by Burke, Darcy
Since they were talking about family, she wanted to ask him about children. But she didn’t want to do so in front of the footman. Instead, she changed the subject. They discussed the warm spring weather, her horse and riding in general, and whether they liked to attend the theater—they both did, and Lionel promised to take her—while they finished the course.
After the footman cleared the plates and served the second, Lionel excused him from the dining room. He looked over at her. “Now we may speak freely. Although, I must tell you that my staff is both discreet and trustworthy.”
“I don’t doubt it. However, I know they have been speculating about us. Mrs. Wells is apparently quite concerned that we aren’t dining together.”
“Yes, I’d heard that too,” he said. “But now we are dining together—at least tonight—so that should make Mrs. Wells quite happy.”
Emmaline took a bite of boiled potatoes and washed it down with a swallow of wine. “I thought we should talk about what happened last night.”
A sparkle danced in his eye. “I enjoyed it immensely. I hope you did too.”
“Yes.” Immensely. She hadn’t slept that well since long before Geoffrey had died. “Specifically, I wished to discuss the prospect of…children. I couldn’t help but think of them today at the orphanage. And whether I might be with child.”
He set his utensils down. “That would make me immeasurably happy,” he said softly.
Her insides warmed. She’d been fairly certain he would say that, but was still pleased to hear it. “There’s every chance I’m not. I was married to Geoffrey for nearly a year and never conceived.”
“I’m sure there was good reason.”
For the last several months, yes—he’d stopped sharing her bed. He’d taken to sleeping on the settee in his office. But for the first six months, they’d engaged in sexual relations. She’d begun to worry that she couldn’t conceive and had confided such to Ivy, who’d assured her that it sometimes took time.
“We shared a bed,” she said.
“Yes, I recall you saying you’d enjoyed doing so.” His tone was dry.
She had said that. But now that she’d experienced Lionel’s attentions… Well, they didn’t quite compare.
“All this talk of children and sex… You’re increasing my hopes.” He gave her a thoroughly provocative stare. “There are many things I’d like to do.”
Heat leapt through her. “I see. As I said, I prefer to take things slowly.”
“I understand. I am very patient.” He angled toward her, his gaze traveling over what he could see of her with the table blocking his view from her waist down. “However, if you were inclined to…go faster, I might take advantage of our current privacy.” His voice had dropped to a seductive rasp.
“And what would you do?” She shouldn’t ask. Her resolve was wavering. Why was she holding back?
He sipped his wine but didn’t immediately respond. He seemed to be formulating his answer.
“I rather enjoyed kissing you, so I’d probably start there.” He narrowed his eyes a moment. “Actually, maybe I wouldn’t. I think I’d like to just touch you and…watch.”
Her breath caught. “What does that mean?” She wanted him to describe it in perfect detail.
“It means I’d move my chair over a bit. Like this.” He slid his chair toward her. He suddenly frowned. “This would be difficult. You aren’t at all in the right position. Or I’m not.” He stood and relocated to the chair on her right. He sat facing her, so that the back of the chair was on his left side.
She started to turn toward him.
“No, stay where you are. I’m working this out in my head.” He touched her knee. Lightly. She could barely feel him through the layers of her skirt and petticoat, but it was enough to make her temperature shoot through the roof. Since the day he’d walked into her house to offer his help, he’d stirred something in her—anger, despair, desire.
She thrust thoughts of that day away. She didn’t want to think about their beginnings. Nor did she wish to think of anything to do with Geoffrey. Not now.
“Let me see, I think I’d lift your skirt.” He reached down her leg and pulled the silk up until he found the hem. With painstaking precision, he revealed her leg inch by tantalizing inch.
Her heart pounded mercilessly as her breathing grew more rapid. His hand skimmed along her thigh. “Next I’d sweep through these pesky petticoats until I reached those feather-soft curls.”
He didn’t do what he said but continued to stroke her flesh.
“And?” She could barely gather enough moisture in her mouth to form the word.
“I’d touch you, glide my fingers along your sweet folds.” He brushed his hand against her, and she gasped softly.
“But you have to look at me. I want to see your eyes darken until they’re almost cobalt as I slip my finger inside you.”
She edged forward slightly, seeking what he described. But he didn’t give her what she wanted. His touch was maddeningly soft and…lacking. Frustration curled in her gut alongside the fervent need.
“Lionel.”
His eyes hooded with desire. “How I love to hear my name on your lips.”
“Lionel,” she repeated. “Is this going to be a demonstration?”
He blinked at her, his eyes wide. “Oh, you wish me to do as I say? I thought you wished to refrain.”
“I said go slow. I never said refrain.”
“Apologies. I thought that was implied. My mistake.” His hand stilled. “Are you asking me to pleasure you?”
She’d never imagined words could be so titillating. Yes, he was touching her, but it was without urgency or heat. Every bit of her arousal was due to the things he was saying. And the way he was saying them. He looked at her as if she were something to worship.
With my body, I thee worship.
He’d said those words on their wedding day. Apparently, he’d meant them. She suddenly felt quite humble. And uncertain. Again, he’d given her so much, while she…
She stood up abruptly, disrupting the tablecloth and hence her plate. “I’m going to bed.”
He rose, slowly, and her gaze dipped to the rigid outline of his hard cock. She considered unbuttoning his fall and conducting her own seduction without words, but ultimately couldn’t.
She did want to take things slow—impulsivity had never been her friend.
“Good night.” She turned from him and rapidly strode from the dining room before she could change her mind.
Chapter 11
Two days later, Lionel made his way along Savile Row until he reached the small shop belonging to Mr. Mullens, Tailor. It was an unassuming space, but the window display more than made up for the simplicity. Lionel walked inside and studied the garments in the window more closely. Mr. Mullens was indeed talented.
“Good afternoon, may I be of assistance?”
Lionel turned at the sound of, presumably, the tailor’s voice. “Good afternoon.”
Mullens’s eyes widened briefly. “My lord. It’s an honor to have you in my shop.”
“After I received your invoice the other day, I had to come see your work for myself.” Lionel took in the man’s costume—a dark blue tailcoat, vivid gold waistcoat, impeccably knotted cravat, and umber-colored breeches that were so well cut, Lionel wondered how the man donned them.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
Lionel strolled to a display of cloth. He removed his right glove and stroked the dark gray wool. “You’ve quite an eye for fabric. Your costume is quite striking.”
Mullens glanced down at himself, blushing slightly. “I do thank you.”
“I can only imagine how splendid Townsend’s clothing must have been. Have you any idea what happened to it?”
“I don’t.”
“What a shame. But listen to me go on about a dead man’s clothes.” Lionel winced inwardly.
Mullens gave him a considerate smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes
“Was he?” Lionel recalled Emmaline saying the tailor had been friendly with Townsend. “How did that come to be?”
Mullens’s mouth curled into a wry smile. “The story is a bit unscrupulous, I’m afraid. I’d just opened my shop but didn’t have many clients. I would loiter outside other tailors’ shops and listen for dissatisfied customers.” He smiled sheepishly. “That is how I met Lord Townsend.”
“Why is that unscrupulous? I’d say it was enterprising.”
Mullens seemed to stand taller. “I offered to make him a suit of clothing free of charge, provided he tell everyone where he got it—if he was satisfied with the outcome, of course.”
Lionel moved on to another bolt of fabric, a rich blue silk that was incredibly soft against his fingertips. “I can’t imagine you had such fine cloth at that time.”
“Oh no. I’ve worked very hard to afford having it on hand. Townsend didn’t care overly much about the fabric. In fact, his sartorial interest was fairly nonexistent when I met him. I find that to be the case with many men—until they get the right clothing. Once you wear a shirt crafted of the finest fabric with the greatest care… Then it all becomes clear.” Mullens’s tone had become wistful. It was obvious he loved his work.
Lionel had to admit he didn’t think too hard about his clothing, but that was why he had Hennings. His valet had an excellent eye for cut and color. “Well then, I suppose I must have you make me a shirt, at the very least.”
“I would be honored, sir. If you wouldn’t mind following me to the dressing area, I’ll take your measurements.” Mullens turned and strode to the back of the store while Lionel trailed him.
“You say that you and Townsend were friends. Did he confide in you?” Lionel was curious as to whether Mullens was aware of Townsend’s extreme debt as well as his extortion attempt.
“He didn’t tell me secrets, if that’s what you mean,” Mullens said.
Lionel removed his other glove and set them on a chair. He did the same with his coat and waistcoat. Then he untied his cravat and stripped away his shirt, leaving himself bare from the waist up. “His debts were so extensive. It seems as though someone should have known and perhaps stopped giving him credit.”
Mullens scribbled down numbers onto a piece of parchment. “I knew he was indebted, but I didn’t realize the depth of his losses. He liked to gamble.” He went about taking several measurements.
“Yes, I’d heard that about him.” Before he’d issued his challenge, he’d tried to learn all he could about Townsend. “I also know he was short-tempered.” He’d seen that first-hand at the house party from which Townsend had eloped with Emmaline.
Lionel tried to imagine her in love with the other man, her gorgeous sky-blue eyes turned up to him with desire. Lionel’s stomach turned.
She’d kept her distance from him yesterday, and he’d been out most of today. It would be easy for him to think he’d driven her away the other night. But how? Because he’d tried—and failed at—verbal seduction? No, she’d been struggling with some conflict, and he wasn’t sure it was something he could help her resolve.
“I didn’t see that side of him,” Mullens said. “His temper was always quite even with me. He was a fervent and generous supporter. Generous in that he referred many clients to me. I owe my success to him.” His gaze trailed off, and there was sadness in his tone.
Lionel began to grow uncomfortable. He pulled on his shirt and tucked it into his waistband.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Mullens said. “I hope you won’t find me too forward. Did he die well?”
Oh hell. Lionel finished tying his cravat just as his hands started to shake. He quickly drew on his waistcoat and angled himself a bit away from Mullens so the tailor wouldn’t see the way his fingers quivered while he fastened the buttons.
“I wasn’t with him when he died.” Lionel struggled with the last button but finally secured it through the hole. He reached for his tailcoat and pulled it on, his entire body beginning to tremble.
Mullens nodded. “I imagine he did. He was a good man.” He looked at Lionel, his gaze laced with pity. “You must feel terrible about killing him.”
Oh God. The room tilted and Lionel fought to keep his equilibrium. He needed to leave. Now.
“It was a shame.” And I regret it. So very much.
Townsend was an ass and a liar, but he hadn’t deserved to die. Yet if he were here, Lionel would not be married to Emmaline, would not have experienced the rapture of being in her arms, would not be fighting against the pull of falling in love with her.
And he couldn’t imagine not having those things. They were, already, essential to his every breath.
“I must be on my way. Send along the shirt and your invoice when it’s ready.” Lionel’s body felt like ice, and his voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else.
“Happy to, my lord.” Mullens smiled brightly, seemingly unaware of the turmoil slamming Lionel from the inside out.
Good.
Lionel turned and stalked from the store as quickly as possible. He moved so quickly that he nearly ran into a woman coming through the doorway.
“My goodness!” She nearly fell backward, but Lionel reached out and caught her.
His eyes focused on her face, noting the sharp beak of her nose. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he didn’t trust his mind at present. “Please excuse me.”
He made sure she was solidly on her feet before rushing past her and continuing on his way. He walked quickly, his long stride devouring the blocks to Brook Street. Less than ten minutes later, Tulk opened the door for him.
The butler immediately noticed something was amiss. “Will you be going upstairs directly, my lord?”
“Yes. If Hennings isn’t up there, please send him along.”
Tulk nodded, and Lionel ascended the stairs, intent on a warm bath and Hennings’s special toddy that would banish the ghosts haunting his mind. Hennings had begun these ministrations following Lionel’s second duel when he’d killed Addison. Devastated by what he’d done, Lionel had been nearly inconsolable. If not for Hennings’s constant care—and later the comfort of Deirdre MacBride—Lionel might still be in that dark fog. The painful irony was that if he were, he never would have committed the exact crime a second time.
As Lionel rounded the top of the staircase, he came face-to-face with Emmaline. Seeing her now, like this, made his chest tighten until he could barely breathe.
She stared at him, her gaze full of concern. “Lionel, are you well?”
“Actually, I’m feeling a bit ill. Please excuse me.” His shaking intensified, and a cold sweat had started on his neck. He prayed she didn’t notice.
He finally made his way to his chamber and was nearly undressed when Hennings arrived. “Water for your bath is on the way. Do you require a toddy?”
Lionel nodded, grateful for Hennings’s practical assistance. He saw the problem and set about fixing it, no questions necessary. Like a parent, which Hennings had sort of become after Lionel’s father’s sudden death. Though Lionel had been a grown man, he’d felt the loss so keenly, and Hennings had recognized that. Just as he knew now that Lionel was on the verge of succumbing to his demons.
“I’ll be back directly.” Hennings left, and Lionel tried to focus on something other than the darkness in his mind.
Emmaline. Think of her.
For a moment, he calmed. Closing his eyes, he pictured her beneath him, her lips parted in ecstasy. But then her expression changed. Her gaze spat fire as her lip curled with scorn.
“I’ll give you nothing save my undying hatred.”
He could almost forget she’d said that to him once. But he shouldn’t. Even if she managed to forgive him, he could never erase what he’d done.
He thought of the anger he’d felt after his father’s death, of the rage that had driven him to challenge and shoot Babcock. Though he’d taken the man’s use of his arm, Lionel still wished he’d killed him. It had only seemed fair since he’d caused Lionel’s father’s death.
Lionel often wondered if he’d carried that fury with him, and if that was why he’d killed first Addison and then Townsend. He was a monster of his own making.
The shaking started once more, and he wondered if it would ever stop.
* * *
Emmaline climbed into the coach and settled herself on the cushion, arranging her skirts so they wouldn’t crease too much. A moment later, Lionel sat down beside her. She hadn’t seen him in two days, not since he’d taken ill. He hadn’t emerged from his chamber until that morning—according to Mrs. Wells—and he’d been gone most of the day.
The vehicle sprang forward as they made their way to the Clares’ town house for the orphanage benefit musicale.
Emmaline had expressed her concern to the housekeeper, but she’d told Emmaline not to worry, that his lordship suffered minor bouts like this from time to time. This had surprised Emmaline. Lionel seemed a robust and healthy sort. She wanted to ask him about it, but there was an air of discomfort between them—an awkwardness borne of the newness of their relationship.
Relationship? Was she ready for their marriage to be anything other than a formal arrangement?
“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” she said. Because she couldn’t say nothing.
“I am, thank you.”
A moment passed, and Emmaline decided she didn’t want to ignore what the housekeeper had revealed. “Mrs. Wells told me this happens occasionally. Do you have an illness I should be aware of?”
He darted a glance toward her, but his gaze didn’t linger. Which was odd. He typically took every opportunity to look at her. “No.”
That was it? Emmaline was surprised at how frustrated she felt. When had she started to care so much about him?
She tried another tack. “Did I offend you the other night at dinner?”
His head arced toward her once more, but this time he didn’t look away. “No. You were clear about your desire to move slowly, and I respect that.” His gaze warmed. “Truly.”
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