Emily and the Dark Angel Read Free Page B

have far to go, sir,” Emily said, and held out her hand for the heel. “I will manage, I think.”
    He placed the wooden heel into her hand. “My dear lady,” he remarked with an edge to his voice and an air of excruciating boredom, “I don’t bite, and I only abduct women if I find them wandering on deserted moors at full moon. You will be much more comfortable if I lend you my arm as you hobble to your destination.”
    This was undoubtedly true, and trying to teeter her way over the greasy cobblestones would be undignified at best and dangerous at worst. Still, Emily wished heartily that she did not have to accept his assistance. She looked around, but the street offered no more suitable escort.
    She glanced at him. He was clearly a gentleman of the ton , though not quite a dandy. Beneath their silvery powdering his dark jacket and buckskins were of the highest quality, and his top boots gleamed. He was arrogant and rude, and from the scene she had witnessed he was clearly not a gentleman of unimpeachable morals, but surely he was adequate to support her a little way down the street.
    “Thank you,” she said, and placed her hand upon his proffered arm. They began to walk down the street. After a moment or two, Emily glanced sideways and found she was unable to see his face because of the brim of her bonnet. She could see some of his body, though. Her demure bonnet seemed designed to make her focus on his legs, a shortcoming of the hat she had never noticed before.
    They were superb legs.
    Well, what did she expect? He was doubtless addicted to hunting, which developed the legs wonderfully.
    What on earth was she doing even thinking such a thing? Hoping her bonnet also concealed her flaming cheeks, Emily hastily fixed her gaze upon the road ahead.
    “In our circumstances,” the man drawled, “are introductions not in order? I promise on my honor not to encroach. You know my name. May I not know yours?”
    “Grantwich,” said Emily flatly, trying for chilly dignity, which is very hard to achieve when limping and clinging to a man’s arm. “Miss Grantwich.”
    “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Grantwich,” he said with audible insincerity. “And are you a resident of Melton Mowbray?”
    “I reside nearby,” Emily replied discouragingly.
    “At Grantwich Hall, perhaps?” he queried.
    Startled, Emily looked up at him—which involved a sinuous contortion of her neck. How had she never realized before that a deep-brimmed bonnet forced a lady into coquettish movements if she wished to see the face of a tall gentleman with whom she walked?
    A slight glint in his cynical eyes showed he was familiar with the fact. “Came across the name somewhere,” he said, “and it seemed likely. You must consider yourself fortunate, Miss Grantwich, to live in the heart of the Shires.”
    Emily focussed again on the road. “On the contrary, sir. The recent passion for hunting is very disruptive. As I have no taste for the chase, I get no benefit from the hullabaloo and a great deal of bother from the hunt charging across our land.”
    “I’ll go odds your father and brothers don’t agree,” he remarked.
    Maliciously she said, “As my father is an invalid and my brother has been missing in action for four months, I think their interest in hunting down foxes is limited.” Emily was immediately ashamed of herself. His arrogance was no excuse for her to be positively catty.
    She swivelled her head up again and saw a trace of disdain which she knew she deserved. Quickly she said, “I do apologize. There’s nothing civilized you can say to such an announcement, is there? I can only excuse myself as being out of sorts after ...” Emily found she could not think of a way to describe the recent contretemps.
    His lips twitched with what appeared to be genuine amusement. “After being barrelled into,” he offered. “Screeched at by a lady of obviously loose morals and drowned in revolting Poudre de Violettes ? A