“Come see the babies, Alice,” Charlotte called. “They’re barely four weeks old and they’re ever so tiny.”
“It seems I’ve found one of your strays,” Chambers murmured to Emma. The delicious warmth of his breath swirled in her ear. Indeed she wasn’t sure what pleasured her more: finding Charlotte or watching the impervious Lord Chambers playing with kittens in a cozy, fragrant stall.
“We found her half-frozen in the back garden. I couldn’t convince her to come inside the manor, so we compromised on the stable. She looked at me like I was the devil incarnate.”
He scowled as if offended, although she knew he enjoyed the role well enough when she stood half-naked in his studio. However, after seeing him with the kittens, she supposed she would have difficulty thinking of him in such evil terms in the future.
“She said she was making her way to the train station.” He crossed his arms, watching the girls play with the future mousers. “Thomas warmed her up with tea and biscuits.” Chambers lifted an eyebrow in her direction. “Do they not feed you women at that school?”
Emma was so thrilled to find Charlotte that words managed to swell in her throat and render her mute.
“And who is this young lady who has chosen to join our party?” He smiled at Alice, who looked at him somewhat circumspect.
“Lord Nicholas Chambers, may I present Miss Darlington,” Emma managed to say around the lump in her throat. Alice rose to her feet and curtsied on cue, but still gazed in fear and awe at their host. Not surprising. Emma had had a similar reaction to Chambers after listening to the tales of the Higgins sisters.
“Miss Darlington?” Chambers’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her face. “Could that be Miss Alice Darlington?”
“Have we met before, your lordship?” Alice asked.
“I believe I knew your mother many, many years ago,” he said in a wistful tone.
“You knew my mother?” Alice’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “Please, sir, I know so little. Would you tell me about her?”
Chambers gently cupped her chin and smiled into her hopeful eyes. “She was very beautiful and very talented. You look exactly like her when she was your age.”
Any fear or apprehension on Alice’s part apparently evaporated at his touch. “Did you know my father? Were they from around here? In what way was she talented?” Questions long suppressed quickly bubbled to the surface.
Chambers’s gaze slipped to Emma. Something akin to pain flashed in his eyes. “I imagine you are anxious to return the girls to the school.”
Although puzzled by his reaction, Emma recognized the cue. They had overstayed their welcome. “Girls, the hour grows late. We must return to Pettibone.” Charlotte protested, wishing to spend more time with the kitten.
“When it is old enough, and as long as the headmistress allows it”—he winked in Emma’s direction—“you may take her back with you to the school.
“Please allow Henry to return you to Pettibone,” he added to Emma. “He’s waiting inside, I’ll warrant.”
“HE’S NOT AT ALL WHAT I EXPECTED,” ALICE CONFIDED the moment the carriage door shut and the horses began the long walk back to the school. Due to the moonless night, Henry walked in front of the horses with a lantern to light the way.
“I like him,” Charlotte said, with a loud yawn. “May we come back to visit?”
“Yes, we must come back,” Alice pleaded. “Please?”
“We will discuss the matter with Miss Higgins,” Emma replied, pleased that Chambers had made a good impression on the girls. “I expect she won’t be inclined to allow you, Miss Hawkins, to go visiting anywhere for quite a while.”
Charlotte hung her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to worry.”
Emma patted Charlotte’s hand. “Everyone was worried, not just me. The whole school turned all topsy-turvy when you were discovered missing. But you’re safe now.” She squeezed her hand. “That is what is important. I suggest the both of you close your eyes and attempt to get some sleep. At this pace we shall arrive back at Pettibone long past your bedtime.”
IT TOOK SEVERAL DAYS FOR THE SCHOOL TO RETURN TO normal. Emma heard Lord Chambers’s name mentioned in hushed whispers in corners and alcoves throughout the school.
Although visits by the girls to Black Oak continued to be strictly forbidden, the furrows in Cecilia’s brow no longer touched the bridge of her nose at the very mention of Chambers’s name.
A week passed before Emma could return to Black Oak. The carriage body rocked from side to side, tossed by the howling winds that carried a fresh layer of snow to coat the sleeping countryside. The time spent negotiating the distance from the school to Chambers’s residence doubled. Poor Henry, she thought of the bundle of wool coaxing the pair of horses onward. Perhaps she should have listened to Cecilia’s suggestion that she miss another art lesson.
Beatrice went so far as to volunteer to accompany Emma to Black Oak to personally thank his lordship for his role in Charlotte’s recovery. Before Emma could think of an appropriate protest, Cecilia nay-sayed the idea. “Mrs. Brimley is capable of extending our gratitude under the circumstances.”
Although Emma insisted it was the courtesy of conveying those sentiments that drew her to Black Oak in such adverse weather, she knew another deeper desire spurred her action. She needed to see him again and would have braved rain, hail, and ice to return to Black Oak.
Thomas allowed Emma access into the studio even though Chambers had not yet arrived. She gazed about the room, sensing a change in the atmosphere, a shift in some basic fundamental. The room still overwhelmed her with light and color; the scent of oils, turpentine, and pure creative energy continued to dominate. Freshly painted canvases leaned against the wall, though she detected a change in subject matter. The landscapes had slipped into the minority compared to some studies of clothed human figures and even a painting of kittens in the straw.
The mirror that had telegraphed her artless removal of garments hung in the same place on the wall, but the addition of a three-paneled screen in the corner caught her attention. She smiled, feeling almost comfortable in her surroundings. The room no longer terrified or intimidated her. She amended that thought. The room itself had never threatened; it was the absent master. Coming here today still set her heart to pounding, but her palms remained dry beneath her gloves, and her throat retained some semblance of moisture.
“I had thought you would have arrived earlier,” Chambers said, joining her. “How am I expected to paint without a subject?”
“I am here now, sir.” She smiled, appreciating the fashionable waistcoat that spanned his chest. Something else was different about him, she thought. A new vitality, a restlessness, seemed to vibrate the air around him.
“Did you notice I added a screened panel for your comfort?” He pointed toward the back corner of the room. “I ordered it after you modeled last.”
Emma wondered at his chattiness. He fidgeted with his brushes, selecting one and testing it against the palm of his hand.
“I was most disappointed when it arrived yesterday. Not only because I find it totally unnecessary, but because the unannounced delivery was an innate object”—he glanced up, tapping out a rhythm in his palm—“and not a certain ladies’ English teacher.”
The hurt in his eyes bruised her heart. He had missed her. She was scarcely able to credit the idea, yet she couldn’t deny the subtle change in his character. He had missed her, the cold fish, the intellectual, the plain by-blow whispered about in dark corners.
In spite of the scowl on his face, a smile threatened to blossom on hers. Such an expression would have frightened her before, but now that she knew him, she relaxed in his presence. She clasped both her hands together in front of her as would a demure miss and calmly explained. “The weather impeded my earlier return, but I’m here now.”
She took two steps toward the new screen but stopped and turned. “Before we begin, sir, I’d like to thank you for your as
sistance in rescuing poor Charlotte. It was foolish for her to run away on such a cold night, but good fortune brought her to your garden and you brought her back to us.” She ended her speech with a deep curtsy, pleased with the execution of her practiced show of gratitude.
The brush stopped its downward arc, his eyes narrowed slightly, his lips thinned. “I offered a frightened, freezing child shelter and nourishment. Do not elevate me to sainthood, Mrs. Brimley.”
She stood, a bit hesitant. She had thought he would be pleased with her expression of appreciation, not insulted. Her brow furled. “I did not suggest you were a saint, sir.”
“Good. Because I most certainly am not.” He stared at her with an arrogance that welcomed dispute.
“But you—” She wanted to enumerate evidence of his kindness: the return of her mother’s handkerchief, the shelter offered to a scared little girl, the kittens, the screen, but he interrupted her before she could begin.
“What then is to be my reward for my uncharacteristic charitable act?” His eyebrow cocked, a slow smile shifted his features.
“Uncharacteristic? Why the kindness you have shown time after time . . .” Her gaze caught his sly smile and cocked eyebrow. His wanton expression should have chased her to a hasty retreat. Instead her chest tingled with fervent anticipation. Appalled at her body’s reaction, she felt a telltale warmth spread to her hairline.
He walked around her slowly, like a fierce jungle cat stalking its prey.
“I think you do understand. Doesn’t one act of kindness deserve another?” His voice flowed over her, as smooth and potent as the amber liquid in the crystal glass waiting by his easel. “You, of all people, should realize that everything has a price.”
Eleven
EMMA BIT HER LIP, AFRAID OF WHAT HE WOULD demand. Now that he had time to consider her mother’s indiscretion, perhaps he would expect the same from the daughter.
“What do you wish?” she asked around the lump in her throat.
“I wish you to undress in front of me, without the benefit of my turned back and without the benefit of the screen.” His eyes burned hot as they raked over her form.
“I assume our earlier condition remains in effect?” She struggled to control the catch in her voice. “You will not touch me?”
“Only if you ask me to.”
She bristled at his self-confidence, even as she released her pent-up breath. “That, sir, will not happen.”
With a bit of resolve, she raised her hands to remove her hat, but he stopped her. “First, your blouse.”
She stiffened, then demurred. The garment would have been eventually removed anyway. “As you wish.”
Emma supposed his edict toward her hat applied to her gloves as well. They made the unbuttoning a bit awkward and slow. She continually reminded herself that he had seen her like this two times before. This should be nothing new, yet an expression in his eyes begged different. As she wrestled with the bodice buttons, her arms brushed the hardened nubs of her breasts pushing at the pleated satin ribbon ringing the top of her corset. A tremor rippled through her chest. Was her body’s reaction to his intent stare visible to his eye? An appreciation tugged at his lips, suggesting an answer. The tremor dipped lower.
She pulled the fabric off each arm, never once breaking eye contact. She held the garment out to him. “I have no place to put this.”
He draped it over his arm. “Now the hat.”
Unfastening the pins holding the hat foundation in place required the use of both hands. She raised her arms. Her chest lifted and pulled against her confining corset. His swift intake of breath pulled her glance, only to be rewarded with an intense stare that singed her skin and burrowed to her spine. She handed him the hat.
“The skirts,” he said, his voice huskier than before. “And lean forward as you lower them.”
A shiver of fear raced through her, as if he had threatened a dangerous consequence if she did otherwise. True to his word, he remained rooted in his spot near his easel, one hand clenched by his side, the other smothered in her discards. He had not moved to touch her, yet the change in his voice and demeanor proved he was not unaffected by her actions. A sense of power emboldened her.
She unhooked her double skirt and leaned forward slightly, testing the results.
“More,” he said, his voice thick with a hunger that shot straight to her core.
She bent lower, tugging at the black wool. A bulge pushed the front of Chambers’s pants. Arousal! And she was the cause of it! Remembering Beatrice’s observation that a man’s arousal appeared uncomfortable, she glanced up to his face. He grimaced. How ironic that when he had turned his back, she was the flustered one. His current state of discomfort put her in control. She smiled, congratulating herself on obtaining this bit of information without risking additional clothing.
“You smile, you minx? Are you enjoying the effect you have on me?”
“I believe I am, sir.” Indeed, now that she thought of it, this reversal of authority pleased her a great deal. But it was more than that. His adoration made her feel intensely wanted, desired, as if she were the only woman who could satisfy his needs.
Moving her legs a little further apart to give greater stability, she dipped as low as her corset afforded. She unfastened her petticoats, pulling the garments slowly over her protruding derriere. “Is this low enough for you?”
He growled. The man growled! Little ripples of appreciation shimmered along her nerve endings. She straightened very slow and deliberate, leaving the petticoats to lay where they fell. His bulge continued to expand.
“Are you uncomfortable, sir?” she asked with a knowing smile.
“Extremely,” he replied.
His answer delighted her, though she wasn’t sure why. She still needed to remove her gloves according to the terms of their agreement. She unfastened the buttons on each then began to pull on the tips.
“Use your teeth,” he said.
“You wish me to bite my gloves?” This request made no sense.
“Use those sharp little teeth to pull at the tips of your gloves.”
She did as he asked, placing each finger routinely between her lips, loosening the glove tips until she could pull on the middle finger alone. She tugged, allowing the silk to slowly slide down her wrist. To gain a bit more leverage, she arched her back ever so slightly.
Chambers collapsed on his stool, his legs spread wide.
“Mrs. Brimley, if you were any other woman, I’d beg you to ride me to our mutual pleasure.” His voice was strained, as if he were under some great exertion, yet he only sat on a stool.
Giddiness spread through Emma like warm honey. Chambers’s evident desire blasted her uncle’s criticisms to perdition. Obviously, she possessed the ability to arouse a man and make him want to do things for their “mutual pleasure.” Although the exact nature of those things still eluded her.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” she said, although she suspected his reference referred to that crude world of which she had little experience, but suddenly longed for more.
“I’ll explain if you remove one of your stockings.”
“Is this something my girls will have need to know?” With so few garments left, she needed to use them judiciously.
“We are discussing the possible positions for coupling, Mrs. Brimley. Indeed, for both stockings I will tell you of two positions.”
Positions! That was one of the questions on her list. She nodded agreement, then bent to unfasten the first of the two long garters that secured each black silk stocking. She stopped.
“Was there a particular way you wished me to remove my stockings?” Her lips lifted in a smile. “I’m afraid I am not agile enough to bite them off.”
“You learn quickly, Mrs. Brimley.” His eyes crinkled in a slow, lazy smile. “The artful unveiling of one’s attributes would whet any man’s appetite.” He pointed to the divan. “Can you raise your foot unto the cushions? I wish to see a full expanse of
your leg.”
Wonderful! This was exactly the information she needed for her girls. She stepped up on the dais and started toward the divan until she remembered the slit in her drawers. Raising her leg would expose the flesh beneath the resulting gap, the very flesh Chambers implied could be stimulated by hand, or tongue, or . . .
Heat flooded her face and regions below. “I’d prefer not, sir. I’ll just bend low as before.” She unfastened the front and back garters and began to roll the first stocking down her leg. “You owe me an explanation of one position.”
He cleared his throat. “There are many, many positions to facilitate the act of coupling. I can think of at least four for which your girls should be prepared.”
“I will settle for two.” Indeed she originally had only five items of clothing with which to barter, and now she had lost two.
“The most common position is not my favorite, but it is efficient. The woman lies on the bed and spreads her legs wide, giving open access to her feminine core. The man positions himself between her legs and inserts his manhood. Sometimes he will lie across the woman while he thrusts deep inside her, or he might lift her hips and manipulate her while he thrusts.”
“The woman just lies there?” She stood briefly on one foot to tug the stocking over her heel. She imagined herself lying on a bed in such a vulnerable position while a man, who remarkably resembled Lord Chambers, approached. Her knees buckled and she quickly clasped the divan for support.
“Many do,” Chambers said, “particularly the ones that wish their husbands would seek their pleasure elsewhere. The wife who desires her husband’s fulfillment as well as her own actively thrusts in rhythm with her husband.” He paused. “Which kind of woman are you, Mrs. Brimley?”
Emma was still considering the meaning of the word “thrust.” How exactly did one thrust one’s lower regions? She tried to discretely thrust her hips and succeeded in hopping forward slightly, like a player in the child’s game of hopscotch. A strangled gurgle issued from Chambers’s direction.
The Education of Mrs. Brimley Page 14
