The Seduction of His Wife (23 page)

Instead of dwelling on what could not be changed between them, he continued, “Waverly was a good man, but that was a long time ago. I always felt as though I should have done something more.” Yet Waverly hadn’t been a man bent on self-destruction until the unexpected death of the woman he’d been courting.

“In suggesting such, you assume all men are created equal.” His wife was the welcome voice of reason. “We all have our faults, Richard. It’s a part of human nature. Perhaps those faults are more prevalent in some. It is my opinion that Waverly could no more conquer his vice than a drunk could mend his ways by entering a tavern when he’s sworn off spirits.”

“I don’t doubt your words.”

He sighed and leaned back against the sofa, a pillow tucked behind his back. He did not want to sit here and think of all he’d done wrong in his life. He hadn’t come in here to do that. He should be focused on his wife.

Turning to look at Emma, he asked, “Are you really as calm inside as you seem on the outside? Waverly hasn’t caused any lasting damage, has he?”

She stopped fidgeting with the ribbon on her sleeve and looked him in the eye. No subterfuge, no lie evident. “I’m stronger than I appear.”

Was she really? Had his abandonment made her stronger, or did she hide herself from the world behind an impenetrable shell so those around her never saw her pain? What a conundrum she was. An enigma he was determined to figure out.

“We leave for London in a few days, Emma. You, your sisters, me, and Dante.”

“Why?” Her brows were drawn tight.

“I don’t trust Waverly. I don’t trust him not to come back and try something more damaging next time.”

“You really think he’ll come back?”

“I know he will.”

Richard took a deep breath. What a thorn Waverly had become. Didn’t matter. They’d have guards stationed at the house once they arrived in Town; letters had already been sent ahead to hire the necessary hands. His wife would never be accosted in that manner again.

She didn’t disagree with him. Didn’t tell him no. He was happy for that. Happy that she trusted him in this matter.

“Come closer, Emma.”

Did she sense the shift in his mood? That the self-pity was gone from him? Without argument, she took his hand and scooted close enough that their thighs pressed together, even through the swaths of silk she wore. When she didn’t pull her hand away, he threaded his fingers through hers.

He stared at their joined hands, marveling at the contrast of her softness with his roughness. Her paleness to his sun-darkened skin. Her fingers were thin, delicate, and unadorned. He should remedy that. A small token for their newfound arrangement. For his newfound adoration of her.

Trailing his hand over the row of tiny, round pearls lined up her spine, he found it hard to resist the lure they represented. He wanted to push the buttons loose of the ribbon-edged hoops. He trailed his knuckle over them again.

Her hand squeezed his tightly in return. Did she feel sorry for him? Pity his sullen mood? He didn’t care. He just wanted her. Needed her, in fact.

“Tell me to stop.”

Instead of responding, Emma released her grip on his hand and turned her back so he could release the buttons. Not one to waste an opportunity freely given, he slid the buttons free and pushed the lightweight material from her shoulders.

He plucked at the crisscrossed lacing at her back as though it were a stringed instrument. “I’ve locked the door.” Did she understand what he implied? What he wanted of her? He was a selfish bastard to demand anything of her right now.

She nodded in understanding as she pulled off the shirt he’d unbuttoned. The white chemise dipped low in the back and front with a frilled-scallop design. He pressed his lips to the exposed part of her shoulder. He saw that her hands were wrapped about the locket dangling from her throat, just beneath her breasts.

More than anything, he wanted her to feel comfortable in his presence. He knew that she was anything but that right now. He didn’t want her fluttering out of the room like a canary escaping the claws of a cat.

“Sentimental value to that locket?” He asked because this wasn’t the first time he’d seen her wear it. Because he wanted to know what his wife held so near to her heart.

“Portraits of my sisters.”

He grinned. He should have guessed. The three of them seemed very close.

Her chemise was tucked neatly beneath her off-white corset; the edge of the busk was lined with a soft pink French lace.

He had her profile. The fan of her lashes lay against her cheek; her teeth were visible where she bit at her lower lip.

Setting his hands on her hips, he asked, “Do you mind me touching you?”

Lids fluttering open, her head turned and her dark green eyes stared down at him in half question, half arousal. She released the locket she grasped and whispered, “No.”

With his forehead pressed to her shoulder he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the gentle lavender scent of her underclothes. He didn’t want her to reject his advances, and that forced him to remain calm, to try to fight the blood rampaging through his body and rushing straight to his groin.

“You make me want you so fiercely, Emma. I’m liable to frighten you away before I can do any of the things I want.”

She reached around and placed her palm to his cheek. “I haven’t asked you to stop.”

“God, Emma. Had I known this attraction existed between us…” He couldn’t tell her that he doubted he would have stayed away. He wasn’t ready to tell her that. Wasn’t quite ready to admit that to himself yet.

He patted his lap in invitation. Not that he expected her to come so easily. “Come, darling. Have a seat on my knee so I can at least see you.”

She stood and turned so she could sit as he requested. Her nose wrinkled up and a furrow creased her brows. He raised her chin with his hand and took in her confused expression.

“Waverly suggested I sit on his lap. I much prefer that suggestion coming from you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He brushed a curl that had fallen forward from the corner of her eye. “What would you do if I kissed you?”

An innocent, hypothetical question he had no intention of waiting for because his mouth met hers in a gentle pecking of lips. She didn’t push away or ask him to stop.

“I like that,” she said, her voice hoarse. He liked that he was the cause of her breathlessness.

“I can’t help myself. You’re so soft. I want to touch you everywhere.”

He covered her breast with one hand, stroking the nipple back and forth until it pebbled beneath the chemise above the lace-frilled edge of the corset.

She stilled his hand with her own. God, he wanted to lift that breast free of the corset and suck the hardened tip into his mouth. Instead, he pulled the next closest thing with his teeth—her earlobe—flicking over it with his tongue.

“I want to do very wicked things to you, Emma.”

“I want you to do very wicked things to me.”

He released her ear and looked at her. She blushed a pretty shade of pink; the color spread over her chest, up her neck, and even turned the shells of her ears crimson.

Running his thumb over her cheek, he ran the back of his hand down her neck and caressed her bosom where it was pushed up.

“I’d like to thoroughly scandalize you.”

“Your intention is to make me blush, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes. You blush prettily. For instance”—he took the pearled tip of her breast between his middle and index fingers and gently rolled it—“when I do this, your ears turn pink.”

“How else should I react?”

“Exactly as you’re doing. All blushing and beautiful. But I don’t think you’re willing to explore this any further, are you?”

She stalled before answering. “This evening would be better suited for this.”

“Just the answer I wanted to hear.”

“I should find my sisters. They might wonder where I’ve disappeared to. Grace was worried to leave me alone.”

“I’m positive they know you’re with me. Perhaps we should retire early tonight. Have dinner brought to our rooms?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone will know why.”

“There you go blushing again. It doesn’t matter what they think. We are husband and wife. We are also lucky to find ourselves hopelessly attracted to each other.”

But it was more than that. So much more than lust. He’d explore that thought in further detail later. Much later.

“I won’t be presentable in anyone’s company if you keep talking in this lewd fashion.”

She pulled away from him, a frown creasing her pretty brow.

She retrieved her bodice from the floor. He stayed where he was, sprawled on the sofa, taking in the view. She was positively delicious with her rump in the air begging for his attention.

Unable to resist his wife when he was sporting an erection that wasn’t going to go away even with the help of his hand, he got to his feet and wrapped his arms around her. A groan escaped from deep in his throat. It amazed him how much he wanted her. He held her tight so she had nowhere to go. Nowhere to escape.

He pressed his face into her hair. It smelled flowery, but not so strong that it was sickening. Inhaling deeper of the light scent, he released her and set himself to the task of putting all the pearl buttons to rights.

“Won’t your sisters have found something else to occupy their time?”

He didn’t want to say his good-byes yet. What he wanted right now, more than anything, was to spend the afternoon with her. Alone.

“Abby tends to be cuddled up in the library after lunch. Grace might be anywhere. I usually find her in the gardens. She has a fondness for flowers.”

“And what is it you like to do in the afternoons?”

She seemed stunned that he would care enough to ask such a question. “This and that, I suppose.” She stalled on saying more. “It varies from day to day.”

His wife had a secret. He liked a little mystery. Trying to hide his amusement, he asked, “What does
this and that
usually entail?”

“Sometimes I’ll pick up a book or go for a walk. Sometimes I cut flowers for the house with Grace. Or I’ll paint, or visit some of the tenants, depending on the weather.”

So she was a painter. He’d not thought to ask her that even though he’d seen her drawing on a number of occasions.

“My wife has a hobby she’s trying to be secretive about.” He trailed the blunt tip of his forefinger around the high collar of her dress. She squirmed away at the ticklish touch. “I like what I’m uncovering in your character.”

“It’s nothing. Amateur, really.”

“Sounds intriguing, my ever-modest wife. Now that you’re all done up, why don’t we venture to your painting room?”

“There’s nothing much to see there.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Picking up his discarded vest, he headed to the door grasping his wife’s hand because he was sure she wouldn’t move from the parlor otherwise.

“You’re blushing again, wife.”

Chapter 16

I don’t know if you are alive or dead.

Making their way from the parlor, Emma headed to the central part of the house and turned up a narrow set of stairs that led to her painting room. The room had originally been designed as a playroom for children. Or at least that was what she assumed since it was situated next to the nursery. There were plenty of rooms to paint in, in the house, but none so airy and pretty as this uppermost chamber.

Richard still held her hand in his grasp. She liked the attention and closeness that was blooming between them. But it probably wouldn’t last beyond the day. She knew what her husband was doing. He was distracting her from Waverly. She should be thankful, but she didn’t need him to distract her. She was perfectly fine. In fact, she’d stopped crying the second her sister had wrapped her arms around her shoulders and ushered her away from Waverly.

Turning the handle on the door, she pushed it open and stood to the side to let Richard pass. Stained glass high on the west window toned the room in gold and rose hues from the sunlight. A row of windows flanked both the north and south walls, allowing natural light to filter in during the day.

He stared back at her with a raised eyebrow. “So here lies the hobby my wife so enjoys. Does everyone know about this but me?”

“I don’t share my paintings with many. It’s mostly a private affair.” Which was true of the paintings he would be privy to see.

Richard flipped through some animal portraits she’d painted. They were mediocre at best, and she told her husband so. “Not my best.”

“I think you have quite a talent. Do you like painting animals?”

“No.” She stepped farther into the room and shut the door behind her. “I prefer landscapes to animals. There are so many beautiful sights to behold at Mansfield Hall.” She’d show him those soon enough. At hand, there was a stack of flowers she’d painted; also much better than the animals she’d tried her hand at. “I’ve done some floral arrangements for variety.”

Pulling a sheet away from the tall stack of canvases leaning against a wooden table where she had scatterings of color pigments, she uncovered a vase full of peonies in various shades of white, pink, and burgundy.

“What do you prefer? Your landscapes or flowers?”

He stood behind her, placed his hands over hers to flip forward the canvas and revealed another arrangement; this one of cut sunflowers arranged in a small blue vase.

The feel of his exhalations brushing against her neck made her want to lean back into him. Made her want to bask in the latent strength of his form. Mold his naked torso with her hands until the image was forever stamped upon her memory. She’d like to paint her husband the same way she painted women. Gloriously naked. Without shame. Without reason to hide.

“You have a fine eye for detail,” he said over her shoulder. He stepped closer, the underside of his arm brushing the curve of her breast. “Show me your landscapes. Everything I uncover is more beautiful than the last.”

Her breath caught, with the compliment to both her and her art, but she managed to stay focused on sharing a small part of herself with Richard.

“Oh, my landscapes aren’t that wonderful.”