What a Lady Requires (13 page)

“How long would that take?”

“Years, no doubt.”

He set the spoon down. “I was hoping for something shorter term.”

She lowered her brows. If this dashed illness hadn’t left her so weak, she’d have pushed out of his lap altogether. “Why? Is there another passel of creditors you haven’t told me about?”

“No, nothing like that. I was thinking…Well, I was hoping…I thought a wedding trip to Italy might be just the thing.”

“A wedding trip?” She stumbled over her tongue just as he had. Good heavens, when was the last time a man like Rowan Battencliffe had difficulty expressing a wish simple as that to a woman? Unheard of in someone blessed with his charm and looks. Lord, but he must have ladies fawning over him right and left at balls. “I suppose we could consider it. They produce wine in Italy. I might be able to make some contacts for Papa.”

“Oh, no. You are not going to conduct business on your wedding trip of all things.”

“Not even if it includes sampling the local wines? You could participate in that.”

“I might allow it, then, but honestly.” Somehow he tightened his arms and drew her even closer. “A wedding trip is meant to be enjoyed.”

“I enjoy tasting new wines and making contacts.”

“Yes, yes, same as you do investing.” He ran his free hand down her cheek, trailing his fingers along her throat, a silent reminder he could find other things for her to enjoy. Hot, physical things, fraught with temptation and pleasure.

“About that.” She forced her brain to focus on the practical. “I really ought to tell you. I think you should set some of your own funds aside for this project. I’ve heard of plans to build a railway between Liverpool and Manchester. A project like that will require a lot of capital to get started, but if it’s a success, the payback will be enormous. You ought to consider it yourself.”

“
If
it’s a success.” A furrow formed between his brows. “Why on earth would I want to do that? I told you that’s how I got taken in the first place.”

“This is why you don’t invest everything you have in one scheme. And you look into the project thoroughly at first. See who’s involved and what sort of record they have at making sound decisions.”

“Just where did you hear about this project?”

“A few gentlemen were discussing it at the Pendleton ball. You were there.”

The crinkles at the corners of his eyes eased as his smile melted away. “Yes, I recall. Crawley was being rather persistent.”

She waved that thought aside. One would think he was jealous. “No, no. He has nothing to do with this. It was the older gentlemen talking about it—Highgate, Anstruther. Your brother was listening in, as well.”

His expression remained solid, immutable, retaining nothing of its usual easy charm. “And what was their learned opinion?”

“They were skeptical, but that is merely because they don’t see the potential. They don’t think we need a railway when we have canals in place, but they don’t realize that faster transport means a higher volume of goods, which in turn means more potential for profit.”

Oh, she was explaining this all wrong, but that was his fault. Something about his presence distracted her in the most delicious manner, to be sure, but in a way that completely muddled her thoughts. She’d have to work on her approach if she wished to convince him the project was viable. An investment in railroads—or anything else, for that matter—would oblige her to use his name.

She’d laid out her arguments for the scheme rather nicely in her last letter to Hendricks. At the thought, she stiffened. Oh, good Lord, Hendricks. Even though she’d told him she was ending their correspondence, he’d responded in such insistent terms the last time she’d gone silent on him. A letter might even have arrived while she was ailing, and she could only hope it lay lost in a growing pile of invitations. She could hardly ask Battencliffe about it.

He was already acting distant over the thought of her discussing business propositions with other men. If he discovered she’d continued her correspondence with Hendricks despite his orders to the contrary, the pleasantness of this interlude would come to an end, and rather quickly.

But then it already was. Despite their proximity, she could sense the barriers reconstructing themselves between them, walls that she hoped would disappear.
He’s hardly left your side.
Those were Mary’s words. He’d taken such close care of her over the past few days.

In consummating their marriage in however unconventional a fashion, something had changed between them, a connection as delicate as spun sugar—and just as easily destroyed.

Emma had put her hair up in one of those tight little knots again, Rowan noted as soon as he entered the study. Her maid had dressed her in a long-sleeved woolen gown that covered her from toes to chin, but no matter. The cut skimmed her curves, and he knew quite well what delights lay beneath. He’d touched and tasted; he was eager to do so again, the moment she recovered.

And it appeared she had. She stood with her back to him, but based on the movements of her arms and head, she was sifting through her accumulated correspondence. The thought flitted through his mind that she might be looking for a message from her forbidden business contact. No. He mentally beat that idea back. Whether it was true or not, he would not confront her about it. Not now and not on next to no evidence. Since the episode in the wine cellar, they’d declared a truce of sorts, and he quite liked dealing with his wife on more peaceful terms.

Why should he wish to meddle with that? He was powerless, however, against the wave of possessiveness that rose within him. She was
his,
damn it all—her tantalizing lips, her luscious breasts, every last enticing curve of her body.

But for now, he contented himself with hovering a few steps into the room and focusing on her coiffure. Once again that tempting radiation of pins must secure it. From this distance they were well hidden among the chestnut strands, but if he could steal up behind her…And he thought he could—she hadn’t yet reacted to his presence.

He took a careful step forward. Thick carpeting muffled his footfalls.

She discarded one envelope and took up the next.

Another step. She turned her head slightly, and he held his breath. Had she heard him? Did the back of her neck prickle with intuition? No. She picked up another letter.

Another step. Another. He was nearly on her.

Reaching out, he plucked a hairpin between his thumb and forefinger.

“What on earth?” Emma raised a hand to pat at her hair. With a cry, she spun on her heel and jumped back, her hip colliding with the desk, her fingertips at her breastbone. Envelopes cascaded onto the carpet. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

He grinned. “Conducting an experiment.”

“What sort of experiment?” Some of the color returned to her cheeks. “Seeing what it takes to make me jump out of my skin?”

“Not quite.” He shifted forward, balancing on the balls of his feet. If he was quick, he had a chance. His hand darted out. She ducked away, but not before he’d snagged another hairpin.

“Stop that.”

“How else am I to learn how many pins it takes to hold up your hair?” He lunged for another, but she evaded him this time.

She lowered her brows, but something about the gleam in her eye told him her severe expression was more a show than serious. “It takes precisely ten pins, if you must know.”

“I beg to differ.” Like a boxer in the ring, he feinted left, and when she dodged, he stepped in front of her. She put up a hand to fend him off, but he caught her wrist, and snatched another. “I’ve captured three now, and your hair is still holding firm.”

“It won’t for long if you keep this up.” She twisted her arm in his grasp, but he maintained his grip.

“I prefer it down.” He ran his thumb along the delicate skin at the base of her hand.

Her lips parted, a forcible reminder of her easy responsiveness that coursed straight to his groin. “If you keep this up, it’ll be down before you know it.”

He took advantage of her softening to pluck another pin. Several rich, brown curls descended to frame her face. “Splendid.”

“I thought you’d gone out,” she muttered half to herself.

If she’d meant that remark as a criticism, it struck home. In the days following their wedding, he’d certainly spent as much time as he could avoiding this house. “I haven’t gone out in nearly five days. Since you fell ill.”

She had to know it, too. He hadn’t dared leave lest her blasted aunt send for her physician again. Rowan would be damned if he’d allow any quack to weaken Emma further by bleeding her. And in the intervening days, he’d seemingly begun to make a tentative truce with his past, as well as his wife.

Or perhaps he was creating new memories to overshadow the old ones.

“I think the next time I go out, you ought to accompany me,” he added.

“You can’t possibly take me to your club.” Good Lord, she sounded interested in that prospect, impossible as it was.

No doubt she
would
accompany him if she were permitted. She’d wish to pick the other members’ brains about that railroad scheme—or whatever it was—she was so dashed keen on. She probably wanted to discuss the latest agricultural techniques, as well, and see what she might apply to the Sparkmore estate. Hell, if she could, she’d probably find someone to rattle on at length about banking.

Every last topic of conversation Rowan couldn’t care less about, and yet these things impassioned her.

Damn. He needed her, not just to set his finances in order, but to keep them that way. To ensure his life remained on an even keel, so that, in the end, he could have a life. All these sorts of details—the ones he had no patience for or means of understanding—were her exact spheres of interest. He had to admit, from a practical standpoint, his brother had chosen well, simply because
practical
was a term no one could ever accurately apply to Rowan Battencliffe.

“Not even I could get away with that,” he acknowledged.

“Well, you can’t mean to come on social calls with me.”

“If it would make them easier for you to stomach, I would.” As easily as he could imagine her in his club, discussing the important matters of the day, he reckoned that going from fashionable address to fashionable address and catching up on the latest gossip would be the last thing she enjoyed.

Her jaw dropped. “You would…Oh, give me those.” She grabbed the pins from his hand. With shaking fingers she began to secure her wayward curls. How unfortunate.

“Careful, they’re not all symmetrical.”

She pressed her lips into a moue, the gesture so uncharacteristically flirtatious, it couldn’t have been intentional. “Would you like to play lady’s maid?”

“Do you really wish to take that chance?” He let a grin spread across his cheeks. “I propose we bargain with them. I shall propose an activity we might undertake together. If you agree, you get to keep your pins. If not, you may hand one over for every entertainment you refuse.”

She looked up at him through her lashes, and it was quite clear she was imagining activities that took place in the bedroom. “All right.”

In fact, he’d get that one out of the way first. He fitted his hands to her narrow waist. “You will spend tonight in my bed.”

One fist still holding pins, she braced her hands on his chest. “I’ve been spending the nights in your bed.”

“You were still recovering. I believe that changes matters.”

“If you think that will convince me to give up a pin, you’re much mistaken.” She punctuated the statement by sliding a couple more anchors into her hair.

Just the reply he’d been hoping for. “Let’s see, I’ve never taken you riding in the park.”

“What if I do not ride?”

“We’ll take a carriage.”

She tucked the final pin back into her coiffure and patted it for good measure. “Very well.”

“I’ve never taken you to Gunther’s for an ice.”

“It’s hardly the season.”

He held out a hand. “Will you sacrifice a pin, then?”

Her eyes flashed at him. “I would agree to that once the weather warms up.”

“All right.” He placed his index finger on his chin and made a show of thinking. “Vauxhall—once it’s open.”

Her jaw firmed, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Yes,” she said between gritted teeth, “I’ll go to Vauxhall with you.”

“And the opera?”

“I’ll go to the theater if you wish.”

“You don’t sound very excited about it. Perhaps I should demand a pin.” He reached for the back of her head, but she ducked away.

“That was not the agreement.”

“So it wasn’t. All right…” He made another show of turning the possibilities over in his mind. “How about redecorating this house?”

“That is not an entertainment. Besides, it is completely unnecessary. This house is perfectly serviceable the way it is.”

“All but the wine cellar door.”

“I’ve already arranged for a carpenter to come in and look at it. As for the rest, it’s irresponsible.”

“How so?” He held out his hand. “And before you can change the subject on me, I’ll have your hairpins. All of them.”

“You said one pin per entertainment,” she protested. “Redecorating our lodgings isn’t even something I’d term diverting.”

“Most women would leap at the chance and derive a great deal of enjoyment from the opportunity.” He permitted himself a grin. “And perhaps I’ve decided to claim a pin for each room you refuse to do over. How many rooms are there in this house?”

She pursed her lips. “Entirely too many. I am supposed to teach you how to live within your means,” she said, reaching behind her head to pull out all ten pins. “It would set you a poor example if I turned around and spent money on such nonessentials.”

Luxurious skeins of hair fell about her shoulders and down her back in a silken tumble. He could picture all that hair spread across his pillow. In fact, he’d place it there himself. Tonight.

The tiny bits of wire clinked together as he stowed the pins in his breast pocket. He picked up a tress and wrapped it about his finger. “Have you ever in your life done something irresponsible?”

“Yes.” At that admission, her cheeks turned an intriguing red.

“Really? I do believe I want to hear all about this.” At the very least, he’d discover what such a serious woman considered irresponsible. No doubt it involved the acquisition of goods without sufficient bartering.

She plucked at the ends of her sleeves, as if she were suddenly afraid the sight of her bare wrists would drive him mad with lust. “Would you believe I once rode down a matron in a phaeton?”

Never in a thousand years, but a spate of laughter burst from his chest to cut off his protest. “Is it possible?” He set both hands on her shoulders. “Has my serious little wife actually made a joke?”

She ducked her head, and he caught her chin in his fingers to raise her eyes to his. Damn. In the space of a lighthearted question, the atmosphere in the study had become heavy and smothering as a blanket. “Don’t do this.”

She averted her gaze, her cheeks reddening further.

“Don’t hide your enjoyment. Not from me. Never forget, I know exactly how you look when passion overtakes you. You are beautiful in those moments. It’s like your laugh. Don’t be afraid to let it out. Let me see it. It is all beautiful.”

To his complete horror, her eyes filled with tears. “Please,” she whispered.

“What is this? Why do you have to hide?”

Dear Lord, he was serious. What was more, he was in no way mocking her. His question had rung with an underlying note of tenderness that made her throat tighten and ache. “You must have noticed I’m not like the other ladies,” she replied weakly.

“I may have noted a thing or two, but what does that matter?” He raised his thumbs to brush at the corners of her eyes, but that nearly made the sting there worse.

“My interests are not ladylike in the least. If I allow that to show, I do not fit in, and I already do not fit in to society due to my family.” There. She couldn’t put it any plainer than that, unless she wished to describe in detail the way the other young ladies treated her, and Emma preferred to avoid that painful topic—along with any admission that Battencliffe, as a member of that same social class, could decide to turn on her at any time. If not for his financial woes, he’d never have looked at her twice.

Once more, he laughed, and once more the sound lacked any hint of malice. “Do you think Sparks fits in? Do you think he cares?”

At least his mirth made it easier for her to take control of her tears. “No, but your brother is rather singular. You fit in easily.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Why, yes. I’ve seen you at it. You smile, you know what to say, you dance…You know exactly how to put on the proper display. And I suppose, in attempting to hide my personal interests, that is only part of the display I put on for society.”

His hands slipped back to her shoulders and squeezed. “You don’t have to put it on for me.” His response rumbled up from his chest, low and comforting. “I find I rather like seeing you enjoy yourself. You should let yourself do it more often.”

Don’t hide your true self.
That was what he was saying. Who but her father had ever let her be that? Yet, even Papa had expected her to hide her nature in the end to become a titled lady with all the expectations and pretty trappings that entailed.

Her husband was offering her a safe haven with him. She only needed to learn how to drop her guard around him. If ever she thought he could not want her, she was most thoroughly disabused of that notion now. Their encounter in the wine cellar had been only the purely physical part of his acceptance. Now, today, he was saying he accepted her—as she was, with all her particular interests and foibles.

He slipped her into an embrace, and she went easily. Quite possibly, she melted. Her body molded to the planes of his chest, and she reveled in his solidity, his presence. She inhaled a lungful of sandalwood and let the odor infuse her. It was like taking some of his essence into herself, less carnal than a physical encounter, but an attachment nonetheless. Yet another one.

His fingers sifted through her hair, the strokes soothing. “I quite like you this way, you know, all soft against me. You fit so well in my arms.”

Yes, she felt it, too. She didn’t fit into society, but she belonged here, tucked into an embrace as warm and smooth and comforting as the best wine. She rested her head on his shoulder and let her mind drift. Somehow her gaze alit on an envelope, one of the pile that had fallen to the floor, but this one had slid farther than the others.

The address stood out in harsh black ink against the creamy paper. She recognized the writing, her irresponsibility staring her in the face. Hendricks. She stiffened.