“Lie back,” he ordered, and Emmie complied while he wiped his seed from her hip and stomach. “Sex is so wonderfully messy,” he said as he tidied her up. “There’s no dignity to it. One wonders how the Archbishop of Canterbury goes about it, or say, the Bishop of London. You’re quiet.”
He wrapped his arms around Emmie and curled her up against his chest. “That is the most lovely experience of not lying with somebody I have ever had.” He kissed her nose and then her mouth, lingering over it.
“Talk to me, Emmie.” He rolled to his back and wrestled her to straddle him. “Tell me what’s going on here.” He tapped her temple.
“You didn’t hear the echo?” she said, feeling his genitals, cool, damp, and soft against her sex. “There is nothing in there at the moment. Nothing but a long, undignified sigh of contentment.”
“Your expression is not one of contentment, Emmie.” His thumb stroked across her forehead. “I would say, rather, you are having the proverbial second thoughts.” His hands on her shoulders urged her down so her chest was against his. “I am not inclined to allow it.”
“You are not at your most rational.” She sighed as his arms came around her. “I will not attempt a discussion of the many reasons why this is foolishness until at least one of us has some clothing on.”
“Wise of you.” His exuberant smile became a trifle hesitant. “Are you shy, Emmie, because a woman’s pleasure has never befallen you before?”
She tilted her head up to assess his eyes, but they were giving away nothing. How much could a man tell from the kind of encounter they’d had?
She laid her cheek against his chest to escape that searching green-eyed gaze. “Or I am shy because I am naked in bed with the man who employs me, a fellow I’ve known of for about a month, give or take.”
“But a decent fellow,” the earl replied, his hand stroking over her hair. “I would not hurt you, Emmie.”
“You are all that is considerate,” she said, with a terse lack of warmth—but she tightened her hold on him nonetheless.
“We are going to talk about this, Emmie.” His fingers found her nape and began to massage in slow, easy circles. “There are aspects of the situation you don’t understand.”
“I understand,” she said without shifting to meet his eyes. “We are not married, and you seek certain liberties I intended to share with only a husband, or the very near equivalent. You have brought me pleasure—unbelievable pleasure—but being with you like this is not wise, and we both know it.”
“You are letting the Lady Tostens of the world dictate to you,” he replied, frustration evident.
“The Lady Tostens of the world run the world, my lord, for those of us who must make our own way.” She kept her tone patient, not the least accusatory.
“You will not stoop to angering me with formal address, Emmie, not when I could be inside you in the next two minutes.” He arched up against her, demonstrating graphically that while they’d talked, her proximity had begun to stir his arousal again.
She rose up on her elbows to meet his eyes.
“You are not a rapist, and I am not a cock-tease nor a whore.” She moved to shift away from him, but he caught her by the arms and shook his head slightly. His hold was careful, and the look in his eyes was guarded.
“Please do not take away from me the good that happened here with you,” he said, matching her level tone. “I can understand your virtue is precious to you, and you are… upset, but I did not come here seeking this outcome either, Emmie.”
He held her gaze, a hint of pleading behind his sternness, and she nodded then subsided onto his chest. He had a point: She could have insisted on meeting him in the library, could have grabbed him by the ear and tossed him into the corridor.
In no way had he forced her; she couldn’t be angry at him.
“I am upset with myself,” she said, closing her eyes. She felt him nod then felt his hands sifting through her hair again. His touch was slow, gentle, and comforting, even as it reminded her she must not—once this encounter was behind them—permit him to touch her in that same manner ever again.
“We will talk.” He kissed the top of her hair. “For now, just let me hold you.”
A fast, triple tap on her door had them both freezing.
“Miss Emmie?” Winnie’s voice, followed by an attempt to lift the latch. “Oh, Miss Emmie, please wake up.”
“She’s wet the sheets or had a nightmare,” Emmie said, dropping her forehead to his sternum for just an instant then swinging off him. “I’ll take her back to her room.” She scrambled into her nightgown and wrapper. “You be gone when I get back. She might want to sleep in here on the trundle.”
“Emmie!” He hissed her name, grabbing her wrist as she paused by the bed to shove her feet into her slippers. She glanced over at him, and he bounded to his feet. In the next instant, his mouth was on hers, warm, plush, wicked, and sweet; then it was gone. He grabbed his clothing, blew out the candle, and slipped to the wall to the right of the door so when Emmie opened the door, he’d be hidden from view.
“I’m coming, Winnie,” Emmie called softly, sparing him one look intended to convey longing, exasperation, and regret. “Just give me a minute.”
Behind Emmie’s door, the earl heard her voice trailing off, reassuring, teasing, making light of the situation. He eyed her bed in the moonlight streaming in her window and gave serious thought to simply dozing off right there. He had the sense she wasn’t going to be reasonable about what had just happened, and the longer he let her stew and fret, the more unreasonable she’d be.
***
“Do you think Rosecroft will get me a pony when he visits his family?” Winnie asked. She was bright-eyed and bouncing around the attic with restless energy, having gone right back to sleep the previous night as soon as Emmie had cleaned her up and ensconced her on a day bed.
In contrast to Winnie, Emmie had slept badly. She was torn between recalling the abundant, decadent… wonderful pleasures she’d shared with St. Just, and castigating herself for the whole business. It was one thing to pine for the attentions of a man she knew she couldn’t have; it was yet another level of torment altogether to be shown just exactly what she’d be missing.
“Hello, my dears.” The earl appeared in the entrance to the low-ceilinged attic, having to duck his head to pass through the door. “Find any treasures?”
“We did.” Winnie skipped over to him and took his hand. “We found Aunt Anna’s doll and Aunt Morgan’s toy horse. There is a christening gown, too, and best of all, we found my papa’s toy soldiers.”
“No child raised on this sceptered isle should be without toy soldiers.”
“See?” Winnie pulled him along. “I’ve set up a great battle, with the fellows in blue being the Grand Armee, and the fellows in red and so forth being Wellington’s men. We even found some cannon and horsemen, but they’re the wrong colors.”
“You are having quite a war here.” The earl hunkered amid Winnie’s arrangement of men, cannon, and horses, and frowned. “So who’s going to win?”
“Old Wellie’s troops, of course,” Winnie chided him, completely missing the care with which the adults were not looking at each other. “See, these fellows over here can gallop round this way, and that will leave the cannon up on the chair…”
“You’re going to have trouble shooting your artillery straight down, but you are correct to use the rise for better advantage.”
“Oh.” Winnie sat back, surveying her troops. “Is that what real generals do?”
“At Waterloo”—the earl began shifting pieces around—“Wellington got word the French were approaching, so he arranged his lines along a ridge, like so. That put the French down here.” He moved more pieces. “And the reinforcements, back here. That would be Blucher, for the Dutch were up on the ridge under Wellington.”
“T
he reinforcements are too far away,” Winnie said. “Why can’t we move them up here?”
Quietly, Emmie watched as the earl moved cannon, horse, and infantry for both armies, explaining orders, strategies, and incidents to Winnie as he did. His face became oddly animated, excited but not happy… Just more and more tense.
“Well, why won’t the bloody French just get on with it?” Winnie asked, sending some blue horsemen charging up the side of a trunk.
“Language, Winnie,” Emmie chided quietly. Winnie fell silent as the earl rose, his expression now carefully blank.
“If you’ll excuse…” He turned and left without another word, his gait stiff but swift. Winnie frowned and gave Emmie a puzzled look.
“Was it because I said bloody French?” she asked, bewildered. “Everybody calls them that, or bloody Frogs. And Wellington won.”
“He did. I think the earl recalls it as more than a little game of toy soldiers, Winnie. Let’s leave him some privacy, shall we?”
“I’ll put the soldiers away,” Winnie said, puzzlement in her tone, “but then can we go bake something for dessert?”
***
Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it…?
The words circled in his head, present and past blending in one pounding drumbeat of fear, anxiety, and impending death. Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Up and down the lines, the men had wondered the same thing. The cannons had gone silent, and the waiting had stretched for hours.
Smells came back to him, of mud, summer mud thick from the previous night’s heavy rain then baked in the June heat. Damp woolen uniforms and the sweat of scared men, men who knew they’d already survived more battles than fate allowed.
Sounds beat against his sanity, the sound of restless horses, feet tramping in the mud, bridles and harness jingling with incongruous cheer across the still morning. The sound of men praying, muttering, swearing… Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it?
“Shall I saddle up Wulf, my lord?”
His mind snagged on the thought that Wulf hadn’t been at Waterloo. St. Just followed the voice with his gaze and found Stevens looking at him expectantly. Stevens, his groom… at Rosecroft… in Yorkshire.
“You all right, then?” Stevens asked, clearly uncomfortable.
St. Just shook his head and walked away, around to the back of the stables and then along the stone wall running down the hill from it. He took off his shirt, and with his bare hands, began to wrestle with the solid Yorkshire rocks, restoring them to order one backbreaking, sweating minute, by backbreaking, sweating minute.
From her bedroom, Emmie watched out the windows, seeing the earl wrestling with his stone wall. He’d be sunburned again, and he wasn’t wearing gloves either. She could send Lord Amery down with a pair, but something in the earl’s desperate focus suggested even that intrusion wouldn’t be welcome. On and on he toiled, bringing a neat, solid form to what had been cascading into chaos. Emmie must have stood there for an hour, and still she was left wondering: If she’d allowed him to stay in her bed last night, if she’d trusted him with her deepest failings and fears, would he be out in the broiling sun, blistering his hands and straining his back trying to rebuild a stupid stone wall?
Eight
Almost a week after walking out of the attic and St. Just was still jumping at loud noises, tossing half the night, and eyeing the brandy decanter like a long-lost friend.
Which it was not, he reminded himself sternly. Banishing the thought of a drink at midmorning, he took himself off to the kitchens, there to accost Emmie Farnum and have the discussion they needed to have before his departure with Douglas.
He found his quarry rolling out sticky buns, the kitchen redolent with the smells of cinnamon, yeast, honey, and vanilla. He leaned in the doorway and treated himself to the sight of her elbow-deep in flour, her hair in its tidy bun, a plain blue day dress under her floury apron. He wrestled with the impulse to sneak up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist, and kiss the nape of her neck.
At his sigh of self-denial, Emmie’s brows flew up.
“My lands! I didn’t see you lurking there. If you’ve come to snitch, there’s a tray cooling on the counter beside the sink.” He sidled over to the sink, snagged a bun, and then went to the pantry to pour himself a glass of cold milk.
“What else are you making?” he asked between bites. She had flour on her cheek again, and it fascinated him. “These are good, by the way.”
“I will finish up this batch,” Emmie said, rolling up the dough and reaching for a sharp knife, “and then I have some pies to make. I’ll do more cheese bread, and if there’s time…” He’d come to stand beside her, right beside her, close enough to catch the subtle floral scent of her beneath the kitchen fragrances.
“Was there something you wanted?” she asked, arranging the cut buns in a greased pan.
He let off a bark of mirthless laughter but took another bite of sticky bun and watched as she moved away from him to put the pan in the oven.
“It is my imagination, Emmie, or has your business picked up?” he asked, eyeing the remaining sticky buns.
“No more,” she scolded. “They’ll ruin your luncheon. And yes, I am doing a greater volume of business. But you didn’t come here to grill me on how my baking is going.”
“I did not,” he agreed, sitting down on the worktable with his milk. “I came here to discuss this trip with you.”
“I am all ears.” Emmie started measuring out butter, sugar, flour, and eggs for her next recipe.
“Emmie.” He reached over and put a hand on her arm. “I know you are busy, but might you spare me a few minutes of your time? I don’t want to talk to your sticky buns; I want to talk to you.”
“Very well.” Emmie untied her apron then grabbed a mug of cider. “Let’s go out on the terrace. I’ve been inside all morning, and some sunshine would be appreciated.”
He let her precede him to the adjoining terrace, thinking the smell of horse was probably more bearable if they were out of doors. He also, God help him, watched the twitch and sway of Emmie’s skirts and found himself again thinking of kissing her nape.
Emmie picked out a shady bench and settled herself. “What was it you wanted to say?”
St. Just frowned and, uninvited, assumed a place directly beside her. He was thinking of stealing kisses while she was… convening the town meeting.
“It occurred to me,” he began, “Winnie is settling in here nicely, and at one time, I planned to find her a permanent governess.”
“And when you do, I will take myself to the cottage as Winnie adjusts to her improved station in life.”
“I don’t like that idea.” The earl frowned at his hands. “I’d bet Winnie positively hates it.”
“She is becoming less resistant. This was your plan, my lord.”
He glanced over at her sharply, scowling his displeasure at her tone and her retreat into my-lording him. “Are you running for cover, Emmie, because I shared pleasure with you?” he asked softly, staring straight ahead.
“I will be making a graceful retreat from Bronwyn’s life,” Emmie said, the edges of her words trimmed to a razor sharpness, “because it is in her best interests that I do so. And to be honest…”
He turned to regard her steadily.
“I am tiring,” she said, her posture and her tone wilting, and he knew that wasn’t what she’d intended to tell him. “Looking after Winnie, keeping up with the orders, taking up the duties I promised Cook I would handle… You need a housekeeper, sir, and a few more maids and footmen wouldn’t go amiss either.”
“I can see to all that when I return,” he said, regarding her with a frown. “I would like your word you will not depart this residence until I do come back.�
�
“And when will that be?”
“By the end of September,” the earl replied, admitting to himself he’d not set a date before this discussion. “I’m told winter sets in after Michaelmas, and ever since coming home from sunny Spain, I’ve hated English winters.”
“What else did you hate?” Emmie asked, sipping her cider.
“Everything. The heat, the dust, the mud, the whining recruits, the arrogant stupidity of the junior officers, the bad rations, the boredom, the endless drilling, the insane orders, the killing, and the killing, and the killing…”
“You’ve had a setback,” Emmie said, slipping her hand around his. “I should not have made you dwell on this.”
“A setback.” He sighed, savoring the feel of her hand in his. “One of many. Each time, I think maybe the gains I’ve made will be mine to keep. Each time, my horse is shot out from under me again.”
“I don’t believe that. Douglas says you are not the same man who came home from Waterloo.”
“Maybe not.” He lifted their hands and brought her knuckles to his lips. “I’m certainly not as hung over.”
“You were drunk?” Emmie blinked and stared at her hand in his.
“For months. My baby brother, Valentine, was sent to fetch me home. I’d forgotten he was no longer a fourteen-year-old stripling, and though he had to beat me nigh insensible to see it done, he did get me back to Morelands.”
Emmie cringed. “Your brother beat you?”
“Soundly. He’s a piano virtuoso, and somehow I’d gotten to thinking of him as the soft one in the family. He’s not soft, and those fists of his were lightning fast. He dropped me in short order, though I was fighting like a demon.” And ranting at the top of his lungs and—merciful God—crying like a motherless child.
“I’m glad he brought you home.”
“Oh, I was, too, eventually.” And he was still glad Val had never mentioned that pathetic scene to a soul, either.
The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3) Page 50
