“Careful, they’re not all symmetrical.”
She pressed her lips into a moue, the gesture so uncharacteristically flirtatious, it couldn’t have been intentional. “Would you like to play lady’s maid?”
“Do you really wish to take that chance?” He let a grin spread across his cheeks. “I propose we bargain with them. I shall propose an activity we might undertake together. If you agree, you get to keep your pins. If not, you may hand one over for every entertainment you refuse.”
She looked up at him through her lashes, and it was quite clear she was imagining activities that took place in the bedroom. “All right.”
In fact, he’d get that one out of the way first. He fitted his hands to her narrow waist. “You will spend tonight in my bed.”
One fist still holding pins, she braced her hands on his chest. “I’ve been spending the nights in your bed.”
“You were still recovering. I believe that changes matters.”
“If you think that will convince me to give up a pin, you’re much mistaken.” She punctuated the statement by sliding a couple more anchors into her hair.
Just the reply he’d been hoping for. “Let’s see, I’ve never taken you riding in the park.”
“What if I do not ride?”
“We’ll take a carriage.”
She tucked the final pin back into her coiffure and patted it for good measure. “Very well.”
“I’ve never taken you to Gunther’s for an ice.”
“It’s hardly the season.”
He held out a hand. “Will you sacrifice a pin, then?”
Her eyes flashed at him. “I would agree to that once the weather warms up.”
“All right.” He placed his index finger on his chin and made a show of thinking. “Vauxhall—once it’s open.”
Her jaw firmed, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Yes,” she said between gritted teeth, “I’ll go to Vauxhall with you.”
“And the opera?”
“I’ll go to the theater if you wish.”
“You don’t sound very excited about it. Perhaps I should demand a pin.” He reached for the back of her head, but she ducked away.
“That was not the agreement.”
“So it wasn’t. All right…” He made another show of turning the possibilities over in his mind. “How about redecorating this house?”
“That is not an entertainment. Besides, it is completely unnecessary. This house is perfectly serviceable the way it is.”
“All but the wine cellar door.”
“I’ve already arranged for a carpenter to come in and look at it. As for the rest, it’s irresponsible.”
“How so?” He held out his hand. “And before you can change the subject on me, I’ll have your hairpins. All of them.”
“You said one pin per entertainment,” she protested. “Redecorating our lodgings isn’t even something I’d term diverting.”
“Most women would leap at the chance and derive a great deal of enjoyment from the opportunity.” He permitted himself a grin. “And perhaps I’ve decided to claim a pin for each room you refuse to do over. How many rooms are there in this house?”
She pursed her lips. “Entirely too many. I am supposed to teach you how to live within your means,” she said, reaching behind her head to pull out all ten pins. “It would set you a poor example if I turned around and spent money on such nonessentials.”
Luxurious skeins of hair fell about her shoulders and down her back in a silken tumble. He could picture all that hair spread across his pillow. In fact, he’d place it there himself. Tonight.
The tiny bits of wire clinked together as he stowed the pins in his breast pocket. He picked up a tress and wrapped it about his finger. “Have you ever in your life done something irresponsible?”
“Yes.” At that admission, her cheeks turned an intriguing red.
“Really? I do believe I want to hear all about this.” At the very least, he’d discover what such a serious woman considered irresponsible. No doubt it involved the acquisition of goods without sufficient bartering.
She plucked at the ends of her sleeves, as if she were suddenly afraid the sight of her bare wrists would drive him mad with lust. “Would you believe I once rode down a matron in a phaeton?”
Never in a thousand years, but a spate of laughter burst from his chest to cut off his protest. “Is it possible?” He set both hands on her shoulders. “Has my serious little wife actually made a joke?”
She ducked her head, and he caught her chin in his fingers to raise her eyes to his. Damn. In the space of a lighthearted question, the atmosphere in the study had become heavy and smothering as a blanket. “Don’t do this.”
She averted her gaze, her cheeks reddening further.
“Don’t hide your enjoyment. Not from me. Never forget, I know exactly how you look when passion overtakes you. You are beautiful in those moments. It’s like your laugh. Don’t be afraid to let it out. Let me see it. It is all beautiful.”
To his complete horror, her eyes filled with tears. “Please,” she whispered.
“What is this? Why do you have to hide?”
—
Dear Lord, he was serious. What was more, he was in no way mocking her. His question had rung with an underlying note of tenderness that made her throat tighten and ache. “You must have noticed I’m not like the other ladies,” she replied weakly.
“I may have noted a thing or two, but what does that matter?” He raised his thumbs to brush at the corners of her eyes, but that nearly made the sting there worse.
“My interests are not ladylike in the least. If I allow that to show, I do not fit in, and I already do not fit in to society due to my family.” There. She couldn’t put it any plainer than that, unless she wished to describe in detail the way the other young ladies treated her, and Emma preferred to avoid that painful topic—along with any admission that Battencliffe, as a member of that same social class, could decide to turn on her at any time. If not for his financial woes, he’d never have looked at her twice.
Once more, he laughed, and once more the sound lacked any hint of malice. “Do you think Sparks fits in? Do you think he cares?”
At least his mirth made it easier for her to take control of her tears. “No, but your brother is rather singular. You fit in easily.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Why, yes. I’ve seen you at it. You smile, you know what to say, you dance…You know exactly how to put on the proper display. And I suppose, in attempting to hide my personal interests, that is only part of the display I put on for society.”
His hands slipped back to her shoulders and squeezed. “You don’t have to put it on for me.” His response rumbled up from his chest, low and comforting. “I find I rather like seeing you enjoy yourself. You should let yourself do it more often.”
Don’t hide your true self. That was what he was saying. Who but her father had ever let her be that? Yet, even Papa had expected her to hide her nature in the end to become a titled lady with all the expectations and pretty trappings that entailed.
Her husband was offering her a safe haven with him. She only needed to learn how to drop her guard around him. If ever she thought he could not want her, she was most thoroughly disabused of that notion now. Their encounter in the wine cellar had been only the purely physical part of his acceptance. Now, today, he was saying he accepted her—as she was, with all her particular interests and foibles.
He slipped her into an embrace, and she went easily. Quite possibly, she melted. Her body molded to the planes of his chest, and she reveled in his solidity, his presence. She inhaled a lungful of sandalwood and let the odor infuse her. It was like taking some of his essence into herself, less carnal than a physical encounter, but an attachment nonetheless. Yet another one.
His fingers sifted through her hair, the strokes soothing. “I quite like you this way, you know, all soft against me. You fit so well in my arms.
”
Yes, she felt it, too. She didn’t fit into society, but she belonged here, tucked into an embrace as warm and smooth and comforting as the best wine. She rested her head on his shoulder and let her mind drift. Somehow her gaze alit on an envelope, one of the pile that had fallen to the floor, but this one had slid farther than the others.
The address stood out in harsh black ink against the creamy paper. She recognized the writing, her irresponsibility staring her in the face. Hendricks. She stiffened.
Her husband spread his palms across her back. “Is everything all right?”
Blast. The last thing she needed was another row with him.
“Yes, of course.” She raised her head and forced herself to meet his gaze. If she could hold his attention, she might yet extricate herself.
But he stepped away from her to glance around at the envelopes scattered across the floor. “It seems we’ve made rather a mess of your study, and I know you like things orderly.”
Placing her body between him and the offending missive, she stooped to gather a few letters and invitations. “No need to trouble yourself. I can clean it up.”
To her immense relief, he moved toward the door. “Remember your word for tonight. I plan on holding you to it. And wear your hair down.”
“Yes, of course.” The promise of the pleasure he offered aside, she’d agree to anything as long as it convinced him to leave.
But her reprieve was short-lived. The moment he disappeared into the corridor, she grabbed for Hendricks’s letter. Tearing open the seal, she stared at the stark, black scrawl. Only three words, but they sent a chill creeping down her spine.
You owe me.
Chapter Sixteen
Emma was hiding something. Rowan had felt it in her posture when he held her yesterday. Like an idiot, he’d let the moment pass.
For the hundredth time, he berated himself for not demanding an explanation, but he was deuced tired of every single one of their encounters turning into a confrontation.
Not every one.
Not since their interlude in the wine cellar, but that had been due to his not asking questions.
“Not asking questions has given rise to a very pleasurable result.” Indeed, it had. Not only had he avoided another fruitless confrontation, he’d vanquished his demons, at least in the master bedchamber. Last night, Emma had come apart for him just as sweetly and spectacularly as the first time. His back likely still bore the marks of her nails.
And that made for a perfectly satisfactory result even if the only thing present to hear about it was his bottle of brandy. He pushed his glass aside, untouched. Perhaps he should go home and ask her what was troubling her, rather than hide at the club. Whatever the problem was, he could try seducing it out of her.
“For a man so recently wed, you certainly spend a lot of time here.”
Rowan looked up. Sanford had found his way to the alcove where Rowan had chosen to brood alone. “You’ve only noticed because you’re here quite often yourself, and you married not even a year.”
Sanford took an empty seat. “In my case, my wife insisted. According to her, I’m hovering.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
Sanford gave a pained smile. “Odd, Henrietta says the same thing. We’ve recently discovered she’s in a delicate condition, you see.”
“You have my felicitations.” Rowan said the words because they were expected, but his thoughts lay elsewhere—with Emma, to be certain. She, too, might be in a similar state, even after only two encounters. It was one more than Lydia had required, after all.
“But you haven’t answered my question,” Sanford persisted.
“I wasn’t aware you’d asked one.”
“Implied, then. Why should you spend all your time here when you have a new wife at home?”
Rowan considered his old friend. Ought he admit the truth? “Funny, the sorts of ironies life tosses at you.”
“Don’t I know it. Of all the places on the English coast I might have been shipwrecked, I had to wash up on the beach just below my aunt’s manor.”
“And at just the right moment to run into your former intended.” Rowan had heard the tale the last time he’d encountered Sanford at the club.
“Indeed.” Sanford folded his hands before him and leaned forward, looking as earnest as a newly invested vicar giving his first sermon. “So what has life tossed at you lately?”
“If I give you my current direction, you’d cotton on straightaway. Were you aware Lind had sold his old townhouse?”
“Yes, since he’s staying elsewhere this season.”
“Do you know who bought his old residence? One Mr. Jennings, wine merchant. Who happens to be my new father-in-law. And who saw fit to house his daughter there after her marriage.”
Rowan waited while Sanford drew the proper conclusions. “Shite.”
“Indeed. Since I’m short on funds, I’m obliged to live in the house where I committed my most grievous sin. You might even say where I sent my life straight to hell.”
“Shite,” Sanford repeated.
“You understand why I choose to spend as little time there as possible.”
“Does your wife know?”
“About my history in that house? Good God, what do you take me for? Of course she doesn’t know. Just how does one bring that up in conversation? Over dinner, perhaps? ‘Darling, Cook outdid herself on tonight’s roast. Oh, did I ever mention I made a close friend a cuckold in this very house? Funny how that worked out, isn’t it?’”
“We’ve all made mistakes we’ve lived to regret. Some of us have even had to admit as much to our wives.”
Rowan considered Sanford for a long moment. Yes, Sanford had left for India still engaged to Miss Upperton. But then he’d married another woman in Calcutta. He’d even returned to England with two daughters in tow. For his former betrothed to accept him back into her life, he’d surely had to explain an awkward thing or two. “How did you manage such a feat?”
“It wasn’t easy. I was obliged to reveal a few details I’d sworn to keep secret, but when it came down to it, I owed her the explanation. It was the least I could do after what I’d put her through.”
“And when my sin has nothing to do with Emma?”
“It still stands between you.”
Damn Sanford’s perception, but Rowan wasn’t about to admit his shortcomings in the bedchamber. He wasn’t close enough friends with any man to confess that. Besides, he’d seemingly overcome that obstacle. “And yet…how do I explain a night I have no clear recollection of myself?”
—
Every time Grundy answered the door, Emma tensed, only for disappointment to invade in the ensuing moments when the butler admitted another caller. Didn’t these young ladies know she was expecting an important letter? Yesterday Emma had written directly to Lady Pettifer to clear up the issue of Hendricks’s identity. Not that Emma expected Lady Pettifer to admit to being her correspondent, especially given the tenor of the most recent missive. On the other hand, if Mr. Hendricks really was Lady Pettifer’s man of affairs, at least his employer would know he might be up to something unsavory.
She refused to entertain a much darker possibility that lurked at the back of her mind, one where Mr. Hendricks was someone else entirely, but the idea niggled away, like a mouse at a wheel of cheese.
In the meantime, Emma sat back in her chair, a rapidly cooling teacup perched on her lap, and tried to pretend interest in the latest gossip. Her callers were all a-twitter about the upcoming masquerade at the Posselthwaites’. They spent their allotted fifteen minutes deep in speculation over who might attend and what gowns the grandes dames would sport.
“And what have you decided on?”
Emma eyed her interlocutor, a young lady who a month ago would have barely nodded acknowledgment in the street, let alone come to visit. In fact, every one of the ton’s daughters present would have cut her over her humble origins. Tainted by trade, oh, yes, ind
eed.
Come to think of it, perhaps the girl was still trying to make her look bad—she might well hope Emma would describe an inappropriate ensemble, something she might report to her friends behind their fans.
“I haven’t decided yet.” In fact, Emma hadn’t yet worked out what earthly reason she had to attend this function—other than her aunt’s insistence. Thank goodness, Aunt Augusta was conspicuously absent this morning, although the woman would no doubt be ecstatic over the number and quality of callers. “Perhaps you’ve a suggestion, though.”
The girl nattered on about silks and ribbons and ostrich plumes while Emma wished she were anywhere else. On the occasion of the ball itself, at least, she could hope to engage some of the gentlemen in conversation. A few might know more about the railway project. If she could discover who was backing it, she’d have a clearer idea of whether the investment was sound.
The noise of a clearing throat brought the sitting room to silence. Emma looked up to find Grundy hovering in the entrance. She sat straighter, tightening her fingers on her teacup to mask their sudden trembling, and eyed his salver. It bore a single white card. Not the expected letter. Drat.
Tomorrow, Emma decided. She’d give Lady Pettifer until tomorrow to reply to her letter before going in person to demand an explanation.
“Miss Emily Marshall.” At Grundy’s announcement, the silence became louder, and something akin to a fist twisted in Emma’s belly.
Like all the other young ladies, Emily Marshall had never once deigned to pay Emma a social call. Somehow Emma didn’t get the impression today’s visit was intended to make up for previous occasions. Whatever had motivated Miss Marshall’s decision to come now, today, it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Emma’s current guests seemed to sense the same thing, for as one, they watched the newcomer enter the room, like they were expecting some unvoiced instruction. The order wasn’t long in coming. Miss Marshall presided over the sitting room, her very bearing proclaiming her importance to all and sundry. One by one, the others bade Emma good day and signaled for their wraps. Once they had gone, Miss Marshall settled herself into the best chair, arranging her pale yellow muslin skirts about her in elegant flounces.
What a Lady Requires Page 15
