by Julia Donner
She felt too weary and replete to right her clothes as Hugh refastened his and tugged his jacket cuffs back into place. She saw him register dismay when he discovered something in his hand and shook it free.
After wiping hair from her face, she swallowed to find her voice. “We had better say something to each other now. If we wait until tomorrow, we may never say anything of significance again.”
He nodded, combed his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Did I hurt you?”
Lud, did he think she cried out like that because it hurt? But she wasn’t ready to be that forthcoming and whispered, “No. Not at all.”
“I must beg your pardon and forgiveness. For that,” he waved a hand in the direction of the bed, “and for what I said earlier. It was wrong of me to accuse you of adultery.”
And with a man she despised, she wanted to point out, but replied, “There is nothing to forgive. To be honest, I was relieved you came in while Langston was attempting to make himself so disagreeable. I should be thanking you for the timely reprieve.”
He kept his back to her. “Disagreeable?” He looked down at something on the floor. He tipped his head back to look up at the ceiling. Golden-brown curls brushed his jacket collar. He really did have lovely hair, light brown and soft. For a few moments, she’d had her hands in it.
She quieted when they started to speak at the same time. He said, gruff and terse, “Then, if you are well, I should say goodnight.”
Emily stared at the closed door, still overcome from the astonishing encounter, its explosive power. It had been glorious. Utterly, sinfully, deliciously glorious. The physical havoc and pleasure continued to resonate with internal twitches and twinges of delight. She’d been with five men, including her husband. None of them had accomplished what Hugh had in a few strokes. The excitement of the brief encounter exceeded the thrill of countless clandestine meetings—all of them added together couldn’t compare. The hurry and tension, the nerve-racking element of being caught, was similar to the clandestine couplings, but the fact remained that she and Hugh were married. There could be nothing forbidden about their coupling, but every moment of their wild striving and rush to completion felt like uncontrollable, illicit love. But more devastating. And extravagant. And satisfying.
A weary, contented laugh slipped out. Perhaps it had been too long a day or merely too long without the physical companionship she adored and recently craved like a famished beggar.
A sudden exhaustion swept through her. Everything would make sense after sleep. She began to gather the hairpins from the coverlet and stood to take them to the dish across the room. Her legs buckled, and she sank back on the bed.
Releasing a breathy laugh, she hitched up the back of the shift, recollecting how she’d hiked it up and spread her legs, begging him. Her cheeks burned. How humiliating, but her eagerness had shattered his restraint.
Oh, my, the way he’d lunged. She’d never been impaled before. A fresh surge of wanting made her quiver. An odd laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. She might be going mad or coming down with a fever. She must go to sleep before she found the courage and energy to thump on the wall and invite him back for more.
The hairpins got set on the bedside table. Too tired to blow out the candles, she crawled under the bedcovers and immediately slept.
Chapter 21
Hugh leaned his back against the wall. A footman was coming down the corridor, dousing the sconces for the night. On legs that felt weak, he entered his rooms and sank down on the nearest chair.
What had just happened? The intensity of sex with Emily had almost made him faint. Men didn’t faint. He certainly never would. At school, he hadn’t made a sound when they reset his broken arm. There had been that little gasp that slipped out when the bone sickeningly slid back into place but not a peep did he utter. Nevertheless, he felt drained now when he should feel replete. But he didn’t. He felt starved, incomplete and restless for the next time. Next time? What was he thinking?
He refused to lie to himself—never had before and wouldn’t start now. He’d known what was going to happen the instant he left Asterly House and swept into his own in a rage. He’d taken the steps two at time, dismissed Ulrich, and strode down the corridor to her room. He couldn’t rid himself of the memory of Langston Blake’s smarmy grin, those beefy hands on Emily’s fragile shoulders. The sight had made him want to grab the nearest blade or use his fists on the lout. What possessed a man to use another man’s wife as if she were a piece of clothing to be discarded when soiled? Blake was determined to control Emily, and the bastard wasn’t going to relent. His actions tonight proved that much, and that was the source of Emily’s fear—the man’s blind obsession.
A flush of heat scalded his face. Truth time. He was acting just as crazed. What made him better than Blake? The buttons on his breeches weren’t completely fastened. One was missing. The display of her disheveled and pleading for him had thrown wide the floodgate of dark desires, a passion urged on by the onslaught of betrayal he’d suffered from the sight of them together. His outrage had torn through every shred of restraint, sent him over an emotional edge he hadn’t known he had reached.
Before Emily became his wife, she was family. The Scot in his blood took that seriously. The male in him flamed at the thought of someone poaching on what was his. He hadn’t known or suspected he possessed a volatile kind of jealousy. Beryl had been too placid to evoke that sort of passion, but Emily stoked every nerve ending to inflamed attention every time she entered a room.
Heaven help him, the sounds she’d made. That rapturous smile as she received and gave back as good as she got, her lovely dark tresses spread across the counterpane. His fingers had spanned her waist when he pulled her forward and sank inside. Her skin felt like silk when he clutched her hips and pressed his thumbs under the delicate hipbones for a secure hold. He’d lost his bearings, had no control. He’d felt swept into a cauldron, a vise of pleasure so intense it obliterated everything but the driving need.
And he wanted her again. Now. Burned like a schoolboy in adolescent rut. He’d been so out of control that he’d ended up with strands of her hair in his hand. When had that happened? The entire encounter couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes.
The memory of her, sitting limp and sated on the bed, swamped his vision. When she’d sat up, the lawn shift slid out of place, exposing most of a small, round breast. The image made his mouth water and skin tighten. A shaft of heat slammed into his loins. It hadn’t been above a few minutes since he spent a portion of wild passion inside her. He felt ready and aching to have her again, see and experience the thrill of her acceptance. No, she gave more than acceptance. She took with a wholehearted, open exuberance that was somehow innocent and yet lascivious.
He’d heard men talk about how some women were capable of repeated climaxes, coming again immediately after, over and over, if the man could hold on. He’d barely managed a few strokes before she cried out. He longed to hear that again, make her cry out as she had with a passion so real and stark it nearly shattered his heart.
Weak legs, be damned. He got up and poured a dram of whiskey with shaking hands. The decanter clanked against the cut-glass tumbler. He threw back the liquor, let it sear down his throat and poured more.
Thank all the gods, real and imagined, he still had half a decanter left. He had fallen in love and lust with his wife.
Chapter 22
The silent tension in the breakfast room the morning after made Emily’s skin itch. Other than standing and greeting her with a polite nod when she entered, Hugh pretended she didn’t exist. He could pretend to the servants, but she felt and knew everything he was thinking. How could he do otherwise when she was doing the same, reliving every delicious moment of the night before?
It wasn’t until morning that she began to feel concern that such energetic activity could have hurt the baby. Mrs. Davidson had said not to worry unless there were blood spots later. There hadn’t been. She
checked before she bathed.
Under the table, she moved her left hand from her lap and curved her fingers over the mound that had become more pronounced in the last weeks. Sweet contentment assured her that all was well. She’d heard, and envied, women who said they communed with the life growing within, understood in some fathomless way that all was well. A smile curved her lips.
The unexpected clack of a knife blade against china made her flinch. She looked up when a piece of dried fish landed beside her cup and saucer. A footman scurried to collect the missile and whisk it from sight. Emily stared at Hugh, who kept his attention on his plate, knife and fork paused in the act of cutting. The remainder of the kipper sat on his plate. He carefully set down the silverware.
“Clarkson,” he murmured, “would you take this away? I believe it’s a bit drier than one would like.”
Striving to quell her enjoyment of the ridiculous, she pinched her lips together. The sound of him scraping butter over toast had her chewing on her inner cheek to keep from laughing. When she conquered the urge to giggle, she cleared her throat to say with regal dignity, “I’ve heard of sharing one’s meal, Hugh, but never quite like that. A projectile serving?”
He set down the toast slice, glared at it, and picked up the coffee cup. “An accident. Please forgive me.”
As one, they froze. The shared memory of him asking for her forgiveness the night before left them silent for a time. Emily drank her chocolate, wishing she wasn’t in the company of such a fusspot so she could dunk her dry toast. It didn’t really matter. The vague nausea had gone away but her appetite had yet to return.
The silence began to irritate. It was absurd to sit at table without conversation. She set down the toast. “I’ve promised Waldo and Howie to take them back to Astley’s. I thought this afternoon. Did you wish to accompany us?”
He sipped coffee and replaced the cup in its saucer with precision and care. After a dab at his lips with the linen, he said, “I have appointments this afternoon.”
She got caught up in the study of his mouth. It had an interesting shape. The upper lip looked slightly longer than the lower, and fuller, a slight pout that intrigued and had felt marvelous against hers last night. Heat flushed over her skin as she recalled that he had a commanding, talented tongue and—
“Are you looking forward to the celebration party tomorrow evening?”
His question brought her back to the present. “Uhmm? Oh, the party, yes. Waldo and Howie are wild to wear their Highland dress. I’m anxious to see Ana.”
“Your friend, the headmistress? She’s rather young for that position.”
“Perhaps. She’s had little choice. Her brother is a bit of a wastrel. It’s turned out that she’s had to support him rather than the other way around.”
“She, Miss Worth you said, is related to Lord Goring, is she not?”
“Yes. No real connection though. Her brother, from her father’s second marriage, is related. She must leave the day after the party—”
She broke off when she felt something move inside, a flutter in her tummy that made her gasp. She looked up and connected with Hugh’s pointed gaze.
“Are you all right, Emily?”
“It felt like…a butterfly inside.” Amazed and delighted, she smiled. “The baby is fine. I was concerned, you know, after last night. Nothing to worry about though. Isn’t it marvelous?”
His gaze sharpened. She felt pinned to the chair by that piercing stare. What had she said to bring that about? Oh, the remark about their activities not harming the baby.
He abruptly stood. “If you would please come with me.”
It wasn’t exactly a request, and he winced after he said it, but moved swiftly to her chair, where he held out his hand. Before they left the room, he said over his shoulder to Clarkson, “I’ll be in the office. I don’t want to be disturbed for the next hour.”
She wasn’t fool and knew what he was about. His grip encircling her wrist scorched her skin as they moved swiftly down the passage. Like last night, he wasn’t going to ask for her permission this time either. She didn’t care. The babe was fine and she felt on fire. Only Hugh had the ability to douse the flame.
He swung her into the room he used as an office. He released her long enough to shove a chair in front of the door. Her glance skittered to the desk. She headed for it, but he pulled her toward a bureau against the wall, hiked up the back of her dress and lifted her up. She gasped when her bare bottom connected with cool, slick mahogany and again when his hand searched and discovered that she wore no drawers. He couldn’t know that she rarely did. Hated the things, liked being an old-fashioned girl. Apparently, so did he, she judged by the pleased quirk of his lips.
Her mind was swept clean when his mouth came down on hers, delving inside. Still no sound from him, except the deep breathing that matched hers. Against her chest, she felt a quiver run through him when she suckled his tongue.
He released her mouth to watch as he shoved up her skirts. She said after a shaky laugh, “You taste like coffee.”
Kneeling, he replied, “Not for long.”
She choked on a shriek of surprise and searing pleasure, flattened her palms on polished wood, gripping to hold herself and the world spinning away. It was no use, she was instantly lost. Pleasure took over. He took control. The room blurred and she sank into a sensual, dark well. Only that place where his mouth created blinding delight existed. When she tried to move into the intense pleasure, he wrapped his fingers around her thighs and kept her still, a punishment she gladly accepted. In moments, her body contracted with a jolt so hard it took her breath and choked off the sound of her culmination.
Through bleary vision, she saw him stand and unfasten his breeches. “That was one.”
Feeling drunk, excited and sated, she mumbled, “What?”
He pulled her hips closer to the bureau’s edge. “I want at least two from you. Next time, maybe more. Until you’re as senseless as you make me. Give me your hand.”
He sounded angry but she knew he wasn’t. If he felt any anger, it would be directed at himself, but why would he feel that way? Worry fled when he took her hand. The feel of him, silk and steel, in her hand stole her breath. He wrapped his fingers around hers. “Take me inside. Do not rush.”
His hazel eyes looked dark as night, his lips in a tight line as he penetrated with slow purpose. He pulled her hand away so he could continue the inward glide. She gulped when he pushed in all the way, felt her eyes widen at the odd angle.
“Hugh, you feel on fire inside me.”
Through gritted teeth he said, “No talking, Em. I need to concentrate. Time for the second one.”
Slack and bleary from recent release, her head fell back against the wall for support. Inside, she felt the stirring stretch of renewed craving. The man was a magician. This morning, she had wondered if her wildness in his arms the night before had been due to abstinence, but her responses now were even stronger, more avid and greedy.
His early words finally took shape inside her dazed brain. “Second? What are you talking about?”
He silenced her by slowly withdrawing and returning with a hard thrust. Her inner muscles clenched. He kept a maddening pace, gentle then rough, until she became frantic. She lifted her legs to grip his waist, a try for control that he refused to allow. He punished her by holding her legs down on the bureau’s slick surface, making her receive the way he wanted to give. He studied her responses with a narrowed gaze, his teeth clamped tight, jaw muscles flexing, unrelenting in the driving rhythm, until he paused and held still, watching her. Deep inside an intense pressure grew, an ache that stretched within her hips that demanded release. When she could bear it no longer, she gasped out a sobbing plea. The corner of his mouth ticked up in a half smile. A fine quivering shivered through him and into her, then he rapidly sent her over the edge.
Limp and stunned, she felt herself scooped up against his chest. He carried her to the desk and bent her face-first over i
ts surface. She felt so numb she scarcely noticed the crackle of parchment under her cheek and the lifting of her skirts. Her eyelids fluttered when his fingertips teased a trailing path over and around her bottom. His slow entry from behind made her sluggish body stir. Her eyes flew open when his hand slid from her waist and down between her legs.
Against her ear, he whispered, “Time for three.”
She tried to lift her head from the desk but it was too heavy. “Can’t, Hugh. Too tired. Don’t have it in me.”
“Yes, you do, love.”
The endearment made her eyes widen. His fingers coaxed renewed wanting. She believed it could happen again when his fingertips moved from tender to squeezing pinches. The aching pressure began again, more urgent this time. Desire revived her as nothing else could. She tried to turn to face him but his chest trapped her against the desk. His hand on her hip held her in place. She squirmed against the imprisonment and pleasure, amazed by how he could draw so much from her, manipulating desire as easily as a puppet. Held down against the desk, there was nothing she could do but accept the intensity of her body’s response. Again, he led her to the maddening edge of release. Pleasure’s ache became an unrelenting pressure that coiled and pushed her beyond worrying about if she could do it again and she was almost there when he paused.
Ready to kill him, she shoved papers to the floor, arched back into his next thrust, and issued a threat, “You’re going to pay for this, Hugh.”
“Worth any price,” he breathed a laugh into her ear. “Tell me what you want.”
“Revenge.”
“Sounds interesting. What do you have in mind?”
“I’m going to do to you what you did to me on that bureau.”
