What a Lady Requires (18 page)

“Anstruther,” Lady Epperley muttered. “He always was a pompous stick in the mud.”

Cecelia stifled a laugh.

“A handy thing for you that you got out of marrying that man,” Lady Epperley proclaimed. “Can you imagine? I would have been obliged to receive him as one of the family.” She gave a small cough. “At any rate, I can see what Lady Pettifer was saying when she told me about you.”

At the name, Emma stiffened. “Lady Pettifer told you about me?”

“She mentioned how quite astute you are.”

Heavens, that assessment didn’t at all match the reception Emma had received earlier. The floor seemed to shift under her feet, but the sensation was nothing like dancing with her husband. “How long ago did she say this?”

“It was rather a while ago.”

“And…She recommended me as someone to go to for advice?” None of this made any sense.

“Well, not exactly. She may have mentioned your abilities as something unbefitting a lady, but perhaps it was more common among your social class.”

“Ah, so she was gossiping about me, then.”

“I make it a habit never to pay any attention to idle gossip.”

At this proclamation both Henrietta and Cecelia let out astonished puffs of breath, but Lady Epperley waved a hand. “When you decide whether or not this railway is a worthy investment, I should like to know about it. Albemarle’s tastes have been running toward the extravagant lately.”

Corners of their mouths quivering, Cecelia and Henrietta both looked pointedly anywhere but at Lady Epperley. The dowager followed the direction of their gazes across the ballroom. “This gathering could use a little livening up,” she proclaimed. “I propose a game of I Spy. Ah, I spy with my little eye my great-grandnephew and I’m certain he’d like a dance with his wife.”

Henrietta’s cheeks went a shade pinker, and she placed a hand over her belly. “I’m sure that’s the last thing he wants. He’ll claim I’m in too delicate a condition.”

“Utter poppycock. One is never in too delicate a condition, no matter what men think. Come, Cecelia.” She curled her talons about her niece’s upper arm. “You can help me convince him.”

Emma watched them head off. Part of her wanted to trail after them if only to see what other outrageous pronouncements Lady Epperley would make. Not only that, she could use the distraction. The reminder of the entire Hendricks situation sent her mind into utter turmoil.

Budding friendship or no, though, she wasn’t completely certain she’d been invited to come along. Perhaps it was time she joined her husband again, at any rate. She scanned the blur of the crowd. If only she could locate him without her spectacles.

“The Epperley title was rather exalted once upon a time,” said an unfortunately familiar voice. “Families are such an unfortunate thing sometimes. A pity one cannot choose one’s relatives.”

Emma cut a glance to the left. Blast. There stood Emily Marshall with several of her cronies, giggling behind their fans in an overly loud manner that suggested the barb was meant to be overheard. Emma should not react. Miss Marshall could have made any number of more direct remarks, but for some reason, this one burrowed in deeper than a more personal comment. The little hypocrite. And hadn’t Aunt Augusta insinuated the Marshall family had known its share of scandal?

And connected with Henrietta Sanford, no less.

Emma turned to face her nemesis. “From what I hear, even you bear that burden.”

Through the slits of her mask, Miss Marshall’s eyes glittered dangerously. “I didn’t realize I was addressing you, but we can discuss your family if you like. Who are you connected with again? Oh, yes, they’re all in Cheapside.”

Emma had heard this before. Any reply she made would be futile.

“Or perhaps we should talk about your husband,” Miss Marshall went on. “The two of you looked quite happy dancing together earlier. I trust you’re getting your money’s worth there.”

One of Miss Marshall’s friends ducked her head and let out an awful titter of a laugh. The rest of them watched with identical expressions of smugness. They might well think their masks protected their identities, but her husband had been right on that score. Emma could work out who each of them were—they’d all paid awkward social calls on her recently.

“My money’s worth,” Emma repeated in spite of herself. She could work out well enough what Miss Marshall wished to insinuate.

“Why, yes. Your father paid good money to ensure one of the handsomest men in England graces your bed on a regular basis. My papa goes through a similar process with his horse-breeding. A stud fee, I believe he calls it.”

Heat crept up Emma’s cheeks, yet her feet were frozen to the spot. She almost felt as if she’d stepped outside herself, as though another young lady altogether was bearing the brunt of Miss Marshall’s attack.
She’s trying to upset me. As long as I do not give her what she wants, she’ll remain unsatisfied.

“A pity about his brains. But then, if he forgets your name from time to time, you can excuse that. I wonder, though, does he ever call you Lydia?”

“Why ever would he call me that?” At least, here, she stood on firmer ground. Miss Marshall had miscalculated when it came to dredging up old gossip, for now Emma knew the truth. If anything, Battencliffe’s confession had drawn them closer together.

Miss Marshall shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I suspect he can be as addlepated as that brother of his.”

“He isn’t,” Emma grated, “not any more than his brother.” She clenched her teeth on a more verbose defense. When it came to business, Battencliffe completely lost his head—that much was true. But he possessed more intelligence about social interaction than she ever would. And that was the kind of brain she needed at the moment.

“Or perhaps he gets foxed every night before he visits your bedchamber. That way he can pretend he’s married an actual lady. If he drinks enough, all the better to endure the stench of trade coming off you.”

Emma’s cheeks were burning under the strain of her forced smile, but she would not allow it to waver—not one single iota. “If you’ll excuse me, I do believe I’ve had all I can stomach of this conversation.”

Miss Conklin would be proud. Emma had managed her politest tone, managed to mask the emotion seething inside her. Before Miss Marshall could launch another salvo, Emma marched toward the entrance to the ballroom. She needed to find a quiet spot to work off her temper.

Rowan’s current dance partner was staring at him like a starving person eyeing a feast. In another moment, she’d be salivating. Good Lord, this set could not end soon enough. He loosened his hold and scanned the crowd for Emma. The way the ladies were buzzing about him like flies, it was high time for act two of their little production.

“I do hope your marriage means we’ll see you in society rather more often.” If her assessing glances weren’t sufficient, her husky tone painted a clear picture of her thoughts—she wanted to see more of him personally, and in a greater state of undress.

He ought to welcome the advance, for his partner could carry back to the others the tale of how he resisted her. How he was too caught up with his wife to consider a dalliance. But this whole aspect of the charade lay uneasily in his stomach, like bad wine. It cut too close to his past.

“That all depends on which invitations we receive, I suppose.” Blast it, where was Emma? Ah, there she was, still in the corner with the chaperones. At least she seemed to have surrounded herself with a few other females. They looked to be happily chattering away.

Soon. The moment this set was over, he’d join her. He might even suggest they make an early exit from the masquerade. They could bloody well finish what they’d started in the carriage.

Since before their arrival she’d ignited a fire in him, a slow-smoldering ache in his groin, but only Emma might ease the discomfort. Ease it through the pleasure of her tight little body closing about his cock.

Soon.

At last, the music came to an end. Rowan bowed to his partner, but already his mind had preceded him to Emma’s corner. Excusing himself to various and sundry, he made his way over, only to find four or five young ladies giggling over something or other.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I thought I saw my wife over here with you, just now.”

One of them, a pale blonde dressed to the height of fashion, turned. A smile played about her lips. “Oh, were you looking for Mrs. Battencliffe?”

“Yes, do you know where she took herself off to?”

“Not exactly, no. She said something about finding the library or some such.” The girl’s smile broadened. “Claimed she was meeting someone.”

Oh, she was angling for scandal, but he could snuff that idea out in a trice. “What makes you think it isn’t me?”

He didn’t give her a chance to reply but set off toward the library and his wayward wife, the blonde’s insinuations gnawing at him. Damn it. He should know better than to pay attention to someone like that, but he couldn’t help it. An insidious voice in the back of his mind kept whispering Lydia’s name.

After her marriage, he’d thought of her as a friend until that night she’d melted in his arms—melted both with tears and later her passionate response, one he hadn’t resisted sufficiently. His vague memories retained the recollection of that much.

And now Emma. Was she really no better than the rest of the
ton
’s ladies? Had she integrated society’s lessons that a married woman could do as she pleased, as long as she was discreet?

The devil take it, they’d been married less than a month. They ought to be swiving each other senseless, not looking elsewhere. And here he’d hoped a woman of the merchant class would operate under a different set of expectations.

He lengthened his stride. “We’ll just see about that.”

The small sitting room lay at the end of a long corridor linked with portraits of Posselthwaite forebears, far enough from the ballroom to mute the music. Darkness and the chill of an unlit hearth surrounded Emma. She’d paced a hundred times from the door to a single window overlooking the back garden, up and back, yet she still couldn’t walk off her upset.

Emily Marshall was a complete and utter cow. Emma had long known it, but tonight’s attack went beyond her usual meanness.

She wants you out.
Emma had realized as much after Miss Marshall’s call at the townhouse.

Yes, and that coup de grâce had failed, hadn’t it? By all appearances, Emma and Battencliffe’s marriage looked more solid than anyone might expect of a relationship based on money, and that in spite of Battencliffe’s past. So Miss Marshall had turned to another means of attack, this one far more personal and far more humiliating.

Emma should have armored herself against such viciousness long since, but Miss Marshall had never resorted to a full frontal assault before. She far preferred the stealth tactics of talking about those she deemed beneath her—seemingly behind their backs, yet directly so, and in the loudest possible stage whisper.

“You can’t let her rattle you,” Emma reminded herself for the hundredth time.

The moment Miss Marshall sensed a weakness in Emma’s composure, she’d concentrate her efforts there. And Emma feared she had shown a weakness when she disputed the remark about Battencliffe’s intelligence.

All the while, in the background, her mind whirled with worry over the entire Hendricks situation. The encounter with Lady Epperley had only muddied those waters. Was Lady Pettifer connected to a man named Hendricks or not? Had her butler lied to get rid of an inconvenient caller?

But no, that made little sense, when Hendricks’s last communication had carried a vague threat. If Lady Pettifer was directly involved, wouldn’t she have seen Emma? Would she not have demanded explanations? None of which indicated Hendricks’s actual identity by any means.

She whirled and crossed the floor again. Soon she’d need to go back to the ball and don a smile as false as her mask. Soon, but not yet.

She pivoted, prepared to march back.

The door burst open.

“Oh.” Her heart jumped a foot; the rest of her may have, as well. The content of Hendricks’s last letter to her floated through her mind:
You owe me.
She’d thrown the note in the fireplace, but she couldn’t erase it from her memory.

The light from the passage outlined no more than a silhouette—a rather imposing male form.

“Who is there?”

“Perhaps not the person you were expecting.” She recognized that growl, at least. Battencliffe. She would have let out her breath but for the strange tension that radiated from him. She could sense it from across the room.

He advanced, closing the door behind him. Even when she could no longer see him, she could feel him coming on.

“Do you have nothing to say for yourself?”

Somehow she found her voice. “I was expecting no one in particular.”

“Odd.” The sound came from somewhere behind her. He was circling her as though she were prey. “When a woman finds her way to an unused chamber like this, it’s usually for one reason. A tryst.”

She would have turned to face him if she knew where he was. “And yet here I am now with no intention of encountering anybody. I simply needed to escape for a few moments.”

“Why?”

“Someone upset me.”

“Who?”

“It does not matter.” She saw no need to repeat Miss Marshall’s spiteful comments, and she did not wish to provoke him by bringing up Hendricks. Not while he was in this strange mood.

“It
does
when it’s been longer than a few moments. I’ve searched many of the rooms on this story.” His voice maintained an edge.

Could he actually have believed her capable of arranging a tryst so soon after their wedding? Or, for that matter, ever? “Do you think so little of me that I could play you false?”

“What of your aunt’s warnings to survey your correspondence?”

She inhaled through her nose. As much as she’d like to take him to task on that score, she couldn’t with complete honesty. “Aunt Augusta is an interfering old biddy who is only content when I behave to her standards. I think we must both agree it’s best for you if I behave to
my
standards.”

He loomed closer. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“If you mean to profit from our marriage, you’re better off allowing me to conduct business as I see fit, which means you will have to trust that I am not carrying on in any manner that would break my marriage vows.”

“I do not wish you to forget who your husband is.” Out of the dark, a pair of hands grasped her by the shoulders and hauled her up against the solid wall of his chest. “Ever.”

Without warning his lips crashed onto hers, an insistent press that stole her breath. She should not melt, should not admit his questing tongue, and yet she stood helpless against the sudden onslaught. By the time he pulled away, she was gasping.

“I do not think I shall forget any time soon.”

“Good. However, I intend to repeat the exercise as often as required.” He touched his mouth to hers once more, softer but no less arousing. The blood seemed to zip through her veins. “And I require repetition.” Another kiss, longer, more languid. Far more seductive. “At school, I was deemed a slow learner.”

He took her mouth once more, gently, artfully, in a display of finesse that first kiss lacked.

“I believe you’ve learned that lesson quite well,” she said when he broke away.

He bent his head to the tender spot just beneath her ear. “Think of it as practice for making everyone believe we’re a love match, after all.”

And that statement spurred a new thought. “Someone might come upon us.”

“Indeed.” He pressed his lips to the base of her throat. “That is part of the excitement.” Another kiss punctuated with the hot swipe of his tongue. “Imagine the scandal, should someone come upon us. Then when the masks come off, they’d find me swiving my wife.”

“Swiving?” Such crude language ought to have insulted her. Somehow it only sensitized her to what he was doing with his mouth.

“Mmmm.” The vibration buzzed against her skin. “Say that again.”

“Swiving.” The word emerged on a breath of air.

“Yes, that. And what else might I coax from those lips before the night is through?” His fingers strayed to the edge of her bodice, making teasing forays beneath the fabric.

Her nipples tightened to aching buds yearning toward his touch.

“I’m tempted to strip you down to your bare skin, so whoever comes upon us might see me enjoying your perfection.”

“Perfection?” She could barely credit it, but his fingers filled her mind with swirling clouds of possibility.

“Oh, yes. These.” He cupped her breasts, his palms forming about her like a second skin. “These are magnificent. And no one else has access to them. The pleasure of these are my exclusive domain. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” She hardly knew if she was agreeing with his assertion or asking for more.

Her spine arched in a silent plea, and he squeezed. His thumbs brushed over her taut nipples, back and forth in a maddening rhythm. She followed the direction of his gaze. He was watching himself touch her, his lips parted. His eyes met hers, and his expression hardened. The sheer intensity driving it turned her mouth dry.

“Whoever walks in on us is likely to be shocked,” she sighed. Emma ought to be shocked herself, at the way she was discussing the notion so casually. Most especially when her husband was undoing her bodice. Most especially when he released her breasts to the cool air in the sitting room.

“Someone such as your cousin?” His breath wafted across her throat in a hot puff. “No doubt she cannot imagine a man doing such things to her.”

“Such things?”

“Things such as this.” He dipped his head and took a straining nipple between his teeth. His tongue circled the peak, and she melted further with each velvet sweep.

All too soon, he raised his head. “My problem is, I do not wish to share even the sight of you.” Gently, he applied pressure to her shoulders, turning her to face the door. “Keep careful watch.” His hands strayed to her skirts, gathering them, rucking yards of fine silk up toward her waist. “You’ll warn me if anyone comes in, won’t you?”

“Surely you will know.” Cool air caressed the bare skin of her thighs above her stockings.

“I’m afraid I shall be otherwise engaged.” The tips of his fingers traced a fleeting circle over a globe of her backside. “Lean forward. Brace your hands.”

She tried to turn—she needed to see his intent. “What are you planning?”

Firm pressure at the small of her back convinced her to obey. She gripped the back of a chair.

“Don’t worry. You’ll feel everything. Don’t forget to watch the door.”

With a toe, he nudged at her feet, coaxing her legs apart. Then his palm molded itself about her buttock, fingers splayed, reaching, tantalizingly close. His touch shifted, and his fingers delved forward, parting her. Testing. Sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her center.

A moan erupted from her throat.

“I forgot to mention.” Somehow his voice came from a point much lower than its usual wont. As if he’d knelt behind her. “You mustn’t make a sound—unless you want someone to catch us. Quietly, now.”

And then something swept across her most intimate flesh. Not his fingers. It was too hot, too moist. It slipped between her folds and flicked, much like his tongue against her nipples. Dear Lord, was he kissing her? There? Oh, God, he was, with long, smooth strokes, parting her, seeking that aching bud of flesh above her entrance. Circling, finding, making her melt.

Her knees wobbled, and she swallowed an urge to cry out. “I can’t…”

“You can.” Another smooth swipe of his tongue. “Or do you want them to see what only I have seen? You bent double over a chair, your skirts at your waist. All wet.” Stroke. “Disheveled. Wanting.” Stroke. “Desperate.” His very tone was low and urgent. “Yearning.”

“Ah…” It was the most she could get out.

With that, he went back to work.

Her fingers gripped the upholstery. Heavens, her knuckles must be white, and still he went on. Tireless, relentless, building her up and up. A trickle of perspiration eased down her temple, and she gritted her teeth.

“Are you still watching the door?” The heat of his breath fluttered against her inner thighs.

She opened her eyes. “Yes.”

“Good.” Another lick twisted her higher still.

“I can’t,” she tried again.

“You can,” he insisted, and eased a finger inside her. “Is it good, Emma? Tell me.”

“Yes.” It was, but that blasted finger wasn’t nearly enough. She raised herself on her toes and strained toward him.

“Do you want more?”

“Lord, yes.”

“How much?” That wicked finger slowed its stroke.

She pushed against it.

“You want a proper swiving, you need only tell me. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Then say it.”

“I want a proper swiving. I want it hard, and I want it now.” Part of her—the part that had endured so many lessons in proper deportment—could barely believe what was coming out of her mouth. Miss Conklin would surely have a fit of apoplexy to see her now. But then, a man—as near a title as she would ever get—was on his knees before her. Or rather, behind her.

“Your servant.”

She wasn’t fooled for an instant. He may refer to himself as her servant, but she wasn’t the one in control of this encounter. Not by a long shot.

He stood. She felt the movement more than she heard it. Then came a scrabbling that could only be desperate fingers tearing at the falls of his breeches. Then he was pushing at her, entering in one long stroke, slow and aching, until he filled her entirely.

Until he pushed the very air from her lungs. “Ah.”

His sigh of relief and desperation was just as forceful.

He wrapped an arm about her waist. “Careful, now. We must be quiet lest we be discovered. Remember to watch the door.”

She forced her eyes open, her entire body shaking with the effort. She wanted to close all her senses off to everything but him. To feel, to revel in the sensation of him filling her until this wild energy inside her burst free.

He eased out and pushed in once more. Slow. Too slow.

She thrust herself back against him.

His arm tightened about her waist. “Easy now,” he muttered into her nape. “I believe I hear someone in the corridor.”

She strained her ears, but no sound met them other than the pounding of her heart. Or was it his?

“Would you like them to come in and watch us? Do you want someone else to know the precise way your face contorts with pleasure when I make you come?”

Good Lord, she no longer cared. She could no longer think. She only wanted him to make it end, to give her the high-flying ecstasy he’d shown her in the wine cellar and afterward.

He moved in her again, and every last nerve in her body jangled. A whimper emerged from the back of her throat. His hand slipped downward, reaching for the knot of aching need at the top of her cleft.

“Yes, please.” He’d reduced her to begging, but she no longer cared.

“I believe I like you this way.” Another thrust, long and slow, while his fingers danced a counterpoint over her most sensitive spot.

“What way?”

“Mindless. Heedless of everything but your own pleasure. Wanting it so badly you can nearly taste it. You’re so very close. I wonder how much longer I can draw you out?”

She couldn’t respond to that beyond a strangled cry.

“But you don’t understand…No one’s shown you yet.” His movements quickened. “The slower the buildup, the higher the peak.”

His passion wavered on the edge of a knife. She sensed it in the way his hips jerked with more desperate purpose. As much as he sought to control this encounter, she still held the power to break him. To make him give over. The increasingly guttural rasp in his voice belied his control.