And yet in a purely theoretical sense she did have designs upon Lord Darleston. Practically speaking, it was a hopeless and irrational dream, but then, practicality had rarely served her interests.
Also, deep down she didn’t believe Lyle would ever want her as a woman.
‘Do you know where my wrap is?’
Lyle crossed the room holding it. He waited for her to turn, so that he might drape it around her shoulders, but Emma stiffened her spine and refused to turn. Recently he’d used such opportunities as a means of getting close to her. Then, all the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, leaving her feeling doubly wretched.
‘What I said earlier, I wasn’t trying to needle you, only to be forthright about things. I don’t like that we live a constant lie. If there was another way –’
‘It’s fine,’ she cut him off. ‘There’s no need to go over this. I perfectly understand that you have needs and that Lord Darleston is helping you fulfil them.’
‘Yes, however –’
‘Don’t, Lyle. You’ve already told me what you’ve done with him. There’s no need to say any more.’ She snatched the wrap from his hands, taking care not to make contact with his person. ‘Take your pleasure in whatever fashion you please. It makes no difference to me.’
CHAPTER FOUR
While fibbing to Lyle as a defensive measure came incredibly easily to Emma, she couldn’t lie in the same way to herself. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks as she fled the bedchamber. It did matter how Lyle took his pleasure. It mattered very much, because in this instance his pleasure was Lord Darleston.
Ninnyhammer! Fool. You’ve spurred Lyle towards him now, when that was the last thing that you wanted.
Though really, wasn’t that for the best? Daydreaming was one matter, but reality quite another. Nothing romantic would ever happen between her and Darleston. They’d never share a touch, while Lyle would find hours of satisfaction in kissing and holding the man. And what she needed was to keep her husband satisfied. That way he wasn’t in her bed making demands.
A deep tremble rolled through her body as she imagined being crushed beneath Lyle’s weight and of being pressed tight to Lyle’s pale skin. No – she corrected – not simply pressed together. He’d be right inside her, so there’d be absolutely no retreat or escape. They’d be completely bound. He’d be under her skin, not just beside it.
The notion froze her in mid-step. Emma clutched the top of the banister and sucked down several steadying breaths. No one else ever seemed to have such a problem with the idea of contact. They were all forever exchanging handshakes, kisses and embraces. The last person to cuddle her had been her nanny, right after she broke the news of Emma’s mother’s death. The embrace had made her skin crawl as though all the bugs and beetles of the graveyard were clambering over her. She’d avoided such clinches before that point, but that hideous show of false and vile affection had made her determined not to endure further embraces.
She’d grieved by the graveside, alone, invulnerable and aloof.
‘Still abed, is he?’ Darleston called up to her. He stood awaiting her return in the hall below, his hat already perched upon his head of fiery hair and his cane swinging gaily in his hand.
Since she didn’t want to admit that she hadn’t extended the invitation to Lyle, Emma remained silent. She mopped her tears, and then continued straight past Darleston out into the fine spray of mist that hung in the air at shoulder level. She fastened her bonnet as she went.
* * *
Darleston strode after Mrs Langley trying not to show his bemusement at her conduct. Although he had no hard evidence for his supposition, he’d lay money on Lyle being dressed and a more than willing companion on their walk. So naturally he had to conclude that Mrs Langley had deliberately excluded her husband from their jaunt. He couldn’t help speculating over the reason.
Had Lyle told her of the passion they’d shared the night before? He hadn’t hinted at making such intimate confessions to his wife, but Darleston had known couples who reported the details of every extramarital tryst to one another. However, if Emma possessed such knowledge and hated the arrangement, why then had she agreed to accompany him out? Had he set himself up for a scolding? He wasn’t sure he could face that. Not after months of rebukes and a night during which recollections of Lyle’s welcoming mouth had left him largely deprived of sleep.
The pale sun still seemed a little too bright this morning.
Darleston lowered the brim of his hat. In truth, tired as he was, his body still ached for more robust loving. To hell with what he’d initially said to Lyle, the chance of pleasure, however fleeting, was too rare a thing to casually dismiss.
It was fine to dismiss the need for love, when love surrounded one in abundance and affection could be bought by merely raising one’s brow. Things became rather more desperate when you were tarnished goods. Women avoided him, afraid that his homosexual tendencies might be transferred to them and onto their husbands, as if his preferences could be equated with the pox. And men avoided him for fear of – well, because they were preposterously conceited for the most part. He had standards as well as taste.
He thought back over the nights he’d spent alone. The caress of his bed sheets against the hot tip of his cock had been unbearable. Even the satisfaction he’d wrought with his own hand hadn’t entirely seen off the seductive ghosts of his imagining. Lyle’s presence had relieved much of that tension.
How could Emma Langley possibly survive with no human contact to soothe away the pains?
Learning her secret, if it existed, was paramount. He wished he could lock himself up that tight, become immune to those around him; no longer need their voices or their nearness to simply propel him through the day.
Of course, he had to touch her, primarily to confirm the validity of Lyle’s assertion. Not that he intended to just reach out and grab her, though on one or two past occasions such actions had got him exactly where he intended to get.
Women – he watched the sway of Emma’s hips as she walked ahead of him – there was no telling where even the subtlest gesture would get you. One misconstrued tilt of the head and you were shackled for ever.
Emma’s purposeful stride came to a halt on the edge of a copse. She peered back at him from beneath the vast rim of her bonnet. Beckoned him forward. Was the bonnet too a guard against affection? Bestowing a kiss upon her would run the risk of serious injury. He eyed the end of her brown ribbons and contemplated tugging upon them so the knot unravelled and he could send the ridge of corduroy flying up into the trees. Its fortress-like confines aside, the colour drained the vitality from her face, giving her a sallow, waxy skin tone. Darleston preferred the deep chestnut of her hair.
‘I’m afraid the path is a little windy and overgrown. And I don’t suppose Father has recollected to have the briars trimmed. He never thinks of such practicalities, only of his vicious brawlers.’ As he approached she strode forth again. ‘We’ll simply have to make the best of it. I trust you don’t mind a few pricks, milord?’
Darleston snorted into his coat cuff, pleased he faced her back once again. If only she were offering something other than a stroll through the brambles then his answer could have been wholeheartedly positive. As it was, it seemed best not to grumble over the nicks in his coat when the excursion had been at his behest.
Not that he had any genuine interest in the venue, only in engaging her as a companion. He still felt uncomfortable about accepting Lyle’s affection with only Lyle’s assurance that Emma would be unperturbed by it.
‘You don’t approve of prize-fighting?’ he ventured, seeing a lead into conversation.
Emma briefly turned her head to look back at him. ‘I confess I find little to admire in such sport. Perhaps you can tell me what the appeal is in watching grown men beat the wits from one another’s heads when they possess few enough to start with?’ The path widened a fraction and he caught up so that they walked abreast.
‘I’m afra
id any explanation I offer would fail to enlighten and paint me in very poor light.’
Did he see a twinkle of knowledge in her pretty blue eyes? Did she think just for a minute, as he did, that there were aesthetic reasons for watching shirtless men fight? Although most of the prize-fighters he’d known were sadly spoiled in the looks department. Too many scuffs and broken noses did that. He tended to focus his attention on the parts that were normally left unseen.
‘You’re not aroused by such a show of strength?’
Emma gave an indelicate tut. ‘Intelligence is far more valuable to me than brawn. I think I should rather watch a scholar study than see two hot sweaty men bloody one another’s noses and wrestle in the clarts like beasts.’
‘Indeed. Yes, I suppose it is faintly ludicrous for grown men to behave in such a way, but then we do love to pit ourselves against one another.’
‘We’re almost there. We take a right ahead where the path forks.’ She gave him a rather hard stare when he stood mere inches from her person. Her normally agreeable mouth formed into a tight pout that made him want to smooth a thumb over it to iron the wrinkles away.
Naturally, he held back from such an intimacy. They weren’t friends enough for that sort of action to pass without rebuke, even if she weren’t as skittish as a hare over the mere press of a fingertip.
Although, all said, he still had only Lyle’s word that that was how she’d react.
‘An amphitheatre is an atypical garden attribute,’ he observed.
Her expression brightened immediately. ‘Yes. My great-grandfather had it built as a fernery, but it fell out of favour once the Orangery was completed. He was prone to momentary passions. He owned three hundred coats when he died. Not a single one had ever been given away. His valet positively despaired.’
‘I’m surprised only one valet sufficed.’ Darleston swung his cane and knocked aside an arch of thorns. ‘Ah, but the ferns remain,’ he observed.
They had reached a sheer drop, so that they looked down into a bowl in the earth, with concentric stone-edged tiers cut into the sides. Ferns grew in patches upon the banks, long stems reaching for the sun. It was the most perfect space for all manner of indiscretions, which he suspected was its primary purpose, not the growth of ferns.
Steep steps, worn and lined with cracks, led to the various layers of the amphitheatre and down to the circular base, where sandbags and ropes already marked the extent of the prize-fighters’ ring. Darleston jogged down to the base and strolled the perimeter.
Directly opposite the steps, a tree lay fallen across the entrance to a stone tunnel. The huge trunk formed a solid bridge between several of the tiers. ‘That’s not recently come down?’
Emma shook her head. ‘It’s been there since before I was born. There are dates carved into the bark.’ She wound her way around one tier and traced her hand across what he presumed to be one of the carvings. ‘The tunnel leads through to the promenade in the walled garden, but it’s rather damp and in ill repair. It’ll be hideous if Father traipses all the spectators through that way.’
Lyle ought to have brought him here last night, where they’d truly have been shielded from the house and the chance of discovery, although it would have been a good deal colder than the Orangery. Still, personally he preferred the natural shield formed by the high banks, undergrowth and woodland to walls of transparent glass.
Emma followed him down into the basin. They stood awhile in companionable silence. He liked that quality in a woman. So many of the silly chits in town saw silence as their downfall and chattered on inanely without pause. Of course, she was older than most of the maids out seeking a husband. He guessed her to be a good ten years older than her sister.
‘What are your passions?’ he asked. When she turned and looked at him he qualified the statement: ‘As you’re not one for boxing.’ He imagined she’d list the normal rote of womanly accomplishments, but instead she simply shrugged. Only after a significant pause did she answer.
‘I pickle things.’
‘Cabbages, beetroot, that sort of thing?’
She laughed at his seriousness. ‘What else? You didn’t think me an amateur naturalist, did you?’
‘Well, I confess the thought of pickled mice did cross my mind. You’re clearly not a great lover of crowds, so something else must entertain you, and I’ve come across a few rather eccentric recluses.’
Outrage briefly flared in her eyes. ‘I’m hardly that.’
‘No. No, of course not. You’re far too pretty to be a hermit.’
Emma blushed a little, his ill-chosen words forgotten in the wake of the compliment. She turned away from him still smiling and found herself a perch upon the fallen log. ‘Do you have one on your estate?’ she asked a moment later. Her fingers worked over whatever names were carved into the tree bark.
‘Me? I have neither a hermitage nor an estate. I own very little save a vast array of coats and a plethora of dubious appellations. Everything belongs to my father, including a few of the labels with which I’m blessed.’ He was rather glad she didn’t enquire into what those labels were as most of them were unrepeatable. ‘You don’t paint?’
‘No. Do you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Any other hobbies?’
He couldn’t help it. A wicked grin slid across his lips. ‘One or two.’ He raised his brow.
‘Oh!’ Emma gulped, and then retreated into the shadows of her bonnet. She left her perch and went to look at some of the wild flowers nestled amongst the ferns. Still, it wasn’t long before he felt her gaze upon his back. He’d been facing away from her, eyeing the tunnel entrance, itching to explore, but wondering if it was too much to ask her if the passage were truly as riddled with dirt as she seemed to suggest. Darleston turned a little so that he could spy her from the corner of his eye. She was looking – no, staring – at him intently, her expression a curious mix of desire and revolt; hot eyes, sullen lips.
The expression alone raised a purr of interest in his chest. Coupled with his need for affection – well, the possibility of her wanting him set his pulse racing.
Maybe he was mistaking anger for desire. If she knew or suspected what had happened between him and Lyle then it made sense that she’d be riled. Not that their encounters so far suggested that. Additionally, there was something in her gaze that was too curious, too warm to be anger. Plus the stare wasn’t focused upon the back of his head as though she intended to deliver a blow, rather it travelled up and down his form, taking in the contours, lingering over his profile and the curve of his arse.
The merry devil was staring at his arse.
Well, that ruled out the possibility of her being Sapphic. It wasn’t repulsion over being with a man that was keeping her from Lyle’s bed. The notion had briefly entertained him, or at least the possibility of watching her with another maid had done so.
Darleston turned to fully face her. He raised a brow. Emma’s chin immediately drooped towards her chest. Four strides brought him to her. He took the obvious course. The same one he’d trodden with many a drooping wallflower. He stretched out a hand and with two fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
Shock so deep it bleached every hint of colour from her face transformed her expression. Her eyes opened so wide her blue irises shone like halos. Emma’s mouth fell open, and not in a good way. Not in a ‘kiss me, I’m yours’ way. Instead, he winced, expecting a scream. However, she remained silent. Then, rather than knocking his arm away, she scrambled backwards away from him as though he was Satan and his hellish touch burned.
‘Why?’ she might have asked. ‘Why did you touch me?’
Instead – nothing. Arms wrapped tight about her body, she continued to shiver.
‘I didn’t mean to startle –’
‘Forgive me.’ She cut him off. ‘I no longer feel so well.’
In truth she didn’t look it either.
Darleston watched her flee back up the steps and into the t
hicket of grass and briars. Considering the shock he’d seen on her face, he didn’t envisage her halting before reaching the edge of the copse, perhaps not until she’d locked herself behind her stout bedchamber door.
Naturally any decent man would have followed and seen her home safely, or at least attempted to intercept her flight, but pursuing her would likely cause more harm than good. He’d seen the sheen of tears in her eyes; heard the thickness in her throat. And he and tears never mixed to anyone’s satisfaction but his own. His brother Neddy had once observed that what he really needed in his life was a doxy who wept whenever he spoke.
‘Satisfied that I’m no liar now?’ Lyle emerged from the gloom in the tunnel’s entrance and sauntered towards the fallen tree.
Darleston strode upwards to meet him, admiring the buff and cream ensemble in which Lyle had dressed. Pale colours suited him. His breeches had been handsomely cut so they rode over his upper thighs like a second skin, giving rise to all manner of tempting thoughts – and wasn’t that likely the intent?
‘Followed us out, did you?’ he asked.
Lyle offered him a simple shrug. ‘It seemed prudent, given your reputation as a licentious rakehell, and, considering what I’ve just witnessed, it seems I was right to keep watch.’
‘And what did you see exactly?’
Lyle cast an awkward glance in the direction of Emma’s flight. ‘Robert, it seems very much to me that you were attempting to kiss my wife, which is rather unsporting of you, given all the pleasure I advanced you last night.’
‘I was merely trying to affirm what you’d told me.’
‘Then a handshake would have done.’
Darleston rested against the fallen log in a spot where the bark had completely worn away. This close to the tunnel entrance, he could see that it was indeed damp and riddled with murky puddles.
Her Husband’s Lover Page 5
