by Emma Wildes
“He’s a brilliant cellist too. Did you know?”
Why would he think she knew anything at all about a rogue like his younger brother? “Of course
not,” she said too brusquely. “We are no more than passing acquaintances.”
“I just wondered,” Damien said in his quiet, amused way, “if Brianna might have mentioned it.
Robbie doesn’t advertise it, naturally, for music isn’t such a manly pastime, but he has a true
talent for it. Once again, I think it is the mathematician in him. He can easily glance at a piece of
music and understand the meter and measure without even having to think about it like the rest of
us might.”
Rebecca felt as if her heart had stopped beating. Robert was a musician? Briefly, she shut her
eyes. It was nothing, just a small flutter, but it happened against her will.
The lover of her dreams was a kindred soul. She pictured his long, graceful fingers holding a bow
—and then she envisioned them sliding over her skin.
So she could now add a new daydream to her repertoire. Wonderful. This would be her undoing.
“How clever of him.” The inadequate mumble was decidedly not clever, so she deflected the
conversation away from the possibility of any more disconcerting revelations about Robert
Northfield. “What about you, my lord? What are your talents?”
His face took on an enigmatic expression. “I do not know if it is a talent, but I can think like the
enemy. I am sure genteel young ladies do not need to concern themselves with such matters, but
it does aid our effort to thwart the French now and again.”
Long shadows had lengthened over the path and the crunch of their passage along the gravel
mingled with the twitter of the birds in the ornamental trees and beyond, in the huge elms in the
grassy park. Rebecca took in a breath and let it out gently. “I feel confident it is a talent England
needs. Make no mistake, some genteel young ladies also worry about the war, my lord.”
“Do they?” He glanced down and she thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes over
the firmness of her tone. “I take it you are one of them. Forgive me, then, for my underestimation
of your interest in our struggle against Bonaparte.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” She made a small face. “My mother finds my interest in politics
unladylike.” An understatement. Talking about the war was placed into the same category as
admitting one composed music.
“You are feminine in every way, my lady,” he said gallantly.
“Thank you.”
He motioned up ahead to where a small folly sat near a gleaming pond. In the late afternoon sun
it looked charming and peaceful. “Shall we go this way? It is a pleasant place to sit that does not
involve tea trolleys and the buzz of a dozen other conversations.”
“If you wish.” Rebecca inclined her head, not really sure if she did want to sit but helpless to
refuse without seeming rude. The shallow steps led to an exquisite jewel of a summerhouse, she
discovered, the interior holding small couches with plush pillows in brilliant colors, little tables
scattered everywhere, and even a drinks cabinet in one corner complete with crystal glasses and
assorted decanters lined up in an artistic fashion. Rebecca chose a chair that faced one of the open
vistas to the pond and settled into it, self-consciously smoothing her skirts. Damien Northfield
leaned a shoulder against one of the Grecian pillars and leveled a very disconcerting gaze her
direction.
Then, to her complete and utter surprise, he said, “Is this better? You looked rather miserable
earlier.”
There went her hope he hadn’t noticed.
She opened her mouth to deny it, but he forestalled her with another insightful comment.
“I am not trying to pry, I assure you. If you choose to not say a word, consider the subject
dropped.”
It was tempting to lie, to take him up on the offer, but at the moment she felt rather defeated.
Between her parents, Robert’s well-known aversion to eligible young ladies, and now the
flirtatious Mrs. Newman, she was definitely outmaneuvered. The lovely widow wasn’t something
she had anticipated. Maybe she did need Lady Rothburg’s book. On her own she didn’t have any
idea how to proceed. Or should she even try? Her father’s unconcealed dislike of Robert was a
real obstacle. Rebecca just shook her head. “I hoped no one would notice I wasn’t paying
attention to the conversation. Please excuse my distraction.”
“Being observant is second nature to me now, after a few years in Spain.” Damien tilted his head
just a fraction, as if studying her face. “Robert mentioned you earlier.”
Well, that was straight to the point.
So he’d caught her watching his brother. Maybe she could still bluff this through. She hoped the
enemies’ minds were the only ones he could read. Betraying warmth washed into her face for the
second time. Some vestige of pride made her feign confusion despite her blush. “Are you
referring to Lord Robert?”
“Indeed.” His response was dry. “The one who told me you were beautiful and charming. The
one you were covertly observing during the entire course of high tea while not consuming one
drop from your cup or a single morsel of food.”
Robert Northfield thought she was beautiful? And charming? She wasn’t sure which pleased her
more, but with males, she thought the former might hold the most weight. She could think of
absolutely nothing to say.
Damien went on in a conversational tone. “I suppose it really is none of my business, but I do get
the impression that the two of you are acquainted but want to give the appearance of not being
acquainted. I admit it piqued my interest.”
It was true that when Rebecca entered the drawing room, flanked by her father and mother,
Brianna had breezily introduced her brother-in-law and Rebecca had mumbled something utterly
unnecessary about how she thought they’d maybe met once before. If anyone had been paying
attention, it was hardly a convincing performance. Robert had certainly been amused. She could
see it in those azure eyes before he briefly bent over her hand.
“I don’t think acquainted is the right word. We were introduced last season briefly and then ran
into each other recently. That is the extent of it.”
“I would consent to believe you if you didn’t blush every time his name cropped up in the
conversation.”
There was refuge in outrage, even if he was infuriatingly correct. Her color was high at the
moment, she was sure. Rebecca straightened her spine. “You, sir, are very direct.”
“At times,” he conceded, faintly lifting his brows. “I’m devious also. Whatever the situation
demands. You might keep it in mind.”
“Whatever does that mean?” Rebecca gazed at him in utter confusion.
“It means my younger brother, whose reputation would make even a seasoned libertine blush, is
finally showing interest in a marriageable young lady who seems to return it. I wouldn’t be a
worthy sibling if I didn’t find it amusing. I would definitely not be a worthy brother if I didn’t
take delight in the idea of his possible downfall.”
Men were just the oddest creatures, she thought with a twinge of irritation. “Maybe I am more
obtuse than I thought, but I am afraid I am not f
ollowing you very well, Lord Damien.”
“What I mean is, you have an ally, Miss Marston, should you choose to engage your adversary.”
“My adversary?”
“Haven’t you heard,” he said with open amusement,
“that rakish young bachelors are quite resistant to the idea of matrimony? Robert, at a guess, will
prove more resistant than most. He has money, so he has no need of your dowry. He has infinite
freedom, and has shown a propensity to enjoy it. This will be a challenge.”
“There is no ‘this.’” Rebecca twined her hands tightly in her lap, giving up on denials since she
had so obviously betrayed herself. “Whether or not you are correct over your brother’s possible
interest, an insurmountable problem exists in my father’s dislike for Robert. I don’t know what
happened to cause it for he shows no aversion to the Duke or yourself. It is obviously personal.”
“Robert and your father?” Damien straightened, his dark brows drawing together. “And you have
no idea why?”
She helplessly shook her head. “Besides, Robert and Mrs. Newman . . .”
“That’s nothing,” he remarked as she trailed off. “And as for the other problem, I admit I find that
rather interesting. Let me see if I can gather more information. It’s the secret to any successful
campaign.”
Chapter Nine
What defines pleasure? A physical joy, a serene moment, an appreciation for something
beautiful? A sexual encounter can be all three if orchestrated correctly.
From the chapter titled: “After Is As Important As Before”
The evening had gone tolerably well, Brianna thought, pulling the pins from her hair and feeling
exhausted but hopeful for the rest of the gathering. There was that one unfortunate moment when
one of the footmen had dropped an entire tray of pickled fish on the expensive carpet. Oddly
enough, the recollection made her smile as she gazed in her mirror and deposited the pins in a
small crystal bowl.
The poor young man had been positively horrified to be so clumsy in front of his employer, but
Colton merely gestured to one of the other servants to help the young man mop it all up as best as
possible and resumed his conversation with Lord Emerson as if nothing had happened. It was
likely the rug would have to be discarded, but it had been obvious Colton merely felt such things
happen in the course of life, and he was willing to pay for a new one.
That was one of the things she loved so much about him. He took his responsibilities very
seriously, and that included his staff. Though she doubted he realized it, the household regarded
him with a mixture of awe and affection. He wasn’t one of those haughty aristocrats who acted
above everyone else, though he certainly could if he wished. He was unapproachable in some
ways, but that was just his reserved nature, not a conscious effort to hold himself apart. He
routinely thanked servants just as politely as he would his noble friends.
She flicked a glance at the clock on the mantel. It was late. The day had been filled with arriving
guests, the formal afternoon tea, and an elaborate dinner, before which Lord Knightly had
entertained the group with a rendering of several passages of Hamlet, all performed with
appropriate theatrical pomp. To her surprise, it had actually been entertaining, and everyone had
seemed to be enjoying themselves, even Colton.
Would he come to her?
He might be too tired. After all, he had risen early and spent hours in his study before the family
gathered for lunch, and . . .
The door clicked open.
In a dark blue silk dressing gown, her husband entered the room. The few candles she had
burning didn’t provide much illumination for such a big space, so Brianna saw his glance first
stray to the empty bed and then shift to where she sat in the semi-gloom. She turned and smiled,
hoping he wouldn’t notice the sudden shaking of the hairbrush in her hand.
His mere presence affected her that much. So much she trembled. “I was just speculating on
whether I might see you yet this evening, Your Grace.”
“See me?” His brows went up. “I suppose that is one way of putting it.” He walked over and
placed his hands on her shoulders. “I was rather hoping you’d wish to see me in your
bedchamber, madam.”
“Always,” Brianna responded, with feeling.
One of those rare smiles lit his face. “To be so welcomed is flattering.”
“I would never deny you.” She could feel her return smile was tremulous.
There was a small silence while he simply looked at her, his expression hard to read in the
flickering, dim light. Then he asked quietly, “Because you want me, or because you feel it is your
duty to allow me my conjugal rights?”
That he really considered the question was another step forward. Duty was one of Colton’s
favorite words, and it was no secret he felt his obligations keenly. Brianna stood and pressed one
of her hands to his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart through the silk material of his robe
under her palm. “Can you doubt I want you?” She arched a brow. “I believe I am the one who
upon occasion dresses in a provocative way to catch your attention.”
“I remember.” His reply was more a growl than regular speech. “Unfortunately, so does any other
male who saw you that evening at the opera. Mine was not the only attention you captured.”
“Are you jealous?”
“I don’t know. I find it rather hard to waste time trying to define my feelings when you are in
close proximity. Reasonable thought and my beautiful wife don’t seem to exist in the same
sphere.” Without warning, he swept her up off her feet. “Can we save the analytical discussion
for some other time? Right now I’d like to pursue a more physical type of communication.”
Brianna merely laughed as he stalked across the room and deposited her on the bed, his hands
moving swiftly to the tie on his dressing gown. He was magnificently aroused, she saw as he
shrugged the garment off, his erection high and swollen, the tip catching the light where a bead of
sexual discharge glistened.
With deliberate intent, holding his gaze, she reached up and pulled free the ribbon on the bodice
of her nightdress. Catching her lower lip with her teeth, she parted the material slowly to bare her
breasts. They felt tight and needy, and that singular warmth she recognized as desire was already
building between her legs. “I am very anxious to communicate,” she whispered, her lids feeling
heavy as she gazed up at her husband through the fringe of her lowered lashes.
“We are in accord then.” Colton moved in one fluid motion to settle on top of her. His mouth
brushed hers once and then he was teasing the hollow of her throat, making love to her neck,
nipping, then ravishing as she arched beneath the pleasant imprisonment of his much larger body,
her puckered nipples brushing his hard chest. His breath tickled the sensitive spot just below her
ear and she moaned.
Yes, the dynamics were changing, she thought hazily as he stripped off her nightdress and his
mouth followed the progress of his hands, feasting on her breasts, sucking her nipples deeply,
then skimming the tense muscles of her abdomen before brushing her pubic hair. He was going to
do that glorious thing with his mouth again, Brian
na realized, his hands insistent as he pushed
apart her thighs.
That scandalous, glorious thing.
Her hands bunched into fists in the bedclothes and she opened more than willingly, eager to
embrace the tumultuous sensations, the wicked, wild experience. Long fingers parted her sex,
making her feel vulnerable and yet excited. Somehow the sight of his head between her legs was
the most erotic and exhilarating thing she had ever seen.
And the pleasure. Oh God, the exquisite rapture as his tongue began to tease and stimulate her in
just the right spot . . .
It took a startlingly short amount of time before she gasped and began to tremble in unbridled
ecstasy, her climax so vivid and intense she clenched her fingers in his hair and shook
uncontrollably, needing somehow to push him away and pull him closer at the same time. To tell
him to stop—if she could speak, which wasn’t possible—and yet demand he continue the erotic
torture.
It was utter heaven. And when Colton moved back upward and thrust into her still quaking body,
it happened again. She wanted to protest the excess of sensation. It was too much, too soon, too
overwhelming. He began to move in long, hard strokes and she managed somehow to recover
enough to respond, though she clung to his strong shoulders like a drowning woman, which
perhaps was an apt description.
Drowning in passion.
Drowning in the wash of sensation.
Drowning in love.
Why was it that each time he made love to his beautiful wife, Colton was convinced it was more
tempestuous and pleasurable than the last?
This time was no exception.
His combustible release, in conjunction with her third climax, was so feral, so primitive, so
earthshaking he might have stopped breathing, his neck arching back so every tendon stood out in
relief, his body captive to the force of it. As her inner muscles gripped and held, his raging
orgasm consumed his body. Maybe even his soul.
By damn, he thought when the first trickle of consciousness returned to his brain, Brianna must
have some kind of mystical power. He was an experienced man. Women had been throwing
themselves at him since he was old enough to understand how male/female interaction worked,
