‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘It was my idea, but Georgie made it.’
‘Because boys can’t sew!’ Georgie invested this with a level of superiority that would have befitted a duchess.
‘We could!’ Harry’s indignation bubbled. ‘We just don’t. Because it’s a girl thing.’
Hunt cleared his throat. ‘My valet, John, can sew. He sews my buttons on.’
‘Yes,’ Georgie said. ‘Because he helped me with this yesterday.’ She drew a little crimson bundle from her muff and offered it. ‘Mrs Bentham gave me the brocade.’
It was a bag made, he realised as he took it, from the same brocade as the drawing-room curtains. A golden-tasselled drawstring was provided. Hunt assumed the drawing-room curtains were intact since John and Mrs Bentham had been involved...
‘It’s for Fergus’s ball,’ Harry said with a grin.
Hunt stared at the bag—something lodged in his throat. He cleared it again. ‘Well.’ He struggled for words. For thoughts. And cleared his throat again. Over the expectant faces of the children he met Emma’s gaze. She looked as surprised as he felt. He examined the bag carefully. Rather lumpy seams, anything but straight, and the bag had a decided list to one side. He opened it, dropped the ball in and pulled the drawstring tight. Well.
‘Do you know, that is the second-nicest gift you two have given to me.’
Harry blinked. ‘What was the nicest?’
Hunt smiled. ‘Your mother. Thank you.’ He tucked the bag into his pocket. ‘John must be delighted with you two.’
‘He did think it was a good idea,’ Georgie said. ‘I was going to make it a big one you could just carry, but he thought you’d like this more.’
Emma made a very odd sound and, as he met his bride’s laughing eyes over the children’s heads, Hunt made a mental note to tip John generously for saving him from something perilously close to a lady’s reticule.
* * *
It ought to be easier the second time one married. Emma stared at the enormous bed with its delicate blue hangings and swallowed. She had slept in that bed the last two nights, Georgie curled beside her like a kitten, and been perfectly comfortable. She had not been thinking of it as her marriage bed. Now she was.
She swallowed again. There was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.
Oh, wasn’t there?
Then why had an entire flight of butterflies taken up residence in her stomach?
Because she had absolutely no idea what to do. That was why. All those butterflies had moved in to take up the space left by her lamentable ignorance.
She knew well enough what was going to happen in the bed. But how would he expect her to behave? As her mother had told her the night before her aborted marriage to Sir Augustus?
Lie quietly and don’t make a fuss.
She shoved the thought away. Her wedding night with Peter had not been at all like that, but she could not, must not, think of that now. Should she be in bed waiting? But what did she do? Just lie there? She could read, but should she read in bed, or by the fire? There was an Argand reading lamp over on the table there. But if she wasn’t waiting dutifully in bed, would he think he was disturbing her? That she hadn’t expected him? Or that she didn’t want him?
For heaven’s sake! She was more nervous now than when she had been about to lose her virginity on her first wedding night. Then she had been a little shy, but eager. Oh, God, she had been so eager. So wildly and desperately in love. And Peter had loved her as deeply. Had wanted her.
This was different.
She was eager now, too. But Hunt had not wanted a wife. Just an heir. And even if those kisses suggested that he desired her, she was older. What if she disappointed him? She was no longer a girl in the first blush of youth. She was thirty-two. Approaching middle age and she had borne two children.
It didn’t matter how many times she reminded herself that Hunt had deliberately decided against taking a younger bride. His reasons had been perfectly rational and logical. That didn’t mean they had a great deal to do with his personal preferences. Although he had expressed concern about the age gap between them...he would have been even more concerned about that with a girl of eighteen or nineteen. And she still hadn’t decided whether or not she should wait in bed for him.
She let out a breath on a half-laugh. This was idiocy. Before she worried about where he would find her, she needed to get ready for bed and with these clothes she needed help undressing. Crossing to the dressing table, Emma tugged on the bell rope there to summon her maid.
* * *
Hunt, still fully dressed, sat by the fire in his bedchamber sipping brandy and wondering whether or not he should wear a nightshirt as well as his robe. Assuming he wore a nightshirt, should he keep it on during the entire...procedure? And when had he ever thought of it as a procedure? Let alone worried about the etiquette involved. When a man started worrying about the etiquette involved in bedding his wife, he knew he was in trouble. Etiquette and bed—two words he didn’t think he’d ever framed in the same thought before. But how the devil did you go about taking a woman to bed when you hardly knew her? He’d done precisely that in his youth, of course, long before Anne. He’d been to several of the brothels in St James’s that catered to gentlemen. You made polite conversation in one of the saloons, escorted the girl upstairs to a private room, removed any article of clothing you thought might be in the way—or instructed the girl to do so—and got down to business. But this was different. Emma was not a woman he had bought for the night.
She was his wife. His wife and his Marchioness—his convenient bride. It was even convenient that he desired her. It would be beyond inconvenient if he didn’t desire her. Desiring her didn’t make him a randy old goat. He was supposed to desire her. He wasn’t supposed to want to rush in there and spend the entire night making love to her. Or actually sleeping with her. Definitely not that, no matter how much he wanted that intimacy again. No. Pleasure her, bed her and retire to his own bed.
With a curse he set the empty glass down, rose and strode across the bedchamber into his dressing room. Before he did anything else he needed to get out of his clothes. His valet rose from a chair, setting aside the book he’d been reading.
‘Evening, my lord. I understand her ladyship sent for her maid a few minutes ago.’
Hunt eyed John suspiciously. Was he being given a hint? That he was running late? And was that amusement in John’s voice? He’d always suspected the man could read his mind. Stripping off his cravat, Hunt decided that he really didn’t want to know.
* * *
Half an hour later, he was washed, shaved and in his nightshirt—better to err on the side of caution—and robe.
‘I’ll ring when I want you in the morning, John.’
The valet, already at the door into the hallway, nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.’
A moment later Hunt was staring at the door that led from his suite into the Marchioness’s rooms and wondering what they looked like now. He had not entered the Marchioness’s rooms in years. Not even last year after ordering their refurbishment.
He set his hand to the doorknob, muttered a curse and made himself knock. If he walked in and her maid was helping her undress it would be embarrassing all round.
‘Come in!’
He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Candlelight and lamplight danced and glowed. A fire crackled merrily, welcoming. The room might have been a different space. Gone were the deep pinks, the delicate floral wallpaper and the furniture he remembered. Instead the walls were a pale eggshell blue, the classical mouldings a soft, gilt-edged white. Bed hangings and covers matched the walls and his wife, clad only in a nightgown, sat at the dressing table brushing her hair. His mouth dried.
She had those gleaming, sable tresses pulled forward over one shoulder, her head tilted to one side as she pul
led the brush through again and again in a steady, beguiling rhythm. The intimacy left him speechless.
Such a simple act, but one no other man would ever see as long as he lived. He hoped. With a shock, he realised that they had never discussed fidelity. He had offered a marriage of convenience as was usual for their class. That did not necessarily entail fidelity, on either side...
Her eyes met his in the looking glass. ‘Good evening, sir.’
His gaze flickered to the maid, folding clothes, tidying up. ‘My dear.’ Did she expect, or want, the usual arrangement? Fidelity until she had provided an heir and a spare? And if she did, could he accept that? He had not, could not, offer love. What if she found it elsewhere? Did he have the right to demand that she forgo something he would not give?
Stupid question. As her husband he had every right. But he had never been very comfortable with the idea of demanding obedience as though his wife were of no more account than a favourite mare.
Emma glanced at the maid. ‘Please douse the lamps as you leave, Maggie. I’ll ring in the morning.’
The maid dropped a curtsy, attended to the lamps and left.
They were alone and he was adrift, as uncertain of himself as a green youth with his first woman. And she was watching him in the glass, the brush stilled now, almost wary. As if she watched one of the lions at the Tower, expecting it to pounce.
Because she doesn’t know you, idiot!
And with the realisation, his own knot of nerves unravelled. She was as uncertain as he. As unsure of how to go on.
He let out a breath, smiled. ‘Are the rooms to your liking?’ He walked across, closing the space between them, and took the brush from her grasp. ‘May I?’ Was that his voice? Husky, aching?
‘Yes. Yes, please.’ And hers. Soft, yet steady. Her eyes on his in the glass, the wariness melting from them. He wanted more to melt. He wanted to be causing the melting...
Dragging in a breath, he sought for something, anything, to say. ‘Ah, these rooms were completely refurbished last year.’ He brought the heavy, dark mass of her hair behind her to tumble down her back, alive, rippling. He drew the brush through, felt the cool silk caress his fingers and hardened. He tried to remember what he’d been saying. Thinking. The rooms. Refurbishment. ‘If you wish to change anything—’
‘No. It’s lovely. Thank you.’
Again and again he drew the brush through the shining length. ‘One hundred strokes?’ And immediately regretted the question. It brought quite another image to mind and he hardened even more.
A quick intake of breath. ‘I... I always lose count.’
He swallowed. The fragrance of soap and warm, sweet woman filled him. God help him, but he’d be lucky to count to five right now. He brushed steadily, aware of tension melting from her as his own tension rose with need and...lust. Lust. In German the word meant joy. He was going to be joyful with her. There was nothing wrong with joy. But did she want to be joyful? With him?
‘The children are comfortable?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
For an experienced man, and he admitted he was, he was ridiculously close to floundering.
In the glass her eyes were closed, unreadable...but, that slight smile, the softness to her lips and...his breath caught, his cock leapt...under the linen, had her nipples peaked? Oh, surely... He needed to know. She had been rushed into marriage. There had been no choice about that. But he did not need to rush her into bed if she wanted more time. No matter how much his body insisted otherwise.
Gritting his teeth, he stopped brushing, leaned forward to set the brush down and felt the warmth of her body. He stepped back and every instinct howled a protest.
‘Emma?’
Her eyes opened, dreamy, full of mystery, and she rose, turning to him, her linen-veiled breasts brushing against him. Madness beckoned, burning through him...
‘Yes.’
And there it was. More than a simple response to her name, that single word held consent. Yet still he hesitated. Did she consent because she believed she had no choice? Because she believed it was expected of her? What if—
She smiled and walked to the bed, held out her hand in an invitation no sentient, breathing man could mistake. All the what-ifs drained out of him. He went to her, his eyes never leaving hers, held by the siren’s call in their blue, blue depths. He stopped a foot away, controlling the urge to take her in his arms and tumble her to the bed. His body was already on fire, beyond ready. His brain, what little of it still functioned, held him back.
It had been a long time for her. Wait. Don’t rush this.
He reached for her, setting his hands to either side of her waist, feeling the warm, supple curve through a layer of linen. He wanted skin. Ached to have them both naked. Hot skin to hot skin. But if he did that...he swallowed. Slow. He held her gently, almost chastely, brushed his mouth to her temple, her cheek...breathed her fragrance, soap and woman. Emma.
She slipped her arms around his neck, rose on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth. Warm, willing. Welcome incarnate. His control broke, his mouth took hers and heat consumed him, incinerating his good intentions. Her mouth, hot and lush, lured him in, promise and demand inextricably entwined. Her body, all yielding curves, pressed to him as time and the kiss spun out on a web of gilded light. And beneath it all the punch, the shock of lust burning through him, igniting every nerve and vein so that he burned as he had never thought to burn again.
* * *
She had meant to be restrained. Not cold, but not this raging inferno that wanted everything and more. Now. At once. She had known she was hungry. She hadn’t realised that she was starving. Starving for his touch, his kiss. His body. No matter that she still wore her nightgown, that he wore both nightshirt and robe. His heat, her own heat, still burned.
Everything in her centred on the raging need within. On his fingers working at the buttons of her nightgown, shaking, tugging to slip button after button until it hung open. Her breath came in on a shaken cry as he slid one hand in to cup her breast. Wicked, knowing fingers stole her breath and all thought.
* * *
Silk. Satin. Her gasp of pleasure fired him. Such a sweet weight, perfect and ripe in his hand. With a groan he passed his thumb over the peaked nipple, did it again just to hear her sob, feel her body arch for more. And through it all the kiss. Their mouths fused and mated, his tongue dancing with hers in a rhythm that seared his veins. Her arms about him, her body moulded to his in flagrant invitation. His dressing gown hit the floor and he was on the bed with her half beneath him, still in their night rail. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this hot, fierce need that scorched everything in its path.
Ravenous as he was, she was with him, her hands as greedy as his, her mouth as wild as he took a handful of linen and shoved her nightgown to her waist. Lost in the maelstrom, he found the silken curve of a rounded thigh and stroked. Warm, parting eagerly at his touch, begging for more, for everything. Something tore as he tugged her nightgown free of one shoulder, baring her breast to his hungry gaze. He lowered his mouth to it, licked, teased, as she gasped and sobbed, and finally drew it deep into his mouth. Her body arched up on a cry of pleasure as he suckled and her knee came up to caress his flank, opening her utterly to him, her hips lifting to him, answering the demand of his mouth at her breast.
Reaching between her parted thighs, he discovered her wet, ready. This. Just this. She was so soft, and warm, and welcoming. He stroked the slick entrance, felt the quake that shook her and the last burning link of his control snapped. He rose over her, pressing her thighs wider as he guided himself to her. And he was there, pushing inside where she was so wet and tight.
She cried out and he fought to slow down, to wait for her, but it was already too late and he moved in her in hard, deep strokes, again and again. Release crashed through him and he hung over her shaking in pleasure,
even as he registered the coiled tension in Emma.
‘Damn.’ He let himself down on her damp, trembling body. Beneath him, Emma stiffened and he realised he’d spoken aloud. If he’d had sufficient strength left he’d have kicked himself. In a moment...when he’d caught his breath...he pressed a kiss to Emma’s temple, breathed the fragrance of heated, aroused woman, as carefully he disengaged from her body, her tense, frustrated, disappointed body...he could still satisfy her...he eased away from her, sank into the mattress and drew her close. He wasn’t twenty any more...he needed a moment, then he would see to her pleasure and return to his own bed... His own bed was the last thing he wanted. She felt so utterly right in his arms, but it would be safer, more sensible. In a moment...
* * *
Emma lay in her husband’s arms, felt the warm, heavy limbs relax as his breathing slowed, steadied...into sleep.
She let out a shuddering sigh. Damn? What did that mean? Damn, they’d had sex? Damn, he hadn’t enjoyed it? Damn, she had been too eager, too wanton, too...something? She burned, ached with need, with longing, and he was asleep. Slowly the tension seeped from her, leaving her restless and wistful. She wriggled, wondering if she ought to disentangle herself, but the heavy arm over her waist tightened and he turned more fully to her. Despite the...what? Disappointment? Frustration? All of that. Despite it, the intimacy of the sleeping gesture disarmed her and she snuggled closer.
* * *
Hunt woke with a sense of utter well-being, warm and comfortable...a little more of his mind surfaced. No, not comfortable precisely—he had a hell of an erection. Fortunately he had a warm bundle of feminine curves pressed against him.
Emma. His wife. Memory asserted itself and he groaned. He’d rushed her, completely failed to satisfy her and fallen asleep.
He hadn’t meant to sleep with her.
At least he hadn’t dreamed. Perhaps he hadn’t slept for long...
Six soft chimes dispelled that hope. She had been willing, eager and generous. He couldn’t say the same for himself. Willing? Eager? Hell, yes. Generous? She must think him a complete oaf. She’d satisfied him beyond all measure and he’d fallen asleep without returning the favour.
His Convenient Marchioness Page 14
