A moment later, he was kneeling at her feet, unlacing her boots and easing them off. His fingers lingered on the back of one heel, not stroking, just warming. But intimate, as if he were trying to learn every bone and sinew of her. "Your slippers, my lady?" he said softly.
"Oh. Oh, yes." She fumbled into her reticule and eventually managed to extract the sorry bundle of evening slippers.
He laughed, low in his throat, but said nothing about the pitiful state of them. He smoothed them out and caressed them, one by one, onto her feet. She thought her toes tingled under his fingers.
He rose to his feet. "Emma?" There was a question in his voice; and a slight tremor, too. "Are you quite well? You look a little pale, all of a sudden."
She struggled to clear her throat and managed to say, "I am quite well, thank you, Will. But this room—"
He smiled then. He knew. "It brings back memories?"
She closed her eyes and nodded.
He put a hand on her upper arm. The lightest of touches, neither possessive nor controlling. That gentle caress shivered down to the soles of her slippered feet. "I hope they are good memories," he whispered, in a voice that was as rich and dark as molten chocolate. And twice as tempting.
She didn't dare to open her eyes. She nodded again.
He drew her, unresisting, into his arms. "Oh, my love," he said softly, into her hair. He did not kiss her. He simply held her close against his body. And that was far more arousing than any number of passionate kisses would have been. Her head was resting against his breast, breathing in the scents of smoke, and soap, and warm living man. She could feel the beat of his heart, as loud as a military drum, it seemed, but steady, not tripping, nor racing away. It was so loud, so mind-blowing, that she was barely conscious of what her own heart was doing in response. It ought to have been pounding with desire. Or misgivings, for she did not know whether to trust in the love he professed so strongly. But somehow, held so close against his body, so safe, so enfolded, she was shielded from all her earlier doubts. She discovered that her own heart was beating in a calm, steady, contented rhythm. Because she was home. In his arms, where she belonged.
The last hint of tension flowed out of her.
After a long time, he moved to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. The lightest of touches. Slow, soothing strokes. "Your skin is so soft. Beautiful. Too delicate to be real, especially against my rough sailor's hands."
She moaned softly in her throat.
He continued to stroke. The rhythm was intoxicating.
She managed to groan out his name. She wanted to ask him to kiss her, but the words would not come.
He rested his cheek on her hair. "Oh, my love, you cannot know how very much I need you. And want you." His words were barely audible. "The last time we made love in this room, I failed to satisfy you, I know. I will do better, if you will only give me a chance." She thought there was anguish in his voice.
Guilt lanced through her. She jerked her head back. She needed to see his face. "No, no. No, Will, you did not."
"But you ran from me. If I had given you what you needed— If I had satisfied you, you would have stayed, surely?"
She could see pain – and longing? – in his eyes. It hurt her, too. "No," she said firmly. "That was not the reason I left you."
"Why, then?"
Panic flooded her. He deserved an answer, but what could she possibly say? If she told him the truth, he would think her mad. Somehow words started to tumble out. "It was a mistake. I was— I was confused. But not because— When we made love, Will, it was wonderful. It was fulfilling. It was everything I've ever wanted. I left because— Because I was confused about what I was feeling. Not because I was dissatisfied. Believe me, I was not."
He looked unconvinced. "If you give me another chance, my love, I can show you how you can have the joy and the passion you deserve."
"I had it before, Will. With you." She smiled up into his eyes, willing him to believe. She fancied she might even be succeeding. Putting a hand to his cheek, she murmured softly, "But I would gladly have it again."
It was enough. He lifted her into his arms and carried her across to the great bed where he laid her down as though she had been made of the most delicate and precious porcelain. Then, for several seconds, he stood by the bed, gazing down at her. She thought there was wonder in his face. For her? She was not an object for awed admiration, like some rare sculpture on display. She was not marble. She was hot and alive. And she longed for this man.
She lifted a hand to beckon him down to her.
It broke the spell that had held him back. He dragged off his coat and let it drop. Then his waistcoat and cravat. His shoes thumped to the floor, too. But he seemed to hesitate.
She had the power here, it seemed. The greatest lover in London was waiting for a surer signal. From her.
It was the greatest gift he could have given her. And she knew now, for certain, that this love was right. For her, as well as for him. She reached out both arms to him. "Come, Will. Come to bed. I need you. Come to me now."
And then he was beside her and she was in his arms. First he removed her sapphires and laid them aside. "Beautiful," he murmured, "but hard. I want to uncover your softness, Emma."
Lace, and underthings, and finally stockings were peeled from her body, slowly and deliberately, with tiny kisses on her skin as each tie was undone. Emma had never imagined anything could be quite so sensuous. Her skin was glowing wherever his lips had touched. Even taking the pins from her hair was an arousing process, for he unwound each curl in turn, with the utmost relish, before laying them reverently on the pillow. He stroked the final curl across her bare breast with a deep sigh of satisfaction.
She groaned. She couldn't stop herself. She was floating in a sea of feeling, but she was floating alone. She needed more. She needed Will.
He was still wearing far too many clothes. She reached for his shirt.
He chuckled, low in his chest. She could sense the vibration under her hand. "Let me, love," he murmured. "It will be quicker that way, I promise." He tore off his shirt and tossed it on the floor. Breeches and stockings followed. In moments, he was as naked as she. And as beautiful as before.
Emma caught her breath at the sight of his hard, aroused body. There was a long white scar on the side of his chest that she had not noticed that first time. She touched a finger tip to it. When he did not recoil, she drew her finger slowly down its length. "You were wounded?"
"A long time ago. My first boarding. I was very young and not very skilled with a sword. I was lucky to survive."
She put her hand flat on the scar and closed her eyes. Lucky to survive. He might have died. And she would not have had this. "Kiss me, Will. Please."
He did. But it was not her mouth he kissed.
He started with the tender skin on the inside of her ankles. She shivered, but he persisted, kissing his way up the inside of one calf, and then the other. By the time he reached her inner thigh, her whole body was quivering with desire and her hands were fisted in the bedclothes. He must have felt her reaction, known what it meant, but he refused to be rushed. He kept on kissing his way up her body, inch by torturing inch, and muttering soft endearments in between. Emma thought she would die of longing if he did not take her soon. "Will," she pleaded. "Will, please."
"Soon," he whispered, kissing his way even closer to the core of her. Then, even more softly, "Now, Emma." He kissed her – there – and her world exploded.
She thought she cried out. A moment later he was with her, fully, sheathed in her quivering body and kissing her mouth with all the passion she could desire.
She came again as soon as he began to move within her. Her body seemed to be melting around him. As if she were being consumed by scorching flames. Her last coherent thought was to wonder why she was no longer afraid.
~ ~ ~
"This time, I shall not let you run from me, my love," he murmured, drawing her into a snug embrace and pulling t
he covers over them both.
She nestled even closer. Her whole body was glowing with a delicious languor. She didn't think she could run, even if she wanted to.
"You will not, will you?"
She took a long breath. Her breasts seemed to swell against his heated skin.
"Mmm." It was almost a groan. "That is delightful. And most inviting." He nibbled the lobe of her ear and she yelped. He laughed softly. "Not an invitation I intend to refuse. Though I plan to take my time over certain parts of your body that I have yet to explore." He nibbled again. Her earlobe seemed to be linked to the very core of her. She felt the pull, deep in her belly, and the warmth began to grow all over again. She wanted this man. So very much.
He stroked a single finger down her cheek. "You have not answered my question, Emma." He pulled her even more tightly against his body with his free hand.
He was going to insist on an answer. But she could not promise to stay. She belonged in another world, another time. Though, at this moment, here in his bed and in his arms, there was nowhere else she wanted to be. She swallowed hard and leant her forehead against his chest. She did not dare to look into his face, even though she was not about to lie to him.
"You know I cannot stay with you, Will. Lady Emma Groatster has a fragile reputation to protect and you are—" She broke off, unable to find words that would not be insulting.
"And I am a rake, a philanderer, a destroyer of reputations, am I not?" he muttered bitterly. "It is no longer true, not since I found you, my love, but it seems that no one will believe it." He took a deep breath. "Not even you."
That sounded very like despair. And it was heart-rending.
There was only one thing to say. She lifted her head and fixed her eyes on his. "I love you, Will. There. Now I have said it. I was confused before, when I ran away from you. It is no longer so, I promise. But if we are discovered to be lovers, my reputation will be in tatters. You will always be accepted wherever you may wish to go, for you are a man, but I…"
He stroked her hair. "I know, love. And it is unfair of me to torment you with my unreasonable demands. I promise you, most faithfully, that I will do everything in my power to protect your reputation."
"Thank you. I know you will. And I promise I will not run from you. Not again. But you must allow me to leave when I feel I must. Please, Will. Can you not agree to that?"
He made an unintelligible noise in his throat. It might have been agreement, but if it was, it was unwillingly given.
Emma had to try to explain. Part of it, at least. "Sometimes, being with you…" she began. "It overwhelms me." That was no more than the truth.
It seemed he was beginning to understand, for he said, gently, "As you do me, Emma. I will try my best to lessen your fears. And I promise I will not rail at you when you have to leave me." He drew her head down so that her mouth was only a breath away from his. "Provided," he added with a wicked grin, "that you do not try to do so tonight."
Chapter Seventeen
The striking of a clock woke her.
Three o'clock in the morning? Emma sat bolt upright in bed and discovered she was alone. What's more, someone had dressed her in a filmy nightgown that had wrapped itself around her legs as she slept.
She could tell she was no longer in Will's bed, but it was too dark to see anything clearly in this new room. The fire in the grate had burned low. There was just enough light to make out the dark shapes of the furniture. She slipped her feet from under the warm bedclothes and crept across the carpet. In spite of her caution, the floorboards shifted and creaked under her feet like live things. But it couldn't be helped. She needed light.
She touched a spill to the embers in the grate and lit two candles. That was better. She raised one to look around. Yes, it was a blue bedchamber, clearly the one that Will had promised as her private retreat. Her clothes had been laid neatly on the chest at the end of the bed. Her heavy cloak was draped across the back of a chair. Even her boots and slippers were there, waiting to be put on. But she couldn't possibly dress by herself. Not well enough to pass muster with Bailey.
She put her candle on the bedside table and slumped down onto the side of the bed. Her loose hair tickled the side of her chin and she brushed it aside impatiently.
That was another thing she could not do by herself.
But she must do something. Her household would be in uproar when the servants discovered she was missing. She had to get back, and soon, even if she arrived so dishevelled that the servants suspected she had been ravished.
She took her candle across to the dressing table and scrutinised herself in the mirror there. Ravished was exactly the right word. Willingly ravished. She looked like a woman who had been well and truly loved. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering.
Their love-making had been too special for words – slow and languorous, then urgent and demanding, but always completely fulfilling. And when she had fallen asleep, deliciously exhausted, he must have dressed her in this frivolous wisp of silk and carried her here. Had he laid out all her clothes as well? Quite probably, for who else was there to do it, when all the servants had been sent away? She remembered how delicately Will had removed her boots. He was capable of many surprising things.
Except, she remembered with a chuckle, lighting fires. But she supposed there was not much call for that particular skill aboard ship.
The woman in the mirror was smiling a secretive smile. Emma shook her head at her own reflection. "It's all very well," she whispered, "but how do I get out of this?"
There was one obvious way. If she were to put on the lace gown and then take it off again, she would be transported back to the modern day. But Will would assume she had run away. And she had promised him that she would not. She sighed out a long breath. It had been stupid to make that promise, but promises had to be kept.
She thought she heard a knock at the door. Surely not at three in the morning? She paused, listening for movement beyond her door. The knocking came again. Crossing to the bedchamber door, she said softly, "Who is there?"
"Will."
Who else would it be?
She opened the door to find him standing on the threshold. Fully dressed. And looking more ridiculously handsome than ever. His eyes widened at the sight of her in nothing but her filmy nightgown, even though he must have chosen it himself. Embarrassed by his frank appraisal, she instinctively crossed her arms across her breasts, but his gaze then drifted down to the junction of her thighs. She resisted the urge to try to conceal any more of her body. He had seen it all, and kissed almost every inch of it, so why should she feel shy now?
"Forgive me," he said. He had coloured a very little. And his gaze was now firmly fixed on her face. "I had thought you would be dressed. I heard you moving about."
"I had not thought I was so heavy-footed."
"Ah." He smiled. "You are not, my love. But the floor of this room creaks. I have been waiting downstairs, listening for the creaks, to know when you got out of bed."
"Oh. A nightingale floor." Emma spoke without thinking.
"A what?"
"A nightingale floor. It's what the Japanese call deliberately squeaky floors. They use them in ancient palaces, as protection against intruders."
"Do they?" he sounded astonished. "How very inventive. And where did you come by that fascinating titbit of information?"
"Um. Do you know, I can't remember? Someone must have told it to me. It is of no matter." She paused, realising how clever he had been. He deserved her wrath. She drew herself up and narrowed her eyes. "It was calculating of you, sir, to provide me with such a bedchamber so that you could spy on me."
He had the grace to look a little sheepish. "Well, given how often you have run from me in the past, you will perhaps admit I had cause."
"I promised I would not run from you again, Will."
"Indeed you did. So, if you would prefer, I will have a different chamber prepared for your next visit. One without nightingales."
Emma shook her head. "I'm not sure there can be a next visit. My household will become very suspicious if I keep creeping out whenever they are at prayers."
"Is that what you did?"
"Yes. And I doubt I will manage to do it again."
"Then we must find a better solution for your escaping problem."
"At this moment, I'd rather find a solution to my un-escaping problem."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I have to go home, Will. And in my present state—" she lifted some of her tangled hair and let it fall back onto her bare shoulder "—I'm not likely to manage that very successfully, am I?"
He grinned. "Just at the moment, you look like the most delicious invitation. That nightgown is even more enticing than I thought when I bought it."
Emma glanced sideways at her reflection in the mirror. That nightgown hid nothing. She could see the dark peaks of her breasts pushing against the sheer silk. She was becoming aroused, simply by being with him. And Will could see it, too.
She fought for control over her wayward body. Partly in desperation, she grabbed her heavy cloak from the chair and swung it round her shoulders. "I cannot think straight when you are looking at me like that, Will," she said.
"Well, you must admit that you made a lusciously tempting picture."
"I cannot afford to tempt you any more, Will. I must go home. It is already well after three in the morning. How shall I ever manage it?"
"I have been thinking about that, my love," he said, taking her in his arms and nestling her head against his shoulder. In spite of what he had just said, it was more of a comforting hug than a prelude to another adventure between the sheets. He stroked her hair back from her cheek. "I had a few ideas that might help, while I was waiting for you to wake up. I have a plain carriage here. You can return home in that. It can deliver you to your door and no one will recognise it as mine. I suggest you wear your evening slippers, though, rather than those boots."
"But I can't leave my boots here. Bailey will notice they are missing."
"True. I will put them up in a valise for you to take with you. You may have it carried to your bedchamber once you arrive home."
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 15
