"Splendid," Hugo said, surveying the comfortable room. When Emma moved towards her own bedchamber, he strode across to open the door for her. Then, without a word, he went to the sofa and threw himself down on it, closing his eyes and stretching out his long legs with a sigh of relief. Emma watched from the doorway. She fancied she had seen a hint of a limp when he was climbing the stairs. He was tired, clearly. Rest would do him good. She wondered what he had been doing since his arrival in London, apart from dragging Kit out of a very expensive hole. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Would you like some tea? I can send for some if you would like."
He rose to his feet immediately. "Forgive me for my rudeness, Emma. I thought you had gone through to lie down."
"Oh, no," she replied airily. "That was only for Aunt Augusta's benefit. I am not in the least tired, as I told you." It was clear from the tone of her voice that she thought her husband was the one in need of rest.
"You wretch, Emma," he said with a rueful grin. "Your face betrays you, you know. Yes, I am tired, but I shall survive, never fear. A cup of tea would revive me wonderfully, I am sure. Always provided you remain to share it with me."
Emma did not attempt to engage in a battle of wits. Hugo was too tired. And she was too unsure of how a wife should behave, especially when they were alone like this.
She crossed to pull the bell and then sat in the chair by the fireplace, so that Hugo would feel able to resume his place on the sofa. Neither spoke again until the tea had been ordered.
"Do you—"
"Shall I—"
Both stopped in mid-sentence, laughing awkwardly. From his lazy position on the sofa, Hugo waved an indulgent hand. "After you, madame."
Emma resisted the urge to repeat the gesture to him. The young man she had known all those years ago had dearly loved a jest, even at his own expense, but the man she had married was not the same. His experiences, whatever they had been, had changed him greatly. She said simply, "Do you accompany us to the soirée this evening?"
"I fear not, Emma. I am, um, engaged to Kit. Our business is not yet completed."
It was a strange sort of business that took place in the hours of darkness, in Emma's opinion, but she refrained from saying so.
"As I said, your face betrays you, my dear," Hugo said with a wry smile. "But, truly, I must be with Kit this evening. It cannot be avoided. Our engagement is for later, however, so I could certainly escort you to Lady Dunsmore's and stay for an aria or two. That should silence the wagging tongues. And when I leave, you may tell the tabbies that your husband has absolutely no ear for music and takes to his heels at the first opportunity. A sad case, indeed."
The arrival of the tea tray intervened to save Emma's blushes. She was sure she would never say anything so insulting, even in jest.
She made to pour but stopped, the silver pot poised over his cup. "I'm afraid I do not remember how you take your tea."
Hugo made a face. "Good grief! What kind of a wife have I saddled myself with?"
This time she was prepared to respond in kind. "One who will put five spoons of sugar in your tea, if you do not speedily enlighten her."
"Aargh!" he cried, falling back on the sofa with his hands to his throat. "My wife has poisoned me."
Emma threw him a speaking look, replaced the pot and picked up the sugar basin. "One," she said menacingly, dropping a spoonful into his cup.
"Spare me," he cried, grinning like the madcap boy he had once been. "Save me, fair princess, from the hands of the wife who would murder me."
"I collect that means only one sugar, Major," Emma said demurely, pursing her lips to stop herself from responding to his infectious grin. She finished pouring his tea and rose to take it to him.
He was on his feet in an instant. She had not known he could move so fast. If there had been a limp earlier, it certainly did not prevent him from moving his limbs as much and as fast as he wished.
"Emma…" The laughter was gone from his voice. He sounded serious, almost angry. What could be wrong?
"Is something the matter, Hugo?"
He smiled, satisfied. "Not now," he said, taking his cup from her. "Not any more."
Emma returned to her seat to pour tea for herself. Now was the time. He seemed to have relaxed with her. "Hugo, will you tell me about your time in Spain?"
"No, my dear, I think not."
"But you used to write such wonderful letters— Oh! Now I remember." Emma puzzled over her disjointed recollections for a second. The memory of Hugo's letters had been dancing round at the back of her mind since the day she had first seen him again, but until now it had refused to be caught. Now she grasped it, firmly. "Those wonderful letters you used to send to Richard every month or so, telling him all about your adventures. When you described your arrival in Portugal, the colours, the noise, I could almost taste it."
"Richard let you read my letters?" Hugo was troubled to think of it. He could not remember how much he might have said. He was sure they had not been fit for a lady's ears.
"No. But he used to read them aloud to me. Well, parts of them." Emma smiled at the recollection. "It all sounded so magical, so different from our humdrum life here in England. I think Richard envied you."
Hugo grimaced.
"And then the letters stopped." Emma looked questioningly at her husband. He seemed bleak and distant. "Richard said you must be too busy to write. Responsibilities and so on. But it wasn't that, was it?"
"No," Hugo said, refusing to elaborate.
Sensing his withdrawal, Emma did not press him further. She reverted to her gay, light-hearted society mode. "And then I went to stay with Aunt Augusta—to be finished, you understand—and I saw Richard much less often. He said you did write, occasionally, but he never read your letters to me any more. I missed them. I thought I knew you so well, and then, suddenly, you weren't there any more." She blushed. "Oh dear, how childish that must sound. I—"
"It sounds much kinder than I deserve, Emma," Hugo said wonderingly, "and I thank you for it. I suppose I should have known that Richard was sharing my letters with you. He spoke of you so often in his own."
Emma was blushing even more now.
"I used to laugh at his tales of your antics. That was all before your aunt turned you into a fine lady, naturally."
Seeing Hugo's indulgent smile, Emma longed to ask why he had stopped writing, but decided against. It was clearly a very sensitive subject. She had no wish to undermine their new-found rapport. "Perhaps it is as well that you both stopped writing regularly. You would have been thoroughly bored by anything Richard said of me after I came to live with Aunt Augusta. It was all very tame and insipid, I fear." She smiled teasingly at him. Would he respond?
Hugo smiled too. "I take leave to doubt that, my dear."
"I declare, you seek to insult me, sir," Emma said in mock outrage, throwing him a wicked look from under her lashes.
It was too much. He went to her and pulled her roughly into his arms. "Now that, my dear wife, is something I would never do," he said huskily, bending his head to touch her lips with his own.
It was a gentle, teasing, tantalising kiss, quite unlike anything he had done before. Emma's whole body responded. Her belly turned to hot, churning liquid, the warmth spreading rapidly up into her breast and down into her thighs. This time she could not remain passive; the feelings were too strong. She leant into him, sliding her arms around his neck, and responding to his lips and his tongue, first shyly, then passionately. Hugo's response was immediate. He pulled her body hard against his own, one hand behind her head, the other gliding down her back. The kiss went on and on. It was terrifying how he made her feel.
It was magical how he made her feel.
At last, Hugo pulled away from her, breathing rapidly. Emma herself was gasping for breath, gazing at him wide-eyed. She did not begin to understand what had happened to her, but she knew she had behaved like a wanton. What would he think of her? She could feel the flush rising on her neck.
She turned to flee to her room, but Hugo was before her.
Taking her hand gently, he said, "Emma, there is nothing to fear." He raised the hand to his lips, kissing it with exquisite courtesy. "I have upset you. I apologise. But pray believe that I would never hurt you. You have no need to run from me."
Emma turned away. She was afraid of what she might see in his eyes. And she knew his words did not excuse her appalling behaviour.
"I will go," Hugo said quietly. He sounded strained. "I had hoped you would come to accept me, but I can understand how difficult it must be for a beautiful young woman like you, forcibly married to such a wreck of a husband. Perhaps, in time—"
Guilt engulfed Emma. Her eyes filled with tears that threatened to well over at any moment. She did not want him to see, but she must not let him leave like this. She steeled herself to reply. "You are wrong, Hugo," she said in a low voice. "I am not afraid of you. And you are not—" Her hands were shaking now. She clasped them together in an attempt to hide her emotions from him. In a whisper she continued, "But I am afraid of the way you make me feel."
CHAPTER TWENTY
In the sudden silence, Emma swallowed hard. What had she said? She must get away from him; she must be alone. Head bowed, she made for the door.
Hugo reached the door in a few strides and pulled it closed. Then he leant back against it, looking intently at her. His arms hung loosely by his sides. He made no move to touch her. A great surge of anger had coursed through him at the thought that he had hurt her, but now, seeing her tears, and hearing her words, he felt only joy. She must be made to believe him now. "You have no need to be afraid of anything, my dear one," he said softly, willing her to look at him. He opened his arms to her. "Come," he said. "Let me show you it is true."
Emma looked up at him then and walked into his embrace without pause for thought. He held her tenderly for a long time, not attempting to kiss her again.
At last, Hugo bent to kiss her tear-streaked face. "Do not weep, Emma. I promise you there is no need." He held her gently, hesitating. The moment was too special to be spoilt by allowing his passions to rule him. He desperately wanted to make love to her, but she must be willing, totally and completely willing. He would not repeat the brutality of their wedding night.
He could not find the words to ask her. Instead he began to plant tiny kisses on her eyelids, her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, the side of her neck. When he began to nuzzle her earlobe, she groaned, tightening her arms around him.
"Emma, my dearest, I want you so much," he said huskily, "but I am afraid to frighten you with my desire. If you want me to, I will stop. You have but to say the word." In truth, he was not sure whether he could, especially if she continued to respond to him like this.
"I…" Emma's voice was barely audible. She tried again. "I am not afraid, Hugo. I do want you to—" She could not say the words, but her blushes told him everything.
"Oh, my beauty," he said, awe in his voice. "My sweet, wonderful wife."
She was blushing so much that she looked to be on fire. This would not do. He must help her through her embarrassment.
He turned to the door that led to her bedchamber, the bedchamber they would share. "Emma, my dear, I believe I have been remiss in my duty." Good. Now curiosity was overcoming her embarrassment. "Is it not a fact that a husband should carry his new wife over the threshold into their new life? And have I not failed?"
"But you cannot," she said at once. "Your wounds. Your weak arm. Hugo, I am no lightweight, in spite of my lack of inches. Do not attempt it, I beg of you."
"Am I to understand that my wife has no faith in her husband's ability to perform his duties, ma'am?" he said, trying to assume the kind of voice he used to lacerate an incompetent subaltern. "You try my patience, wife, indeed you do."
Clearly, he was not as good an actor as he thought, for his wife was laughing up at him. "You, sir," she said archly, "are a fraud. But, nonetheless, I beg you will not attempt it."
"Coward," he said, laughing with her now. "Why should I not? For who is there to see, apart from my faithful wife? And she, I know, will not betray me if I should fail, even though she has my permission to upbraid me roundly if I should drop her on the floor."
Emma shook her head in wonderment, laughing still. It was such a little thing, but the thought that Hugo would trust her to see his weakness was a prize to be cherished. "Since you are determined, husband, I must obey you. Did I not take a vow to do so?"
Hugo kissed her soundly to seal their bargain. Then he opened the door to her bedchamber and took his stance by the threshold. "Put your arms around my neck, Emma," he said crisply, "and do not let go, whatever happens. This will be something of an experiment."
Emma did as she was bid. Hugo put his weaker arm around her waist, bent and slipped his strong right arm under her knees. With a sharp intake of breath, he lifted her from the floor and stepped through the doorway into the bedchamber. He had done it. But it was not enough. It was but a few more steps to the bed. And that was where he should deposit his lovely burden.
After two more steps his hold was weakening.
"Hugo, put me down," Emma cried.
He took one more step and catapulted them both on to the huge bed in a tangle of arms and legs. Emma lay almost crushed beneath him.
"You did it," she said, as soon as she had caught her breath. She tightened her arms around his neck. "And see what an obedient wife I am become. I did not let you go for even a second."
It was true. And she was laughing up at him, her eyes like huge pools filled with summer sky. She was beautiful. And she was his laughing, willing wife. He lowered his lips to hers, to begin the long, slow, and infinitely delicious task of arousing her passions.
The first knock barely registered with Hugo. But the second knock was louder, more insistent. He raised his head and glanced towards the open door to their sitting room. There was no one there.
The knock came a third time. Someone was in the corridor, and knocking urgently at the door to his own bedchamber. Damn! Damn! Damn! He pushed himself up and swung his body round to put his feet to the floor.
Emma opened wide, unseeing eyes. "Hugo?"
Again that strident knocking.
She had heard it now. And she clearly expected that someone would walk in on them at any moment.
Hugo took her hand and squeezed it. "It is nothing, my sweet," he said reassuringly. "Someone is a little impatient to find me, that is all. Give me a moment, and I will send him away with a flea in his ear." He looked down at her. She was so desirable that his whole body ached for her. "Stay there," he whispered. "I shall be but a moment." He made for the door, mechanically straightening his cravat.
In his own bedchamber, the knocking had continued. Hugo wrenched open the door. "What the devil is the meaning of all this noise?" he cried angrily, and then stopped in surprise.
Trouble.
"Oh, God," Hugo said wearily, "what is it this time?"
Kit said nothing, merely glancing warily up and down the corridor.
"I suppose you'd better come in," Hugo said, turning away and leaving his brother to shut the door behind him. Hugo himself was more concerned to ensure that the door to the sitting room was securely closed. It would not do for Emma to hear anything that was said.
Emma kept her eyes closed and desperately tried not to think. Thinking would get in the way of feeling. And feeling was blissful. He wanted her. When he touched her, she burned. When he kissed her, she longed to melt into him, to become part of him. In a moment, he would return, and he would start to kiss her again.
She felt her limbs sinking weakly into the soft bed. It was a kind of lethargy. And yet every fibre of her body was tingling in expectation of a resumption of his touch. He had the ability to bring her alive, as she had never been. She let out a long, contented sigh and snuggled deeper still. Time together, alone, was the answer to their problems. She was more than ready to let him see her weaknesses, if only he would show her
that he did not despise her. And surely he could not? Not now. Not the way he had touched her.
She began to relive the last few minutes, the kisses, the laughing words, the joy of being carried in his arms. She would keep those pictures in her heart for ever, she told herself, trying hard to remember exactly how his brow had furrowed with the exertion of carrying her across the threshold. He was much, much stronger than she had thought. Much, much stronger.
The effort of focusing her mind was becoming increasingly difficult. She had forgotten how tiring a long carriage journey could be. Perhaps Aunt Augusta had been right. It would not matter if she took a little nap. Hugo would be sure to wake her when he returned.
"No, ma'am," said the abigail, white-faced, "that is exactly what the major said. He made me repeat it twice before he left with the other gentleman."
Emma rose from her chair and began to pace. It could not be true. He had promised. "Tell me again, Sawyer," she said sharply.
"The major said to tell you as how he had been called away on urgent business. He would try to return to escort you to Lady Dunsmore's, ma'am, but you were not to delay on his account if he did not arrive in time."
"I see," Emma said unhappily. What could be so urgent, so important, that he could walk out on her without a word? That was not the act of a caring husband. She felt an overwhelming urge to throw something, but she managed to resist. The ornaments in this room belonged to her aunt.
"Oh, and he said to give you his apologies, ma'am. I forgot that the first time."
"Thank you," said Emma quietly. That was some small consolation, though hardly enough to make up for her shattered dreams. She was desirable, but her attractions appeared to rank well below a casual summons from one of his male friends. She was clearly insignificant in Major Hugo Stratton's world. He had paused only to change his dress, and then left without a word.
Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 17
