Chapter 24
Damien turned to shield Emily from the gentleman who had slammed the door with enough force to unshelve a volume of Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. He raised his hand to catch it, his body serving as a dressing screen while Emily retied her sleeve.
“This is not what it looks like,” Damien said, realizing the lanky man who had murder in his eyes was actually Michael.
Michael pushed a chair into the wall. “You rotten sod.”
Emily ducked beneath Damien’s arm. “He’s right, Michael. Stop abusing the furniture. There is a reason for this.”
He strode up to Damien, his eyes black with anger. “When a man undresses a woman against a wall there is only one possible explanation for his conduct.”
“Michael, you’re wrong.” Emily snagged his arm before he could take a swing at Damien. “He was only trying to see if the birthmark on my left shoulder was visible in this gown.”
“How does he know that you have a birthmark there?” Michael demanded, pulling out of her grasp. “I never noticed it, and I’ve lived with you since you were born.”
Emily took a deep breath. “I don’t have a birthmark. It was a spot of ink from the quill I was using to take notes on those cards that have caused all this trouble.”
“The cards didn’t cause trouble,” he said grimly. “Certain people did. What does a birthmark matter, anyway?”
Damien pushed away from the wall. “If not for your behavior, I’d take you for a civilized being.”
Michael glowered at him over the top of Emily’s head. “I’m beginning to rue the day I called you my friend.”
Emily placed the book that Damien had rescued on a chair. “Michael, listen for a moment. One of the men in the tower made a sketch of me to show the authorities. He drew a mark on my shoulder. The earl wanted to make sure it couldn’t be seen in this gown.”
Michael, uncomplicated male that he was, looked at Damien for confirmation. “Well, could it?”
“Not that I could tell,” Damien replied. “She said she washed it off the night of the party.”
“How good is the sketch of her?” Michael asked, calmer now.
“The dark wig obscured most of her features.” Damien glanced at Emily’s face. “With the exception of her eyes.” How the journalist had managed to capture their sultry mischief in such a rush of circumstances was a credit to his skill and of deep concern to Damien. Emily’s bright red hair attracted a man’s notice like a banner.
He studied her profile, the loose curls captured in a ribbon. She had eyelashes of an extravagant length and a smattering of tiny scars on her cheeks from what might have been a case of childhood pox. If not for all the excitement last night, he would have noticed the dimple in her chin. Thank God neither detail had appeared on the sketch.
She might not resemble the exotic fortune-teller who had intrigued Damien last night, but she had a secret allure that appealed to him a little more whenever he looked at her. He realized he had a long way to go before she would give herself to him of her own volition.
He would have to take, initiate, coax her, one move at a time.
There wouldn’t be enough time before the wedding to build trust between them. But he planned to take full advantage of their marriage bed. She seemed to have accepted that her life depended on Damien’s ability to protect her.
In fact, she had shown herself to be more levelheaded than any of the ladies Damien had known in the past. He was the one who had gone into a panic over the sketch. It made him wonder whether he had underestimated her ability to adapt to a crisis.
She had risked everything to take her destiny in her own hands. He would do well to remember that he had fallen for her artless scheme and had not even been her intended victim.