For all he knew, she could already be carrying his child. He doubted it, but it was a possibility. His chest felt impossibly full at the thought of her belly round with his son or daughter. She’d make a wonderful mother, he was certain of that. Emma was patient, strong-willed, kind and witty. He couldn’t ask for a better partner really.
He shook his head to himself. How strange fate was to throw him on top of a woman he might not have even bothered to pay attention to. After all, Emma was everything he had avoided in a bed partner before—an innocent virgin and therefore not at all on his list to be conquested.
She stirred while he watched her, stretching her arms above her head and blinking at him through the dusky light of the morning as it slipped lazily into the room through the gap in the curtains. “Morgan?”
“Good morning, my wicked woman.”
A grin curved her lips. “I do feel wicked.” She sighed and brushed a hand over the pillow where he should have slept. “I wish you would have stayed with me, though.”
“I am trying to be a gentleman.”
“You don’t need to be. You’re my husband.”
He came and sat on the bed next to her to press a kiss to her forehead. Emma apparently had other ideas. She hooked her hands around his neck and pulled him down onto her with surprising strength. “It is still early,” she whispered, the words skimming his lips and sending heat unfurling through him.
“It is,” he agreed.
“Stay with me a while then. You do not need to be a gentleman.”
“What am I to do with you?” he said with a grin, pressing a kiss to the pulse fluttering in her neck.
She gave a sigh. “Anything you wish.”
He drew back and looked into her eyes. He took in the little flecks of brown scattered in the green and the way her pupils widened when he came close and let his lips hover above hers. Morgan studied the gentle curve of her nose and the delicate but stubborn chin. He tried to count each freckle but got lost.
Lost. That was a good way to describe it. He was becoming lost in her—lost to her. Inexplicably, he’d been pushed into a marriage with the most amazing woman.
“What is it?” she asked, softly.
He shook his head. He kissed her deeply before stripping away her chemise and making long, slow love to her. If he could not vocalize it, he could at least try to tell her through his movements.
Chapter Fourteen
“What exactly is the purpose of a country walk?” Morgan asked.
Emma peered up at him, hand to her bonnet. “Does there need to be a purpose?”
He offered a hand and helped her over the stile before jumping easily down himself. A flutter of excitement made itself known in her stomach as she admired his athleticism. She’d experienced his capabilities herself this morning—and last night.
Goodness, what a wanton woman she had become. Or a wicked one, as he liked to call her. Somehow, having gone to bed with him made him all the more handsome and desirable. She’d wager there were not many women who could say they had such generous husbands.
And this morning...well, this morning made her want to pull out a fan and flutter it in front of her face. He’d made love to her as though she were something precious and wonderful. Every touch and kiss had made her heart swell. Part of her wanted to clamp down on these feelings—some natural instinct to protect herself, she suspected—but there was no denying them. She was growing fonder of her husband by the day.
Now, if only she could get him to stay in the country and actually share her bed.
“When one walks in London, there is always a purpose.” He offered his arm to her. “It is to go somewhere or to be seen.”
Emma hooked her arm through his. “Well, there is no one to see us here.” She motioned to the empty fields. “But we can have a purpose. We shall visit the hop field. After all, it is what you came here for, was it not? To see to business with Guy?”
He nodded. “We’ve already gone over the figures but I have yet to see the produce for myself.”
“There. So now we have a reason to walk.”
He glanced up at the sky. “It’s going to rain.”
“It is not.” She hoped. The clouds did look a little thick and gray.
“I loathe the rain.”
“Is that because it ruins your hair?” she teased.
“Minx.” He gave her a little jab in the side with a finger and she tugged her arm away from his and hurried ahead of him so he could not poke her again.
“Or do you fear for your expensive hat? Surely the Earl of Radcliff can afford plenty of hats.”
“Not now I have an expensive wife to look after,” he said, grinning.
“Am I really so demanding?”
Morgan hurried to catch up with her. “Always. Especially in the morning.” His grin turned salacious and he reached for her, drawing her close.
Her breathing hitched, her nipples pressed against her stays. His dark gaze danced over her face. Emma could see his attention linger on her lips and she forgot how to breathe entirely. She waited for him to lean in for a kiss, feeling as though she needed it more than even that influx of air into her lungs.
“Oh, good morning!”
Morgan released her and whirled to view their intruder. Emma grimaced. Mr. Bartholomew certainly did not know how to pick his timing.
“Bartholomew.” The word was bitter as it came from Morgan’s lips.
“Lord Radcliff, how are you? Taking a walk, I see.” Mr. Bartholomew glanced up at the skies. “I fear it might rain. Is it wise to take Emma out in this weather? She may catch a cold.”
“It is not going to rain,” Morgan said determinedly. “And Lady Radcliff is not afraid of a little rain, are you, my love?”
My love. How funny the words sounded. Funny, and yet, quite appealing. Morgan drew her close and Emma smiled politely in an attempt to cover her husband’s abrupt manner.
“Not at all. I am a country girl after all.”
Mr. Bartholomew smiled and his gaze ran up and down her. “Of course you are. Of course you are,” he murmured. “I was just on my way to speak with your brother Lord Weston,” he explained. “I hope to spend more time here in Hampshire and am interested in some of his business dealings. You would know about that, would you not, Lord Radcliff? Perhaps you can tell me if there are some good investments to make.”
Morgan stiffened. “If I did, I would not discuss such things out in public.”
“Forgive me, I was under the impression you were not the sort of man to shield his wife from business discussions. I am sure Lady Radcliff is not without her upstanding of such matters, particularly given her sister’s role in the recent ale crop. Perhaps another time then.” He tipped his hat. “Lord Radcliff. Lady Radcliff.”
Emma gave a little dip, not unaware of how Mr. Bartholomew kept his gaze on her. Morgan’s grip tightened on her.
She frowned. “He’s a strange man, that one.”
“He’s an impertinent, rude man, that’s what he is.”
“You were not exactly polite,” she pointed out.
“Nor do I have to be. Not when he...” He shook his head. “Well, it does not matter.” He took her hand and threaded it through his arm.
“Do you think Guy will be interested in working with him? I hear he is quite a savvy investor.”
Morgan shook his head. “He’s been lucky in business so far. He started with only a small fortune and did invest well, I shall give him that much, but we have no need for another investor at this point, and I dare say Guy would not wish to work with him either.”
“I do not think Julia likes him much, either.”
Morgan chuckled. “No, Julia is excellent at making her feelings known.”
“So is Catherine. Amelia is the only polite one between us. I think we get it from our mother.”
“I would not dare comment on my mother-in-law.” Morgan pressed his lips together. “We might not have been married long, but even I know that.”
Emma chuckled. “I’m sure she would agree.” She gave him a sideways glance. “I would have liked to have met your parents. What was your mother like?”
“About as outspoken as all of your sisters put together. She was always laughing.” His smiled dimmed. “My father was more serious but she knew how to make him smile.”
“I am sorry about the accident. It must have been very hard.”
He shrugged but said nothing.
Emma opened her mouth to probe more but the words jammed in her throat. How could she ask him about his family and why he hated Berkshire so much when it made him look so miserable?
A spot of wet landed on her nose. She glanced up. “Oh it’s raining.”
Morgan swiped a drop from her nose and shook his head with a grin. “I thought you said it wouldn’t.”
“You said it wouldn’t either to Mr. Bartholomew remember.”
His lips tightened. “I remember.” The droplets turned swiftly into a downpour, hammering onto the ground and making the brim of her straw bonnet buckle under the weight. He took her hand and led her toward the woods. She hurried to keep up with him and prevent herself from tumbling, leaving her breathless by the time they stopped under the shelter of the trees.
Still holding her hand, Morgan leant his free arm against a tree and looked out at the downpour. “I hate the rain.” The words were said with a smile.
“There’s rain in London, you know?”
He tugged her into him so that she had to splay her hands over his chest to prevent herself from crashing against him. “London rain is different.”
“It is not and you know it.”
He pushed back her bonnet and eased several damp curls from her face before cupping her chin in both hands. “I will not be persuaded otherwise.”
“And I will not cease trying to persuade you.”
“Then I shall have to find ways of silencing you.”
His lips were so near to hers now that she could feel his breath, warm and inviting on her mouth. She gripped his coat sleeves and held her breath, captive before him. That now familiar strand of desire wove through her and though familiar, it did not fail to knit itself around her stomach and make her feel as though a thousand butterflies were beating in her chest.
“You could try,” she urged.
“Then I shall.”
Emma closed her eyes when his lips touched hers. She took in the sensations of heat and wet and cold, mingling into one delicious riot of wonder. She would not give up her fight to stay in the country but that did not mean she couldn’t enjoy his attempts at keeping her quiet. And she intending to enjoy this one very much.
Chapter Fifteen
“I told you I hate rain.” Morgan closed his eyes and laid back against the pillow that his wife had dutifully propped behind him. Guy had installed him in a second guest bedroom, muttering something about not wishing to spread the illness. His friend was perhaps dong him a favor but Emma had yet to leave his side since he had started sickening.
“A little rain does not cause colds,” she said, drawing the blankets up over his chest.
He opened his eyes and looked at her through narrowed slits. His throat was so damned raw and he could feel a hacking cough coming on. If he died all because he’d been made to go on a walk and kiss Emma in the rain…He sighed. Well, he supposed he could die a happy man.
“You are not dying,” she insisted.
He must have said something aloud. “Feels like I am.”
She perched on the side of the bed and brushed his hair from his forehead to feel his skin. He did not need her to tell him he was about ready to combust. He tried to push away the blankets but Emma batted away his hand.
“Too hot,” he grumbled.
“Why are men so terrible at being ill?”
“How many ill men have you nursed?”
“My father for one.”
“And I suppose he speaks for all men then.”
Emma shook her head and smiled softly. “No, but it is a well-known fact. Men are terrible at being ill.”
“Poppycock.”
She ignored him and reached for a cup of hot lemon tea from the side table. She offered it to him and he made a face.
“Cannot stand the stuff.”
“Tough, you need to drink it. It will ease your throat.”
“It will make me hotter.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “Lord Radcliff, you will do as you are told and stop acting like a damned child. Drink the tea or I’ll force it down your throat.”
Morgan considered her fiery eyes and eyed her determined expression. If his body was not riddled with aches, he’d have grinned. He’d never loved her more than in this moment.
Love.
He blinked at her and wordlessly took the tea. Emma watched him drink the lot with a slightly surprised expression. Then he handed it back. If she was surprised, then he was flabbergasted. Of course, if he thought hard, the feeling had been creeping over him for a while. He’d noticed her once or twice before, registering her prettiness and her enthusiasm for cards. Then he’d really taken notice after that first kiss. Once he had taken her to bed, he’d been a lost man, he supposed.
“I shall have some broth made for you later but you should rest.” She stood and settled herself on a chair at his bedside.
“Are you staying?”
“Yes. Now go to sleep.”
“I’m meant to sleep with you watching?” He did not like the idea of that one bit. What if he said something in his sleep? What if he had a nightmare? But his eyes were so heavy and the pillow was so damned soft. How could he resist just a little snooze? Perhaps it would be all right and he would be too tired to have nightmares.
“Go to sleep,” Emma soothed.
Damned wicked woman’s words worked. He felt himself fall into the abyss, powerless to stop it.
The abyss wasn’t deep enough, though. It was shattered by a voice. He tried to close his ears to it, to clap his hands over his head but it was no good, it would always reach him. His mother, screaming for help, the words slowly drowned out as she too drowned. He fought to get to her through the quaggy mire that suddenly surrounded him but the weeds and mud kept sucking him back. Every step he took seemed to draw him farther away. The carriage vanished into the mud, taking his mother with it.
“Morgan!” she called to him from the depths. “Morgan!” His name continued to whisper through his mind until the darkness vanished and gave way to a slit of light.
He peered through the light to spy an angel. Was he dead? Emma would be sorry. No, that wasn’t right. Angels didn’t have wild red hair that stuck out at all angles or freckles, did they?
“Emma?”
“I’m here.” She put a hand to his cheek.
His mouth was as dry as dirt but the fatigue was rolling off him slowly. “How long have I been asleep?”
“All day and night. It’s nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. Are you hungry?”
He forced himself to focus for a moment. “I think so.”
“I’ll get you some broth then, and some more tea.” She rose but he reached out and snatched her wrist before she could leave.
“Just ring for it. Have you been here all night?”
She smiled and the black smudges around her eyes gave her away.
“You have. You should be resting.” He released her wrist and gave into the tickling cough that had been threatening to unleash itself.
Emma tugged the bell pull and came to sit beside him on the bed, rubbing his back until the coughing ceased. She put a hand to his head. “You’re cooler now. I think the rest did you good. Were you…um…?”
“Um?”
“You were saying things in your sleep.”
“Like what?” Dread curled deep inside him, sending him instantly cold. What had she heard?
“Noises mostly. I couldn’t really understand them.”
“Must have been feverish.”
“Yes, I s
uppose.” There was a sullenness to her voice that turned him even colder.
He glanced at her. His gut tightened for different reasons now. She knew he was keeping something from him and he didn’t like that.
“I had some bad dreams,” he said quickly. “I get them sometimes. I’ll tell you all about them soon.”
Her lips curved again and a weight lifted from his chest. It was hardly a confession but for her sake he had to find a way to tell her about the things that haunted him most.
Chapter Sixteen
“Have you talked about your return to London yet?” Julia asked.
Emma looked at her husband who was currently showing his skill at archery. Thankfully the weather had cleared in time for Amelia’s garden party. Morgan looked in fine health with no sign of then man who had been tossing and turning in his bed with a fever.
“With that cold and fever, we haven’t had a chance,” Emma admitted. “We are meant to return in three days and I haven’t proved anything.”
“Maybe you won’t need to prove anything. If he loves you enough, perhaps he will be willing to compromise.”
Emma was grateful she had not also been nibbling on anything. “Love?” She shook her head. “Love?”
Julia picked up a cold chunk of ham and flung it on the grass for Roo, who had been lingering around the buffet table set on the veranda for quite some time. The dog leapt onto it eagerly and grabbed the hunk of meat before running off with his treasure between his teeth.
“Yes, love, Emma. You have heard of it I’m sure.” Julia offered a tilted smile.
“Yes, but—”
“You’re the prettiest of us all, apart from Lavinia.” Julia ticked off a finger. “You’re definitely more patient than Catherine and I.” She ticked another finger. “From the sounds of it, you are keeping him more than happy in bed.”
“Julia!” Emma clapped both hands to her cheeks and glanced around to see if anyone was listening.
“Admittedly you cannot sing or play violin or do card tricks, but I doubt Morgan is interested in those skills.” Her sister winked. “The truth is, dear sister, you are an excellent catch and were it not for the fact you were a Chadwick, you would have likely been snapped up a lot sooner than the rest of us. You should not doubt that you are most certainly loveable.”
Emma and the Earl (Bluestocking Bride Book 3) Page 9
