To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(2)

It was impossible not to glance at him again after this information. From midthigh up, his clothing was plain indeed—black coat and brown-and-black-patterned waistcoat. All in all, a conservative wardrobe until one came to his legs. The man was wearing some type of native leggings. They were made from an odd tan leather, quite dull, and they were gartered just below the knees with red, white, and black striped sashes. The leggings split in the front over the shoes with brightly embroidered flaps that fell to either side of his feet. And his shoes were the strangest of all, for they had no heels. He seemed to be wearing a type of slipper made of the same soft, dull leather, with beading or embroidery work running from ankle to toe. Yet even heelless, the stranger was quite tall. He had brown hair, and as far as she could tell from halfway across the room, his eyes were dark. Certainly not blue or green. They were heavy-lidded and intelligent. She suppressed a shiver. Intelligent men were so hard to manage.

His arms were crossed, one shoulder propped against the wall, and his gaze was interested. As if they were the exotic ones, not he. His nose was long, with a bump in the middle; his complexion dark, as if he’d lately come from some exotic shore. The bones of his face were raw and prominent: cheeks, nose, and chin jutting in an aggressively masculine way that was nevertheless perversely attractive. His mouth, in contrast, was wide and almost soft, with a sensuous inverted dent in the lower lip. It was the mouth of a man who liked to savor. To linger and taste. A dangerous mouth.

Emeline looked away again. “Who is he?”

Mrs. Conrad stared. “Don’t you know?”

“No.”

Her hostess was delighted. “Why, my dear, that’s Mr. Samuel Hartley! Everyone has been talking about him, though he has only been in London a sennight or so. He’s not quite acceptable, because of the...” Mrs. Conrad met Emeline’s eyes and hastily cut short what she’d been about to say. “Anyway. Even with all his wealth, not everyone is happy to meet him.”

Emeline stilled as the back of her neck prickled.

Mrs. Conrad continued, oblivious. “I really shouldn’t have invited him, but I couldn’t help myself. That form, my dear. Simply delicious! Why, if I hadn’t asked him, I would never have—” Her flurry of words ended on a startled squeak, for a man had cleared his throat directly behind them.

Emeline hadn’t been watching, so she hadn’t seen him move, but she knew instinctively who stood so close to them. Slowly she turned her head.

Mocking coffee-brown eyes met her own. “Mrs. Conrad, I’d be grateful if you’d introduce us.” His voice had a flat American accent.

Their hostess sucked in her breath at this blunt order, but curiosity won out over indignation. “Lady Emeline, may I introduce Mr. Samuel Hartley. Mr. Hartley, Lady Emeline Gordon.”

Emeline sank into a curtsy, only to be presented with a large, tanned hand on rising. She stared for a moment, nonplussed. Surely the man wasn’t that unsophisticated? Mrs. Conrad’s breathy giggle decided the matter. Gingerly, Emeline touched just her fingertips to his.

To no avail. He embraced her hand with both of his, enveloping her fingers in hard warmth. His nostrils flared just the tiniest bit as she was forced to step forward into the handshake. Was he scenting her?

“How do you do?” he asked.

“Well,” Emeline retorted. She tried to free her hand but could not, even though Mr. Hartley didn’t seem to be gripping her tightly. “Might I have my appendage returned to me now?”

That mouth twitched again. Did he laugh at everyone or just her? “Of course, my lady.”

Emeline opened her mouth to make an excuse—any excuse—to leave the dreadful man, but he was too quick for her.

“May I escort you into the garden?”

It really wasn’t a question, since he’d already held out his arm, obviously expecting her consent. And what was worse, she gave it. Silently, Emeline laid her fingertips on his coat sleeve. He nodded to Mrs. Conrad and drew Emeline outside in only a matter of minutes, working very neatly for such a gauche man. Emeline squinted up at his profile suspiciously.

He turned his head and caught her look. His own eyes wrinkled at the corners, laughing down at her, although his mouth remained perfectly straight. “We’re neighbors, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve rented the house next to yours.”

Emeline found herself blinking up at him, caught off guard once again—a disagreeable sensation as rare as it was unwanted. She knew the occupants of the town house to the right of hers, but the left had been let out recently. For an entire day the week before, men had been tramping in and out of the open doors, sweating, shouting, and cursing. And they’d carried...

Her eyebrows snapped together. “The pea-green settee.”

His mouth curved at one corner. “What?”

“You’re the owner of that atrocious pea-green settee, aren’t you?”

He bowed. “I confess it.”

“With no trace of shame, either, I see.” Emeline pursed her lips in disapproval. “Are there really gilt owls carved on the legs?”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“I had.”

“Then I’ll not argue the point.”

“Humph.” She faced forward again.

“I have a favor to ask of you, ma’am.” His voice rumbled somewhere above her head.