by Joanna Shupe
He heard Kelly call his name but he paid no attention, taking the stairs two at a time and charging to her dressing room. Not bothering to knock, he threw the door open and stepped inside. Elizabeth’s maid gasped, but Emmett ignored her, instead focused on the beautiful, deceitful woman staring down her nose at him despite their clear difference in height.
Blond hair flowed over her shoulders, the locks recently released from whatever complicated coiffure she’d worn earlier, and a silk dressing gown hung from her shoulders. Flashes of bare skin covered in white cotton and lace danced in front of his eyes before she jerked the edges closed, tying the sash tightly. Smudges under her eyes caused her to look tired, and no welcoming light of warmth lit her gray depths as she faced him down. “Thank you, that will be all,” she said to the maid, dismissing her.
The door closed, leaving the two of them alone, and a myriad of emotions ran through him. Fear, outrage, jealousy . . . but mostly the insane craving that grabbed hold of his balls every time he was in her presence. She was stunning, even more so undone like this, and he could vividly remember her eagerness, the passion she had exhibited each time he’d taken her. His cock stirred in his trousers, and he resolutely ignored it.
“Yes, Emmett? I’m assuming you had a purpose in barging in here tonight.”
“What does he want from you?”
Confusion clouded her expression. “I do not know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t you?” he sneered. “Henry Rutlidge. Though I can’t say I’m surprised you went running to him.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I went running to him. That is precisely what I did. Fortunately, my fleeing coincided with Edith’s yearly birthday dinner.”
A sliver of doubt worked its way down Emmett’s spine, but he pressed, wanting some reaction from her. “Convenient he was able to get you alone, press his case. Let me guess, he believes you can do better than a dirty, common lout like me?”
“It hardly matters what Henry believes. If you trusted me in the slightest, we would not be having this conversation. But you don’t trust me. You never have, and I’m coming to accept that you never will.” She reached for her brush. “Now, get out, Emmett.”
Heart pounding, he took a few steps closer. His fingers flexed with the need to touch her soft skin, to cup her plump breasts, to test the wetness of her cleft.... Then he noticed the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her neck, and knew she was not as immune as she pretended. Her response triggered something inside him, an urge to taste her, to have her begging underneath him one more time, a desire so strong that his knees nearly buckled.
He hated this hunger, the insatiable lust that consumed him whenever Elizabeth was near. He was a drunk, willing to do anything for another bottle. Desperate with wanting. But he could not stop the pulsing need, could not prevent his legs from starting forward.
In two long strides, he backed her up to the dressing table. Her palms came up to rest on his chest, both to steady herself and to keep him away, no doubt. In a swift move, he lifted her onto the table, then captured both her wrists, brought them around behind her, and held them easily with one of his own hands.
She struggled a bit, a flush on her cheeks, pupils wide and black. “Let me go,” she said through clenched teeth.
“I do not think so,” he whispered, skimming his nose over her supple cheek. God, she smelled delicious, like vanilla and soap and stubborness. “Tell me what he wants, Elizabeth. Tell me why Rutlidge followed my wife to my carriage and dared to put his hands on her.”
She gave a sharp intake of breath near his ear. “You’re having me followed.”
He nipped the edge of her jaw with his teeth, felt her shiver. He reveled in the reaction, his cock lengthening. “Damn right I’m having you followed.”
With his free hand, he lifted the flimsy layers she wore to her waist, then stepped between her thighs, needing to get closer. Her breasts met his shirtfront as he trailed his fingertips along the smooth skin of her inner thigh. He was rigid beneath his underclothes and trousers, his prick clamoring for friction, but he resisted the urge to release himself and drive into her body.
She was panting now, eyelids closed. “You have no right to spy on me.”
“The hell I don’t.” He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of her throat, sinking his teeth into the tender spot where neck met shoulder. She arched closer, and he whispered, “You’re mine.”
“Oh God,” she whimpered, her fingers curling into fists behind her back. “Then you must remember that you are mine as well, husband.”
He untied her dressing gown and let the edges fall open. The idea of another woman hadn’t even crossed his mind. He was too obsessed with the one in front of him. “How could I possibly ever forget?”
He moved lower, using his tongue, teeth, and lips until she was nearly pushing her breast into his mouth. He licked the puckered tip through the cloth until she writhed, and then he wrapped his lips around her nipple and drew the taut flesh into his mouth. Her resulting moan reverberated in his blood, hardening him further.
The need to coat his tongue with her slickness urged him south. He released her wrists and dropped to his knees. Her fingers wound their way into his hair, clutching him tight as he parted her drawers. He could smell her, the womanly musk that signaled her arousal, and then she was bared before him. Glistening, swollen . . . He nearly shot off then and there. Christ, this woman.
He kissed the edges, sucking gently on the plump lips that guarded her entrance, not giving her what he knew she wanted. When she squirmed, trying to get closer, he said, “Tell me. I’ll do anything you need, but you must tell me first, Elizabeth.”
“Please, Emmett.”
“Please, what?”
“Kiss me there.”
“Here?” he asked, and pressed his lips to the tendon at the juncture of her thigh. He flicked his eyes to see her watching him, her silver gaze glassy and dark.
Her lips parted, her pink tongue darting forward to wet them. “Inside,” she whispered. “Use your tongue.”
He was hard and heavy, aching for her, and her words lanced through him like he’d been hit with an electric wire. “Yes,” he hissed, before parting her to give long licks with the flat of his tongue. He loved her taste, would never get enough of bringing her to peak with his mouth. The tip of his tongue circled her clitoris before he pulled back to ask, “Who is doing this to you?”
“Emmett,” she sighed, her fingers gripping his hair painfully as she threw her head back.
He hummed his approval against her skin, the vibration working its way through her sensitive tissues. She gasped and rocked forward. He decided to reward her and began sucking on her swollen pearl relentlessly. When her cries turned to urgent pleas, he quickly unbuttoned his trousers and pulled his erection out of his underclothes. In a flash, he rose, lined up, and drove into her with one thrust.
So warm and tight. Jesus Christ, she felt utterly perfect surrounding him. He captured her mouth and began to move, his hips working hard and fast, with no finesse whatsoever. The tiny dressing table rocked underneath them, crystal and porcelain tumbling to the floor, but Emmett kept pace, driving them higher.
She kissed him with abandon, every bit as wild as he, and when he felt her walls tighten around his cock, his fingers reached between them and brought her over the edge. She clenched, nails digging into his arms, cries ringing in his ear, and he could not hold back any longer. Pleasure built in his lower back, his legs . . . his fucking toes. With a shout, he let go, shuddering as spend erupted from the head of his prick.
Awareness began to creep in when the waves finally stopped. They were wrapped around each other, breathing hard, on a table in her dressing room. What was it about this woman? He didn’t trust her, no matter what Kelly and Brendan believed. So why had he just pounced on her like a starving man?
Withdrawing, he began putting himself to rights, resolutely avoiding her gaze. He owed her an apolo
gy for taking her like this, but the words would not come. She was his wife—not Rutlidge’s. “I do not want you seeing him again,” he said gruffly. “Is that clear?”
Elizabeth slid off the table and pulled her dressing gown closed. “Do not be ridiculous. He is the brother of my best friend. There is no way to avoid him, Emmett.”
“I do not want you alone with him.”
“Why?” she asked, genuinely perplexed. Then a bitter laugh escaped her. “Because you don’t trust me. Of course, how could I have forgotten?”
He said nothing, just watched as a myriad of emotions traveled over her face. Finally, she asked, “Tell me, how am I supposed to win back your precious trust?”
No answer came to mind, other than that he wanted her to admit what she’d done. It was the only way he could ever be sure. But trust or not, he still wanted her. Ached for her. And he had no intention of allowing another man to lay claim to her.
“For starters, stay the hell away from Henry Rutlidge.”
Chapter Eighteen
Never ask impertinent questions.
—American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness, 1883
“Good morning, Lizzie,” Brendan said as he entered the breakfast room. “I’m pleased to see you looking so well today.”
Lizzie ducked her head, avoiding her brother-in-law’s assessing gaze. Did everyone know of last night’s argument and . . . afterward? “Good morning,” she said into her cup, just before taking a long sip of coffee.
Brendan must have noticed her reaction because he held up a hand. “All I know was that Emmett was livid. When he is stomping about the house, it’s like a horde of invaders storming the castle gates. He’d never hurt you, but I also know how unforgiving he can be.”
That was an understatement. Brendan couldn’t have learned of the particulars regarding the East Coast stock purchase, only that Lizzie and Emmett had disagreed over something. And though she’d confided her misery to Edith, complaining to Emmett’s brother seemed disloyal. “Yes, he was certainly worked up.”
Brendan set a china plate full of food on the linen tablecloth, then lowered carefully into a chair. “Will you stay and have coffee with me?” He nodded toward her empty cup.
She agreed and poured coffee for them both. They made idle conversation for a moment or two before Brendan dismissed the footman hovering nearby. When they were alone, he said, “My brother is making you unhappy, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is.” No use pretending.
“I had such high hopes after the storm. I thought . . . well, I thought he’d changed.”
“As did I.” Thoughts of last evening came back to her, starting with Emmett’s anger and accusations. Henry’s pleading. The women who had ignored her because she’d dared to use her brain for something more than planning parties. Was Will right? Was she a fool to risk everything she had on this idea?
“Brendan, what will happen if my investment firm causes me to lose my standing in society? Will Katie and Claire be terribly disappointed?”
“Terribly disappointed that you can no longer guarantee their success?”
“Yes.”
“Lizzie, there are few guarantees in this life. No one expects you to put aside your happiness for Claire and Katie. Besides, Emmett claims their fat dowries will be enough.” Brendan chuckled and picked up his knife and fork. “Though I admit I didn’t believe him, which is why I stupidly meddled in your dinner at Sherry’s that night.”
“What do you mean, meddled?”
An odd look passed over his face. “He never told you?”
“Told me what?”
“No, nothing.” He focused hard on his plate and carefully cut into his sausage.
Brendan was a terrible liar. “What didn’t Emmett tell me?”
Grimacing, Brendan placed his knife and fork on the plate. “He’s going to kill me,” he muttered.
“Brendan.”
“About that second dinner, the one at Sherry’s.” She stared at him blankly, and he continued, “About how I tricked him into showing up.”
Her ears began to ring, but she forced out, “Tricked him, how?”
“I thought you knew. That I told him he was meeting his mi—” Brendan cleared his throat. “Someone else in that dining room.”
“But he asked me to have dinner that night. We had planned to meet.”
Brendan winced and said nothing.
Her mind turned this over, and she added up the facts. “He wanted to cancel, but you never passed the message along,” she guessed, and Brendan’s heavy exhale confirmed it.
She slumped in her seat. Emmett had . . . tried to cancel on her. Instead, he’d planned to meet his mistress for dinner, which was why the room had been set up in such a way. So intimate. For someone else. Embarrassment and misery wedged in her throat. Was anything between them not a lie? First the blackmail to marry her, and now this....
“Lizzie, I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I thought the association would do Emmett some good. But I never thought that he would try to seduce you there, or that your brother would catch the two of you together.”
Lizzie rubbed her forehead. Emmett had been tricked into meeting her. Emmett Cavanaugh and his society wife, a woman from one of the oldest families in New York but naïve enough to believe he’d truly wanted her. Even after she’d learned of the blackmail, that night at Sherry’s had always comforted her. The knowledge that he had seduced her, had pursued her.
But he hadn’t been pursuing her. He’d been trying to avoid her.
A fist-sized lump settled behind her breastbone. No doubt she’d been a convenient outlet during the storm, a warm, willing body to replace the many mistresses he still entertained.
Pushing away from the table, she rose quickly. She had no idea where she was going, but she had to move, to leave. To get somewhere private where she could try to make sense of everything she’d learned.
“Lizzie, wait!” Brendan clutched her arm. “Please. I know your marriage may have started under less than ideal conditions, but it’s clear the two of you have feelings for one another. Do not let what I’ve told you make you think less of him. He cares for you, I know it.”
Lizzie knew no such thing. No wonder Emmett fought her at every turn. She could hardly fault him, considering she served as a reminder of everything he hadn’t wished for. Everything he’d been blackmailed into accepting. Ice settled around her heart, a frozen hopelessness gifted by the stark reality of her marriage.
“Do not worry,” she told her brother-in-law. “I do not blame you. I blame myself.”
* * *
While trains were convenient they were also messy and loud. They spewed ash and burning cinders into the air. The wheels rattled as they churned, the undercarriage jostling and pinging in an unholy racket. Still, they carried you away from places—places in which you’d rather not stay.
Lizzie watched the countryside fly past the train window. She’d needed to escape the house, escape New York, as quickly as possible. The destination hadn’t much mattered. This train was headed west, away from a mansion full of distrust and lies, and that was all she cared about. Of course, she could disembark and catch an eastbound train whenever she was ready . . . but would she ever be ready to face Emmett again?
She sighed and settled deeper into the plush velvet bench. Trains were comforting to her, a reminder of her family legacy. Her father and brother had overseen the construction of these cars, these rails. Over the years, she had attended ceremonies for station openings, helped to christen new railcars, even weighed in on carpet and fabric choices for the interiors. Northeast Railroad was in her blood, too.
Today, however, she was not traveling as Mrs. Elizabeth Cavanaugh, née Sloane, in a private Pullman car, as her brother always insisted. She was plain Lizzie, riding with the rest of the passengers, just one lost soul amongst hundreds of strangers. Perhaps the journey could give her the time and space to find herself once more.
“It’s almost
time for lunch, madam,” Pauline said from the other end of the small bench, breaking into Lizzie’s reverie. “Shall I go and secure us seats in the dining saloon?”
Food did not sound appealing in the least, but Lizzie knew her maid had been increasingly concerned on the journey over her employer’s silence. Not to mention that the poor woman hadn’t blinked when Lizzie told her they were leaving for an indefinite amount of time. Therefore, it seemed cruel to refuse small courtesies. “Yes, thank you, Pauline. Did you send the telegram to Miss Grayson, telling her I would be away?”
“Yes, I did. I didn’t say when you was to return, however.”
The fishing expedition was not lost on Lizzie. “Excellent, thank you. I don’t expect it will be long. Just enough time to think, Pauline.”
The other woman nodded and rose from the bench, leaving Lizzie to stare out the window. A few minutes later, she felt a presence next to her. “Did you get us seats?” she asked, but received no answer. She glanced over and found a man there—
“Henry!” She straightened, blinking at him. “Good heavens. What are you doing here?”
Removing his derby, Henry Rutlidge slid closer. “I came to find you, of course.”
“I don’t understand. How did you know I would be here, on this train?”
Reaching out, he clasped her hand. “I know you’re running away from him.” Lizzie immediately tried to withdraw her hand from his grasp, but Henry held fast. “No, wait,” he said, his eyes pleading with her. “Let me come with you. I’ll help you. We can return to New York and I will use my influence to expedite your annulment.”
“Henry, I hadn’t planned anything beyond getting on the train. Please do not force me to make decisions right now.”
“Lizzie, in your heart you know what you are doing. You’re leaving him. For good. And about time, I might add.”
“Stop.” She jerked her hand back, and this time he let her go. “You’ve made it clear you do not approve of my marriage, but you cannot make assumptions. How can you think to know my mind when I hardly know it myself?”
