What a Lady Requires (22 page)

“What do you mean?”

“I was too besotted with drink to retain a clear memory, but what I do recall was Lydia’s attempts to lure me into her bed. Successfully, or so I thought. It turns out I was also too besotted to complete the deed. Thank God.” His lips stretched into a grimace. “I will admit that this does not reflect well on me in the least, but given what I perceived of Lydia’s actions and what I witnessed among the rest of society, I drew an erroneous conclusion that in matters of the heart, women were untrustworthy.”

“And you extended that to me.” That observation hurt when it shouldn’t. Not after she’d resolved not to place herself in a position where he could cause her any more pain.

“I did, but I know better now.” She could almost hear the plea behind his words—
understand, I beg you.
Oh, how she wanted to. “Lind was perfectly correct when he said I do not deserve you. In fact, I married a woman who is far better than me in every way possible.”

That statement caused a burst of warmth inside her, something like when he kissed her and desire took over, but it was seated higher in her chest.

“I know it for the truth, and I accept it.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms in a slow caress. “I turn that over to you along with my beating heart to do with what you will.”

She gasped. Good heavens, he was in complete earnest. Up to this point, her personal idea of marriage, knowing her husband was likely to wed her for her fortune, had never included such blatant sentiment. And she’d never been certain what to do with sentiment. She needed time to consider, and that called for a diversion. “Where is it now?”

“What? My heart? In your hands.”

“No, the journal. Where is it?”

His expression shuttered, and he shook his head. Clearly he’d expected her to melt at his near-declaration—and she might be thawing, just a touch, but she wasn’t ready to reveal that yet. “I gave it to Lind. He’s the one who really needs to read it if we’ve any chance at repairing the past.”

Another burst of warmth, of a different nature this time. “I am proud of you. Whatever other mistakes you’ve made, you’ve done right in this.” Blast it, he
was
melting her, and at an alarming rate. Before long, her emotions would demand free rein. “I am ready to negotiate now.”

He shook his head and muttered something under his breath she didn’t catch, then said, “Negotiate what?”

“The terms of our marriage.” She folded her hands in her lap to dissuade them from touching him. “You lay out your expectations, I lay out mine, and we see if we can come to an acceptable compromise for both parties. What is it you want out of this marriage?”

“What do
you
want?”

“Right now, I need you to answer honestly and not tell me what you think I want to hear.” Such as preposterous poetic lines about her holding his heart in her hands. That was all that had been—him telling her what she wanted to hear, even if she had enjoyed it.

“I told you the other night.” His voice lowered and he raised his hand to cup her jaw. “I want society to believe we’re a love match.”

“I do not give a fig for society. What do
you
want?”

“Hear me out.” He ran the pad of his thumb just beneath her lower lip. “For them to believe it,
we
have to believe it.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. “We have to live it.”

She resisted the urge to flow into a puddle at his feet. As it was, she barely had voice to reply to him. “Do you believe it?”

“Yes.”

“You…You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” He slipped his palms down her arms and took both her hands in his. “The last thing I would ever have expected was for my brother to choose such an ideal wife for me, but he did.”

“What are you doing?”

“Making you a proper declaration. As long as you insist on discussing our marriage in the most unsentimental manner possible, I will thwart your efforts until you agree my way is better.” He winked, dash it. “It’s certainly more fun. To that end…”

He raised her hands to his lips and kissed each of her knuckles. “You asked me what I want from our marriage. I want it to work. I don’t want us to be at each other’s throats every time at every turn. Unless it’s like this.”

Closing the gap further, he ran his mouth along her neck, taking tiny nibbles that strode the line between tickling and pleasure and stole her breath. “I want to tour the Sparkmore estates with you and kiss you in every last private corner.”

He traced his tongue along the angle of her jaw in a way that made her think of even more private corners on her body. At the reminder of the previous night’s encounter, she shivered.

“I want our children to be every bit as clever as their mother.” A kiss, this time to the edge of her lower lip. “I want to take you to France and Italy and taste the wine straight from your body.” Another, where he drew her upper lip into his mouth. “I want to watch you grow rich from investing in that blasted railroad of yours and talk you into spending your profits on utter frivolities.” A longer, more lingering kiss. “I want to grow old with you at my side and know, at the end, that we’ve experienced the best life we could—together.”

“I hardly know what to say.” Indeed, she could barely find the breath to voice that reply.

A devious grin spreading across his face, he pulled back. “For once, I’ve managed to quell all your arguments.”

His smile was somehow catching. Emma felt it tugging at the corners of her mouth, even though her throat was tight. “I believe this concludes negotiations.”

“Not quite. I’ve one more thing to say.” He brought his hands up to frame her face with his fingers. “I don’t know when or how it happened, but I fell in love with your cleverness, your spectacles, your rigid adherence to the rules, even with those blasted books of yours. All of which is to say I fell in love with you, Emma. Might I one day hope you’ll feel the same?”

She closed her eyes. Witnessing such raw emotion was like staring into the sun. “Yes, this, all of this, is the Rowan Battencliffe I said I could love. The man I already do love.”

“Do you realize that, beyond our wedding vows, this is the first time you’ve ever said my name? I want to hear it often. In fact, I intend to use whatever means I can to drive it from you. I shall make you scream if I must. And now that we’ve reached an agreement, I believe we need to seal this pact with a kiss.”

He leaned in, but the moment before his lips met hers, he paused. “I’ve just recalled. We’ve one last point to clarify. Hard or soft?”

Emma suppressed a tiny sigh of frustration. “Both.”

“Then allow me to comply, but…” He glanced around, as if he’d only just remembered they were still in her father’s cramped office, and that Papa and Aunt Augusta might turn up at any time. “…let us carry on back at home. Because once I start kissing you, I do not intend to stop.”

On that point, Emma agreed wholeheartedly. After all, they still had the business of begetting an heir before them.

T
WO MONTHS LATER

The Season was in full swing before Emma gave in to Aunt Augusta’s badgering that she host a dinner party. Emma made certain that the invitations went to guests of whom her aunt would most heartily not approve. Aunt Augusta was sure to be in fits for months—but then, Aunt Augusta herself hadn’t been included.

A movement caught Emma’s eye, and she paused in her instructions to Grundy regarding the serving of the wine. Her husband had made yet another journey to the window overlooking the street.

“There is no need for this show of nerves,” she said.

Rowan stopped short in the middle of the floor. “What gives you the idea I’m nervous?”

She allowed herself a moment to contemplate his form. His expertly tailored eveningwear set off his golden masculinity to perfection. “That swath you’re cutting in the Aubusson.”

He cast a glance behind him as though he expected to find a path forming beneath his feet. “Nonsense. I’m merely breaking in a new pair of shoes. I’ve no reason for nerves. Lindenhurst won’t show.”

She gathered her pale blue silk skirts and made her way over to lay a hand on his arm. “Cecelia answered the invitation. It would be beyond rude if they did not come.”

“That statement only proves how little you know Lind. He can be exceptionally rude when he wishes. He gets away with it, too. One of the advantages of his title.” His arm snaked out and pulled her into an embrace. He lowered his lips to her throat. “Have I told you how utterly delectable you look tonight?”

She permitted him a few liberties before ducking away. “It also wouldn’t do for me to greet my guests in a state of dishevelment.”

“Given that several of our expected guests have been married less than a year, I am positive they will understand. I will, however, bow to your sense of propriety and defer until later, when I remove that gown from your body.”

The utter promise in his gaze caused something warm and delightful to unfurl in the pit of her belly. If he sent her such heated glances the entire evening, she might just be the one tearing his clothes off later.

Grundy cleared his throat. “If you will excuse the interruption, some of your guests have arrived.”

Emma tore her attention away from Rowan. Henrietta Sanford preceded her husband into the parlor, Cecelia Lindenhurst following in their wake. Behind them, Lindenhurst himself loomed on the threshold.

Emma pasted a smile on her face and glided across the room to greet her guests. She clasped Henrietta’s gloved hands in hers, nodded to Sanford, but all the while her ears strained, listening for Rowan’s approach.

As if at an unvoiced order, they all stood to the side and let Lind pass. He made his ponderous way toward the decanter standing on the side table, the dull thump of his walking stick on the carpet loud in the silence. Rowan had preceded him to that spot. He already held a glass.

A curt nod, a long moment, and then Lind extended his hand.

Unsmiling, Rowan took it. “You came.”

“I did, and not because my wife badgered me into it.” At that Cecelia contemplated her folded hands. “It’s because I have something to say to you.”

Rowan reached for the decanter and poured a solid four fingers of brandy. “Have you read the journal?”

“I have, as much as I hated it. You did not take Lydia from me. I understand that now. Circumstances did that, and it’s nothing you or I can change.”

Without a word, Rowan set the glass in Lind’s grip.

Lind took a long swallow. “I felt like I was sitting at the whist table. You know, when you get a hand with no trumps, not even a low one. You can’t fault the dealer in that situation, not if everyone’s playing fairly. We were all sitting at the table, and got god-awful cards. You can’t do anything more than follow suit, pray the damage isn’t too bad, and hope for a better deal the next time.”

Rowan poured another glass, raising it toward Sanford in silent invitation. “I’d say we have better hands now.”

Sanford crossed the room to accept. “The best.”

Somehow Emma had ended up flanked by Henrietta and Cecelia, the three of them holding their breaths together. As one, they let out a great sigh.

Cecelia giggled. “And what of us? Do we get no libation?”

Emma nodded to the butler, and presently a footman entered bearing a tray of sherry.

“A toast,” Sanford said.

“To our wives,” Lind added, “without whom we regretfully would be less than what we are.”

Last of all, Rowan raised his glass. “To the future. And may it make up for the shortcomings of the past.”

A glow of contentment filled Emma to the brim. “I believe we can all drink to that.”

For Lizzie—for liking this one the best, and hey, after everything you’ve been through lately, you need a book just for you.

Dear readers,

The first acknowledgment belongs to you. Thank you so much for reading Rowan and Emma’s story. I hope you enjoyed it.

To find out what I have coming up next, please subscribe to my newsletter. A sign-up link, along with other social media links, is available on my website:
ashlynmacnamara.net
.

Want to help an author out? Reviews, both the positive and the negative, are one way a reader can get involved. Please consider taking a few minutes to post your thoughts on this book.

And now I hope you’ll bear with me while I send out a few thank-yous.

As always, to my wonderful agent, Sara Megibow, for being there and believing. To my amazing editor, Junessa Viloria, for the same.

To Caryl, Lizzie, Clemence, Carina, Matan, and Paula, thank you for putting up with my kvetching and for nagging me to keep going. And to Caryl, especially, for catching my typos and missing words.

To the Secret Curtsey Society and the Lalala Sisterhood for their moral support.

To my husband and daughters for putting up with the amount of time I spend living in my own little dreamworld.

Until next time!

What a Lady Craves

What a Lady Demands

What a Lady Requires

A Most Scandalous Proposal

A Most Devilish Rogue

PHOTO: NICOLE MORISCO

A
SHLYN
M
ACNAMARA
is the author of
What a Lady Requires, What a Lady Demands, What a Lady Craves, A Most Devilish Rogue,
and
A Most Scandalous Proposal.
She lives in the wilds of suburbia outside of Montreal with her husband and two teenage daughters. When not writing, she looks for other excuses to neglect the housework, among them knitting, reading, and wasting time on the Internet in the guise of doing research.

ashlynmacnamara.net

Facebook.com/AuthorAshlynMacnamara

@ashlyn_mac