What a Lady Requires (12 page)

“No? Let me think.” He reached behind her for the wine bottle. “Maybe you should have some more. It may help.”

“There isn’t enough wine in the world to drown out such drivel.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Which reminds me of the time I went to the theater to see a performance on puns. You know.” He winked. “A play on words.”

Her jaw dropped, the line was so awful. At the same time, she expelled a gust of air that some unforgiving soul might mistake for the beginning of a laugh.

An unforgiving soul such as her husband. “Careful there, I nearly had you. Perhaps you don’t actually believe people who indulge in bad puns ought to be banished.”

“From society, perhaps. They’re a danger to themselves.”

“Some feel they should be drawn and quoted.”

She couldn’t help herself. Laughter bubbled up from somewhere inside, an entire gale of it. It emerged in a loud, full-throated bray, just the way Miss Conklin hated it. Emma clapped her hand to her mouth far too late to contain the noise. Cheeks heating, she pulled out of her husband’s embrace.

“There, was that so hard?” His voice was light and teasing. No doubt he would repeat to all his friends that he’d married a young lady with the world’s most embarrassing laugh.

“You see why I hide that?” She couldn’t even look him in the face, for fear of seeing mockery.

“Yes, I do, actually.” His tone was still light, but she didn’t at all expect what he did next. He pulled her back into his embrace. “I’m glad you did, because now I know something about you that no one else does.” He set his lips just beneath her ear, hot and sensuous.

“You have a laugh that sends me straight to the bedchamber. It makes me want to swive you until neither of us has breath or sense left.”

Good heavens. Heat filled her, beyond the nearness of his body. She wasn’t at all sure what swiving was, but he made it sound deliciously sinful.

Still, she deprecated. “It’s not decorous.”

“No, it isn’t. And that’s why it’s perfect. I want to hear it again and often.”

Yet more heat flooded her at that admission. Not just in her midsection, but in the region of her heart. He’d accepted a part of her she thought offensive to polite society. It was certainly offensive to Miss Conklin. Battencliffe not only accepted, but dear Lord, he approved. The acceptance alone was a gift she couldn’t set a price on.

She stared at him, unable to summon a more intelligent response than her dropped jaw. His gaze followed the movement to settle on her lips, and something changed in the atmosphere about them. It became charged with electricity, like a scientific parlor trick, only the spark leapt back and forth from Battencliffe to her and settled between her legs.

He leaned closer, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. “You’re cold.”

She might have disputed that observation, only her throat had gone dry.

“There’s a way we might keep warm, if we shared…”

Her heart jumped. “Shared what?”

“The heat of our bodies.” He made it sound so decadent. “Shall I show you?”

But he didn’t give her a chance to reply. His mouth crushed hers in a kiss as hard as any he’d given on their wedding night. Hard or soft, he’d asked, but Emma was beginning to understand the pleasure of hard and demanding. It awakened an answering urge within her, one that refused to be ignored.

Not tearing his mouth from hers, he clasped her hips and lifted. The next thing she knew, the unforgiving wood of the table supported her backside. Still he came on, stepping forward, his knees wedging between her thighs, spreading them wide. The hardened ridge of his arousal pressed at her very core.

Oh my, yes.

And what would he do if she wrapped her legs about him? If she locked her ankles at his waist? She couldn’t even say where the image emerged from, but she held it in her mind while his tongue explored her mouth and his arms wrapped her closer.

But not close enough. She wanted to melt into him.

He pulled his lips away to blaze a path of kisses along her cheek, her neck. His hands delved beneath the wool topcoat to tear at the fastenings of her bodice.

“The irony here is,” he murmured against her throat, “to become warmer, we must undress.”

His words fed the growing fire within her and called up the memory of a promise. “You said you’d touch me in scandalous places.”

“So I did, and I intend to keep my word. Just be warned, I also intend to make you scream.”

“Scream?” The notion should have terrified her, but something in the raspy timbre of his voice made the idea sound tempting. Delicious. Sinful.

“Oh, yes. You wind yourself up so tight I can hardly wait to watch you unravel.” With questing hands, he teased her breasts free of her stays and stepped back to look on her.

She still wore his topcoat, but the front of her bodice sagged, and her full breasts seemed to swell under the heat of his gaze. “Beautiful, but I knew you would be. Utter perfection.”

His index finger traced across the aching peak of her nipple, and she moaned.

“Oh, yes, you like that. You want more, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Lord, yes.

“And I promised scandalous. We’re nearly there, but I should like a taste of you first.”

Before she could react, he bent his mouth to her breast, drawing, drawing on the nipple. A bolt of pure lust spiked through her, insistent, assertive, overpowering. His tongue circled the peak, while the softness of his side-whiskers brushed the fullness of her breast, melting her bones. She threaded her fingers through his hair, and held on for dear life. His breath blew hot across her flesh in contrast to the chill air in the wine cellar.

“Ah.”

At her sigh, he paused. “There’s no one to hear you. You can make all the noise you want. Let yourself go.”

He awakened longings in her she never realized she possessed. Longings for his touch, to be certain, but she also craved his skin, both the sight and the smoothness of it. She’d already seen, yet she wished to experience. To taste. Although she couldn’t ask him to disrobe in this cold. So she tugged at his shirttails, jerking them free of his trousers. With a grunt, he helped her loose the voluminous linen. As soon as it was free, she put her hands on the hot flesh beneath. Muscles rippled beneath her fingers, jumping as she passed over them. The slight coarseness of springy hair added texture to the feeling of him.

She let her fingers wander over firm contours and planes, glorying in each groan she elicited. She found herself smiling. She hoped it was wicked. She certainly felt wicked, daring, all the things people like Miss Conklin had forbidden her to be.

He returned her grin. “What do you imagine you’re doing?”

“Touching you in scandalous places.”

“It’s a start, but not nearly scandalous enough.”

She let her hands slip down the flat of his belly. “Perhaps you’d like to show me.”

“You keep on as you are, and you’ll find it soon enough.”

She had found it earlier, pressed against her. The memory increased the aching hollowness between her legs. “Will I make you scream?”

“Do you want to?”

Her smile widened. Never in her life had she been inclined to flirt, but something about the situation—about
him
—aroused her neglected womanly wiles. “I suppose that all depends.”

“Why don’t we start working out what makes you scream and go from there?”

He surged forward, pressing between her thighs once again to capture her lips. Her bare breasts rubbed against the roughened texture of his waistcoat, a tease and an ache all at once. And how would his bare skin feel against hers? As delicious as this was, both of them bared to each other would be even more delectable.

Her hands found their way to the smooth muscles of his back, while his touch moved to her thighs, working her skirts up inch by inch. Cool air struck her calves, her knees, the bare skin above her garters, but everywhere that air touched, his fingers followed, tracing hot paths on eager flesh, higher, higher.

Oh, yes, this was scandalous and about to become more so. She could sense it, and her body quivered with anticipation.

He eased closer, spreading her. Grasping an ankle with one hand, he placed her foot on the edge of the table. Without thought, she brought up the other to match.

His attention riveted beneath her skirts, and his fingers brushed against her most intimate self, the gesture almost casual. She jumped as a spark rocketed through her. Her spine bowed; then her whole body sagged.
Again
, it proclaimed.
Again, just there.
And her entire being seemed to focus on one spot she’d barely known existed until now.

But he’d known. Known just where to touch, just where to tease. Another flick of those fingers, firmer, nearly deliberate.

Her thighs opened wider, while the rest of her wanted to slump and let him have his way. Whatever he wanted, as long as he kept touching, circling. Yes. Just like that.

His fingers delved lower, entering her, stretching, drawing moisture and heat from her body.

“My God, you’re ready, aren’t you?” Full of awe, his voice reverberated through her, in time with his fingers. “I could have you now if I chose.”

“Take me.” Was that breathy command really her? Begging?

“Not just yet. Soon, though. Soon.”

He established a merciless rhythm—up, around, in—that caused her body to tighten. She pushed back with her hips to meet every stroke.

Up, around, in.

Each pass drove her higher.

Up, around, in.

Each one smoother. Each one forcing a moan.

Up, around, in.

Each one firmer, faster.

The tempo increased. Her thighs tensed.

Up—and with the movement, he leaned in to lap at her breast.

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she broke, shattered, screamed.

For a moment or an hour or a year, she seemed to step outside herself, and all the while her body pulsed madly, somehow more alive than she ever thought possible.

She was nearly back to herself when she felt another probing below the waist, something blunt and far thicker than his finger. He pushed, and she stretched, yielding, allowing him entry. Heavens, it was finally happening.

She opened her eyes. His jaw was set and a bead of perspiration traced down his temple. The next moment, he subsided.

No, don’t stop. Do this. Finish.
She didn’t get a chance to voice the words.

“God forgive me,” he muttered, and then he thrust, hard.

Something inside her gave way in a bright, burning sensation. There it was—the pain her cousin had warned her about. But it wasn’t dreadful, not when so much pleasure had preceded it; not when it was already ebbing.

Breath hissing between his teeth, he hovered over her and brought up a palm to cup her cheek. “All right?” He spoke tightly, as if he was unable to say too much—even those two words shook.

Her mind filled in the full intent behind them:
I’m trying to be careful. Please don’t tell me I’ve failed.
“Yes.”

“Thank God.”

He pulled away only to surge forward once more. Slowly, smoothly. He let out a breath as he slid back home. “Now it’s like before. We find the rhythm and we dance.”

“I haven’t learned this one.”

“It’s simple enough if you follow my lead. It goes like this.” He withdrew nearly all the way and thrust. Hard.

“Oh.” The sensation of him inside her, filling her, pushing against her womb, jolted her midsection and soared through her limbs.

“And this.” With an aching slowness, he eased back, paused, and then…Another thrust, solid, firm, breath-stealing. Like the play of his fingers on her, the movement sent her up another notch.

“Again.” This time she tilted herself up to meet him.

He rotated his hips, pushing deep, deeper.

“Again.”

“We need to make this last.” He loomed over her, nearly close enough to kiss. “As long as we do this, we’re generating heat.”

Oh, the heat. If they kept this up long enough, they might well combust. Still, he pressed on, unhurried, easy, but every surge of his body into hers drove her closer to that place of overwhelming pleasure.

She wanted that experience again, wanted to explore it with him. She wrapped her legs about his waist, and he plunged even deeper. A low groan emerged from his chest.

She watched his face as he strained over her, how his jaw set in concentration, utterly focused. On her. The thought multiplied every last sensation from the bite of the wood at the back of her head to the muscles of his backside working beneath her ankles.

The cords stood out in his neck. A bead of sweat coursed down his cheek. She didn’t think she’d ever beheld a more awe-inspiring sight.

He pushed. In and in. The tempo increased.

“Yes.”

He responded to her every sigh with a harder thrust, a more insistent surge. He was reaching for that peak, as well. She could feel it in his every move. He’d closed his eyes. His brow furrowed. Still he moved, faster, faster.

“Yes.”

The pleasure was coming for her. Coming for them both. Nearly there. Nearly.

Then the rush was on her.

She arched beneath him and cried out as her body fluttered along his length. With a final surge, he shouted and joined her in oblivion.

Rowan was no longer sure how many hours he’d been locked down here with Emma. The time he’d spent wringing every last drop of pleasure from his wife might have lasted days. Months. Or it might have been the briefest instant.

Sweet God in heaven, who could have guessed such a tightly laced female could unleash such depths of passion? He’d never experienced the like. He wanted to live it again, as soon as he could, as soon as she was ready to take him on.

But now that he’d drifted back to himself, the packed earth floor was hard beneath his feet, and the humid air penetrated him with cold. He readjusted his falls and buttoned up Emma’s bodice, wrapping the lapels of his topcoat more securely about her.

He tucked her into his shoulder, brushing his lips to her hairline, but with every passing moment, the temperature seemed to drop another degree. Hang it all. He eased out of their embrace to take a seat beside her on the table and hauled her into his lap. Anything to maintain the warmth their coupling had generated.

Emma snuggled nearer, her body limp against him. He brushed a few stray tendrils back from her forehead—tresses their passion had dislodged. “Stay with me, Emma.”

She trembled against him, muttering incoherent words into his waistcoat, drowsy, barely responsive. To the devil with it. Before long she would become chilled through, and he could not possibly pull her closer. Not without becoming one with her a second time. Impossibly, his cock stirred. Perhaps the idea wasn’t so bad, after all—as long as she wasn’t in pain. Her body had closed about him, incredibly tight, but she’d enjoyed every moment of their coupling. Damn if he hadn’t made her scream.

He tightened his arms about her as snug as they would go and rested his head on top of hers. Nothing to do now but wait and pray one of the servants would return early.

Hours passed, or so it seemed—enough for the candle to gutter. Enough that he gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. Enough that a dull thump on the ceiling barely registered.

At the second, he raised his head. That was definitely the muffled thud of steps. Part of him hesitated to release his wife, but the rest of him knew if he didn’t act now, they’d spend the night down here. He couldn’t allow it. Not with the bone-deep way Emma had begun to shake in his grasp.

Carefully, he loosened his arms from about her pliant body and pulled away. With a soft moan of protest, Emma curled in on herself.

His knuckles throbbed dully from his previous efforts at escape. Nothing for it, though. He shouted, his voice hoarse and raspy, while pounding with the sides of his fists. Before too long, a rattle on the other side of the stout oak panel alerted him to their imminent rescue.

He crossed back to Emma and gathered her close. She burrowed into his warmth, her head settling on his shoulder and her arms twining about his waist. He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “The ordeal is nearly over.”

“Ordeal?” she muttered. “Is that how you think of your marital duty?”

He would have smiled at her vinegar, except for the weakness in her tone. Earlier, the afterglow of lovemaking might have softened her voice, but too many hours had passed for that to be the case.

The door burst open to reveal a gaping Grundy. “Sir! Good heavens! What on earth are you doing down here?”

“There’s no time for that now.” He pulled Emma closer. If he had to, he’d carry her upstairs himself. He didn’t stop to consider the source of his panic, but it was sudden and it was most definitely real. Too late, he recalled hearing once about the dangers of falling asleep in the cold. And he’d let her do just that. “Find a footman and order a hot bath. And have Cook bring up some scalding tea. Now. Emma’s taken a chill.”

“Forgive me, sir. The rest of the staff have not yet returned.”

Damn it. She needed warmth, blankets.
Him
. “Surely, you can see to it yourself. Hell, if I have to,
I’ll
haul the water. For now, just help me carry her out of here.”

She would never be warm again. Teeth chattering, she huddled beneath a mountain of blankets and shivered, while wishing for a hot fire, boiling tea, anything to take away the pervasive chill. Eventually, her mind drifted.

An indeterminate time later, a voice called her name, the sound vaguely familiar. Masculine, but not Papa. She ought to recognize it, but absolute knowledge dangled tantalizingly out of reach.

She drifted off again, only to come back to herself wrapped in a solid pair of arms. She burrowed her nose into the firm warmth of another being and breathed in sandalwood. The scent struck a chord in her mind, but before an association could form, she floated away again.

With a start, she awoke to a metallic clang, followed by a cry of surprise. Her head was strangely heavy, and her mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool. She blinked at the unfamiliar cream-colored blur of the ceiling overhead.

“Wh—” All that emerged was a groan.

“Oh, ma’am, I do beg your pardon.” A mobcapped maid hovered into view—one of a succession of girls her aunt Augusta insisted on calling Mary. Thankfully, for this girl, Mary
was
her given name.

Aunt Augusta. Something was off about that thought, but Emma could not recall what.

“Sir’ll have my hide,” Mary went on, “if he finds out I’ve woken you.”

“Sir?” Emma groped on the bedside table for her spectacles, before trying to sit. Her arms refused to cooperate with the effort at pushing herself upright.

“Mr. Battencliffe, ma’am. He’s hardly left your side the entire time you’ve been ill.”

“Ill.” Emma’s tongue was too thick in her mouth to permit more than monosyllables.

“Oh, ma’am, you’ve been out of your head with fever. Your aunt demanded we send for her physician, but Mr. Battencliffe tossed the man out when he wanted to bleed you.”

Good Lord. Emma shook her head, but no recollection of anything Mary was recounting solidified in her mind. Nothing but fog and a faint throbbing at her temple. “How long?”

“Four days.” Gracious. Emma probed her brain. She held a dim memory of Battencliffe carrying her out of the wine cellar. Of an attempt to immerse her in a hot bath. Of the notion she ought to protest those particular ministrations, only she was shivering too hard. After that, the recollections became even foggier. At various intervals, someone had forced tea, broth, hot spiced wine between her lips, but none of it counteracted the deep sensation of cold. The thought had her gathering blankets about her chin.

“If you don’t need anything, I’ll see to getting the fire going straightaway.”

Did she need anything? She hardly knew. “Where is Mr. Battencliffe?” This was his bedchamber, after all. A glance about revealed the masculine steely blue tones of the master’s bedroom, décor she recalled from her brief foray into this space the day after their wedding.

Mary shrugged. “Resting, I imagine.” Somewhere else in the house, clearly. Not in his own bedchamber. “I’ll fetch him. If you’re awake, he’ll want to know.”

Emma nearly asked why, but stopped herself just in time. Naturally he’d be concerned about the health of his financial advisor, no matter what else had transpired between them. A sudden, vivid image of him straining over her, his handsome features contorted in pleasure, flashed through her imagination. No, she was his wife now—his wife in truth.

At last, but would their physical joining do anything to alleviate the contentious nature of their dealings? She could only hope. If he wished to lock horns with her now, she was drained of all energy a way she’d never been in her life.

Mary knelt before the hearth and poked at the fire. A crackling told Emma the flames had been stirred to life, but she didn’t feel any warmer. Perhaps if she could get herself closer to the fireplace.

She waited until the maid had gone before making another attempt at sitting. The struggle left her gasping for breath. Blasted sickness. It had left her weak as a newborn. She stared at the brocade chair standing near the mantel, willing strength into her reluctant muscles. The several feet of floorboards separating the bed and her goal seemed an impossible distance.

Before she could make up her mind to attempt the journey, the thud of booted feet announced her husband’s arrival.

“Mary said you’d awakened.” A broad grin stretching his lips, he strode across the room with annoying ease, his long legs encased in well-worn buckskin breeches. Their cut formed them to his thighs. “How are you feeling?”

“If a merchant’s wagon ran me down in the street, I imagine I’d feel better than I do now.”

His smile melted into a more somber expression. “I’ve sent to the kitchens for some hot broth. It should be along presently.”

At the prospect of food, her stomach rumbled. “Do you think I might take it somewhere besides this bed?”

He plucked her hand from the coverlet casually, as though he didn’t notice what he was doing. “Are you up to standing?”

“I don’t know, but I fancy a spot closer to the fire. If you wouldn’t mind helping, that is.”

“I can do that.”

He pulled the counterpane from the bed. Reflexively, she clutched at the closure of her night rail.

“To wrap about you,” he explained. “And I’ve already seen you in less.”

That statement brought another flash of memory—her bodice unfastened, his lips at her breast, drawing on her nipple. Heat crept up her cheeks, and his grin returned, irritating and self-satisfied. He knew exactly what she was thinking, blast him. Not only that, he was enjoying her discomfiture.

She frowned and gathered the counterpane about her shoulders.

“Now wrap your arms about my neck.”

The next thing she knew was a sense of buoyancy that made the fog in her head swirl. An effect of her illness, naturally. It couldn’t be anything else. Certainly not the firm chest pressed to hers or the straining muscles of his arms as he carried her to the chair.

He sat and arranged her across his lap.

She looked into a pair of deep blue eyes. “I said I wanted to be closer to the fire, but—”

“You also asked to take your broth somewhere other than the bed. Are you in bed?”

“No, but—”

“No buts. If you want to be nearer the fire, you must be cold.” He leaned unimaginably close and rested his forehead against hers. “I think we’ve already proven how two bodies are warmer than one.”

She pulled back, no easy prospect when he held her so near. “You cannot mean…”

“Oh, not when you’ve been so recently ill, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a little closeness. What do you think?”

She hardly knew what to reply when so many of their dealings had ended with them at odds. But she also couldn’t deny the pleasure she derived from sitting in the circle of his arms with no other expectations. Not so much a physical pleasure—although the low hum of awareness of him as a man buzzed through her even now—as a pleasure of the heart, one that settled over her chest like a comfortable blanket. “I suppose this is nice.”

“Nice? Is that all? Perhaps I ought to liven things up. You know how I can be a punny sort of fellow.”

She immediately quashed the smile that threatened to break out over her face. “Please don’t.”

“No?” His grin bode nothing good. “Then you won’t hear about the man whose whole left side was cut off. But don’t fret. He’s all right now.”

“Someone ought to have corrected your tendency to such poor humor, for my sanity’s sake, at least.” Even as she protested, a traitorous giggle bubbled to the surface. She suppressed the impulse, but she couldn’t prevent the tug she felt at the corners of her mouth. “I am certain mirth cannot be good for my condition.”

“That is arrant nonsense.” Almost idly, his fingers traced a gentle caress along the length of her arm. “If anyone needs to laugh more often, it is you. But no matter. We can simply sit and consider some other pleasant topic.”

“Such as?”

He raised his hand to her neck, his touch light and soothing. “Before I forget, I can tell you I’ve discovered what’s become of your father’s missing wine. It’s not missing at all.”

“Oh?” She snuggled into his arms. The position really was rather pleasant, surrounded by his scent, his heat, his body. This must be what a cat felt like when being petted. She certainly wanted to close her eyes and purr. “What’s become of it?”

“I mentioned it to Grundy. It turns out your father sent someone for it the other day and it slipped everyone’s mind to alert you.”

Thank goodness it had been found. The last thing Emma needed was this worry on top of everything else. “I shall have a word with Grundy about it. He should not have been so remiss in his duty.”

The door opened and a pair of footmen wheeled in a cart. Battencliffe removed the silver dome in its center to reveal a steaming bowl of soup. He reached for the spoon.

“You are not going to feed me as if I were a child.”

“Would you rather I ate this myself? No matter that I’ve already eaten and it will do you no good that way.”

He held the spoon to her lips. As ridiculous as the situation was, she allowed him to tip rich beef broth into her mouth.

“And while you eat, you can tell me,” he said as she swallowed. “What are you planning on doing with your marriage portion?”

She nearly choked. “
My
marriage portion? You are the one who received the dowry.”

“I know that your father sweetened the deal for you, as well.” He dredged up another spoonful and offered it to her. “An incentive, I believe the term is. Am I right?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“So what are you planning on doing with your incentive?”

“I’ll invest it, once I get it. Why, I’ve just heard about a very interesting project.”

“Really?” He offered her another spoonful. “You wouldn’t take some and do something amusing?”

She swallowed before replying. “It’s no wonder you’re nearly bankrupt if this is how you think. Money is a tool. It is not something to be spent the moment you have a little.”

“Fun,” he muttered. “Oh, yes, indeed.”

She scowled at his obvious sarcasm. “I’ve already told you that dealing in figures is fun for me.” How easy her ledgers were. How predictable, in the main. Unlike people—they rarely did what you expected, and when they did, the result was generally disappointing, at least among society ladies. A man who moved easily through the
ton
the way Battencliffe did would never understand. “I suppose I could lay some funds aside once the investment pays off.”