She untied her shawl and shook some of the water from it in the open doorway with her free hand, not once meeting his gaze as she did so. “I suppose we’ll only stay long enough to wait out the storm.”
Taking his hat off, he wiped the water from the top and brim and set it on the worktable to dry.
“Come inside and close the door. I’ll start a fire so we can dry out our clothes.”
“The storm will leave as fast as it arrived. We’ll be on our way shortly.”
Her voice wavered. Was his wife nervous to be in his company alone? Interesting that she was shy now when she’d given him such bold words last night. He didn’t want meek and timid. He wanted fiery and passionate.
Richard looked beyond the sodden, dripping frame of Emma to the roiling black clouds shot through with flashes of white lightning outdoors. It was not going to pass anytime soon. The weather had been building in this direction all morning.
He sighed out his frustration. “While we’re here, we can discuss the course of last evening.”
“I see no reason to discuss anything.” Her chin tilted up, her eyes narrowed. There was the fire sparking there that he’d wanted to see so badly only moments ago.
He threw some peat into the old woodstove, struck a flint, and lit the moss.
The wind was picking up outdoors, sweeping away any warmth the fire gave off. “Come inside, Emma. We’ll probably be here another hour.”
“I certainly hope not.”
He clenched his fists at his sides. Her penchant for disdain needed to stop. His company couldn’t be that detestable.
“It won’t be the end of the world to spend an hour in my company,” he snapped.
She twirled around and finally looked at him. It was on the edge of his tongue to say she’d not escape him now and certainly not again this evening, but something held him back. They were stuck with each other for an indeterminate amount of time. He had no plans to spend that time fighting. He’d rather spend his time seducing and cajoling her into a better disposition.
Loose strands of wet hair ran over her temple and stuck to the sides of her cheeks. Her lips trembled from the cold and were tinged with a slight blue. She was shivering. Knowing she’d hesitate if he asked her to come closer, he walked toward her, relieved her of her art things, and set them on the table. When he turned back to her, he reached out and released the first few hidden eyelets on her bodice.
She smacked his hands away. He grasped her fingers to stop her. They were so small in his hands, so soft against his roughness.
“I just want to keep you from getting a chill.”
He released a few more of the tiny hooks before she stepped away from him, her hand slowly sliding away from his so she could cover the swell of her bosom. He raised a brow, shrugged out of his coat, and draped it over the back of the chair near the fire.
“Pass me your shawl.” He held out his hand and waited for the scrap of material.
She didn’t object, nor did her eyes meet his again. She stuck her arm out as far as she could—so she wouldn’t have to come closer to him, he assumed.
He took the wet mass of lace and spread it out on top of his coat. Of course he didn’t stop there. It wouldn’t do for his wound to start festering beneath wet, chilly layers of material. His vest came off next. His gaze locked with hers for a few seconds, daring her to tell him to stop. She pinched her lips together and gave him her back, her arms folded over her front and her hands rubbing her arms to bring her some warmth.
“You can’t undress here.” Her voice was unsteady.
“Why not? It’ll take less time to dry if you remove your clothes, too.”
There was no mistaking his meaning. Yes, he wanted his wife naked. What sane man wouldn’t? He was more than willing to do whatever was necessary to warm her, as well. The less they talked, the less they’d disagree on how the afternoon should unfold. And there were a great many things they could do that didn’t involve talking.
“Absolutely not!”
He untied his neckcloth, trying to fight the smile threatening to turn his lips up. He didn’t think she’d appreciate him finding humor in this situation.
“Why not?”
“I’ll not undress for you. To think you’d ask such a thing in the middle of the day when anyone can happen upon us.”
“Have you never undressed for a lover during the day?” Stupid of him to ask. He didn’t want to know the answer to that. The very idea of someone encroaching on his territory—with his wife—set his teeth on edge.
“How dare you assume such a thing!” She turned to him, her expression full of hurt. “I have no lover, Richard. Nor have I ever had the need for one.”
How was it possible for anyone not to take a lover after twelve years? Hell, the rumor mill had made it all the way to the East with stories of his wife and the duke. There must be some truth to the whispers. Guilt for his many transgressions rose in his gut and put a bad taste in his mouth. No, she lied to save face. Lied to make him feel a cad for demanding access to her bed. Twelve years was too long to go without the touch of another.
The friends who had given him updates of her relationship with the duke would not lie to him. What purpose would that have served? Had they thought that the pleasure-seeking fiend of a duke chasing after his wife would goad Richard into coming home? It hadn’t.
He stepped forward, not sure what he wanted to do. Prove that he desired her as much as any other man might?
“It’s natural to assume that you would find companionship with another after our separation. That is the usual course of things for many young ladies, I’m sure.” Not that he’d had the acquaintance of many ladies. “Emma, you’re shivering and your lips are turning blue. Come over by the fire. I have no ulterior motives.”
Which was a lie, but he didn’t want her to stand half a room away trembling from the cold. As if to prove a point, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and waited.
After a short hesitation, she walked over to the fire, stuck her hands out close to it, and basked in the heat. His desire to touch her won out over his promise of no ulterior motives. He wrapped his arms around her, his chest to her back, and he worked quickly at releasing each of the clasps on her bodice. She was so cold against him that he rubbed his hands over her arms to help warm her faster.
As he looked over her shoulder, he could see the creamy white expanse of her chest. Gooseflesh rose over the exposed parts, the pink tips of her areolas showing through the wet chemise above the uppermost edge of the corset.
Good Lord, he wanted to taste her. As if against his will, he brushed the back of his hand over the swell of her bosom—they were as soft as they looked. She stepped back so she was pressed tightly against his front, her breast rising and falling faster with an increased tempo in her breathing.
Brushing the curls that were heavy with rainwater away from the side of her face, he leaned in closer, intent on nibbling the soft flesh between her shoulder and neck.
He thought about raising his other hand to peel the damp chemise aside, free her breast, and fill his hand with its softness. He did slide one hand around her front to splay possessively over her stomach. It was tempting to see what she’d do with his advances, but her posture was suddenly stiff, unwelcoming.
Forcing himself to take a step back so he wasn’t tempted to do everything he was picturing to his half-naked wife, he dropped his hands to his sides but couldn’t bring himself to move away from her just yet.
Willing his erection to subside seemed a hopeless venture when the blood pounding fiercely through his veins, and ringing loudly in his ears, demanded some sort of release.
She turned her head and whispered over her shoulder, “I shouldn’t have come closer.”
Longing filled her voice. Almost like an invitation to continue his advances despite her rigidity, despite her words.
“I will not have you catching cold.” He had to clear his throat; his voice seemed to have lower
ed with his heightened arousal.
He left her by the fire and opened the door. Wringing out the bodice, he stood there, hoping the chilly wind would cool his rising passions. It didn’t, of course. There was only one thing that could do that, and it involved his wife welcoming him into her arms.
He did have a few hours to try.
It was still black as night outdoors, the sky flashing periodically with lightning.
“You should take off your skirts. They’re soaked right through.”
“I’ll be fine.”
If she wasn’t in danger of becoming ill from all the dampness, he’d have left her to her own devices. For God’s sake, he was her husband. She needn’t be modest in his presence.
“The weather isn’t letting up any. Stop being stubborn, Emma, and take off your clothes.”
Her mouth dropped open with his demand. Had she expected him to continue begging for something that was for her well-being? He was only angry because he couldn’t have what he coveted most since coming back home. It wasn’t fair for him to take out his frustrations on Emma.
He sat on the edge of the cot and pulled his boots off, then untucked his shirt. He wanted to strip his shirt off, but he wasn’t about to show his wife the raw wound at his side or the erection straining against his smalls. He released the ties on his trousers and had to peel them from his skin.
She’d given him her back as soon as he started removing articles of clothing. Bitterness made him want to laugh. Made him want to toss his boots against the opposite wall.
Her arms were crossed over her chest, her pale fingers curled over each shoulder. The scoop at the back of the white chemise revealed pale skin. He wanted to push the scrap of linen off her shoulders and see what lay hidden beneath. He wanted. He wanted. He bloody well wanted. He was a greedy bastard is what he was. He stood from the cot and walked toward her.
He’d never wanted any woman so badly as he wanted her right now. He needed his wife out of his system. Out of his thoughts so he could focus on the business. There was only one way to accomplish that, and he would do his damnedest to pull her little claws out from his mind.
“The door is locked, and I’ve a craving to be filled.”
Her fingers clutched tighter to her shoulder, the tips turning white with the pressure. He could see the outline of her sharp shoulder blades and was tempted to lick the droplet of water sliding down her spine. But he didn’t touch her, knowing and hating that she would not welcome him.
He did, however, find the ties at the back of her skirt that held the material around her waist. He worked them loose and let the heavy mass of pleated material fall below her hips. The ties for the second layer were easier to loosen, and that, too, fell low enough for her to step out of the material.
His hands hovered just above her hips. What would she do if he grasped them, brought her back a step, and thrust his erection against her rear?
When she didn’t respond or step out of the mass of skirts, he boldly suggested, “Take off your bindings.” He’d be happy to help her unlace.
If she obeyed, he knew he’d not be able to keep his hands off her. What did it matter? They were alone and he did not like to be denied by the one woman who belonged to him. Women in general did not deny him. Damn his wife for being so difficult to win over.
* * *
Emma couldn’t believe she’d allowed her husband this concession. To undress in his company—no, to have him undress her—was scandalous. She covered her breasts with her folded arms, because the corset and chemise were soaked right through, and she refused to remove her corset no matter how much it itched and stuck uncomfortably to her.
She’d not give in to him so easily. Not yet.
Sidestepping out of the material of her skirts, she pushed her slippers off her feet. They were covered in mud, so she kicked them toward the room’s heat source. They hadn’t been in the rain for more than five minutes but all the flounces in her skirts were soaked. At least the majority of her underclothes were dry.
She stepped closer to the fire, wrapping her arms tighter around herself, hoping the heat would infuse her body instead of seep out of it. She was so very cold and wanted Richard to wrap his warm body around her again. She shouldn’t want that. But he’d been deliciously hot, encompassing her body when he’d released the clasps on her bodice.
Pride was an interesting thing. She’d not sink so low as to ask him for such an intimate favor when she’d been adamant about locking him out of her room.
She wished she could start their first encounter over again. Had he not met her unaware in a whorehouse, or again at the town house, perhaps they’d get along more amicably? No, it was better to have happened this way. She could not allow him back into her life so easily. Wouldn’t allow her emotions to be entangled, either.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Were you out for a walk?”
Richard was spreading all their wet items out over chairs and tables close to the fire.
What did it say about her that she wished he’d dispense with his shirt so she could see the planes of his chest and trace the line of hair that trailed downward? She wanted to caress the length of his back so she knew what a man felt like, to memorize the contours, dips, and feel of sinew so she could paint them.
She turned and faced him, a breath held in her lungs.
She would not give in to temptation.
“I was looking for you,” he said. “You avoided me this morning at the breakfast table.”
“I generally take a walk in the morning.” Though he’d been part of the reason she’d rushed out of the house with only an apple to tide her over till luncheon.
“Emma, you can’t continue to keep me at arm’s length.”
She raised an inquiring brow.
“I realize I came across as the perfect cad yesterday, but I can be very agreeable under the right circumstances.”
Agreeable? He thought demanding entry to her bedchamber agreeable? Absurd! Besides, she wasn’t prepared for intimate relations with a man she barely knew. Given time, she might change her mind. It didn’t matter that he fascinated her. He’d break her heart all over again if she let him get too close.
His brow creased heavily as he looked at her. “Do you wish to divorce?”
She was caught off guard by his frank question. He asked it like someone might ask her to pass the butter at the breakfast table. Did she want a legal, more permanent separation from him?
“I don’t know. I’ve never put much thought into it.”
He ran his hand through his hair and went down on his haunches near the fire to throw in more peat. He didn’t take his eyes from her. The intensity shared in their gaze was like a bird ready to take its first dive off a cliff. Indescribable, exhilarating, a rush so fast she was left breathless.
He stood and walked over to the cot. “You’re still shivering.”
She was glad for the change in topic and exhaled a sigh of relief when the intensity shared in the stare completely snapped and brought her back to the present.
Shaking out a blanket, he came back to her and draped it around her shoulders. She clutched the edges and pulled it tighter around her. “Thank you.”
He set two chairs next to her. “Here, sit down. You might want to take off your stockings and tuck your feet under you.”
“I’ll keep them if you don’t mind. They aren’t that wet.” Not the truth, but she refused to take any more clothes off in his presence. She couldn’t trust herself to not do something she’d regret later.
He shrugged and sat down as though nothing of their current situation bothered him. How strange to be dressed so indecently, in the company of her husband. It roused her curiosity. She dared to look at him through lowered lashes, to see him at more than a passing glance.
His smalls stuck to his thighs, all the way down to the top of his knees, and outlined the muscled strength beneath. Her breath caught at the wholly improper sight she beheld. A sight she wasn’t averse to. She
trailed her gaze upward, forcing herself to exhale slowly so as not to reveal her shocked and somewhat aroused state. Staring at her husband in half dress made her heart flutter and her stomach flip in anticipation. She tamped down those desires and focused on him as though he were a mere subject of art.
His shirt was just as wet as his smalls, sticking to his strong arms and his chest. The shadows in the room played against the lines of his body. Her gaze trailed over the heavy pulse of the vein in his neck, the smirking expression tilting his lips, and then she was staring into his dark brown eyes. A flicker of amusement shone in their depths.
She inched toward him, putting their faces closer. They both smelled of the rain, but there was something masculine in the scent of his soap, enticing her to come closer.
Goodness, what was she about?
Did she plan to kiss him and make a fool of herself? It wouldn’t be the first time she had made a fool of herself in his presence. She’d been doing that since she was fourteen.
Richard shifted in the chair next to her, hissing in a breath as though pained by something. When he leaned forward, putting his elbow to his knees, she pulled away from him and glanced over his form. His head was bowed down into his hands, his jaw clenched.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine. Just ran too quickly to the cottage.”
A stain of red bloomed at the side of his shirt. She was on her feet in seconds, the need for modesty lost as the blanket fell unheeded to the floor. Leaning forward, she reached carefully for his shirt, lifting it away from his side gently so she didn’t hurt him more than necessary.
“I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s not a pretty sight.”
She ignored him and pulled the shirt higher on his side. She didn’t flinch away from the raw wound.
“I’m not going to let you bleed out here in the hunting cottage. You should have told me you were injured.” There was a deep-looking slash across his ribs, puckered in an angry six-inch red line. Someone had stitched it closed and it wasn’t swollen, so she didn’t think it had any infection. “What happened?”
The Seduction of His Wife Page 7
