emily blinked away the burning tears, still wheezing. "You seem destined to rescue me, sir."

A smile played around his thin lips as if he were savoring some small, private joke. "I do, don't I?" His eyes flicked over her like hypnotic flames. "It seems you've become a bit more lost since our last encounter, cara mia." Her faint shiver at his endearment was not lost on him. "I fear you are correct,"

she agreed glumly.

The woman at the piano lurched into a new tune. The man dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out on

the Oriental carpet with his heel. "I despise Chopin. Why don't we retire upstairs, where we can talk without the burden of his tiresome romanticism?"

Emily eyed the silk folds of his tie nervously, remembering Tansy's warning. She had no intention of being led to her ruin by this urbane stranger. She searched the crowd for Tansy, but found no glimpse

of her. The brawny men at the door looked more menacing now. Were they planted there to protect

Mrs. Rose's blossoms, or to pluck them if they threatened to wilt before blooming? Her safest bet

would be to escape without an obvious scuffle.

Her hesitation cost her dearly. The man pulled her to her feet, his grip around her wrist as resolute as a silken snare. Perhaps she should just tell him the truth.

She searched his face earnestly. "I can't go upstairs with you, sir. I'm afraid I've made a dreadful mistake."

His eyes glowed with an unholy light. "So have I, my dear. But I intend to remedy it very shortly."

Twisting out of his grasp, Emily broke away and darted down the nearest dim hallway. Before she

could go more than a few feet, Barney Dobbins stepped out of a shadowy doorway, blocking her only avenue of escape.

He bared his yellowed teeth in a leer. "Ye'd best run back to yer fine fellow, Em. I 'eard 'e 'as a nasty temper if crossed." He lowered his voice to a taunting whisper. "I know ye're eager, but I can wait.

I ain't too proud to mop up the leftovers from them fine gents. My turn'll come soon enough."

Trapped, Emily backed away, as near to swooning as she had ever been in her life. God only knew

what lurid things they might do to her if she fainted.

She backed into the stranger's arms. His elegant fingers closed around her throat, pressing gently against her throbbing pulse.

"Come with me, cara mia," he commanded. "You won't be sorry."

Emily was already sorry. She bowed her head, sorry she had shamed her father. Sorry Justin didn't

love her enough to marry her. Sorry she'd been such a fool as to believe selling her body wouldn't cost her her soul.

A sinister swirl of music, light, and laughter enveloped her as he drew her inexorably toward the stairs. Suddenly, the frenzied gaiety was marred by shouts and the sounds of struggle. Emily jerked her head

up just in time to see one of the guards go flying into a walnut occasional table, splintering it. He sat up, eyes crossed and wig hanging askew over one ear, then slumped back over, out cold.

Women screamed and several of the gentlemen tried to climb over each other in a rush for the back

door, fearing a constable's raid. She saw lascivious Uncle George crawling around on hands and knees, searching for his precious quizzing glass. It rolled under Emily's foot, and she gave it an unkind stomp.

Shouts rang out near the door. "Grab him!"

"Careful, he might be an opium user."

"He's quite mad! A bloody savage!"

A cold rush of air behind her warned Emily her debonair captor had fled. She lifted her skirts and

peered around wildly, planning to take advantage of the chaos to make her own escape.

At that moment a path parted through the jostling crowd, revealing the golden-eyed tiger clawing his

way through their midst.

Emily's heart leaped in her throat, and she went flying across the room to fling herself into the mad savage's arms.

Emily snuffled into Justin's rumpled waistcoat. "Oh, Justin, it was awful!" she wailed. "Tansy made me wear this ridiculous dress, and there was this horrid man with the whitest, sharpest teeth you've ever

seen just like the Big Bad Wolf's and the most cleverly knotted tie. Better than Penfeld's even. And

then there was Barney lurking in doorways, waiting to jump out at me just like he did at Foxworth's,

and he said the most awful things."

Emily was too intent on gulping in the musky spice of Justin's scent to realize how strangely stiff he

stood in her embrace. Clutching his sleeves, she tilted her head and peered up at his face. It was set in lines of polished granite. She dropped her arms and backed away from him, more afraid than she'd been in the entire terrible night.

In grim silence he reached down, pried her lollipop off his sleeve, and thrust the fuzzy offender into her hand. He wouldn't even look at her. His eyes were all for the buxom woman who came sauntering out

of the crowd.

Gone was the grandmotherly creature who had spooned warm broth down Emily's throat and bussed

her cheek good night. Mrs. Rose's ample curves undulated beneath the blush satin sheath of her dress. "You're that renegade duke, aren't you?" she drawled.

"Those damn ruffians have scuffled with a duke. Bloody hell, we're done for now," breathed one of

the women.

The guard who was still conscious awkwardly tried to brush off Justin's cloak. Justin shoved his hand away.

"Justin Marcus Homer Lloyd Farnsworth Connor . . . the third," he added, bowing and bringing

Mrs. Rose's hand to his lips. "At your service."

"I should be so lucky." She looked him up and down with the approving eye of a woman who has developed an appreciation for raw male beauty in all of its forms. "I once knew a Farnsworth Connor. But he always let me call him Frank. Among other things." She planted a hand on her hip. "I'm not

averse to a bit of brawling on a Saturday night, Your Grace, but perhaps I could interest you in some

of our more . . . delicate pleasures."

Justin finally looked at her then, but Emily wished he hadn't. She hardly recognized the man who swaggered toward her. The crowd melted back, leaving her to face him alone. He circled her leisurely,

his cloak swirling around his ankles. His hungry gaze devoured every inch of her. Her traitorous nipples tightened against the sheer material of her bodice, and a flush shot up her throat. She stared at the carpet, mortified. His blunt masculine scrutiny made her feel more like a whore than any of Barney's slurs.

He stroked the backs of his fingers down her cheek. Emily shivered at the deft touch, but resisted the

lure of his stormy gaze.

His hand dropped to his side. "Little Bo Peep here will do just fine," he announced, all business again.

Her flush turned to one of anger. It was bad enough to be publicly humiliated. He didn't have to poke

fun at her silly costume.

Emily would never know if it was concern for her customer's satisfaction or a latent qualm of maternal conscience that forbade the throwing of lambs to lions, but Mrs. Rose bustled forward, clucking her disapproval. "Oh, no, she won't do at all. Far too young and raw for your seasoned palate, I'm sure. Perhaps one of my more refined lovelies …"

She dragged forward a girl draped in the gauzy veil of the harem and thrust her at him. The hapless

Peggy shrank back against her mistress, and Emily couldn't blame her. With his jaw unshaven, his hair tousled, and his eyes burning with contemptuous fire, Justin looked like the sort of heathen to debauch maidens with one hand while swilling down a tankard of virgin's blood with the other.

He looked Emily dead in the eye. "I want her."

Emily's knees quivered. Mrs. Rose harrumphed nervously and went in search of more tempting bait. "Why, here's my Solange, quite skilled in the Far Eastern art of- "

A fat purse of Persian leather clinked to the carpet at her feet. The madam bent and retrieved it, obviously intrigued by its rustle.

"A hundred pounds," Justin said coolly.

A gasp traveled around the parlor. Emily's suspicion that Mrs. Rose would sell her own daughter for a hundred pounds was strengthened as an avaricious smile curved the woman's lips.

She gave Emily an apologetic shrug. "Why don't you accompany His Grace upstairs, my dear? I do believe he's just the man to help you find your lost sheep."

Justin wasted no time. He swept her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

"Is the carriage outside? Are we going home now?" Emily asked hopefully, bobbing with each of his

purposeful strides. But those strides were carrying them not toward the door, but the stairs. She kicked and squirmed, but his muscular arm only tightened across her rump, holding her fast. "I don't want to

go back up there, Justin. Really I don't."

To her embarrassment, as they started up the stairs the crowd began to cheer and shout encouragement. Barney emerged from his rat hole and hooted, "Poke 'er once fer me, mate!"

Howling in outrage, Emily reached over the banister and slapped the lollipop in his greasy hair.

* * *

Emily bounced on Justin's back like a sack of meal. The muscled ridge of his shoulder cut off her

breath with each long stride.

"You . . . might . . . consider . . . putting . . . me . . . down," she gasped.

He ignored her. He paused at the first door they encountered and kicked it open, jarring Emily's entire body.

She heard an angry cry and a muffled squeak of protest.

"Sorry," he said, but his tone was unrepentant.

He swung away from the door without bothering to close it, treating Emily to a most sordid sight. She twisted her head to the left, then to the right, before slapping her hands over her eyes. "My goodness!

She must be frightfully agile, mustn't she? I saw something like that once in the circus."

Justin maintained his stony silence. His foot slammed into the next door. To Emily's distress, the room was unoccupied.

"I should really like to go home now," she said in a small voice.

He tossed her on the bed and strode back to bolt the door. She sat up and hugged her knees, curling into

a timid knot among the rumpled sheets. Stale perfume rose from their folds, and she tried not to think about what might have transpired there only moments earlier. A dank chill hung in the fireless room.

Justin whipped off his cloak and threw it over a chair, then turned to face her. Emily realized she had seen him angry before, but never so coldly furious.

He raked a hand through his hair. "I haven't slept for over thirty-six hours. I've spent the last twelve of those combing every lice-infested claphouse in London for you." A single word shot from his lips. "Why?"

She bowed her head, struggling to gather the threads of her pride, sensing she might need them. When

she lifted her head, her eyes were dry, her voice calm. "I no longer wished to be a burden to you. I wanted my freedom."

"Freedom?" His voice cracked on a disbelieving note. He crossed to the bed and snatched her up by the shoulders. "Is this what you call freedom? Spreading your legs for any man willing to lay down his coin?" His eyes blazed, giving her a harrowing glimpse of the raw hurt fueling his anger.