What a Lady Requires (19 page)

With a sigh, she backed into him, bore down on every last thrust, letting him fill her to the hilt, reveling in that sweet spot deep inside that he hit with each stroke.

Soon. Soon she would splinter. Both of them would, together. But he was right about one thing. The longer they held off that final moment, the higher she climbed. The heights were dizzying now, and still she rose.

Up.

Up.

More.

Ever more.

When at last she shattered into millions of sparkling shards, the entire world broke along with her.

He couldn’t let her return to the ball in this state. Even with her skirts and bodice set to rights and her mask solidly in place, there was no hiding the color in Emma’s cheeks—a brilliant wash of pink, barely apparent in the darkened room, that extended down her neck and spread over her bosom. One look at her and anyone would guess she’d just been swived senseless.

He ought to call for the carriage and see her home.
Then you can start in again.

But he shouldn’t subject her to even more of the
ton
’s scrutiny and vicious tongues. God, what had come over him? What had he been thinking? For all his talk, someone
could
have discovered them. He never should have taken the chance.

This is all part of the charade.

Except he was no longer certain. Once he’d sheathed himself in her heated silk, his body had taken over, and he couldn’t stop. Over and above the demands of his cock, his mind craved honesty from Emma. This was the most honest a woman ever got, when she gave herself over to her pleasure, when she dropped all pretense and asked unabashedly for satisfaction.

And she had, purely, honestly, and with her entire being. He’d felt it in every last nuance of her response. In the decadent rippling of her internal muscles along his entire length just before pleasure exploded.

God.

Words jumbled into his throat, clamoring for release the way his body had, but he could not give them voice. He’d once thought to give himself wholly over to a woman, to disastrous results. Never again. He could hold this part of himself in check. He had to, as a simple question of self-preservation.

“You return to the ball first.” Passion and checked emotion roughened his words. “I will wait an appropriate interval.”

She nodded, smoothed her skirts, and left, her slippers thudding dully on the carpeting. Thank God she hadn’t raised a protest or insisted on any more. He needed time to recover, if he was honest. What he wouldn’t do for a drink, but that would require tracking down a footman.

He’d wanted to leave his mark on Emma. Imprint her indelibly with his person. Now that she was gone, he could free his thoughts, at least in his mind.
Mine. Mine and no other’s.

He wanted to plant the notion in her head, let it grow until it overshadowed the thought of another man. No matter what the rest of the
ton
did or thought, he’d tolerate no infidelity. Not even once she’d given him his heir.

This was Lydia’s fault. If not for the devastating guilt that entire situation inspired in him, he might have looked the other way when it came to Emma. He might have dallied himself, the same as the other gentlemen in his social circles. But no, he had to ensure his wife was just as faithful as he intended to be, and so he’d left his mark on her.

Except no one had warned him she might well leave her mark on him. The devil take it. He needed a measure of brandy to burn away these thoughts before they drove him mad.

He strode across the room and yanked the door open. In the corridor, he nearly collided with another guest.

“What ho, my good man.”

Rowan blinked at the fellow. In keeping with the party, a black pasteboard mask covered part of his face, but there was an unsettling familiarity about him, perhaps in the reddish tangle of curls atop his head. Impossible. Rowan had never seen this character at a society event. Of that much, he was certain.

“Pardon me.” Rowan made to push past him.

“But I’ve been waiting for you to emerge, ever since your lovely wife returned to the festivities.” Something about that voice twinged Rowan’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Clever of you, leaving at different times. Wouldn’t want to get caught. Especially with one’s wife.”

“Do I know you?”

The other man chuckled before producing a snuffbox from his topcoat. “I daresay you ought to, since you hired me to track down that Higgins fellow.”

“Dysart?”

“That’s Lord Dysart to you.”

Rowan could barely believe the transformation. His garments, his accent, his bearing—hell, the dainty way he took a pinch of snuff between his thumb and middle finger, pinky extended at a precise angle, and snorted the powder—fit in seamlessly with a
ton
ball, in direct contrast to his rough manner on Bow Street. “How did you get an invitation?”

“I don’t need an invitation.” Even though Dysart pronounced the words as smoothly as any Eton-educated gentleman, the cockiness shone through for a moment. “This is what makes me good at my job, old chap. I know how to blend in.”

“If you’ve gone to the trouble of tracking me down here, you must have news of Higgins.” Rowan could hope. So could Dysart, for that matter, if he wanted payment.

“Nothing on Higgins.” For a moment, the roughness crept back into his accent.

“Damn it.”

“He disappeared, all right, but he hasn’t left the country. He’s not at his estates, either. In fact, he’s nowhere to be found. I’d be willing to wager your friend Crawley knows where he is. Might even be holding Higgins against his will.”

Any lingering warmth left from his encounter with Emma seeped away. The chill in the corridor was suddenly as penetrating as in the wine cellar. “What? How—”

“I’ve been asking around. Piecing things together. Most of all, I’ve been keeping close watch on certain people. You want to know who made off with your blunt, ask your friend Crawley.”

“But…Higgins…” As it did whenever anyone presented him with a logical connection he had trouble making himself, his mind went blank.

“Forget him. And while you’re at it, you might want to ask Crawley what he’s doing with your wife.”

“Emma? She has nothing to do with this.” Not directly.

“I wouldn’t be so certain. They’ve been carrying on a correspondence for several weeks.”

Crawley and Emma. The betrayal hit him like a sledgehammer straight to the gut. Every last doubt that Emma had laid to rest with her sweet and passionate response just now came roaring back to life.

Yes, and hadn’t she declared her intentions outright? Behave to her standards, indeed. Only a fool would take that statement at face value. Well, paint one Rowan Battencliffe in motley and put a belled hat on his head.

He grabbed Dysart by the lapels. “Good God, man. Don’t just stand there. Crawley’s here.” Not only that, he’d spotted the bastard talking to Emma earlier. “Fetch the magistrate.”

Expression hardening, Dysart raised both palms outward and took a pointed step back. “Don’t manhandle the togs, or it’ll cost ye. The magistrate won’t do ye no good. Crawley’s left or I’d’ve trussed him up for ye. Might’ve added a bow if I could persuade a young lady to lend me a ribbon.”

“Damn it!” And if Rowan hadn’t been all fired up to have his wife, he might have experienced the pleasure of knocking the stuffing out of Crawley in front of the entire ballroom. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

Dysart flushed red and looked away, muttering under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said he gave me the slip. First time it’s happened in a dog’s age. It won’t happen again.”

Rowan clenched his hands into fists, longing for something more solid. Like Crawley’s neck. “Find the bastard. And don’t come back until you do have him trussed up with a bow. As for me, I have a wayward wife to deal with.”

He did not wait for Dysart’s reply. Pivoting on his heel, he headed back toward the ballroom. At least he hoped that was where he’d find Emma. He’d be damned if he was going to comb this house yet another time in search of her.

One thing was certain. When he found her, he wasn’t going to swive her again. Not even if she got on her knees and begged. He waved aside the mental images that particular thought conjured. Not now. Possibly not ever.

On the threshold, he paused to scan the space. Couples bowed and weaved, their feet pattering to the prescribed rhythm, but Emma was not among them. Of course not. His gaze drifted, rather, to the far corner.

There. He narrowed his eyes, and she came into sharp focus.

An entire ballroom a-whirl with dancers separated them, yet he was aware of every move she made. Every last nuance waltzed through his mind like one of the couples on the floor. Whom she smiled at. Whom she nodded to. Whom she addressed. Male or female made no difference. His attention centered entirely upon her. It shouldn’t be this way. The last thing he wanted was this obsession, but he was powerless against it.

Now she was smiling up at a man, and not just any man. Rowan well recognized the dark hair, the height, but most of all he recognized the walking stick. More than a fashionable prop, Viscount Lindenhurst needed support for basic movement due to the horrific injuries he’d sustained in the war.

Rowan ground his teeth together. The last thing he wanted was to face the man he’d betrayed, but he had no choice if he wanted to bring his wife to heel. He strode about the periphery of the room, caring little whom he jostled on the way. His entire being was focused on Emma.

“I hear you’ve lands in Cornwall.” Emma could barely believe she was conversing with Viscount Lindenhurst, but Cecelia had insisted on introducing them. He’d scarcely flinched upon learning her name.

“My wife might be the better person to tell you about them.” He referred to Cecelia with an easy affection that sparked an unsettling twinge deep in Emma’s belly. Could it be jealousy? Not of Cecelia, per se, but of what she’d achieved in her marriage with Lindenhurst. “She’s recently redecorated most of the rooms, so I barely recognize the place.”

“Honestly, I’d enjoy hearing what you have to say.” Emma smiled up at him, hoping she didn’t appear too much the coquette. The smallest hint about what it took to run an estate might be beneficial, and if she could cultivate this acquaintance, they might reach the stage where she could ask pointed questions. “What use do you make of your lands?”

With a laugh, Cecelia waved her fan. “Surely you can’t wish to hear about estate management.”

“Most ladies find the details so tedious,” Lindenhurst agreed.

“I can assure you I wouldn’t. I know quite a bit about drawing advantageous profit from wine imports. I can recommend any number of vineyards in France that produce consistent quality, but when it comes to eking one’s living out of the land itself, you’ve quite lost me. Unless you grow grapes, but I don’t imagine you do.”

“Grapes?” Lindenhurst’s lips flattened, but the expression did little to mar his looks. The man was every bit as handsome as her husband, if dark where Battencliffe was golden. “I know of no one who does.”

“The Romans attempted it when they conquered Britain,” Emma said, “but they soon learned our climate is too harsh to produce a proper wine grape.”

Cecelia laughed. “Sheep, on the other hand, are plentiful.”

Ah, here was an interesting lead. “And do you raise sheep?”

Before Lindenhurst had a chance to reply, a merciless set of fingers wrapped about Emma’s upper arm. “I hate to break up this little party, but I believe it’s high time we went home.”

Emma gasped, and a wave of heat crashed over her. Not the pleasant sort, either. No, this was outright embarrassment in the face of such rudeness. She glanced up at her husband and swallowed a second gasp. She’d never seen such an odd expression on his face. From across the room, no doubt, he appeared to be smiling. Closer to, however, she could see the tension in his jawline, his lips fixed in a grimace that was closer to an unvoiced embodiment of pain than anything.

“What are you doing?” she replied, rapid and low.

“I’ve just told you.” He spit the words, his jaw barely moving. “I’m ordering you home.”

“You’re causing a scene.”

Indeed, the latest set couldn’t have chosen a better moment on which to end. The ballroom about them became suddenly very quiet. Too quiet. The weight of hundreds of pairs of eyes bore her down. Somewhere among the crowd, Emma was sure, Emily Marshall was holding back a broad grin.

“Is everything all right?” Good Lord, Lindenhurst. Tension laced every syllable of his pronouncement. It sent a shiver up Emma’s spine, a shiver that boded no good at all for her husband. The pair were eyeing each other like two starving dogs, circling about a prime piece of meat.

“Yes,” Emma hastened to reply. It had better be. “I’d best go.”

“Only if you’re certain,” Lindenhurst persisted.

“I can deal with this. I hold the purse strings.” Hang it if that embarrassed Battencliffe in front of the entire assembly. He’d just done as much to her.

Lindenhurst cast another hard look in Battencliffe’s direction before relenting. Emma shook her arm in hopes her husband would take the hint, but he merely tightened his grip. When they turned, she found everything was as she’d feared. The entire room was darting glances in their direction. Here and there, ladies were already leaning their heads together behind the cover of their fans. Emily Marshall wore an open smirk.

“So much for your plan to make everyone believe we’re in love,” Emma couldn’t resist muttering. The comment met with obstinate silence as Battencliffe steered her toward the door.

Then: “I do not care. I’ve a serious matter to discuss with you, and trust me, you do not wish me to do so in front of the entire ballroom.”

Despite being the center of attention, she nearly halted in her tracks. “If this is because I dared talk to Viscount Lindenhurst—”

He tossed his mask aside. “We will talk about it in the carriage.”

And so she waited in stony silence—his and hers—while a footman fetched their wraps and their conveyance trundled up to the entrance. Once the steps were lowered, Battencliffe held out a hand to help her in. She nearly refused him, but there was no need to put on any more of a display. She plunked herself down in the farthest corner, arms crossed, fingers drumming. Nothing about the impending conversation was going to be pretty, but she wanted it over.

The carriage jolted forward. They would make slow enough progress through the streets of Mayfair, but progress nonetheless. In a few weeks, once the Season proper started, the main thoroughfares would be completely clogged with carriages making the rounds of parties.

“So you were fully aware of whom you were addressing,” he said at last from his spot beside her. He crossed one leg over the other, and she recognized the posture. He was trying just as hard to avoid touching her.

“I recognized the name, yes. And you know I’m acquainted with his wife—who introduced us, by the way.”

“What the devil did you think to gain by speaking to him?” He spoke quietly enough, but every last word dripped with tension

“I could hardly cut a viscount, could I?” Did she really have to spell it out for him? Her social position hardly allowed for her to disrespect those higher up the ladder. “If you must know, I was sounding him out about his properties.”

“Explain.” An order, as terse as any given in the military.

She tore off her mask. Ridiculous thing. There was no longer any need to play games. “We’ve been through this. It would be useful to interview a few estate holders, see how they extract the most profit from their properties. I was merely asking what use he makes of his lands. If he proved amenable, I might have laid the groundwork for discussing specifics.”

“Why him?” He leaned forward, insistent, threatening. “What makes you think he’d do anything to help me?”

“He was perfectly polite, knowing all along who I was.”

The corners of Battencliffe’s lips turned down. “You know quite well I don’t want you talking to him.”

“Why?” Despite his posturing, she couldn’t risk prodding. “Will he tell me something unsavory about you that I don’t already know?”

“Tell me about Crawley.” Another order, strained through gritted teeth.

Emma shook her head to clear it. She couldn’t have heard right. “What in heaven’s name? Why?”

“I want to know about your relationship.”

Her jaw dropped. He’d just made it sound like…“I have none.” Or nothing worth mentioning. “My cousin believes she holds a
tendre
for the man. Otherwise, we’re no more than passing acquaintances.”

“Is that so?” He angled himself on the seat until he was facing her as dead-on as he could. His knees crowded her. “You carry on a correspondence with men you deem passing acquaintances?”

It was far worse than that, but she could hardly admit as much. Especially when he was seething. She could feel the anger radiating from him, like waves of heat in the summer sun. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” That much, at least, was true.

“Do not lie to me.” He spat the words, low and fast. “Don’t ever lie to me. I have evidence of the entire sordid affair.”

Heavens, must he couch it in those terms? “Evidence? What could you possibly have?”

“You are aware of my pitiable financial state. I told you how I was taken in. I hired a Bow Street Runner to see if he could track down the man who made off with the investments. Only it wasn’t who I thought. It was Crawley. Dysart traced everything back to him. Not only that, he traced Crawley to you.”

He paused for breath, but there was nothing at all reassuring about that tiny silence. “Tell me, was that your plan? Were you out to line Crawley’s nest with not only my blunt but yours as well?”

“I have
not
been corresponding with Crawley.” Although if the rest of his accusations were accurate, it explained why Crawley had been so oddly persistent in pursuing private talks with her recently. “I do not know how to make it any clearer than that. Your Bow Street Runner was wrong on that score.”

Unless Crawley was using the name
Hendricks
as a cover. But what reason did he have to do that when they were acquainted somewhat? He could have approached her on any number of occasions. He already had.

Before Rowan could reply, the carriage shuddered to a halt in front of the townhouse. A softer jolt passed through the cab as the steps were let down. The door swung to the side, and Battencliffe propelled himself through the opening as if someone had lit a fire under his backside. Emma remained where she was, even when her husband held out a hand to help her alight.

“Come, now. We can continue this in private.”

Emma crossed her arms. She’d have no more of his orders. “I have need of the carriage yet tonight.”

He stuck his head back inside, glaring. “What are you doing? We’re not through with this discussion.”

“Oh, yes, we are. Do you really think so little of me?”

He climbed back inside. The carriage swayed under his weight as he thumped onto the seat. “I’d really prefer to have this talk without a ready audience.”

“So would I, but we don’t always get everything we want.”

“A fire would come in handy, not to mention a drink.” Every word carried a hardened edge. Even his expression solidified. He was perhaps attempting a carefully neutral approach, but inside, he wasn’t finished seething. Emma could sense as much.

“If you stick to the topic, we can have this over with. Do you know what the worst of it is? You’re not even angry with me. You’re angry with someone who is no longer here to bear the brunt. But it’s not fair of you to unleash your emotions on me. I’ve done nothing.”

“But Crawley—”

“Hendricks,” she corrected.

He gaped for a moment. “Who?”

“Hendricks is the name of my correspondent.” She strived for the cool, polite tone Miss Conklin had always associated with a proper set-down. “I’ve been advising him, all of it strictly business. You’re welcome to read the letters. They’re in the writing desk in my apartments.”

He loomed closer, pressing her back into the squabs. “So you admit— After I told you not to…”

She forced herself to return his stare. Now was not the time to let him intimidate her. “Read the letters and you will see there was nothing untoward.” Beyond the small matter of that last message, even if the threat was fairly nebulous. “Good heavens, I was innocent until our encounter in the wine cellar. How in heaven’s name do you imagine I was carrying on with all these men?”