An Accidental Seduction

by Michelle Willingham

  She let out a gasp as he withdrew, holding himself poised at her entrance. “No, don’t—” she pleaded.

  A knowing smile crossed his face, as he slid back inside. The feeling of his full length pressed within was intoxicating, a sweet hunger that kept building higher. Stephen palmed her hips, forcing her close as he kissed her mouth. Then he moved her hand to the hooded flesh above her womanhood, touching her fingertips to a sensitive place.

  “Hold your hand there,” he commanded. He withdrew his length, and when he plunged inside again, she cried out at the delicious pressure. “Do you feel it?”

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think clearly. His hard length filled her while the tight bud beneath her fingers seemed to intensify the pleasure. “As I take you, give yourself the pleasure you need.”

  His mouth moved back to her breasts, sucking hard while he increased the pace. With each stroke, he brought her closer. The crescendo building up inside her was a wave, threatening to spill over.

  “Let go, Emily,” he said. And suddenly his lovemaking turned from gentle to savage. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her, thrusting deep as she cried out. The pleasure poured over her, a violent release that pounded even harder as he pumped against her body. She throbbed against his length, tears spilling from her eyes as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  With one final thrust, he found his own release, and he entered and withdrew a few times more. At last, he rested his cheek against hers, their bodies still joined.

  He fell silent, not speaking as he finally pulled away from her body. She couldn’t read his thoughts as he wrapped her in the heavy quilts, moving to the opposite side of the bed. The fire crackled on the hearth, making the only sound in the room.

  And, God help her, she didn’t know what he must think of her now.

  Chapter Three

  Sometime, in the middle of the night, Emily left the bed. Stephen heard the clatter of pots in the kitchen and knew she must have gone to cook something. Likely she needed the distraction as much as he did. He rolled over, staring at the spot where her head had rested. The sheets were warm from her body heat, and he reached out to touch them.

  Never, in all his years, had he done something like this.

  He couldn’t quite grasp what had happened between them. Right now he should be consumed with guilt, furious with himself. He’d come here to look after her, to ensure her comforts. Not to seduce her.

  He’d lost sight of everything when she’d begged him to stay. He couldn’t have denied her anything in that moment. And though Emily would likely hate him for taking her innocence, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Never before had any woman made him feel this way.

  Now, more than ever, he intended to ensure that she had everything she ever wanted. He’d take care of her, seeing to all her needs.

  Stephen got up and dressed quietly. It was too dark to see how snowy it was, but he didn’t doubt that his coachman would eventually return when the weather cleared. He walked downstairs and found Emily in the kitchen, attacking dough with a rolling pin. Her hair was wild, tangled across her shoulders, while she wore the gown she’d had on earlier. A long apron was tied about her waist.

  She was crying.

  Damn it all. He’d never meant to hurt her. He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Emily.”

  She whirled with the rolling pin, touching her hand to her throat. “Oh, heavens, you scared me.” Just as quickly, she stepped away and tried to set the utensil down. “I was just…making something for breakfast. Some fried dough dipped in sugar.”

  “Breakfast is another three hours away, at least.” He saw her wipe the tears away, her face turning red.

  She returned her attention to the dough, shaping it into a ball to rise. “I know.” After she placed the dough in a bowl and covered it with a cloth, she braved a smile. “You should go back to bed.”

  “So should you.”

  She wiped her floured hands upon the apron. “Oh, I will. As soon as this is done.”

  Which wouldn’t be until dawn, he guessed, judging from the hours it would take for the dough to rise twice. She was clearly avoiding him.

  “Emily, we should talk.”

  “About what? It was my fault that any of this happened,” she pointed out. “You aren’t to blame.”

  But he was. If he’d had any willpower at all, he’d have left her alone and slept upon the sofa. “As soon as my coachman arrives, we’re returning to Falkirk. We’ll decide what’s to be done then.”

  Her expression turned guarded. “What’s to be done?” She gripped her arms, rubbing them as though she were cold again. “There’s nothing to be done, Whitmore. You’ve no obligation to me at all.” With a brittle laugh, she added, “It isn’t as though you could marry me. We both know that.”

  “Do we?” He moved forward and reached for her waist. “You’re a Baron’s daughter. And if memory serves, I just took away your chances of making a successful marriage.”

  “I was already ruined, Whitmore. No decent man in London would have me, not after my father’s suicide.” She tried to pull back, but he refused to release her.

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is.”

  Though he wanted to reassure her, she put her hands up and continued, “You’ll go back to Falkirk, and I’ll stay here until Daniel comes. It will be all right.” Despite her words, the tears started again.

  “Emily, I’m going to take care of you.”

  “I don’t need you,” she snapped. “I can take care of myself. And for God’s sake, I don’t want your pity. I seduced you, and I won’t feel sorry for it.”

  He seized the ties of her apron, using them to pull her into his arms. “I’m not sorry for it, either. But we have to decide on your future and where you’ll live.”

  “It’s my decision, not yours. And I’ve chosen to live here.”

  “If you think I’m going to let you live like a servant, you’re wrong.”

  “Stop trying to control my life, Whitmore. You, of all men, ought to understand what it’s like to have someone forcing your every move. I won’t allow it.”

  The pointed reminder wasn’t lost on him. But he wasn’t behaving like his autocratic family. This was about taking care of Emily, ensuring her safety.

  She tried to break free of his embrace, but he held her fast. The top button of her gown hung open, baring her throat to him. The glimpse of skin made him hungry to taste, to tantalize her. He didn’t want anger between them, not after all that had transpired.

  He held her wrists captive while he bent forward and kissed her neck. As soon as his mouth touched the spot, her posture stiffened. “What are you doing, Whitmore?”

  “Distracting you. I find that I’m hungrier than I’d thought.” To emphasize his words, he nipped at her skin, moving closer to her mouth.

  “I—I suppose I could find more biscuits, if you—“

  He cut her off with the kiss, taking what he wanted most. Her mouth, her lips…her tongue. He kissed her against the kitchen table, and she responded as though she didn’t want their night to end. And neither did he.

  She wound both arms around his neck, kissing him with the reckless abandon he loved about her. He unbuttoned the rest of her gown, pleased to find that she wasn’t wearing anything beneath it. Baring her breast, he leaned in to suckle the tip. She gasped and reached beneath his shirt to touch his chest. Nipping her gently, he turned his attention to the other breast, still keeping most of her gown buttoned.

  She consumed him, making him lose sight of every good intention. He wanted her, and not just for this night. He sensed that even if they had a thousand nights together, he’d never be satiated.

  He tasted and stroked, his tongue moving over the soft nipple. Her fingers dug into his scalp, and when he slid his hands up her skirts, he found her wet between her thighs. The need to take her, to claim her body with his, drove out all rational arguments. He guided her tow
ard the wall, resting her palms upon it. “Stand here, Miss Barrow. I’m going to ravish you.”

  “But you—that is, I’m not sure—”

  He lifted her skirts to her waist, baring her firm bottom. “I’ll stop, if you’d rather not.” But he caressed the curve of her behind, moving his hand between her legs to the damp curls. He teased her, stroking her with his hand until she lowered her head, still balancing her weight against the wall. Her breathing was unsteady when he moved between her legs. She gasped when he unfastened his trousers, using his length to rub against her moist center.

  “I don’t think—men and women behave like this—in the kitchen, do they?”

  He probed her wet entrance with his shaft, and she bent forward to grant him easier access. “Only if you want me to.” He kept himself pressed close, as his hands moved around to her breasts.

  She could hardly speak, but managed, “Please. I can’t bear it.”

  In one slick stroke, he filled her, and she uttered a cry of shock. Her tight warmth surrounded him, and he shuddered at the contact. He fought to keep his penetration gentle and deep, since she would be sore from the last time. But she kept backing against him, quickening the tempo.

  Before he knew what was happening, her inner walls squeezed his shaft, and he could no longer restrain himself. He drove harder, pulling her waist toward him with each penetration.

  “You’re going to stay with me,” he swore, fighting for control when she bucked her hips against him. “I’m not letting you go.”

  He felt himself losing the battle, succumbing to the sweetness of her flesh. He joined their bodies together, meeting thrust for thrust until she arched suddenly, her body shattering with pleasure. When he felt her squeezing him tight, he shouted with his own release, filling her inside. He had trouble catching his breath, but he held her close, joined intimately.

  “Come back to bed,” he murmured against her shoulder. “I want to sleep beside you.”

  She kept her face turned away, and when at last he withdrew, she spoke. “I’ll go with you to Falkirk tomorrow. But that’s all.”

  He turned her to look at him, raising her chin so he could see her eyes. “For now.”

  The coachman brought a sleigh to take them back to Falkirk in the morning. Emily wore as many layers as she could, but she didn’t speak to Stephen on the way. Her heart was barely holding itself together, for last night was a precious memory. If she let herself even imagine a future with him, he’d break her heart again. She’d taken him into her arms, knowing that she would later hold regrets. And yet, she wouldn’t have changed any of it.

  She was still in love with the Earl, after all these years. To marry a man like Stephen had always been her dream, but not in this way. Not because he had to.

  They hadn’t spoken of marriage again, though she knew it preyed on his mind. The drive back to his estate at Falkirk seemed to last centuries instead of minutes. There was the sense that she’d become a burden to him, and that was something she’d never wanted.

  After they arrived, the butler Farnsworth barely concealed his horror at her attire, though he didn’t speak a word to Lord Whitmore. It didn’t take long for her to be parted from the Earl, escorted by servants to one of the guest rooms. One maid took away her tarlatan gown and replaced it with a gown owned by Stephen’s younger sister, Lady Hannah. The creamy muslin was printed with tiny violets, trimmed with purple ribbon. It was a gown meant for a younger girl, but since Emily had gone so long without decent food, it fit.

  She kept her old shoes, for Lady Hannah’s feet were far smaller than her own. The worn soles were a reminder that no matter how they might try to cover up her poverty, she was still the same underneath it all.

  Oh, Lord help her, it was so tempting to stay here. The warmth of his home, the tray of food he’d had delivered to her room…The Earl had been nothing but kind to her.

  A lump caught in her throat, for she truly had no way to return the favors he’d given. She needed to speak with Whitmore, to even the score between them. With the help of a maid, she found the stairs and went in search of him. Farnsworth was standing in the foyer, looking disgruntled at her arrival.

  “The Earl is otherwise occupied,” he said stiffly. “But you may await him in the drawing room.” With a glance at her thin appearance, the butler added, “I’ll see to it that you have suitable refreshments.”

  After he’d gone, Emily explored the small drawing room. The walls were papered, printed with hummingbirds and roses. A rich burgundy sofa was placed near the fire, and she instinctively moved toward the hearth.

  The sound of the doors closing told her that Whitmore had arrived at last. She tried to relax, to rid herself of her sudden nervousness. But with each step he drew closer, her body reacted with the memory of last night.

  He didn’t kiss her, nor touch her, but his proximity made her even more attuned to him. When she turned at last, she saw him wearing evening attire. His dark brown hair was combed, his cheeks shaven. She inhaled the light hint of sandalwood, repressing the urge to throw herself into his arms.

  Her heart was already lost again. It hadn’t taken more than a single day for her to ignore all the warnings and reach back to him.

  “You look lovely,” he said. “I hope the servants met all of your needs?”

  Not all of them. She wanted to embrace him, to rest her cheek against his shirt and feel the warmth of his arms around her. But instead, she nodded.

  “I’ve sent word to your brother and demanded that he return.” His steel eyes were emotionless. “I think it would be best.”

  A splinter of dismay caught at her heart, but she forced herself to agree. “You are right, of course.”

  He’s changed his mind. He doesn’t want you to stay with him. You’re an inconvenience, nothing more.

  She bit her lip hard to hold the tears back. The cool distance was back, the rational man who was completely in control of his fate.

  He continued to speak, as though he weren’t breaking her heart all over again. “You may purchase a suitable wardrobe to replace what you’ve lost while you’re here.”

  No. That’s not what I want at all. But instead she said, “That’s kind of you.”

  He bowed and offered, “Make yourself at home here, until Hollingford arrives.”

  And when he’d left the drawing room, she swiped at her wet cheeks and resisted the urge to throw something at the door.

  Stephen stayed away from Emily for nearly a week, to clear his head. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, and God knew, he was letting his head be ruled by his body’s needs. Now that he’d taken her out of Hollingford House, he had to decide what to do with her. But somehow, asking her to become his mistress felt wrong.

  During that time, he’d received daily letters from his mother. Blistering notes, reminding him of his duty to marry and demanding that he return. She’d even made an appointment for him to speak with the Archbishop, if he decided to wed by special license. And the last letter threatened to send Miss Lily Hereford for a visit.

  He’d had enough. Over the past few weeks, he’d been polite, simply ignoring her wishes, but it was time to put a stop to it. Courtesy only went so far before a firm hand was necessary. He removed his grandmother’s ring from his waistcoat, setting it down upon the desk.

  Stephen picked up a pen, intending to make it clear to his mother that he was not going to marry Miss Lily Hereford or any other woman of his parents’ choosing.

  As he began writing, the ruby ring caught the morning sunlight, flashing red and gold. No matter how he tried to envision the wife who would wear it one day, his obsession with Emily Barrow kept creeping to the forefront. He imagined her lying beneath him, her face enraptured with pleasure, her long legs wrapped around his waist.

  She was the very last woman he’d ever imagined as his Countess. His family would be appalled at the choice.

  But, in marrying her, he could ensure that she never again set foot in Hollingford House.
She would never have to worry about food or shelter, no longer dependent upon the whims of her brother. He wanted her to have that freedom.

  If Emily agreed to wed him, he would gain his own independence from his family’s meddling. His parents would have no choice but to abandon their matrimonial quest if he returned to London with a wife.

  The more he considered the idea, the more it held merit. Theirs could be a quiet wedding, perhaps an elopement in Scotland.

  A resounding crash struck the window of his study, shattering glass everywhere. Upon his desk, Stephen saw a rock. When he looked outside, he saw a horrified Emily sitting on a tree branch. Now, how in the world had she managed to climb up, wearing a gown and petticoats?

  He crossed over to the sill, stepping over shards of glass. “Why, in heaven’s name, would you break my window?”

  Emily chewed at her lip and offered an apologetic smile. “I’d meant to throw pebbles at your window.”

  “That was a pebble?” He held up the rock, which was the size of his thumb.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to throw it that hard.” She pulled up her hood, but her shoulders were shaking. By God, the woman was laughing. “I only thought to see if you wanted to come outside.”

  “I do have doors, you know. There was no need to bring the snow inside.” From the look of it, at least two panels of the window would have to be replaced, if not the entire thing.

  “I really am sorry. I only wanted to see you, since you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

  “Wait there,” he warned. After hastily throwing on a cloak and hat, he pocketed his grandmother’s ring. Then he gave instructions for Farnsworth to order repairs for the window and sweep up the glass.

  Outside, the snow had begun to fall again, and Stephen walked around the perimeter of the estate until he reached the tree outside his study. Emily was seated on a large branch, both arms clinging to the trunk.