A Valentine Wedding (16 page)

“Who? The one you lost?” Alasdair inquired.

“No, Lady Emma. Dashed fine looking woman. Even without the money,” he added.

“Quite so,” Alasdair said dryly. He raised his eyeglass and looked across the room at Emma. Immediately, as if she felt his eyes on her, she turned and met his stare. The tawny eyes were lambent framed in the golden mask, and her mouth seemed to Alasdair more than usually rich and wide, her little white teeth gleaming in the smile that remained on her face but was not for him. Then she turned back to her companion and a minute later they walked out of the supper room.

Alasdair had intended to be patient. To plot his intervention in Emma’s scheme with subtlety and cunning. But suddenly he knew that he could not endure another minute of it. Could not endure to see the full force of that sensuous personality, that irresistible charm turned upon another man. He was going to put a stop to it right now.

With a word of excuse, he left the table and returned to the ballroom in an angry, whirling maelstrom of determination. The knowledge that he had
no conceivable right to interfere, he brushed aside as irrelevant. Ned would not have stood aside and watched her throw herself away on a smooth-mannered fortune-hunting stranger about whom no one knew anything except for some vague supposed connection with the Austrian ambassador.

Emma and her escort left the ballroom and went downstairs. A doorway off the massive entrance hall led into a large glassed conservatory that ran the length of the house.

Alasdair’s lips thinned as he guessed this was their destination. He knew the conservatory well. It was an enormous pillared space, dimly lit and filled with orange trees, shrubs, vines, and tubs of fragrant exotic flowers. It was very much a favorite with couples who wished to find seclusion.

He looked around for Maria and saw her sitting on a little chair against the wall, fanning herself, deep in conversation with her hostess.

He went over to her. “Ma’am, may I ask you a favor?”

“A favor? Of me?” Maria looked surprised. “Whatever is it?”

He offered her his arm. “I’ll explain in a minute. If the duchess would permit me to take you away for a few minutes.”

The duchess signified her assent with a gracious nod, but her eyes were alive with curiosity.

“Oh, dear me, I wonder what it can be.” Maria gathered herself together and took his arm. “How intriguing.”

Alasdair led her out of the room and down the stairs. “Emma has just walked into the conservatory with Mr. Denis,” he said quietly. “I wish you to go and find her and ask her to accompany you to the
retiring room for a minute. Only for a minute. I want her to return quickly to Mr. Denis in the conservatory.”

“Good heavens! Whatever for?” Maria looked astounded now, her eyes round as saucers. “I have my reasons.”

“But what … what shall I say I want her for?”

“To help you make a repair to your gown, perhaps?” Alasdair said vaguely. “There must be some female thing that would require her assistance.”

“Oh, goodness me.” Maria continued to look startled. “I don’t know but what—”

“Oblige me in this, ma’am.” Alasdair interrupted her rambling. His voice had a slight edge to it, and his eyes within the mask were both brilliant and stern.

Maria blinked. “Yes, Alasdair,” she said meekly.

“And don’t mention that I asked you to do this,” he said swiftly.

“No, no, of course not, Alasdair.” She gave him another startled look and hurried away.

Alasdair followed her after a minute. An ornately carved stone table carrying a bronze statuette of a frolicking nymph stood just within the fragrant green dimness. Alasdair possessed himself of the nymph and then stepped behind a palm tree to wait.

Emma and Maria appeared in a very few minutes. “You poor dear, are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home?” Emma was saying solicitously, cupping Maria’s elbow with one hand.

“No … no, my dear. I shall be all right once I’ve rested a little. But if you could ask the maid for some hartshorn and water … then you must come back to the party. I’m sorry to have disturbed your têete-à-tête with Mr. Denis,” she added with a most unusual touch of tartness.

“It was hardly a têete-à-tête, Maria,” Emma said, passing out of the conservatory. “We were merely walking a little in the quiet. The air is so pleasant in there.”

Maria could believe that if she wished, Alasdair thought grimly. He was not about to. He moved casually out of the shelter of the palm tree and trod softly down an aisle between tubs of oleanders. The air was moist but fresh after the overheated dryness of the ballroom.

Mr. Denis was standing with his back to Alasdair, looking out of the curved glass windows that overlooked the garden at the side of the mansion. He shifted from foot to foot, evidently impatient. Alasdair moved with sudden speed, his lithe body crossing the space that separated them with something akin to a spring. He brought the nymph down at the base of the man’s skull with calculated force, and Paul fell backward into his assailant’s waiting arms.

“My apologies, Monsieur Denis,” Alasdair murmured. “Violence is so ugly but I really had no option.”

Alasdair dragged the unconscious body back through a group of orange trees and into the furthest corner of the conservatory. He laid him down and then swiftly although not without some difficulty—Paul Denis was heavier and more muscular than he appeared—removed the black domino. He untied the black mask and examined the dark countenance for a minute. He pressed a finger to the carotid artery. It beat steadily if fast. The man would be out for perhaps an hour. It was the work of a moment to remove his own domino and mask and put on Paul Denis’s.

Then he stepped away from the still figure, moved
a pair of orange trees to provide even more concealment, and went to take Paul’s place at the window.

He moved into the shadows of a vigorously leafed evergreen and waited for Emma.

Emma was reluctant to leave Maria to the care of the maid in the retiring room. She seemed to have a rather hectic flush, and her pulse was a trifle tumultuous. But Maria was insistent.

“No, no, my dear. Mr. Denis is waiting for you. It would be the height of discourtesy to leave him there,” she said, mindful of her instructions. “I shall lie quietly here and sip this hartshorn and water, and the maid is burning pastilles in case I should feel faint again. I am in very good hands.” She offered a wan but gallant smile.

“It seems so heartless,” Emma protested. “To be leaving you here suffering while I racket about enjoying myself.”

“Nonsense. Now go at once, my love. It’s only making the headache worse to have to argue with you,” Maria said with a stroke of genius.

Emma still hesitated, nibbling her bottom lip. “Well, I will go back and tell Paul … Mr. Denis …” she amended swiftly, “that I must not stay. Then I’ll order the carriage to be brought around and we will go home directly. How would that be?”

Maria reflected that if Alasdair had any objections to that, he could deal with them himself. She’d followed her instructions to the letter. “Very well, my love,” she said faintly, closing her eyes.

Emma paused at the mirror to check her appearance. One of the attendants came forward with a hairbrush and deftly brushed and twisted the burnished ringlets clustering around Emma’s face. She refastened
one of the little ties of silver tissue that fastened the domino down the front and nodded with a smile.

“That’ll do, m’lady.”

“Thank you.” Emma returned the smile, cast one doubtful glance at Maria on the sofa, then hurried out.

The retiring room was also on the ground floor, on the opposite side of the hall to the conservatory. She hurried across the gleaming marble expanse and reentered the dimly lit conservatory.

She wasn’t sure quite what Paul had had in mind when he’d suggested a stroll in the quiet seclusion of the orange trees, but it was a reasonable assumption that he hoped to move their flirtation onto more physical lines. A kiss was only to be expected, and Emma found herself in two minds about the prospect. She hadn’t been kissed by a man outside her family since her breakup with Alasdair, and she could feel her pulses beating more swiftly, feel that her cheeks had an anticipatory glow to them. But she also sensed deep within herself a certain distaste. Maybe she wanted someone to kiss her, but was that someone Paul Denis?

It was ridiculous to be so contradictory, she told herself sternly. There was no one she preferred to Paul. She had made her plan and she would stick to it. A degree of apprehension was perfectly normal.

The conservatory seemed very quiet, almost like an enchanted garden in its moist green and fragrant dimness. The crunch of gravel beneath her silver kid slippers as she hurried down the aisles sounded very loud, as if echoing in a deserted place.

“Paul?” she whispered, wondering if she was in the right aisle. They all looked the same. There was no
immediate answer and she veered to the right. “Paul?”

A whisper came from the far end, sounding muffled. She hurried toward it, at last able to distinguish the dark-clad figure standing against one of the vine-covered windows. “I thought I was lost,” she said, sounding a little breathless, although she was not in the least out of breath. “So silly, the aisles all look the same.”

Paul reached out an arm and in silence drew her against his side. She allowed him to hold her thus for a minute, without looking at him, just feeling his body so close to her own. Her breathlessness increased; she was holding herself very still, taut with expectation and now unmistakable anxiety. She knew nothing of this man and she was passively putting herself in his power. She could feel the supple strength in the arm at her waist, and there was something intimidating about his silence.

Suddenly he stepped back until he was behind her. His hold moved to her shoulders. Emma seemed unable to move. And then she felt his breath on the side of her face, the lightest kiss on her ear. His tongue darted into the tight shell, and his teeth gently nibbled on her earlobe.

And now Emma knew. That wicked tickling caress belonged to only one man. A man who knew exactly what squirming delight it gave her. She knew but she was frozen … frozen in this moment, in this enchanted garden. This was not happening in the real world. In the real world she would not want it. She didn’t understand how it could be happening, but she didn’t need to understand it. Whatever was happening belonged on some other plane where all was paradox and paradox made sense.

His mouth moved from her ear to her neck. His tongue drew a moist, tantalizing line from the little knob at the top of her spine up the shallow groove to the hollow at the base of her skull.

Emma shivered with delight. A current of lust jolted her belly, sent liquid arousal coursing through her loins. But she didn’t move. Moving seemed an impossibility.

He slid his hands around her body, brushing her breasts. His fingers deftly untied the little ribbons of silver tissue that held her domino closed. The domino slipped from her in a whisper of gauze. His hands now reached for her breasts, fingers sliding inside the low décolletage of her ball gown to explore the deep cleft between her breasts. Then his hands cupped the soft mounds within her gown, lifting them, holding them, while a finger rubbed each nipple until they both rose, hard and tight and wanting.

Emma bit her lip. Her belly contracted with every little tug on her nipples. She could feel the moistness of her loins, dampness on her inner thighs. Her blood leaped in her veins and her skin prickled as if with a thousand tiny needles of pleasure.

Then she felt him raising her skirts at the back, slowly inching them up her calves, so very slowly and carefully bundling the elaborate folds of material until she felt the warm moist air on the backs of her thighs, then on her bottom. He held the material against the small of her back and his free hand caressed her bottom, stroking the soft curving cheeks, the swell of her hips.

He used to say with his lazy smile that her rear was the Platonic ideal of a feminine backside. And she had always laughed, thought it funny although wonderfully pleasing. Now Emma remained as immobile as
before beneath the caressing, exploring hands. Nothing was required of her except to give herself to this delightful sensual journey in this magical fragrant place.

Then she began to sense an urgency in his caresses. His hands slipped between her thighs, pressing them apart. His fingers moved upward to the wet, hot furrow where her entire being seemed now to be centered. Her legs parted without volition and she moaned. It was a tiny sound, but in the concentrated silence of their two bodies it had the impact of a thunderclap.

His hands moved to her hips, flattened across her belly, pressed against the bones of her pelvis. The pressure gave clear instruction and she bent forward. There was a wide stone sill at waist height, and she rested her own flat palms there, her backside jutting, the small of her back hollowed, a red mist of passionate need engulfing her.

He held her hips and penetrated her open aching body with one deep thrust. She moved backward against him, her bottom pressed into his belly, her forehead resting against the vine-laced window.

He drove into her again and she felt his breath sigh against her bent neck, and the deep throbbing of his flesh against her womb. Then she was lost in the maelstrom of ecstasy, flooded with her own juices, drowning in joy.

From far away came the strains of music, the sounds of voices, of footsteps, but such sounds, although heard, meant nothing. She was barely aware of the moment when he withdrew from her. Barely aware when her skirts fell back, once more covering her. She rested, feeling the window glass against her forehead, the stone under her hands.

She knew that she was alone. Alasdair had gone. Slowly she straightened. Her head cleared. The music was stronger now, penetrating the closed world of passion. Voices, footsteps, footmen calling for carriages.

Emma stood up. Her domino was at her feet. It was the work of a moment to put it on, tie the ribbons. A smoothing touch to her skirts and all was concealed. Only she was aware of the residue of lovemaking—the scent, the soft pulse, the dew of a shared climax.