Captain George Wellesley and his wife, Cassandra, received them graciously into their impressive Mayfair mansion, having since called on the Haywoods soon after the invitation had been accepted. He was a tall man of fine figure that Emma guessed to be in his mid forties. His wife was not much younger, but still equally as handsome as her husband, the youngest son of the Marquess of Normandale.

What Emma had not expected, upon being ushered into the large drawing room, was the sight of Lord Winterly and his sister engaged in conversation with another striking man who was shortly thereafter introduced to her as Nicholas Hawskmoor, The Viscount Hawksmoor, son of the Earl of Huntington. 

Milli was in complete raptures as she beheld this new exemplification of male perfection. His hair was a deep chestnut hue, his shoulder's broad, his waist trim, and the height of his figure equal to that of Lord Winterly's proud physique. Though his face was still slightly turned from them, his profile held every promise of being extremely pleasing.

Their discourse halted abruptly as Victoria left the gentlemen and approached her new friends. Winterly, after receiving a significant look from his sister, soon after bore down on them as well, but without the overt eagerness his sister had displayed, leaving his friend where he yet stood leaning a casual elbow atop the marble mantlepiece.

"Miss Lucas." Winterly inclined his somber head, a spark of interest flashing momentarily before his features became staid once more.

"Lord Winterly," she reciprocated the tepid greeting with a curtsy, her sister following suit, before Victoria pulled both sisters over to meet her friend, Lord Hawksmoor.

"That is my brother's favorite color," said she to Emma, in a loud whisper that her brother surely heard, clearly admiring the little red rosettes in Emma's hair and the crimson detail that adorned her gown. With a vivid blush, they stopped before Lord Hawksmoor who was immediately taken with Milli.

"I see that Victoria has not exaggerated your beauty, Miss Milli," said he, still smiling at Millicent. When he turned that easy grin towards Emma, however, it became altogether enigmatic. "Miss Lucas," he drawled. "Finally, we meet."

"Finally, my lord?" The hairs on her nape stiffened as Winterly moved from her back to stand beside his sister.

"Yes," said Hawksmoor. "I have heard a great deal about you." He shared a meaningful look with Victoria that only seemed to irritate Winterly for his lips compressed marginally. "And all of which was, certes, most complimentary."

How on earth was she suppose to respond to that? A nod would have to make do. It was indeed a strange interaction whereby a most important sort of communication seemed to be taking place before her, none of which was sensible to her; all three beautiful creatures had each skillfully enciphered their hard gazes and brittle smiles so much so that Emma's heart misgave her instantly.

Although dressed as finely as the rest, if not more so, they appeared different to the other occupants in the room. Unearthly. Even Milli's brows drew together slightly, which was saying much since she was not naturally perceptive of people and moods.

There was something otherworldly in the three pairs of dark eyes that beheld her, and a preternatural quality about their bearing; they did not even seem to breathe. They were all so intimidating that even her uncle, who was rarely impressed by even the greatest lords of the realm, appeared subdued as he and aunt Sophie were introduced to Hawksmoor and Victoria.

Once all the guests had arrived, fourteen diners in total including the hosts, and after everyone had had a chance to indulged in their respective tête-à-têtes, the Wellesleys' butler beckoned them all into the dining room with a ceremonious, "Dinner is served." It was now six o'clock precisely.

Mr. Cartwright, and his wife, who had been the last of the arrivals, seemed surprised to see them there tonight, hobnobbing with the nobility as though that was his right alone and they had impinged on his territory somehow. This of course was as ridiculous as the pretentious obeisance he therewith paid to the Winterlys, Hawksmoor, and the Wellesleys as well.

At dinner, Emma was seated beside a Mr. Honeywell, a kindly clergyman, and Captain Wellesley's elderly mother. Milli, on the other hand, sat happily between Lord Hawksmoor, or Hawk as Victoria called him, and Mr. Honeywell's wife.

But by some perverse mischance, Winterly was established directly opposite her, across the vast table, his dark eyes often straying over her features. Of this she could not be sure, however, for she took pains to avoid his penetrating gaze, but the feel of them was no less palpable. They disturbed her so completely that she barely partook of the rich fare which was indeed a shame, for Mrs. Wellesley's cook had outdone himself.

There were only three courses, this being only a 'small' dinner, the first of which consisted of beautiful porcelain tureens of pea soup, a selection of entrées, and several silver platters of turbot and eel. The second course subsisted of a wide variety of meat dishes, vegetables, sauces, and savories.

By the time the linen tablecloth was removed and the dessert served, she had taken no more than a few bites of fish and sipped sparingly at the claret that filled her crystal goblet. Her appetite had waned each time she had felt Winterly's eponymous perusal coldly sweeping across her flesh.

He and his sister, as well as Lord Hawksmoor, had been equally abstemious, their plates conspicuously untouched despite the appetizing morsels. Perhaps they had already eaten. But why should they accept an invitation only to fill their bellies beforehand? It made not a jot of sense to her.

Conversation waxed all throughout dinner, the subject more often than not veering towards Napoleon's abdication of the throne, and his subsequent removal to Elba, the Kings's upcoming birthday, and the much coveted tickets to the Ball at Almack's on Tuesday.

"Apparently Buonaparte arrived at Porto Ferrajo on the 4th," said Cartwright with a sneer, "and would you believe they are allowing him to keep his title of Emperor." He sniggered at the thought, pleased that he was commanding the conversation, as Mr. Honeywell, bored with the talk of post-war politics, helped himself to another slice of custard tart. 

"Emperor of Elba! Bah!" the little stockbroker continued. "And now he's been given a commission to purchase a hundred thousand crowns worth of books and has threatened to become the most learned man in Europe!?" Cartwright wiped at his mouth and cast his eyes over table to ensure that he still held everyone's attention.

Emma, having been quiet all evening, could bear his pompous ejaculations no more. "Perhaps he is sorry for what he's done and wishes to retire quietly to his books with as much dignity as can be hoped for after all those years of senseless war."

"Senseless war, you call it?!" Cartwright's eyebrows flew into his receding hairline. "Britain has ensured the freedom of a nation from that would-be-Nero's evil tyranny, and men have, in the process, sacrificed their lives in that honorable endeavor. I therefore suggest you reconsider that statement, madam."

However, Emma then proceeded to shock him further by arguing the point when he had himself presumed the discussion over with; she was after all only a foolish girl, or so he most probably thought. "I think the loss of life is always senseless, yes."

Cartwright practically sputtered into his wine at her audacity. Her uncle, meanwhile, looked absolutely pained by the whole debacle playing out before him, his lips pinching into disapprobation. What a time it was too for his hearing to suddenly be working accurately. Aunt Sophie, however, was as oblivious as usual, surreptitiously scrubbing at her Indian shawl where she'd accidentally captured a drop of gravy. 

Emma continued undeterred, in fact spurred on by the twinkle of amusement in Winterly's black eyes. "And as to Buonaparte's determination to become the most learned man in Europe, I support the idea. He ought to make the attempt." She watched Cartwright's eye twitch as though she had dragged her nails down a pane of glass. "He has done much wrong and should now seek wisdom in literature; perhaps redemption in scholarly activities." Looking askance at the quiet clergyman beside her, she said, "Do not you agree, Mr. Honeywell? Surely the Christian thing to do is allow the man henceforth to live peaceably; to attempt to find redemption in whatever quiet way he can?"

"Er..." Mr. Honeywell flushed instantly, at a loss with how to answer. It was such a delicate subject after all. "Well, my dear—"

"Devilish unpatriotic of you!" inveighed the ever loquacious Mr. Cartwright, in obvious disgust of her controversial views. "The man's a veritable devil. Have a care how you defend him!"

"I by no means vindicate or support his actions, sir, but a tyrant is still only a man; not a monster," she replied with sangfroid. To err was, after all, human and to forgive divine.

"You are very opinionated, madam!"

"As are you, Mr. Cartwright," Winterly interposed on her behalf, cocking his head sportively. "I daresay this has all come to naught but a storm in a teacup, and you've succeeded only in upsetting yourself, ole chap."

"Well, well—"

"It is also my opinion," Winterly continued to drawl, "that Miss Lucas ought to be lauded for her empathy. Perhaps if there was more empathy the world over, there would not be so much thirst for war."

"Quite so," Honeywell agreed solemnly, doubtless influenced by Lord Winterly's magnetic dominance. "Most Christian-like sentiments."

"Indeed." Winterly smirked sardonically at Honeywell. "At all events, there is no quarrel here."

That promptly ended all discussions on the subject, the sanctimonious little wretch thoroughly subdued by Winterly's intervention. And by the expressions on the faces of the rest of the guests, he had done them all a favor. Victoria beheld her brother approvingly as Hawk winked at Milli who instantly giggled into her napkin.

Emma could not believe where the time had got to, for it was almost eight o'clock. But nature called and she had now to visit the water closet. After being shown the way by one of the servants, Emma visited the latrine, in which the Wellesleys had installed an honest-to-God flushing lavatory. Marvelous. She flushed it once more, for good measure, delighted by the contraption.

When she left the water closet, she passed the library and could not forbear a peek inside. She dearly loved the smell of books and her uncle's library was not as well-stocked as this one seemed to be. She promised herself only a moment's perusal, but soon availed herself of a thick volume and then sank into a large, plush chair that completely swallowed her up.

"And what opportunity have you to purvey, Cartwright." The sound of Winterly's voice startled her enough that she froze.

She could hear two sets of footsteps approaching the library, and by the time she thought to leave, it was too late. Both he and Cartwright were now ensconced within the room, but since the high backed chair hid her from their view, she felt that it was safe to wait out their conference and then leave once they had concluded their business. In any event, she had remained silent far too long now, in her abstracted state of mind, to make her presence known. Blast!

"I had fifty minds to purchase the lot myself," Cartwright continued.

"Why did you not then?" Winterly's laconic query seemed to have momentarily taken the wind fromm Cartwright's sails, for the little stockbroker was silent a moment and the room savored of unease.

"I flatter myself that I may yet, but it might interest you to know-"

"I doubt it."

Having efficaciously surceased the little man's speech, that he had so obviously rehearsed, Cartwright was left stammering uncomfortably. Emma almost felt sorry for the man. How cold and boorish Winterly was being. Thank Heaven he had never spoken to her in that dreadful manner. She would have liked to think that she'd have borne his surliness better than Cartwright, but she wasn't sure.

"Leave me," said Winterly, his voice suddenly low enough that it might have awoken the dead. His unwanted interlocutor hurriedly compiled and soon scuttled from the room leaving her alone with the devil himself.

It was so quiet now that she dared not breathe, lest her breath disturb the eerie hush that had settled in the dimly-lit room. Only one candle burned atop a silver candelabra, the burgundy, chintz curtains parted from the casement to reveal that the sun had disappeared behind the buildings; the dregs of light fading from the firmament as it hugged the horizon.

"I know you're there." The huskiness of his voice was almost an invitation for her to stand. Nay, a command.

"Do forgive me, my lord!" she said, standing from the chair, her face already puce with mortification at having been thus discovered.

"Do not alarm yourself, madam, your society is much preferred over Cartwright's. Besides which, I was well aware of your presence long before you perceived of ours."

He was? Had he smelled her out, for goodness sake? Good lord, what a notion! His sense of smell is then obviously as acute as his hearing has proven to be, she scoffed silently. "How very...singular indeed," was all that she managed aloud, still burning with shame at having been caught in the act of eavesdropping.

"Interested in speculation are you?" He was referring to his discussion with Cartwright.

She smiled uneasily. "In truth, I barely heard what was said, nor do I have the funds to speculate." She lifted the heavy book meaningfully. "I had better put this back and return to the drawing room."

He stepped closer. "Not another gothic novel?"

"I'm afraid so," said she, feeling awkward again. "I really had not meant to..."

Winterly took pity on her difficulty and waved the matter away nonchalantly. "I told you, I conceived of your hiding spot as soon as I entered. Pray, do not mention it again."

But how had he perceived her? She had not even turned a sheaf; had made no sound that could have possibly alerted him. "Do you possess the nose of a bloodhound then?"

"In a manner," he answered, with an arcane smirk animating his lips. His eyes were fixed to hers in a way that was wholly disconcerting and whatever thoughts churned his mind were denied her, other than that which he spoke aloud, for his features remained unaffected by what was taking place within.

She wished she could read him, but he gave nothing away and, since knowing him in the brief length of their acquaintance, any time she had marked an emotion that had happened to play across his countenance, it was fleeting and gone before she could identify it.

The silence prevailed and only effected her nerves to grow as taut as catgut till she finally grasped for conversation. "I really did not mean to snoop, Lord Winterly; only sought to admire the library." Faith, that is the third time you have apologized! Stop it, Emma! The repetition must have been sorely vexing to him.

"I'll own to you, Miss Lucas, that if I had wanted to keep anything from you, you'd not have heard a thing."

"Oh." Again the conversation waned, but she had attempted to revive it once already, and it was now his turn to do so.

Clearly seeing that she was now resolved to be mute until spoken to, he relented. "Truth be known, I am so cursed tired of sycophants like Cartwright, that I fancy I might soon retire to countryside altogether and be done with the season."

"Well," she replied, a hint of satire in her tone, "I had not noticed." She was being facetious of course. He had made little effort to hide his disrelish for Cartwright's dull company. "But why then did you come tonight?" She had also observed that he had remained taciturn throughout dinner and wondered that he should even receive invitations at all if this was his customary behavior. Other than his cutting Cartwright to the quick, during desert, he had said little else.

"Because I knew you would be here."

"You are...very direct, sir!" No man had ever spoken to her as he just had. The whelms of energy radiated from him and sparked the dusty air of the library so much so that she feared the place would burst into flames.

"I also wanted to make sure that what I had first conceived had not been merely an ignis fatuus."

"And what was the effect of that first impression?" Did she truly wish to know?

"A burning curiosity about you that has been whetted almost from the moment you pressed that forthright gaze to mine."

Oh my! "I fear you will find me quite tedious, sir."

"Let me judge that for myself." He then lowered his gaze to her trembling hands. "You find my interest intrusive?" He easily interpreted her feelings, for they were evinced so blatantly by her fidgeting; she was extremely self-aware and disquieted by him.

"Yes," she admitted.

"I see." But he seemed unwilling to end their discourse.

However, their solitude was fortunately ended when Victoria stepped into the room, looking pointedly at the window where twilight was fast approaching. After bidding Emma adieu, she left them again, that odd, cryptic smile playing over her lips again.

With a long look at Emma, Winterly bent his head briefly and took his leave, but not before she'd seen his eyes darken with promise and his lips curl into a sardonic smile. As soon as he was gone, she could breathe easily again and, deciding that she had been absent long enough, returned to the ladies in the drawing room who had since been joined by the gentlemen.

Strangely enough, Hawksmoor had also forsaken them, all three begging off on the grounds that they each had prior engagements that called them away.

But the world was now just a little less exciting in the wake of Winterly's early departure. Just a little less dangerous. And by nine o'clock, the whole party had dispersed and her uncle called for their carriage.

That same night, Emma was visited by the strangest dreams. At one point the wind rattled the glazing, the branches tapping an eerie tattoo at the window, which they had never done before. However, the window, she later discovered, was left ajar and stood open to the night, near enough that the branches could run their skeletal fingers athwart the glass.

The moonlight basked her counterpane in its somber glow, and as she shifted her sleepy eyes to the corner of her room, whether in a dream-state or wakefulness, she was suddenly affrighted by a large shadow that loomed where the moonlight could not reach it.

"Are you real?" she asks the shadowy figure, believing herself to be somnolent despite the vividness of the dream.

"Why shouldn't I be?" The creature's voice was so very reminiscent of Winterly's.

"Because I must be dreaming..." said she. And she was, wasn't she? Winterly would not have scaled the side of the house and entered her bedroom through the window. This was a figment of her overtired mind, for she had lain awake for hours, this very being having occupied her thoughts, till she had finally fallen asleep.

"So you dream of me often?" he asked, his tone heavy with amusement. "That is rather provoking of you, my dear girl. But now you mention it, I am in fact a dream."

"That is a relief, for I would not like to think more ill of you than I already do."

"Come now, Miss Lucas, this is a dream after all. And we can always be honest with ourselves whilst dreaming, can we not? You do not think nearly as ill of me as you wish you did, am I right?"

"I suppose not; but I really do try to."

"Might I ask why you try at all?"

"Well, you are very confounding, for one thing, and you unsettle me abominably."

"And in the spirit of this illusory honesty, I demand to know in what wicked way I unsettle you." Even the sound of this dream Winterly's seductive whisper caused her flesh to pucker.

"I cannot say."

"You mean you will not say. Then I must guess for myself; and to that end..." He then approached her bed and leaned over her as she instinctively inched away. "I can be quite ruthless in my pursuit of knowledge...even in dreams."

"What are you doing?!" Her heart leapt as he placed his arms at either side of her head, effectively entrapping her in place atop her pillow.

"Are you not weary of this intrepid conversation? Would you not rather act out what you will not speak aloud?" He bent his head ever closer and her breath hitched in response.

"I...do not think..."

"This is only a fantasy, Miss Lucas; sweet Emmaline." Her name slipped from his tongue with delicious effect. "Am I not, therefore, ephemeral? Merely a wisp of smoke in the dark that vanishes by morning." His lips were now inches from hers and she darted her tongue out nervously as he watched. "I am only a Specter of your mind's inception."

"An incubus, you mean."

He smiled. "Yes, a far more accurate description, but take what you can before I leave you. I dare it of you."

Oh, but she did love a dare. He would come no closer. He had positioned his mouth just so and it was now up to her to complete the contact. With an audible sigh she lifted her head that small degree that sealed their lips.

Never had a dream awakened her longing as this one did. His lips were silk and steel; and hungry. forbidden. She relished their kiss, her first, almost wishing that it was real, and pulled his head down more firmly over hers with eager hands. With fistfuls of his thick hair grasped between her fingers, she moaned quietly as he intensified the onslaught.

He thrust his tongue out to sample her mouth in earnest, his fingers making their way slowly along her thighs where they finally stopped just shy of where the heat of passion coiled at her junction. She froze. Surely this dream Winterly would not dare to...

But he did.

"Oh!" The word was no more than a heady murmur, escaping her lips as she arched her back.

And with a silky chuckle, he fanned the flames of desire into an all-consuming conflagration, branding her lips, her neck, and the swell of her bosom, through the sheer fabric of her chemise, with his heated mouth.

It was all too much! "No! Stop!" She sat up in bed, ready to push his hands away if he did not obey, blinking as her body trembled with need. But she was alone. Winterly was gone; had never been there in the first place...

She was awake then? Emma collapsed back into her mattress, her breathing labored and her body aching in the strangest places. "Just a dream."

But why then did her lips feel tender. And why was the window open?

She therewith jumped from the bed, lit a candle, and secured the hasp at the frame before backing away, troubled by the dream and the discovery of the casement left ajar when she knew very well that she had closed it before she'd snuffed the first candle out. 

"Just a dream," she whispered again. Yet somehow that did not ring true.

🌟⭐️Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I loved writing it! For obvious reasons...🌟⭐️