Emily and the Dark Angel Read Free Page A

Emily’s arms. The woman reached behind her and threw. A beribboned oval box sailed through the air to knock his hat flying. The box burst open, and a pungent cloud of violet-scented powder billowed out over both of them. The woman shrieked with laughter.
    The man choked and let Emily go. He stooped, ripped up a tall weed complete with muddy roots, and hurled it with deadly accuracy at his attacker. She was still laughing as it hit. She stopped and opened her mouth to start another blistering tirade, but after an alarmed look at the gentleman she shut her mouth, retreated, and slammed the window shut.
    Stunned, coughing, and waving away the pungent powder, Emily still had to admire such ability to silence a harridan. When the man turned back to her his face was smoothly expressionless. He coughed again, brushed a volume of powder out of his dark curls, grimaced slightly, shook himself, and then turned his attention to Emily.
    Her large plain straw bonnet had caught most of the deluge, and he deftly removed it and beat the powder off downwind. Dazedly shaking her serviceable dark pelisse, Emily felt as if she’d stepped into a violet-scented hurricane. Her bewilderment increased when an elf popped out of the half-open door of the house.
    A delicate creature, shorter even than Emily, with a mass of silver-blonde curls and huge blue eyes, the elf was dressed only in a filmy knee-length smock and showed a great deal of slender, shapely leg.
    The elf and Emily stared at each other blankly, and then it disappeared. Emily blinked. The tall gentleman spoke as he came to stand in front of her.
    “As I was saying,” he drawled as he settled the bonnet back on her head and deftly retied the ribbons, “before we were so rudely interrupted, I beg your pardon.” He brushed at his sleeve and then shrugged and desisted. “I think that does more harm than good.” He looked down at her, and a touch of sardonic amusement lightened his features. “We’ll just have to bring powder back into fashion, won’t we?”
    Torn between annoyance and unwilling amusement, Emily shook out her skirts and said, “Hair powder, perhaps, if you can afford the tax, but body powder?” After a moment she realized what she had said and went red. When she looked to see his reaction, however, he was picking up his hat and her reticule and book, and paying no attention to her words at all.
    Arrogant, she thought. Abominably arrogant. A typical London buck come to lord it in Melton and chase foxes—a Meltonian.
    He returned her possessions to her. “Perhaps I may make amends by escorting you to your destination, ma’am.”
    One embarrassment subsided only to be replaced by another. It was finally dawning on Emily just what kind of scene she had interrupted. On top of that it couldn’t be clearer that he had no enthusiasm for being in her company.
    “No, thank you,” she said as coldly as possible. They both reeked of violets to a cloying degree, and she maliciously hoped it would embarrass him even more than it would embarrass her.
    Even her coldness left him unruffled. “As you wish,” he drawled. He produced a card. “I’m Piers Verderan, as you may have heard. Staying at the Old Club. If your clothes prove to be unreclaimable, apply to me for recompense.”
    “Thank you, but that will be unnecessary,” Emily said frostily, annoyed at being taken for an upper servant though she deliberately dressed very plainly for these trips. She turned to make a dignified withdrawal and almost fell as the heel of her boot snapped off.
    Again he gripped her arm, though he released her as soon as she got her balance. He bent and retrieved her heel from where it was wedged between two cobblestones. He looked down with interest at her footwear and raised one elegant dark brow.
    “Quaint,” he remarked, and Emily’s lips tightened. “If you care to raise your foot like a horse, ma’am, I’ll see if I can fix it, but I doubt it will work.”
    “I don’t