Her Husband’s Lover

by Madelynne Ellis

  ‘Emma.’ He propped himself up on one elbow so that he could see her more clearly. With any other woman things would be so simple. An embrace, a simple kiss could lead to so many places, but she still flinched whenever he reached out to her. ‘I want you to know that I stayed away from you tonight because I deemed it safer, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t desire things to be different. Part of me wishes that you, Lyle and I could simply walk out of the house tonight and flee, never to be seen again. We could live somewhere remote where we’d be free of censure.’ Not that he believed such a place existed. ‘However, I’ve been running for the whole of my adult life. It’s time I stood firm. I’m no longer prepared to have my life dictated to me by that venomous harpy.’ His mother was dead. His father had chosen to make a whore his second countess, and Lucy had done everything in her power to destroy him. He wasn’t going to be henpecked any more.

  Despite her intake of breath, Darleston splayed a hand over the flat of Emma’s stomach. The contact made her jolt, but she didn’t move out of reach. Instead her eyes filled with woeful longing. ‘Will you stay?’ he asked.

  ‘I shouldn’t.’

  By which she meant she wanted to, but didn’t know if she’d cope with what she believed he intended.

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’ He swept his hand upwards until he captured a nipple in the centre of his palm. The tip immediately crinkled. Emma gave a low gasp.

  Lord, it hurt to see the anxiety wrinkle her brow. ‘We could just cuddle,’ he suggested. The frantic coupling they’d made in the dovecote would never have been his choice for a first time. He didn’t want to think it always had to be that way. He opened his arms to her so that she might rest her head against his chest.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He thought she would leave, but then she slid into his arms and her cheek pressed lightly against his chest.

  ‘I wish you’d tell me what you are so afraid of. What happened to you that makes you fear this closeness so much?’

  He felt her shake her head. ‘I just never wanted the hollowness to swallow me up entirely. Sometimes it’s easier not to feel.’

  He guessed he understood that. From the outset, her ability to cut herself off had been what intrigued him most about her. He’d never been able to sever his emotions like that, no matter what his many acquaintances believed.

  Closer. He wanted her even closer now.

  Darleston tugged off his nightshirt. ‘Let me lie naked beside you.’ He wasn’t thinking of sex, only of skin-on-skin contact. Emma tentatively tugged open the ribbon fastening of her nightrail. She wore a white linen affair, decorated with swirls of embroidery all the way up to her throat. She lifted the hem and drew the whole thing off in the same way he’d removed his nightshirt.

  Lord, she was beautiful. He hadn’t had the chance to really appreciate that before. Emma clung tight to the sheet, but he refused to let her hide. This woman had enchanted him when countless lascivious whores couldn’t even raise his pulse with their jiggling and their pouts. Darleston pushed back the covers so that the moonlight fell on her skin and turned it silvery. Soft, creamy flesh the colour of buttermilk greeted him. She seemed so sharp in her clothing that part of him had expected her to be all angular; rather she was rounded and curvy as a woman ought to be. Her breasts were plentiful but not heavy, and her thighs slightly plump. ‘You’re beautiful.’ He rose over her, wedging himself between her knees. ‘May I kiss you?’

  She gazed at him as if uncertain, then tentatively nodded. Her lips parted ever so slightly in invitation. A grin curving his lips, Darleston dipped his head, not to meet her lips. He bestowed a kiss on her belly instead. His tongue flicked lightly into the hollow of her navel. Emma reacted as though she’d been singed, bucking up off the bed and shaking. Her heart thumped so strongly he could hear it. He had no intention of letting it slow back to a normal rate.

  So maybe he wasn’t playing fair; nor was she, by coming here in the dead of night. Even the illusion he upheld of being a gentleman faded after midnight.

  Slowly he shimmied backwards until his head was positioned over her springy curls. ‘May I kiss you again?’

  This time she had a better idea of what to expect. It showed in her voice as she squeaked, ‘Yes,’ and in the way she gazed at him in petrified adulation.

  The scent of her quim filled his nostrils. Darleston bent and tasted her cunny with one slow lingering sweep of his tongue – salty and so utterly feminine, so completely different from Lyle, but just as heavenly.

  Her thighs quivered as his lips worked their magic. ‘Easy now.’ He used his hands to push her legs a little wider, forcing her muscles to relax. He had the taste of her on his tongue now, and she lay completely open to him. She was all his.

  If that weren’t intoxication enough, her gasps transformed into groans that she tried to muffle by pressing her mouth against the back of her hand. Another flick of his tongue and she exchanged that hand for the silencing effects of the pillow.

  He could see the point – they didn’t want their loving overheard – though he longed to throw it across the room. Hearing her muffled cries called to him, so that his blood sang in his veins. Arousal tingled through his shaft, but for now he was content to listen to her sighs and let the fever of anticipation burn. ‘That’s right, tell me,’ he crooned. Damn, he knew how to satisfy a woman, but he’d never wanted to offer contentment in quite the way he did now.

  He took things slowly, savouring her taste and avoiding her little swollen nubbin until he was certain that to do so any longer would simply be cruel. Then he turned his kiss upon the pearl peeking shyly out from beneath its hood. That was enough. Her shoulders rose off the pillow and her thighs clamped tight around his head. ‘God! Oh!’ She came, the pitter-patter pulse of her climax beating softly against his tongue.

  Rather than waiting for her to calm, Darleston slid his cock into the heat of her channel. She stared up at him, wild-eyed, blissful yet still afraid.

  He’d do anything to remove that fear and have her know true ecstasy.

  ‘I … I … I can’t.’ She battered at his hands in panic. Still, her hips lifted to meet him and her sheath hugged his shaft.

  ‘Shh!’ he soothed, stroking inside her. ‘I want you to feel good.’ Then he remembered Lyle’s words about how he imagined Emma would want sex to be. Control played an essential part in her ability to cope with the invasion of her personal space. He’d taken that from her. Time he handed it back. ‘Roll over.’

  Bodies sandwiched tightly together, Darleston rolled them so that he lay on his back with Emma astride his hips. ‘At your own pace,’ he instructed as she rose above him. Her breasts bounced. The nipples were coral-pink.

  Darleston locked his hands around the bedposts. It killed him to do it. All he wanted was to smooth his hands over her creamy skin and give her every last bit of pleasure he could, but he’d pushed things too far, gone a little too fast. Time he accepted his punishment. Though, considering the rush he felt as she danced delicately on his chest, it was hardly a penalty at all.

  Emma’s panic settled immediately now that she was above him. The fear washed out of her eyes. She moved too slowly at first to satisfy the intensity of his need. His knuckles ached from gripping the bedposts. He wanted to grab her and buck into her hard and fast. However, the more she relaxed and the more he fought his urges, the more her movements fell into line with his desires. Soon they were rising and falling in perfect harmony, their shallow breaths perfectly synchronised. He was so close, so very, very close to coming that her frustration didn’t register at first. Then it hit him. The way she moved, the way her teeth were ground together, all spoke to him of something out of reach.

  ‘I can’t. It’s not working properly.’

  Was she talking about them? The hell it wasn’t working properly. It was divine.

  ‘I can’t … I want to …’

  He understood. ‘It’s all right, Emma. Stop chasing it so hard. Relax.’ No way
on God’s earth was he leaving her frustrated. Darleston adjusted his grip upon the bedposts. ‘Pet yourself. Let me watch you.’ His gaze fell to the juncture of their two bodies. Obliging her would be his pleasure. He just wanted to make sure it was hers too. ‘Go ahead, touch yourself. You know how to do that, right?’

  Emma tentatively lifted one hand from where it rested upon the bed. She extended her index finger and curled the rest.

  Darleston’s breath quickened as she slowly drew her hand up her leg to the juncture of her thighs. She looked down at how they were joined, her mouth open, tongue flicking back and forth over her small white teeth. Then gently, she tapped her finger to her nub.

  Wow! He watched pleasure lick colour through her irises. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Hell, he was desperate to feel her come around his cock, but this was about taking things at Emma’s pace, even though every strategy he knew for slowing things down was failing him utterly.

  Restraint? After the week he’d spent, his reserves were spent.

  ‘It feels wrong to touch myself like this.’ A rosy blush spread across her cheeks.

  ‘Why should it be wrong?’

  ‘It’s lewd.’

  ‘Emma, you’ve no idea. This is nothing compared to what I’d like to do.’

  She grinned. ‘I’ve seen what you’ve done with Lyle.’

  Darleston bucked upwards sharply, toppling her forward over his supine form. She only just caught herself before she landed flat upon his chest. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little lewdness, nor a little lust. And I get a whole lot lewder than what you’ve seen me do to Lyle. I’ve done things that’d make your hair curl.’

  ‘That would save me the effort of applying rags.’

  Her snappy comeback shocked a laugh from him. ‘Oh, my God! I can’t believe you said that.’ He kissed her tenderly upon the lips, only for Emma to open up to him. More than that, she darted her tongue inside his mouth, which damn near undid him completely. When she relaxed, she was incredible – every inch the woman he’d always expected she could be. Somehow she had forgotten whatever evil lurked in her past that had led her to isolate herself. If only he knew the key to releasing her permanently, then truly things would work out between her, Lyle and him. He wanted that. Wanted it so desperately. Lucy be damned. Come morning, he’d do whatever it took to get rid of her. Divorce her even, if necessary.

  ‘Emma.’ He wedged a hand between their bodies and found her clit, and then kept on rubbing it as they writhed together.

  He’d come to the country determined to hide away and disassociate himself from the pleasures of the flesh. Rejected, and disillusioned, he’d believed himself unworthy of love. Instead, he’d stumbled upon the two people in the world who could make him feel whole.

  ‘Emma, I can’t hold this much longer. I’m going to …’ The pulse of his orgasm already beat at the base of his cock. Pressure flowed upward through his balls and into his shaft. He pushed her away as best he could. ‘I really probably ought not to come inside you.’

  ‘Why?’ Her words were a dry, husky caress against her cheek, her eyes two blue pools inches above him, so open and unafraid that he instantly regretted his words. To hell with consequences, he wanted a life with her.

  Only then the realisation hit her. He saw it first in her eyes. Vapours of pain clouded their bright surfaces. She froze. But he was already there, spilling his seed deep inside her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In the nauseous silence that followed, Darleston lay on his back, body glowing, but his heart rent in two. Never had he felt so vile, so villainous. He’d meant only to give her pleasure. Instead he’d delivered a blow from which she might never recover. He ought to have taken better care of her. Considering his extensive experience of matters of the flesh, he ought to have spared a little more thought to the repercussions of indulging his desires.

  Emma lay curled on her side on the farthest edge of the mattress. Each sob that wormed up out of her throat carved another slice out of his soul. She flinched when he rolled over and extended a touch toward her. The mere brush of his fingertips against her shoulder made her curl up tight like a hedgehog being scrutinised by its prey.

  ‘Emma, I’m so sorry, I let things get out of hand. I just …’ He just what? Telling her he loved her would sound incredibly hollow at this juncture, as if he was dismissing the issue of a pregnancy because love conquered all, when in truth that was utter bollocks. In his experience, love rarely triumphed over anything, and a baby was evidently the last thing Emma needed in her life. Hell, it wasn’t something he relished as part of his. Who the devil wanted a lovelorn punk as a father? At least now he half understood some of Emma’s behaviour. He’d mentioned offspring the very first evening at Field House and watched her expression cloud. Then he’d simply put it down to shame. So many wives blamed themselves when children didn’t promptly arrive after a marriage. After two and a half years with Lyle and nary a patter of tiny feet, she must have felt pressure. But that hadn’t been the reason for Emma’s frown. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t have children.’

  Instinctively, he knew she didn’t mean in a physical sense. Fertility wasn’t an issue, else she wouldn’t have leaped away from him so fast after he’d spilled his seed. No, she meant that she couldn’t tolerate the notion of growing or supporting a babe. Only he didn’t understand why. He knew several women who balked at the idea of offspring, but they were all self-centred, harridans to the core, with no love for anything beyond self-indulgence. Emma no more fitted that bill than he did that of a saintly verger.

  ‘What happened?’ This time he risked a rebuke and curled his fingers around the top of her arm. Emma didn’t shrug him off, though she did bite her fingers. Even in the half-light, he could see the shimmer of tears trickling over her cheeks.

  ‘Emma, did you have a child?’ All manner of possibilities warred in his thoughts, most of them too dark to contemplate.

  ‘No,’ she croaked, and shook her head. ‘I just lost so many.’

  Miscarriage? No – that made no sense. He’d swear he was the first man with whom she’d lain. No point in pretending he understood what she was trying to say. He didn’t.

  Instead, he hunched over her, unable to offer the comfort she so obviously needed. ‘Tell me again, I don’t understand.’ He sought her gaze. Tears had turned her eyes pink. Still their brightness shone, impressing upon him how much he’d come to care for her in such a short time. ‘Please, Emma. I want to understand.’

  After a while, she pushed herself upright and got out of the bed. She didn’t try to speak, just cast about the floor for her shift.

  ‘God, Emma! Don’t go. Not like this.’ Horror at the thought of her departing set him rolling across the eiderdown to reach her.

  ‘Not going. Come with me,’ she croaked as she pushed her feet into delicate satin pumps. ‘Can’t explain properly. Put on some breeches. I’ll show you.’

  Darleston lumbered rather ungracefully off the bed on the side nearer to Emma. Wherever she intended them to go he’d follow, if it helped make sense of what afflicted her. He pulled on his breeches and tucked into them the shirt he’d worn to bed. Given her apparent need for haste – she was rocking agitatedly from one foot to the other – he eschewed the rest of his attire.

  She took his hand as they crept along the upstairs corridor. If anyone happened upon them, no amount of explaining would convince anyone that they were not lovers. But, damn it, they needed that fact to remain secret at least until he’d seen Lucy off. The floorboards creaked considerably less once they descended the stairs. Emma, her pert little bottom distractingly tempting as it jiggled beneath the thin weave of her shift, headed for the front door. While she worked the locks, Darleston pushed his feet into the hessians he’d left in the bootroom and shouldered his greatcoat. He ended up sprinting down the steps after her, carrying a pelisse.

  A chill breeze blew in from the east, making the pre-dawn air biting,
though not a single cloud tarnished the blue-black sky. They’d have fine weather for the boxing later.

  ‘It’s Amelia’s,’ Emma said when he offered her the coat. He ought to have realised. The fussy decoration didn’t reflect Emma’s tastes. Still, it was warmth that she needed. The cold had whitened her limbs, and she had goosebumps. She shivered too, with each fresh gust, though he didn’t think she noticed it.

  ‘Please.’ He held open the coat for her to slip on, and then fastened the buttons all the way to the hem. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The church.’ Her tears had dried upon her cheeks. They left her skin oddly streaked. Although she’d accepted his hand earlier, she shook him off now. They headed in the same direction they had ambled that first morning when she’d taken him to visit the amphitheatre. On that occasion she’d worn a ridiculous wide-brimmed bonnet. Now her hair danced about her shoulders, torn from its bedtime confinement by his hands and tangled by the wind.

  The first traces of dawn were peeking over the horizon, glimmers of orange and bronze that pierced the thick foliage as they skirted the edge of the woodland. On towards civilisation they trotted, Emma leading, him following like a faithful lapdog, down into the dell that led towards the hamlet on the other side of the river.

  Understanding came to him when they reached the graveyard. At the back, in a gated preserve, Emma led him along a row of moss-covered headstones. So many names and dates. The eldest a mere sixteen when he died. So very many of them. All of them Hills.