He had saved her from Black-Hair in the Red Lion and from two drunken sailors in the dark midnight depths of a lonely Whitechapel alley. He had saved her from Devlin’s lecherous attentions. Now he stood there, saving her from ruin. Giving up his chance to marry a title and gain the acceptance and connections he could never otherwise have. She hated to think he might be doing this against his will. Stood there, frozen for a moment. Knowing that once she stepped across that threshold her life was going to change for ever.
‘Emma?’ her father whispered.
And just at that moment, Ned glanced round, his gaze meeting hers, and holding, so strong and true and honest that it vanquished all her doubts. She felt a surge of love for him, this man who was the other side of herself. As if it were he and she together, as one against the world. It was as if she had been destined to be his from the very first moment she had seen him.
‘Emma,’ her father said softly. ‘Ned Stratham may be many things of which I cannot approve. But I do believe that he loves you and that he will care for and protect you more than any other.’
She looked into her father’s kind old eyes and saw love and wisdom.
‘I am proud of you, Emma. And your mama would be, too.’
Tears pricked in her eyes. The lump grew bigger in her throat. She smiled and squeezed his arm with affection.
‘Thank you, Papa,’ she whispered, and let him lead her into the drawing room, to the priest and Ned Stratham.
* * *
Ned stood with his eyes facing front, aware in every possible way of Emma standing by his side. Aware, too, that she would not be looking at him like that if she knew the truth of him. She would not be marrying him.
She was wearing the dove-grey silk dress that complemented the warmth of her smooth tawny skin and made her eyes look such a soft velvet-brown and her hair shine like a raven’s wing. She was the most beautiful of women, inside and out. She was intelligent and filled with vitality and a capacity to survive and to find happiness. Despite all that she had endured she was not embittered. Her heart was the biggest he had ever known. And she had given it to him. A man who had known no love in all of his life. The man who was unwittingly responsible for all that had hurt her.
Ned sensed her nervousness, saw the uncertainty in those beautiful dark eyes that met his. Felt the chill of her fingers when her father gave her hand into his and thought he would have done anything to undo what had happened to her, to save her from every hurt, every hardship.
He smiled to reassure her. Closed his hand around hers to warm it. Gave it a little squeeze that said everything was going to be all right.
She smiled at that and he saw something of her tension ease.
Then the priest started talking, reading from the small, battered, black-leather prayer book in his hand.
Ned blocked out all emotion. Got through the lines of ceremony until it came to the bit he was worried over. He tensed. Clenched his jaw. Waited for the priest’s words.
‘If any man can show any just cause, why they may not be lawfully joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’
The silence hissed loudly.
Ned waited for it to break. Felt every muscle in his body tense and straining, ready for the interruption. Waited for the crash of the front door opening, for the sound of Devlin’s voice announcing why Emma should not be allowed to wed him. And all that would follow.
But nothing happened.
He felt a measure of both relief and guilt.
The ceremony progressed and he said the words I, Edward Stratham, take thee, Emma Northcote, to be my wedded wife, and the rest of it and slid the heavy gold band on to her finger.
‘Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder...I now pronounce that they be man and wife together.’
She was his. His wife before God and the law.
He took her in his arms and he kissed her, this woman that he loved.
And it was the best moment in all his life. And it was the worst moment, too. Because he had saved Emma from penury and from scandal. He had married the woman that he loved. And in so doing he had proved himself the most despicable of all men.
* * *
The wedding breakfast was lavish. No expense had been spared. Champagne and a banquet of the finest foods, exotic and presented as if for a queen. The dining room was decorated with more violets. The tiny blooms had been woven into a garland across the mantelpiece. Every wall sconce held a tiny violet spray, and in the centre of the long dark mahogany dining table was a line of small crystal vases each containing yet more violets, interspaced with pineapples. Emma wondered how anything so lavish and thoughtful could have been arranged at such short notice.
A string quartet in the corner of the room played Vivaldi in gentle tones during the meal. There was a large white sugar creation just like those beloved by the Prince Regent, a sculpture showing a palace with sugared violets cascaded down its walls—it was both beautiful and secretly meaningful to both her and Ned.
There was the finest pork, beefsteaks and pot-roasted chicken. There were eels in wine sauce, baked soles and buttered crabs. Dishes of potatoes in garlic and cream, French beans and mushrooms. There was whipped syllabub and orange-and-almond cheesecake. And a selection of rich cakes. And on the table amidst such lavish finery, sitting like a brass farthing in a pile of gold sovereigns, a dish of lamb chops and fried potatoes.
The guest list was small but significant enough to give the illusion that the marriage was not a forced and scandalous affair: the Earl and Countess of Misbourne, Viscount and Viscountess Linwood, Mr and Lady Marianne Knight, The Marquis and Marchioness of Razeby, Lady Routledge, Mrs Hilton and a few other tabbies who were there as a favour to Lady Lamerton, as well as Lady Lamerton herself. Mrs Tadcaster and Mr Finchley. And her father, of course. But no one who had any connection to Devlin or any other of the men who had been her brother’s friends. And Emma could only be glad of that.
It was a wedding arranged as if it truly was a love match, and in a way, for Emma at least, it was. She could almost pretend that nothing had occurred in Colonel Morley’s library. Especially when she felt the warm clasp of Ned’s hand around hers. And even more so when his eyes met hers and she felt the power of what bound them together pull and tighten and strain.
That he wanted her as a man wants a woman, she did not doubt. Even in her innocence she could feel the thrum of desire that was between them. That he loved her, she believed that, too. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her, was as if he felt all for her that she felt for him. Being here with him felt like coming home. It felt right. Like this was always meant to be. Yet she was aware that he was marrying her to save her and afraid that had not the incident with Devlin happened Ned would never have offered for her.
* * *
At last the celebration came to an end and their guests gradually drifted away to leave only Emma and Ned.
They stood alone in the dining room, the warm golden light of the late afternoon casting rainbows through the crystals of the magnificent chandelier, burnishing the darkness of her hair with a blushing halo and turning the soft brown velvet of her eyes golden. Dust motes drifted to sparkle in the air between them, making the moment seem all the more magical.
She was his wife. His wife. Captured through false pretences. But right or wrong, he could not regret it. He loved her. He wanted her. He would give her the world.
He reached a hand to capture a stray curl and rub it between his fingers.
‘You are beautiful.’
She smiled. ‘I bet you say that to all the serving wenches.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Only to you, Emma Stratham.’ No longer Northcote, but Stratham, and that meant much to him.
‘I am very glad to hear it.’ She smiled again.
And
so did he.
‘Thank you, Ned. For the violets and the sugar palace with its doves. For making today so special. For making them believe it is a love match.’ She glanced away, but he saw her sudden discomfort. ‘I know that you were forced to marry me and that—’
He touched his fingers to her chin and guided her face gently to look into his. ‘Do you think me a man to be forced against my will?’
‘I think you a man who cares about my honour.’
Their gazes held, warm and intimate and honest.
‘Emma, I have wanted to marry you since Whitechapel. That morning by the old stone bench when I said we should talk when I returned...’
‘You were going to propose marriage?’ She closed her eyes but not before he saw the glitter of unshed tears in them.
‘Emma,’ he said softly, ‘you hold my heart in your hands. You always have. You always will.’ From the pocket inside his tailcoat he slipped the white velvet box and gave it to her.
She opened the box to see the gemstone violet necklace that lay inside.
‘Oh, Ned!’ She clasped a hand to her mouth. The petals were amethyst, the centres, diamond and the leaves, peridot and emerald.
‘The sweetest of all flowers,’ he said.
Her eyes met his. ‘You remembered.’
He crooked his rogue eyebrow, making her smile while their eyes shared the memory of that day and all the love that had since blossomed.
‘Thank you, Ned.’
He fastened the necklace around her neck, watching how the gem violet sparkled and glittered against her décolletage.
‘I love you, Ned Stratham.’
Their mouths came together, kissing, showing with touch and taste and tongue the truth of their words. Her arms slid beneath his tailcoat to wrap around his waist. Their bodies cleaved together, ready for the union for which they had striven so long.
He scooped her up into his arms and carried her up to bed.
* * *
Ned plucked the pins from her hair, unravelled it, to let it hang long and loose down her back and over her shoulders.
‘You have such beautiful hair.’ He leaned in to inhale it.
Lifting a strand, he ran it between his fingers as if it were as precious as smooth polished jet. ‘Like ebony silk.’
‘As dark as yours is fair. We are the opposites in so many ways.’
He glanced away into the distance, a sombre look in his eyes. ‘So many ways,’ he echoed in a low voice.
‘But opposites that were made to counterbalance each other. Together we are whole.’
His eyes returned to hers and held with such love that it made her want to weep. ‘You speak the words that are in my heart,’ he said softly and brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek.
He smiled and cradled her face in his hands, kissed her with such exquisite sweetness. He was her man, her husband, her love. She wanted him, wanted this union that would seal their marriage and bind them together for ever.
He slid his hands round to the back of her bodice, unfastened the line of pearl buttons with unhurried fingers that tantalised every time they brushed against the skin beneath. The dress began to gape, slipping from her shoulders. She shrugged it off, letting the silk slide down over her legs to land at her feet. She reached to him, slid her fingers over his lapels, then opened his tailcoat, intent on easing it from his shoulders, but the fit was so perfect that she struggled.
He peeled off the tailcoat and threw it to land on a chair. His white-worked waistcoat followed.
She unfastened the knot of his cravat, unwound the length of pale silk and let it flutter to the floor, like a ribbon in the wind.
The open neck of his shirt exposed the bare skin beneath, making her blood rush all the faster. She stared at it, fascinated by the sight of him. Reached tentative fingers to pull his shirt free from where it was tucked into his breeches.
He shed the shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it to the floor.
‘Oh, my!’ she whispered.
He smiled.
She reached for him, trailed her fingers light as feathers against his muscle-contoured chest, marvelling at the difference in their skin tones. Her fingers were golden olive against his paleness. She touched more boldly, exploring the unknown landscape of a man’s body. She had thought him a warrior fully clothed, but half-naked, with his chest exposed like this, he was truly magnificent, all hard honed muscle, all long strong limbs, all power and strength. There was not an inch of softness in that granite sculpted frame.
The sight of him dried her mouth and sent her heart thudding in a frenzy. The feel of him made her shiver, made her thighs burn hot, sent urges and sensations and needs to throb through her body.
Her fingers trailed lower. Over the ribbed muscle that banded his stomach and abdomen. Over the thin line of scar that the tough’s blade had left.
‘It has healed well.’
‘Thanks to you.’
The memory of that night whispered between them.
She felt the ripple and clench of muscle beneath her hand, felt how hot his skin burned beneath the chill of her fingers. She dipped a finger into his belly button and heard him catch his breath. Emma saw the blue fire burn all the hotter in Ned’s eyes and realised how much she was affecting him. It was a heady feeling of power.
She laid her hand flat against his chest, covering his heart so that she could feel its beat, strong and steady as the man himself. Looked up into his eyes, the most amazing eyes in the world, that smouldered with a desire that was all for her.
He moved his hands slowly, stroked her shoulders before he untied her petticoats. The layers of linen fell away unnoticed. His gaze dropped to her lips and lower again to the swell of her breasts over the tight-boned stays, his focus so hot and hungry that she felt it as clearly as if he had touched her there. Her heart was thudding like a horse at full tilt, her blood rushing so fast to make her dizzy. Her breath was ragged with need and desperate anticipation as his eyes rose once more to hold hers.
Every second was a torture of waiting. Every second was an ecstasy of wanting.
She was desperate to feel the skim of his fingers against the exposed skin of her breasts, to feel his mouth hot and hard upon hers. But he did neither of those things. Instead, he turned her around and gently collected the lengths of her hair to bunch them over one shoulder while he unlaced her stays with firmer hands than any lady’s maid had ever done. She felt them fall away, heard them tumble and land with a thud on the Turkey rug beneath their feet.
She trembled with anticipation. Wanted him to touch her. Needed him to take her. Maybe she was brave because she had her back to him, or maybe it was just her own boldness. Regardless of the reason, she slipped the straps of her shift from her shoulders and let its transparent fine silk slide down her body.
She stood there, naked save for her stockings and shoes. Stood there, waiting, until she felt the caress of his fingers against the bare skin of her back, felt their trail all the way from the top of her spine right down to its tip, sending shimmers to tingle in unexpected places. The breath escaped her in a soft gasp.
She felt his smile, felt the warmth of his breath against her shoulder blade, making her shiver, before his lips touched a kiss there.
Her breath came faster and harder.
His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer. His palm splayed flat against her belly, anchoring her to him, her spine to his chest, her buttocks to the hard muscles of his thighs. His body was so different from her own in every way, yet it felt like they had been moulded to fit together.
She felt him caress her hair again, felt him kiss the nape of her neck, the touch of his lips to that one small place making her gasp louder.
‘Oh, Ned,’ she whispered as she closed her eyes and angled her ne
ck to invite him to more.
He understood what she wanted, nuzzled kisses against her neck, her throat, did something wonderful with his tongue where her blood pulsed strongest and hardest.
His hands slid slowly up over her belly. ‘You have the softest skin,’ he said as he stroked higher to her stomach.
Her breathing quickened, the rise and fall of her chest only making her all the more aware of those strong manly fingers that rested so close. Of their slow teasing caress, that was making it hard to think. Of their promise to reach the destination she craved.
‘Ned...’ she whispered his name like a plea.
He nibbled kisses to her neck and finally moved his hands to capture both breasts.
She gasped a long low sound of pleasure and moved her arms behind, holding to him, her fingers gripping tight to the muscle of his lower back.
His weighed her breasts, stroked them, wove magical patterns upon them, but never let his fingers stray to their pebbled peaks.
She arched, driving her breasts all the harder into his hands, needing that touch, demanding it. And he finally obliged.
When he plucked her nipples for the first time her knees went weak, her fingers clung all the tighter to stop herself falling. She groaned aloud.
His strong arm snaked again around her hips, his hand covering her sex. And then those warm long strong fingers began to move slowly, enticingly.
She groaned again, opened her legs and felt him touch her there in that most secret of places. He did not stop. One hand between her thighs, the other going between her nipples. He pleasured her without mercy. Pleasured her until she was gasping, until she was writhing, until she was begging...
Only then did he stop and still his hand over her heart as she had done to him. ‘Emma.’ Her name was a whisper on his breath. ‘My love.’
Her fingers moved to find his, clutched his hand to her heart all the tighter. ‘My love,’ she echoed.
Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone SheriffThe Gentleman RogueNever Trust a Rebel Page 39
