Slowly, delicately, he began to undo the buttons on the back of her gown. She felt his fingers moving on her. She knew he was timing each move with the steps of the dance. She found she was waiting eagerly for every touch, for it was taking them closer to something she knew she desired, perhaps as much as he.
Hugo continued to hum and to guide her through their sensuous waltz until every button had been undone. A little pressure on the neckline of her gown and it would fall to her feet. Emma closed her eyes, leaning in to him. She felt such love and longing. She wanted to look into his eyes, to see her own emotions mirrored there, but she did not dare. She could not bear to think that they might be absent. Hugo's humming moved down the curve of her ear to her earlobe and thence to the line of her jaw. And yet he continued to waltz. She no longer knew where she was, except that she was floating.
When at last his lips touched hers, she let out a little groan. Now the music must stop. Now he would stop waltzing and kiss her properly. Her lips parted of their own accord.
But she was wrong. Even as his tongue slipped teasingly between her lips, the music continued from somewhere in his throat. And he went on whirling her round and round. She had to stop him. She would go mad with frustration if she did not stop him.
With a cry of protest, she wrested her hand free and flung her arms around his neck, returning his gentle kiss with a passion so fierce that it frightened her. She did not know what she was doing or why, only that she must find a way of showing him what she felt, even at the risk of repelling him with her behaviour.
The answering moan, deep in his throat, was eloquent, as was the way his hand skimmed down her back to press her hard against him. He drew his lips away from hers to whisper, in a voice so husky that she barely recognised it, "Emma, you are like to drive me mad."
So he felt it, too. Why, then, had he stopped kissing her?
She opened her eyes. They were in her bedchamber. She did not know how they had come there. And the shutters were closed. For a moment, she was blind in the sudden gloom. She could barely see his face, though she knew instinctively that his eyes were gazing into hers. As her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she had a fleeting fancy that he was studying her face, as if trying to carry away her picture, but then he smiled down at her and she forgot everything but the joy of being in his arms at last.
When he put his hands on her shoulders, pushing the neckline of her gown aside, she held his gaze bravely. There was nothing to blush for. Not now. Obedient to his touch, she let her arms slide down to her sides. With the softness of a lover's hand, the gown whispered over her skin to pool at her feet.
Hugo stood transfixed, looking at her as if he had never seen anything so beautiful. Then he crushed her fiercely to him, kissing her with such desperation that she thought she was about to be consumed. She tried to speak, but it was impossible. His mouth was too strong, too insistent. Without another thought, she gave herself up to him.
The noise of her chemise tearing seemed to come from a long way off. She barely noticed it. All her being was focused on returning his passion, kiss for kiss, and pushing aside his clothing so that she could put her hands on his naked body, and make him share the tremors that were beginning to torment her. "Hugo," she groaned into his mouth. "Hugo, I love you."
He stopped kissing her. He stopped breathing altogether. Then he swung her naked body into his arms and on to the bed as if she weighed no more than thistledown. She cried out at the loss of his touch, but in seconds, it seemed, he was beside her again, and as naked as she.
He put his hand on her cheek, turning her to face him. "Emma, my darling wife," he began throatily.
It was too much. She did not care what was to come. She would endure any amount of pain to have his kisses, his touch. She needed them now. "Kiss me, Hugo," she said desperately. "Please."
He could not resist the longing in her voice. She loved him. And she wanted him. This time, he would show her how it should be between lovers. This time, it would be for her alone.
He began to kiss her delectable mouth, not frantically now, but with controlled passion, fierce and tender by turns until she was moaning with desire. His own cravings he ruthlessly suppressed, even while the glories of her body under his questing hands painted pictures of wild abandon in his mind. He would not give in to their call, not until his wife, the woman he loved, was mindless with need.
Emma's hands were roaming over his body, stroking his hair when he took her proud nipple into his mouth, scoring her nails down his back when he pulled her beneath him at long last, cupping his buttocks to urge him on. This time, she did not flinch when he entered her, but welcomed him with a deep sigh of longing fulfilled. It seemed to echo through his whole being. He held himself very still, in wonderment.
"Don't stop," she cried. "Please!"
Hugo's hard-won control was snapped by that single word. He began to move within her, urged on by the passion of her responses. He needed to give her the fulfilment she sought but he was losing control, he could not hold back, he had to—
Emma gasped for breath as the shudders began to rack her body.
Hugo let go at last. And, as he reached his own climax, he heard a strangled voice which sounded somehow like his own. It was surely inside his head. And it was saying hoarsely, over and over, "I love you."
Hugo stood looking down at his sleeping wife, trying to absorb every detail of her beauty. If he was to die this day, he wanted her face to be the last picture in his mind, and her name to be the last word on his lips. He closed his eyes for a second. Yes, he could see her image, her golden curls spread over the pillow in disarray, her lips a fraction open as if in invitation of his kisses, her breast rising and falling with each slow breath. In his mind, her eyes were open and filled with love—eyes as blue as the Spanish skies.
He must leave.
He took one last look at Emma. She slept peacefully, a picture of innocent yet seductive womanhood against the tumbled evidence of their passion. He would not have believed that she could respond to him as she had. Under her chaste exterior, he had uncovered a woman as sensuous and as bewitching as the goddess of love herself. He could not leave without one more touch.
He dared not kiss her lips, lest she wake. Instead, he leant across the bed to place a tiny kiss on her cheek. She moved a little in her sleep, making a faint sound in her throat. It was like an echo of the cries of pleasure that his love-making had drawn from her last night.
"I love you, Emma," he said in a low voice, willing her to understand even though she slept. "I love you. Forgive me."
He went out quickly then and regained his own bedchamber before the sight of her could break his resolve. He had been on the point of taking her in his arms and kissing her until they were both lost in passion all over again.
He closed his door firmly but he could not bring himself to turn the key in the lock. He could not shut her out, even today.
His valet had already brought his shaving water and was laying out his clothes—dark, unostentatious garments to make him less of a target in the early light. "Thank you," Hugo said quietly. "I shall not need you now. Go downstairs and watch for my brother's arrival. Make sure he does not wake the house."
The valet nodded grimly and left.
Hugo began the methodical business of readying himself for what might be his last day on earth. He was not afraid. His resolve was unshakeable. He was determined that Forster would suffer for what he had done, but he would not kill the man, much though he deserved it. Emma could not be married to a murderer. No. Forster would be scarred, and preferably for life. And he? That would depend on Forster's nerve, and Forster's skill with a pistol.
Hugo straightened his dark coat and sat down at the little table by the window where he had placed his letter to Emma. The black ink of the superscription stood out starkly against the white paper. To my wife, to be opened only in the event of my death. He took it in his hand, remembering the words he had written. He could not leave her li
ke that.
A soft knock was followed by the return of his valet. "Sir," he said, "your brother is waiting for you. I am to tell you to hurry, he says. If you do not leave now, you will be late."
Hugo waved him away with an impatient hand. "Tell him I will be there presently."
He opened the letter and reread what he had written. It was as cold and stiff as he had thought. He should write another. But there was no time.
He hunted around for a usable pen and dipped it in the ink. There was no time to compose fine words. He must write what he felt and hope she would understand.
"PS I do not have time to write again. This short postscript must suffice. Emma, my love, my darling wife, it grieves me not to be able to look into your eyes as I say this farewell. I love you. Believe that, whatever else you may not believe. Your love goes with me, my most cherished possession. I beg you to try to forgive me for deserting you. It was not for want of love. God bless you, always. H.S."
The door opened again as he finished those few lines. "For God's sake, Hugo," hissed Kit. "You must come now."
"Yes," said Hugo, rising, and trying to refold the letter into its existing creases. Where were the wafers? He cursed. The more he tried to hurry, the clumsier he seemed to become.
At last he propped the letter on the table where she would find it. If he did not return. Kit was standing in the open doorway beckoning urgently to him. With a final glance in the direction of the sitting room and his sleeping wife beyond, Hugo hastened out.
But he closed the door too hastily. The sudden draught caught the letter and carried it to the floor where it lay, face down, concealed by the shadow of the chair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was a strange morning, its atmosphere almost uncanny. Hugo could not decide why he felt so detached from everyday reality. For a man who was going to face death, he knew himself to be unnaturally calm.
He looked out across the expanse of the park as they drove by. There was something peculiar about the way the early morning mist hugged the ground, obscuring all but the tallest trees. The treetops seemed to be floating, disembodied, beneath the bloody orb of the sun. Was it an omen? He refused to believe that it could be. Forster, too, must be seeing the same baleful image. Its message could as easily be for him.
It was a long time since Hugo had been about so early. In Spain, there had been many a day when he had risen at first light, but the dawn chorus was never like this. He found it hard to believe that London could be home to so many songbirds, even in early summer. Like the mist, the sound seemed magical. Was it his own heightened senses drinking in the beauty of his surroundings for, possibly, the last time?
He smiled to himself. No. It was not any morbid fascination with his last day on earth. It was joy: joy that his wife, his Emma, was in love with him; joy that she had found fulfilment in his arms; joy that they had been able to share their passion at last, even though only for one night.
But there would be other nights. He was almost sure of that, now. Emma's love made him feel armoured, almost invincible. He must survive to return to her.
At his side, Kit was silent, giving all his attention to his horses. There was little traffic at such an early hour, but it was vital not to be late. Blessing Kit for his understanding, Hugo leant back against the soft leather and closed his eyes. He would allow himself a few moments to dream of Emma. And then he would bury every vestige of emotion deep within himself, to prepare for this meeting with his mortal enemy. He was determined to be cold and implacable. Forster had as good as murdered Hugo's comrades. Such a man deserved no mercy at all.
By the time they reached Paddington Green, the sun would have begun to burn off the mist. There was yet time. By five o'clock, they would surely face each other in bright, dazzling daylight.
Emma stretched contentedly but did not wake. She was not dreaming. Waking or sleeping, she now knew that she had no need of dreams, for the man she yearned for was the man she had married. He loved her, and he had spent the night teaching her the joys of love between husband and wife. He had shown her that physical love could carry her to a place of wonder and ecstasy. And he had let her see that she had more power over him than she could ever have imagined. When she touched him, his body responded, as hers responded to him. He was powerless to control his hunger for her. And he was proud of his own weakness, confessing it to her between kisses that drugged her senses. She had conquered him, he told her, and he was more than willing to yield.
She moaned a little, remembering. Soon she would wake and turn to him. He would be waiting for her. And he would respond.
Hugo paced up and down, impatiently slapping his thigh with his gloves. His seconds were here. The surgeon was here, standing apart in his rusty black coat. But there was no sign of Forster.
Kit made his way to his brother's side and put a hand on his arm. "It wants five minutes to the hour, Hugo. He is bound to appear. He would be branded a coward, else."
Hugo was in no mood to be placated. He shrugged off Kit's hand and resumed his pacing without a word.
Kit merely shook his head and walked back to consult with his fellow second.
The bell of St Mary's began to chime the hour. Hugo looked up, listening. One. Two. Still no sign of Forster. Three. The distant sound of galloping horses broke the stillness.
On the fourth stroke, a closed carriage appeared through the trees, drawn by steaming horses. Forster had arrived.
Hugo nodded towards his seconds and resumed his pacing. There was nothing for him to do until they had examined the weapons and marked out the ground. Kit would come for him when all was ready. Hugo strode away from the little group. Twenty-five paces, he thought, counting. Then he would turn and take twenty-five paces back. It seemed appropriate. They would face each other at just such a distance.
He turned, still counting. One, two. What on earth was going on? The seconds were conferring in considerable agitation. There was no sign of Forster. Hugo supposed he must have stayed in the carriage. Stupid man. His muscles would be cramped from sitting. Not the best preparation for a duel, even if it was not to be swords.
Eleven, twelve.
The seconds had begun to pace out the ground at last, taking care to ensure that neither protagonist would have the morning sun in his eyes. The bloody orb was gone now, as was the mist. A slight, fresh breeze had arisen, stirring the trees like a whispering voice. The sky was a blue as Emma's eyes and the sun was as gold, as dazzling, as her hair. Hugo swallowed hard and banished her image. Not now. He dare not think of her now. Later. When it was over.
Kit came to meet him and lead him to his place. Forster had still not emerged from the carriage. Kit touched Hugo on the arm. "Forster's second will drop the handkerchief," he said. "I will—" He broke off. Forster was climbing down from the carriage at last. "Good God!" Kit exclaimed. "I'm not having that!" He strode off towards the other seconds, indignation clear in the set of his shoulders.
Forster was dressed, like Hugo, in a plain dark coat. But, while Hugo's head was bare, Forster had covered his with a close-fitting black cap, such as might be worn by an elderly invalid, crouching by the fire to keep warm.
Hugo could hear Kit's angry voice though he could not make out the words. There was no need. Kit would certainly be accusing Forster of ungentlemanly conduct, covering his head to make himself less of a target. The exchange would not last long. Hugo had complete faith in his brother's ability to carry his point.
He was right. Forster's seconds had begun to remonstrate with their principal even as he chose his pistol. And Kit was walking across the grass, carrying the remaining pistol by its barrel.
Hugo took it, checking it mechanically. It was primed and cocked. He let his arm hang by his side, pointing the pistol at the ground, feeling the weight of it.
Not long now.
Kit gave him one long, meaningful look and walked calmly back to his place.
Hugo took his stance, his right shoulder and arm towards his opponen
t, his body sideways to make the smallest possible target. He looked towards Forster. The man had his pistol in his hand now but had not uncovered his head. He was arguing with one of his seconds in a low angry voice. The second seemed to lose patience. He reached up and pulled off the cap.
Forster's shout of anger echoed round the green.
The right side of Forster's head sported several ugly red patches among the brown hair. Bald patches.
No one moved. Everyone was staring at Forster. Had some of his hair fallen out overnight? Impossible, surely? Unless…? Hugo smiled grimly to himself. Fear would be the answer. Forster was an abject coward. Hugo has sensed that, in Spain. And Forster's seconds had obviously had to drag their man to this meeting. In his terror at the prospect of facing Hugo along the barrel of a pistol, Forster must have spent the night plucking unthinkingly at his own hair. No wonder he had tried to keep his head covered once he'd seen the state he was in. Those bare patches were the badge of his shame. And now, all London would recognise it.
"Get on with it." Forster's angry shout, and the accompanying curse, carried clearly across the field.
The seconds moved to their places. The doctor turned his back. The handkerchief was raised.
Hugo fixed his gaze on his target. The pistol hung heavy in his hand. In a moment, the handkerchief would fall, he would raise his pistol and—
The ball reached him almost before he heard the sound of the shot.
Forster had fired before the signal.
Hugo was stunned. He could hardly believe it, even of a man like Forster. He stood motionless, watching the shocked reactions of the others as if they were actors on a distant stage. The turf between them now seemed to stretch for miles. The seconds at the far end were closing on Forster, shouting in angry voices. Kit looked ready to kill the man with his bare hands.
But the second with the handkerchief was rock steady, as if such perfidy were an everyday occurrence. "Stand back, gentlemen," he called loudly, looking sternly first at Forster and then at Hugo. "I am about to begin."
Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Page 20
