hotter?"
"Perhaps I do."
"Because that would promote our deserting Delhi for the season," she continued. "Yes, my intended informed me that you're trying to convince the British to abandon the city."
"Your intended has a devilish way of twisting my words. I want the women and children out, and I want more European troops in. You tell Lindley that, will you?"
"I don't think I'll mention this little escapade at all, actually." Emma leaned back to study him. It was coming to her now that she had been abominably rude; he had saved her from a terrible injury, and she had railed at him for it. But he had not been put out by her behavior. If anything, he had seemed amused by it. "You are rather singular, Lord Holdensmoor."
"I might say the same of you."
"Yes, but perhaps you would not mean it as a compliment."
He looked to her briefly. "But perhaps I would."
His eyes were such an improbable green. Maybe he was so unflappable because he was accustomed to people making fools of themselves when he looked at them.
Usha passed up a flask of water. Emma shook her head and handed it to the Marquess. He held the flask a few inches above his lips as he drank, his throat muscles rippling. She stared at the long line of his neck, strangely mesmerized by it. How it would feel to place one's hand there, on the front of his throat, as he drank? She touched her own neck, swallowing experimentally.
She realized with a start that he had turned back to her. His regard was searching. Color rose to her cheeks, and she looked away.
"Miss Martin, are you aware of what is happening across northern India? Are any of the ladies aware?"
She cleared her throat. "We're not witless, my lord. We've heard of the disturbances. But if the officers believe in the loyalty of their troops—"
"Native troops, Miss Martin. That is the only sort Delhi has." He leaned a little closer, and she caught the faint scent of sandalwood, overlaid by leather and soap. "Tell me why these troops should feel any loyalty whatsoever to the people who have reduced them to subjects—here, in the land of their birth."
She tilted her head. "I, of course, am not an expert on colonial politics."
"But you do seem to have common sense, which distinguishes you from most of your masculine counterparts."
She considered him for a long moment. "You really do think something's going to happen."
He nodded once, still holding her eyes. "And I suggest, Miss Martin, that you go to Almora, even if the Colonel will not accompany you."
Her anxiety had her leaning forward now too. "But if you have information, some evidence that the natives are planning an uprising, you must tell the Commissioner, and quickly!"
His long lips tilted in a half-smile. "Do you think I went to Mrs. Eversham's dinner for the pleasure of her company?"
The words felt like a slap. Surely she was mistaken; surely he was not alluding to Marcus's affair. She would not have expected such spite from him.
Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for he prevented her next words with a quiet, "No. My apologies. That came out very badly." He began to speak again, then seemed to think better of it. His expression became thoughtful.
She looked away from him, aware that she had erred. If one's intended was inclined to infidelity, the decent thing was to pretend innocence on the matter. But now Lord Holdensmoor knew that she was not so ignorant after all.
"You are singular," he said.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I'm afraid so."
At the same time, they both sat back against the seat. A sudden blissful breeze from the north caught Emma's bonnet, lifting it off her head and sending it spinning off behind them. She turned to follow its progress. A child of five or six years ran out into the lane, grabbing the hat and cramming it over his tiny ears. The sight drew a laugh from her, despite her mood.
She felt the weight of the Marquess's gaze. "Shall we go back for it?" he asked.
"No, let it be." She laughed again, taken by the
"Perhaps I do."
"Because that would promote our deserting Delhi for the season," she continued. "Yes, my intended informed me that you're trying to convince the British to abandon the city."
"Your intended has a devilish way of twisting my words. I want the women and children out, and I want more European troops in. You tell Lindley that, will you?"
"I don't think I'll mention this little escapade at all, actually." Emma leaned back to study him. It was coming to her now that she had been abominably rude; he had saved her from a terrible injury, and she had railed at him for it. But he had not been put out by her behavior. If anything, he had seemed amused by it. "You are rather singular, Lord Holdensmoor."
"I might say the same of you."
"Yes, but perhaps you would not mean it as a compliment."
He looked to her briefly. "But perhaps I would."
His eyes were such an improbable green. Maybe he was so unflappable because he was accustomed to people making fools of themselves when he looked at them.
Usha passed up a flask of water. Emma shook her head and handed it to the Marquess. He held the flask a few inches above his lips as he drank, his throat muscles rippling. She stared at the long line of his neck, strangely mesmerized by it. How it would feel to place one's hand there, on the front of his throat, as he drank? She touched her own neck, swallowing experimentally.
She realized with a start that he had turned back to her. His regard was searching. Color rose to her cheeks, and she looked away.
"Miss Martin, are you aware of what is happening across northern India? Are any of the ladies aware?"
She cleared her throat. "We're not witless, my lord. We've heard of the disturbances. But if the officers believe in the loyalty of their troops—"
"Native troops, Miss Martin. That is the only sort Delhi has." He leaned a little closer, and she caught the faint scent of sandalwood, overlaid by leather and soap. "Tell me why these troops should feel any loyalty whatsoever to the people who have reduced them to subjects—here, in the land of their birth."
She tilted her head. "I, of course, am not an expert on colonial politics."
"But you do seem to have common sense, which distinguishes you from most of your masculine counterparts."
She considered him for a long moment. "You really do think something's going to happen."
He nodded once, still holding her eyes. "And I suggest, Miss Martin, that you go to Almora, even if the Colonel will not accompany you."
Her anxiety had her leaning forward now too. "But if you have information, some evidence that the natives are planning an uprising, you must tell the Commissioner, and quickly!"
His long lips tilted in a half-smile. "Do you think I went to Mrs. Eversham's dinner for the pleasure of her company?"
The words felt like a slap. Surely she was mistaken; surely he was not alluding to Marcus's affair. She would not have expected such spite from him.
Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for he prevented her next words with a quiet, "No. My apologies. That came out very badly." He began to speak again, then seemed to think better of it. His expression became thoughtful.
She looked away from him, aware that she had erred. If one's intended was inclined to infidelity, the decent thing was to pretend innocence on the matter. But now Lord Holdensmoor knew that she was not so ignorant after all.
"You are singular," he said.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I'm afraid so."
At the same time, they both sat back against the seat. A sudden blissful breeze from the north caught Emma's bonnet, lifting it off her head and sending it spinning off behind them. She turned to follow its progress. A child of five or six years ran out into the lane, grabbing the hat and cramming it over his tiny ears. The sight drew a laugh from her, despite her mood.
She felt the weight of the Marquess's gaze. "Shall we go back for it?" he asked.
"No, let it be." She laughed again, taken by the
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