Her Husband’s Lover (5 page)

Joy replaced hope in Lyle’s eyes. Lyle curled against him, wrapping a thigh over his legs and nestling his head in the crook of Darleston’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad our paths crossed again. I truly meant it, what I said about thinking of you. You’ve always been in my thoughts.’

‘Yes,’ Darleston drawled, feeling pleasantly lethargic and sated. ‘Me – and the vadelect from Bangalore. I trust he’s still in India and not secreted about the house.’

Lyle’s laughter rumbled up from deep in his chest. ‘Robert, if he were, I’d definitely share him with you.’

Emma woke obscenely early, just as she had every morning she’d ever spent in Field House. The moment the scullery maid opened her door to lay the fire she snapped out of her repose. She kept as still as she could, faking the even breaths of sleep as she listened to the sounds of intrusion. Sometimes, if she were lucky, she’d slip back into the arms of slumber, but more often she lay awake staring up at the patterns on the bed canopy.

It took a moment to realise that Lyle was not lying safe beside her. At home, he never strayed into her bedchamber, but in her father’s house there were appearances to maintain, as well as a shortage of rooms. She’d learned to tolerate Lyle’s presence in the bed. A line of pillows down the centre of the mattress formed a clear dividing line. She couldn’t have him touch her, no matter how much she cared for him, not even in sleep.

Emma sat up. ‘Where is Mr Langley?’ she asked the dishevelled maid, who in her shock rubbed soot down the front of her homespun.

‘I’m sorry, milady. I don’t know.’

‘I’m right here, of course.’ Lyle sauntered into the room, still in his dress coat of the night before, carrying his waistcoat. At some point in the intervening hours he’d lost his cravat. The collar of his shirt hung open, revealing slivers of the fair skin beneath. He bore the glazed look of someone who has been awake too long, drunk too much or been kissed too hard. In Lyle’s case, she suspected all three. Something the marks around his neck seemed to confirm.

Emma lowered her gaze. Her lips pressed tight together. She hardly needed to ask where he’d been or even who with. It made her stomach churn imagining Lord Darleston kissing Lyle so hard that he’d left such marks. ‘Leave us,’ she barked at the scullery maid, who gathered her things and fled.

‘Do we have something to talk about?’ Lyle wandered over to the sideboard and began removing his cufflinks and collar studs.

‘Where have you been? Have you slept?’

‘You know where I’ve been. Do we need to discuss it? And yes, thank you for asking, I have slept. Although I still require a good bit more.’ His coat and waistcoat followed the cufflinks, forming a jumbled heap upon the floor. Emma watched enraptured as he stepped out of his evening breeches and folded them over a chair back. Lyle was all straight lines. His body fascinated her in much the same way that she sometimes became entranced by a picture. She appreciated the aesthetic quality, but there was really no need to touch.

He strode over to the bed, crushed shirt-tails dangling around his thighs and the neck open to his breastbone, so that the pale-gold hairs upon his chest were clearly visible. Up close the bruises on his neck were a vivid mix of crimson and purple. She half expected to see teeth-marks too. Lyle made no attempt to hide them.

‘I know the rules. I promise you, we were discreet.’ He destroyed the wall of pillows, casting all save one cushion onto the floor. The last he plumped instead and settled against.

She couldn’t stay with him like this, with nothing between them but air and cold sheet.

‘Who was it?’ she asked quietly. There were things she instinctively knew about Lyle that only marriage exposed. She knew when he’d taken a lover and she knew when he’d drunk too much, without the need for questions or empirical evidence. Tonight she wanted actual confirmation, even though she knew it would smart to hear it. ‘Who?’

Please say it was the footman or Aiken or anyone else
. She clung tight to the slender thread of hope.

‘I thought we had an agreement that there was no problem with my choices. Why is it so important to know? What do you hope to learn? I wasn’t implying anything by removing the pillows. I just find it ridiculous that we have to sleep as though there are three of us in the bed.’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

Lyle looked at her, his lips slightly parted as if about to speak. Instead, he smoothed a hand over the bedclothes so that he banished the wrinkles in the eiderdown. He frowned. ‘Why are we squabbling?

They weren’t normally enemies over his infidelities – heavens, rather that than him seeking satisfaction from her – so she supposed it must seem odd to him that she was making an issue of it now.

‘Was it … was it Darleston? You know one another of old, don’t you? I just thought … I guessed after your greeting –’

Oh, why did it have to be him? The only man she’d ever felt even the faintest connection with. Though hell knows why she felt it. They had nothing in common.

Lyle’s eyes narrowed with suspicion
.

‘Yes, Darleston and I know one another. Why is it important?’ The bed groaned as he made a half-hearted attempt to tug the sheet over his shoulders. ‘Why the sudden interest in my doings? You’ve never taken any interest in my lovers before.’

‘No reason.’ She couldn’t confess. What was there, really, to confess to? She wasn’t about to act upon the curious tingle she felt inside when gazing at Lord Darleston. ‘I just thought it prudent to know. I wouldn’t want to intrude upon anything.’

Lyle rolled over and gave her a hard stare. His nostrils flared slightly, causing Emma’s heart to thud. What if he suspected her affection? He might treat her differently if he saw she had intentions on another man. He might not be quite so amenable. God forbid, he might actually demand his conjugal rights.

‘Isn’t he a little notorious? I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.’

‘I won’t. Not as long as you’re with me.’ He reached out a hand to her, as if he meant to cup her cheek.

Emma hopped out of bed. ‘You know that I’ll not make a fuss. Whatever it is that pleases you is quite fine by me as long as you respect my wishes as we discussed.’ She glared accusingly at his hand, so that he hid it beneath the sheet.

Lyle’s lips formed a tight moue. ‘I always do, don’t I? I’ve never demanded …’

She nodded. ‘And I appreciate it. Our needs complement one another. I’m eternally grateful for that.’

‘Don’t you ever long for even a little affection?’ Lyle enquired

Emma’s nod transformed into a vigorous shake. ‘No – leastways, not as you mean it.’

‘But do you have any idea what it’s like?’ He sat up against the pillows with his hands steepled before him. A wistful smile turned up the corners of his mouth.

‘No – no, I don’t. And I really don’t need to.’ She shook her head while backing away from him. She really, really didn’t need to, because despite still being
virgo intacta
she could well imagine, having witnessed Lyle’s exploits before. That’s how she’d known she’d find him a suitable husband. She wasn’t sure who the man had been; a migrant labourer, perhaps, or a visiting groom. The sort of man she’d never really expected Lyle to associate with. They’d been bent over a mounting block in the stables and she remembered how the cheeks of the man’s bottom had flexed and dimpled as he’d driven his prick deep into Lyle’s rear. Even now the image still had the power to quake her to her very core. Watching him had been lewder by far than stumbling upon a man and maid. Men were not meant to love one another. She knew what she’d witnessed had been a criminal and ungodly act, yet the men’s pleasure had been unmistakable. Worse still, her memory had now metamorphosed, the groom replaced by Lord Darleston, standing in his magnificent baroque coat swiving her husband with depraved abandon.

Fever consumed Emma’s body. She pulled on a wrapper and disguised her shivers as cold, fleeing toward the fireplace for emphasis. Her fascination with Lord Darleston hadn’t diminished with sleep; if anything it had grown more acute, particularly as she now knew him to be interested in Lyle. Not that she would ever act upon her attraction. Besides, silly ninny that she was, Lord Darleston was clearly inclined like her husband and would have no interest in her.

‘Shall I have your breakfast sent up?’ she asked. As soon as the chill air in the bedchamber cooled her cheeks she’d dress.

‘That would be nice. It was Darleston,’ Lyle said with a sigh. ‘I had his cock in my mouth and he tasted absolutely divine.’

Emma snatched an ornament off the mantel. Her fist clenched the slender figurine, as for a moment she was convinced that Lyle had deliberately intended to vex her. She stared at her hand, trying to comprehend the violence of her response. She wasn’t normally given to rash actions, but then neither was she invested in any person enough to experience pangs of jealousy over their affections. Emma closed her eyes and breathed slowly until the tension drained from her body and she was able to uncurl her fingers. Thank heavens Darleston would only be part of their lives for a short while. She glanced at Lyle and realised that, in his wistfulness, he was merely thinking aloud. It was hardly the first time he’d shared inappropriate thoughts or descriptions with her. When they were home alone, it even amused her.

* * *

The more thought Emma gave to the prospect of living even a short while with Lord Darleston in the same house, the more terrified she became. What if Lyle recognised her desire? How would it change their relationship?

Her hands shook so hard during breakfast that she gave up trying to crack the shell of her soft-boiled egg and left it and the rest of her food untouched. A walk ought to have made things better, but the heavens opened as she stood upon the entrance steps. Thick grey clouds promised a heavy, lengthy downpour, which left her stuck in the library, flitting ghost-like between the shelves seeking escape, when there was no place to escape to.

Lyle’s words echoed between her earholes as if her skull were devoid of matter. She’d been aware of several of her husband’s previous lovers. She’d known their names, their families and backgrounds. Never once had she felt threatened by their existence. Nor had she counted them as anything other than blessings. While Lyle was taking his pleasures elsewhere he wasn’t making demands upon her.

Her gaze again strayed through the open door into the billiards room, where the men stood around the table conducting what sounded very much like a plan of war. Her father’s voice rose above the others.

‘As soon as this infernal rain stops I’ll take you down to see him. I want you gentlemen to get a feel for his character before the event.’

‘Aye, but what about the Welshman? Will there be a chance to assess him before the fight?’

‘Of course. Of course. We’ll see what we can do.’ Her father guided Mr Bathhouse towards the rear of the room, leaving her with an unobstructed view of Lord Darleston holding a billiards cue. Since he’d been nursing it for a good twenty minutes without taking a shot, it seemed he merely held it to provide comfort.

She oughtn’t to have been looking, but her gaze kept straying from the printed words upon the page of her book to the frontfall of his breeches. She saw it not as it was but open, Lyle upon his knees, his mouth wrapped around the thick firm rod that lay beneath. Lyle had touched what she wanted, when she’d never wanted anything before. Not like this. She’d never wanted to press her fingertips to the warm flesh of another living soul. Not since – she shook her head – not since … She needed no reminder.

Darleston would be warm, not cold, the vibrancy of his pulse a flicker of heat running just below the skin. He’d taste of brandy and sin, and of all the wicked things in the world that one ought not to do. He
was
sin. Her sin. One big package of impiety, from the ends of his fiery locks to the sculpted perfection of his coat-tails, and just standing there waiting to be unwrapped. If God could have sent her a gift, then Darleston was surely it.

Emma dropped the book and twisted her fingers in her hands. Pure awareness of his presence needled her so much she had to scratch. The rasp of her nails felt impossibly good, but didn’t dissipate any of her irrational need. Some strange part of her that she could barely comprehend longed to stride over to him and comment on the firmness of his bottom. Truthfully, she wanted to say arse, but to hear such a crudity from her would turn her father milk-pale. Not that making a remark about his bottom would be much better.

If she offered to walk with Darleston as Lyle had done, and then fell on her knees in turn, would Darleston allow her to take his prick in the same way?

Was it possible to touch someone and to make them understand that you required no recompense, no like for like? She couldn’t bear hands upon her skin. Not even his. Not for a moment. But perhaps she could tolerate the movement of her hands over his body. After all, she’d be in control of that.

Damn, she had to stop looking at him. She jerked her gaze away, only for it to return a second later. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that called to her. Something incomprehensible. Damn, she had to stop damning in her head. It was uncouth –
and damnation
– had Darleston even noticed her existence? Did he recall their conversation last night, or had their
tête à tête
been obliterated by memories of pleasure and her husband’s unfaithful mouth?

‘Emma – whatever’s the matter? You look as if you’ve been cooked.’ Amelia hurried over to her side.

Emma immediately stopped her scratching in order to ward off her sister’s approach. Amelia never could resist poking at her. The notion that her overzealous affection might be unwelcome seemed to pass her by. Not that she didn’t dearly love her sister, but, heavens, she did wish they wouldn’t fuss over her.

‘I’m quite fine. Just hives. Horsehair does always set me off.’ She scowled at the library furniture. ‘I’ve some lavender cream I can put on. It’ll soothe it.’

She left as quickly as she could without seeming to flee, painfully aware of Amelia’s gaze upon her back as she hurried towards the stairs. If her sister latched onto her irrational thoughts, it would be worse by far than Lyle finding out. Lyle understood discretion. Amelia understood nothing but her own need for entertainment.