She didn't. She was enjoying the sensation too much to respond.
Cold juice dripped on to her breast. "Ooh," she gasped.
Will popped the fruit into her open mouth with a chuckle. "That'll teach you, m'lady, to do as you're told. At least where dripping fruit is concerned."
Emma tried to brush the spill away but only succeeded in spreading it all over the top half of the nightgown. Not only was the silk now stained, it was also clinging to her skin.
Will touched the back of a finger to one nipple with a murmur of appreciation. Sensation shuddered through her. "Last night you were deep rosy red. Today you are tinged with orange, like a sunburst. If I were to taste you, there, would you be as sweet as I imagine?" He paused for her reply, but she couldn't say a word. "May I taste, sweet Emma?" he asked softly.
She managed a tiny nod.
Even through the silk, she was lost in the magic of his touch the moment he put his mouth to her breast. She gave herself up to pure passion.
~ ~ ~
Afterwards, he sliced the remaining fruit into pieces and brought them to the side of the pool so that they could feed them to each other with their fingers while they floated and caressed and explored. "So you see, love, that my friend was right. Naked in the bath is the only way to eat ripe mango."
Emma smiled a cream-pot smile and said nothing.
Will was floating on his back and pulled her on top of him, so that her buttocks were supported by his hips and her head was resting on his shoulder. From this angle, she had an exceptionally good view of the erotic paintings on the upper walls and around the skylight in the ceiling of Will's bath house. No worse than Victoria and Albert had in their private bathroom, Emma told herself. Victoria adored sex. So why shouldn't I? Emma was so relaxed that she thought she might drift off to sleep in the enfolding warmth.
"Can you imagine, Will," she mused, dreamily, "that one day in the future, all the exotic fruits you've encountered on your travels, mangoes, and pawpaws, and bananas, and pineapples, will be available in every high street greengrocer's, for anyone and everyone to buy?"
He chuckled. The vibration through his body and into hers was intensely pleasurable. "No, I cannot. For how would they get here before they rotted? Fly?"
"Why not? In the future, there will be flying machines to carry people and cargo all around the globe."
"I wouldn't rely on a flying machine to carry anything anywhere," Will said, scornfully. He blew softly into her ear. "Balloons go wherever the wind takes them. Useless for anything practical."
"But the aeroplanes of the future won't be balloons." She turned in the water so that she could see his face. "They'll have wings and they'll be powered by engines."
He chuckled again, shaking his head in disbelief. "Like Trevithick's steam carriage, you mean? My brother John saw it demonstrated in London, years ago. He said it was enormous and weighed several tons. How would an engine like that stay up in the air? And where would it carry all the coal for the furnace? Come, Emma, admit you've been reading too many fairy tales. Elves and fairies may fly in stories. In the real world, people keep their feet on the ground."
She gave up. She didn't know enough about engineering to be able to describe the internal combustion engine, and certainly not the principles of a jet engine. There was such a enormous gap of understanding between the primitive steam engines of the Regency – Stephenson's Rocket was more than a decade away – and the hugely sophisticated machines of the twenty-first century. And she hadn't said a word yet about men going to the moon. If she was going to convince Will that she came from the future, she would have to tell him about things, and people, that he could relate to. Perhaps she should try a mention of Queen Victoria? But not today. Emma had done quite enough kite-flying for one day.
~ ~ ~
It took so long for Emma's sodden hair to dry that she had to agree to stay another night with Will. It would be, she admitted to herself – but not to him – no hardship at all. She was learning to enjoy the delights of a man's body as she never had before. And she was becoming less and less shy about her own as the hours passed and Will took her to new heights of pleasure.
"Tomorrow morning, I must go home, Will," she said when they were sitting companionably over a glass of wine after Sanding's more than passable supper.
"Will you come for another swim in the morning before you leave?"
She shook her head. "I would love to, but I cannot. For two reasons." She fixed him with a stern gaze. "First, I would have exactly the same problem as today. My hair would be soaked. It takes hours to dry and, by the time it was presentable again, it would be too late to leave. I suspect, sir," she added, wagging an accusing finger, "that you were aware of that when you made the suggestion?" Will had the grace to look a little shamefaced. "Quite. And second…" She paused dramatically until all his attention was on her face. "Second, we have eaten all the mango."
He burst out laughing. "Emma, you are magnificent. And an absolute darling." He raised his glass to her and drank deeply. "It goes much against the grain, but I agree that you should go home tomorrow." Then he added, a little anxiously, "But you will come again? Soon?"
Did she dare? She'd got away with one secret tryst, provided there were no awkward questions when she got home, but could she do it a second time? She longed to be with Will, but it was a dangerous game. What if Will's servants returned early? What if one of his friends came to pay a call and caught sight of Emma?
"You can tell your abigail that you have agreed, at Mrs Smith's urging, to visit her regularly. And since the invalid has such difficulty in sleeping, you have volunteered to keep her company in the long watches of the night, with reading and conversation. In other words, you will normally stay at least one night each time you visit."
"You have a very glib tongue, sir." What else did she expect from a lover as practised as Will Allmay? "But I suppose it is plausible," she added thoughtfully. Besides, it offered the chance to do exactly what she longed to do. She couldn't pluck up the courage to say so to Will, however. She was less shy than before, but that would be going too far. Instead, she said lightly, "By the way, if you send me a note again, can you make it look more like a lady's hand? My abigail is suspicious."
"She'll be even more suspicious if you receive another note from 'Mrs Smith' in a totally different hand."
Emma made a face. He was right. Again. What else did she expect from a practised adulterer?
"Tell Bailey that your invalid friend's handwriting has deteriorated due to her infirmities. That should do it."
"Yes, it should. Very clever. Just what a practised adulterer would suggest, of course." She had not intended to say anything so insulting, but she had certainly been thinking it and, somehow, the words had slipped out. She should apologise.
The corners of Will's mouth tightened. "I am not an adulterer," he said proudly. "You are not married. And neither am I."
Not yet. But Patience is waiting to get her claws into you.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Less than twenty-four hours later, as Emma's foot touched the flagway, her own front door opened and a fashionably dressed lady tripped down the steps, followed by her maid. Patience Sinclair-Smythe.
Of all the women in the world, why did it have to be her?
Patience came across to Emma, but before either of them could offer a hand, Patience stopped dead, staring wide-eyed at Sanding.
Oh dear. Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw that the "simpleton" on the box was slouching even lower and had pulled his hat down almost to the end of his nose.
Patience pointed an accusing finger at the old man. "But you are Sanding, are you not? Sir William's man?" she demanded, in a voice that was rising to a shriek. "Yet this is not his carriage. Why should—?"
Emma took Patience firmly by the elbow and propelled her back up the steps into the front hall. She nodded to the footman to close the door after the maid and led Patience into the little saloon where they could sp
eak in private. "You will allow me to say, my dear Miss Sinclair-Smythe," she began sternly, "that it is not seemly for a lady of your station to bandy words with a mere servant on the public highway."
Patience coloured a little, but recovered quickly. "But… Oh, I see. I suppose William must have dismissed him. For cause, I do not doubt. Sanding is an old Navy man and much too uncouth to be personal servant to a gentleman." She dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. "I have already made up my mind that, once William and I are married, Sanding will be given his discharge from our service. I could not bear to have such a man about me."
Patience had a great deal to learn about handling men as strong-minded as Will Allmay. She needed helpful advice, but she would get none at all from Emma.
"Will you not be seated, Miss Sinclair-Smythe?" Emma said politely, taking a chair by the fire for herself. Patience must not be allowed to leave until Will's carriage was well out of sight.
Patience sank elegantly onto the sofa. "Thank you. Now that we are private, may I ask, ma'am, about that plain carriage you arrived in?" She leaned eagerly towards Emma. "Is it yours?"
"No, it is not." Patience had to be stopped in her tracks before her suspicions fixed on Emma and Will. Together. "And if you were planning to enquire about how the lady who owns the carriage might have come to employ that particular servant, I suggest you do not, for it would be an unpardonable breach of confidence if I were to provide you with any information on that head. You will excuse my plain speaking, my dear, but you are very young and inexperienced in the ways of the world." Yes, that was good. And since Emma was older and of much higher status than Patience, there was nothing the girl could do but grit her teeth and take the medicine that Emma was doling out. "You will allow me to give you a hint. It does not do for a young unmarried gel to be making impertinent enquiries about her elders. I am sure that, if your mama were present, she would say much the same."
Patience had been growing redder and redder as Emma spoke.
"If you wish to know what Sir William has done in relation to his servant, you should address yourself to him. Preferably not in public," Emma finished severely.
Well before Patience could seek Will out, Emma must warn him of the need to cook up a credible story. Perhaps Sanding had been loaned to an indigent acquaintance? Yes, that might do. Emma would suggest it.
Will was probably on the case already, she realised, since he must have heard Patience's accusation and recognised the danger. They must get in contact quickly, though. They needed to get their stories in sync. If the dreadful Lady Augusta were to ask Emma about the incident with Sanding, Emma couldn't refuse to answer. And Lady Augusta's long nose would poke into every potential flaw in Emma's tale.
Time to paper over the cracks in Emma's relationship with Patience.
"Enough of such distasteful matters." Emma smiled broadly at Patience as if the girl were a welcome guest. "I am sorry I was from home when you called, Miss Sinclair-Smythe. But now that I am returned, may I offer you some tea?"
They conversed about mundane topics until the tea tray was brought in. The interlude seemed to have restored much of Patience's composure. As she took her cup from Emma, she said confidingly, "You must know that I was not solely making a courtesy call when we met outside, Lady Emma." She paused dramatically, waiting for a response.
Good manners required Emma to say something encouraging. "Indeed? Was there something particular you wanted to tell me, my dear?"
"I—that is, Mama said that, since you are so well acquainted with William, you should be told. In the strictest confidence, naturally."
Emma did not like the sound of this. Not one bit. Especially not the sly accusation that she was "so well acquainted with William". Denying it would achieve nothing, though, so Emma kept silent, waiting to see what would come next.
"Mama has decided that we have waited long enough. She has agreed that the betrothal may be announced next month."
Emma concentrated on stirring her tea, round and round and round. When she had regained enough control to speak, she looked up and said brightly, "Sir William is a fortunate man. May I ask when the wedding is to be?"
"That is not yet decided. Mama says— Mama favours a summer wedding. Not this year, you understand." Patience tittered. "There would not be enough time to order my bride clothes. Once the season is over, Madame Élise will have fewer commissions from her other clients. I dare say she will be delighted to be designing my bride clothes in the autumn. It is immodest to say so, I know, but Mama says that it will be the wedding of the year."
I bet she does, Emma thought bitterly. And I bet the old witch encouraged you to tell me so, too.
"Your excitement is understandable, I am sure," Emma said. "I shall offer my congratulations to Sir William, when next I see him."
Patience raised a warning hand. "Would it be very impertinent of me, ma'am, to ask you not to do so until the betrothal has been announced? What if your conversation were overheard? Mama has such an aversion to tittle-tattle. She would be prostrated if there were to be rumours in the newspapers before the formal announcement."
Emma managed to nod and say, "I shall wait then." She drew on the last of her inner strength. "May I offer you more tea, Miss Sinclair-Smythe?"
But Patience had discharged her malign errand and clearly had no desire to remain one moment longer with a woman she saw as a rival for her future husband's affections. She rose, murmuring polite protestations of regret at being unable to stay longer. A brief handshake, and she was gone.
Along with Emma's peace of mind. And all her ridiculous hopes.
~ ~ ~
Emma sat by her bedroom fireplace and stared unseeingly into the flames. She had been so full of naive hopes and dreams. Then her nemesis, Patience Sinclair-Smythe, had appeared to dash her down. And to smile triumphantly while she did so.
Emma told herself, sternly, that she had been stupid to harbour hopes at all. She was a twenty-first century woman and Will was a Regency man. There could be no future for them, apart from the odd coupling on the sly. However enjoyable it might be, it could not continue for long. It was probably right that he should marry a woman of his own time and his own class, though Emma could have wished for a softer, kinder mate for him than Patience.
The real question was: what was Emma herself to do now?
She sighed deeply. By rights, she should be sobbing in despair at her lost love, or tearing her hair out, but all her emotions seemed to be in the deep freeze. She was not lovelorn Lady Emma Groatster, mistress of this fine house, but Emma Stanley, coldly rational museum curator, marooned in an alien time. And since Emma Stanley was going to have to return to the modern day, and stay there, she would make the most of her advantages here in the Regency, while she had the chance.
Her grand plan could still be made to work. It would mean remaining in the Regency for a little longer, but it would be worth it. It would help her to find out everything she wanted to know about Lady Emma Groatster – if there was anything to discover – and it would certainly be a huge boost to Emma's museum career. Since she would have nothing else, she was going to concentrate on that, from now on.
What's not to like, as they say in the twenty-first century?
The downside, she had to admit to herself, was Will Allmay. And the dreadful Patience. Emma would have to take steps to avoid them both.
If Patience calls, or her harridan of a mother, the servants will be instructed to say I am not at home.
Will would not call, but he might send another note. He might even ask Emma to visit their fictitious invalid again.
If Will sends a note, I will burn it, unread.
Decisions taken, Emma rose to pull the bell. When Bailey appeared, Emma gave orders that Richard Cosway was to be invited to start work at his earliest convenience. And that the painting room was to be prepared immediately.
"Yes, m'lady. Have you decided what you will wear to sit for Mr Cosway?"
On that point, Emma
did not have to stop to think. It was all part of her grand plan. "I shall wear my gold lace gown, Bailey. It is my favourite, as you know, and becomes me very well, I think. I shall wear my sapphire earrings and pendant, also."
"And in your hair, m'lady? The diamond tiara?"
"No, that would be too much. And yet I should perhaps have something. Could you fix the sapphire pendant in my hair, do you think, rather than on its collar?"
"Hmm. That would look very well, I must say. In the style of an aigrette, perhaps? I will see what I can do." Bailey bustled away to start issuing instructions to the household.
Emma had nothing to do now but wait.
~ ~ ~
A note from "Mrs Smith" arrived late that afternoon, addressed as before. And in the same unladylike hand.
Bailey delivered it to Emma in the bookroom. "The boy did not wait for a reply," she announced with a frown of disapproval.
"Mrs Smith will not be expecting one," Emma said calmly, laying the note aside. "It will be to confirm the dates we have already discussed," she added airily. She could not throw Will's unopened note on the fire while Bailey was in the room. "Poor lady. She insists on writing her letters herself, but her hands are so twisted she can barely hold the pen." Emma picked up the note and waved it under Bailey's nose. "One would hardly credit that as a lady's hand. But it is so."
"As you say, m'lady. Will there be anything else?" Bailey did not sound totally convinced, but it was the best Emma could do.
"No. Except—yes. Have you made any progress with turning my pendant into an aigrette? Mr Cosway sent word that he will be arriving first thing in the morning, so you have very little time left, I'm afraid."
Bailey beamed at Emma. "Don't you worry your pretty head, m'lady. I'm almost done. You shall have your wish and you will look splendid, I promise." She sniffed. "I only hope that this Mr Cosway is skilled enough to do you justice."
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 21
