by Jo Goodman
Emma’s hips jerked. The movement was not in avoidance of his caress but in wanting more of it. She was vaguely aware that half-formed thoughts became unintelligible phrases whenever she spoke aloud. Although she had little understanding for what she said, Restell was fluent in the language.
What Emma did recognize was the slow, sweet climb that led to her eventual return to the plateau. The difference was that when she reached that plain there was no moment to collect herself. This time she did not simply linger there. This time she was urged to climb higher.
Emma felt every muscle grow taut, all of them drawn in such a fashion by Restell’s insistent, intimate caress. She threw back her head as much as she was able and pushed her heels deep into the bedding. She released the sheet and made to reach for him, though her intent was not clear even to herself. The effort came to nothing. Her hands fell to her sides and the fingers splayed wide. Her lips parted wider than before and the breath she had captured in her lungs was released.
The short burst of sound she emitted had a pitch that might very well have made it a scream.
“Well?” Restell waited to pose the question until Emma’s breathing had calmed. He determined that the fact that she was still flushed a deep rose was no deterrent to speech.
Emma looked at him askance. “You are a trifle too superior for my tastes. It is not becoming.”
“You tempered your outburst beautifully,” he said. “A carefully modulated trill.”
She continued to regard him suspiciously. “Did you say a carefully modulated thrill?”
“That also, I suspect.”
Emma was sufficiently moved to poke him in the ribs with her elbow.
Restell had not thought it possible to manage a wince and a chuckle at the same time, but he did both. “Why did you do that?”
“Because I don’t have a fork.”
He pulled her close and kissed her saucy mouth, then lingered there because the taste of her was so fine. When he raised his head, he saw she was smiling rather smugly. It occurred that she had wanted to provoke him to just this end. There was naught he could do but surrender to her. “I am convinced you are in every way my better. There is no need to be smug about it.”
“Women are not smug,” she said. “We are haughty.”
Restell sat up and took her by the hand. “This way, your haughtiness. There are matters that must be attended.” He allowed Emma to take the sheet with her as he pulled her out of bed, but when wrapping it around her became a task she could barely manage, he found her chemise and presented it to her. While she slipped it over her head, he located his shirt draping over one of the chairs and put it on. He led her into the dressing room where he poured water into a basin and tossed in a sponge.
“For your ablutions,” he said. “The screen is behind you in the event you are still in a modest frame of mind. If you are not, I will be happy to do the—” He stopped because she had already fled behind the screen. Restell crossed his arms and leaned against the washstand, content to watch the slim silhouette she made on the screen’s silk fabric. She set one foot on a stool, then raised the hem of her chemise to the level of her thigh. Water dripped in the basin as she squeezed water from the sponge. She touched it to her inner thigh, drawing it up her leg, then for no reason that he could discern, she stopped.
Emma could not say what suddenly caused her skin to prickle, but she knew to pay attention to that discomfort. She was aware of her surroundings in a way she had not been before. The candlelight behind her, her shadow on the screen, the provocative picture that she made poised as she was to begin her ablutions.
“You are watching me, aren’t you?”
Restell knew immediately that he had made a grave error in judgment. “I’m leaving,” he said. He exited the room quickly, closing the door behind him.
Emma looked around the screen to make certain he was gone before she applied the damp sponge to her nether parts. That this was a private, personal act did not entirely explain her reaction. She felt violated and more than a little ill. When she wrung out the sponge a second time, she realized her hands were trembling.
It was difficult for Emma not to rush her ministrations. She was horribly aware of being alone though not of any specific danger. It seemed to her that she could no longer draw a full breath, and her chest ached with the pressure building inside it. Her field of vision was limited by darkness at the periphery.
“Emma?”
She jerked at the sound of her name. Restell was inquiring after her. Had she been in here so long, then? How had time fled when she was unable to account for it? She glanced down at herself and saw she was no longer holding the sponge nor even standing behind the screen. She was sitting on a stool, her knees drawn close to her chest. The sponge was in the basin that was now on the floor beside her, and what was in her hand was a towel. She stared at it, unable to grasp the import of what she was seeing. Almost against her will, she felt the length of it and realized it was damp. She had already dried herself.
“Emma?” Restell called again. He hesitated to knock because he had seen the consequences of raising that sound to her consciousness. He held the handle, debating whether he should turn it and enter without her permission.
“I require but another moment,” she said.
Another moment? “Forgive me,” Restell said. “You were gone such a time that I feared all was not well.”
Emma stood and found her brush in the case where her maid had left it. She picked it up and quickly ran it through her hair. Her robe, she recalled, was in the large armoire. She took it out, slipped into it, and belted it on her way to open the door. Restell stood directly in her path on the other side when she opened it. It required considerable effort not to push him out of the way.
Instead, she forced a smile. “You may wish you had arranged for me to have my own dressing room. I shall endeavor to be more mindful of my time in the future.”
Restell was tempted to seize her by the shoulders while he studied her face. He had to be satisfied with a cursory inspection before she slipped past him and headed directly for the bed. He did not think he was mistaken in his assessment: her eyes and her smile were both a shade too bright.
Emma kept her back to Restell as she straightened the bedclothes. After a few moments of this activity with no word passing between them, she heard him close the door to the dressing room. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw that he had disappeared. It was then that she felt free to sag against the bed and put her head in her hands. Not knowing when Restell would return, weeping was a luxury she could ill afford.
She tried to think of what she could tell him that would explain what had happened in the dressing room, but no explanation occurred to her. Even the truth did not suffice, not when it pointed to the very real possibility that she was going quite mad. Restell would want to do something. It was in his nature to make things right, to return balance where it had been lost. But what if he failed? What if the assurances he offered were merely platitudes and there was nothing he could do? Things could not always be made better. He might be able to find her attackers, but it did not mean that he could save her.
Emma was not yet prepared to tell him that or why it was so. The risk was too great—for both of them.
Restell thought that Emma would be abed when he returned to their room, but she was sitting up in the wing chair he had occupied earlier that morning. She had a book in her lap, and he recognized it as one his sister Wynetta had recommended: Nightmare Abbey. He’d had it for several years without opening it. Emma, he noticed, had not opened it either.
“Gothic novels are not to your taste?” He saw her brow pucker. It cleared only when he gestured to her lap. She could have given him no better indication of her mind being somewhere other than in this room.
“Oh, this,” she said, lifting the book. “I cannot decide if it is worth the effort. Can you recommend it?”
Restell shook his head. “Wynetta gave it to me. I had fo
rgotten that I brought it here.”
“Perhaps you should return it.”
“She thinks she gave it to Imogene. I am out of it.”
Emma managed a small smile. “You are good at giving the appearance of avoiding responsibility.”
“Thank you. It requires more in the way of skill than one would think.” Restell padded barefoot to the bed and sat down. “Did I tell you how lovely you looked this morning?”
“You may mention it now if you like.”
“Lovely,” he said. “My father remarked on it. I overheard him tell Mother.”
“Your father is very kind.”
Restell hooked his heels on the bed frame and rested his forearms on his knees. “I think you have a previous acquaintance with my father. Am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong, but what makes you say so?”
“You informed me when we met that it was some member of my family who told you how to find me. I watched you with all of them today, and the only person with whom you struck an easy conversation was my father.”
“Oh, I hope I was not so stiff with the others that it was evident to all.”
“You were cordial and gracious, and no slight could ever be made regarding your manner. It is only that with my father you seemed at rest, and he did not speak of politics once. There is something worth noting in that.”
“I met your father at the Greenaways. It was an afternoon musicale and a soprano entertained us. Sir Geoffrey and I struck up a conversation. Perhaps it will not surprise that he spoke at length about all of you, and he demonstrated a perfectly delightful sense of humor in telling his stories. I did not know then that I would have need to recall any of the details of his discourse, but when Dr. Bettany mentioned your name, I knew where you could be found. Your father seemed to find the idea that you lived under Ferrin’s roof rather amusing, though I did not understand why that might be so until today.”
“Remarkable. I would not have suspected he was the source of your information. I wonder if Mother knows he converses with young ladies about peculiarities in the family.”
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “But I should be put out with you if you tell her. He purchased my uncle’s painting for her. Did you know that?”
“Did he? She never said. She told me she wanted it and that he indulged her, but I didn’t realize that he’d made the purchase himself. Isn’t he a deep one? Secretive about his own business and a veritable wag when it comes to the rest of the family.”
Emma was certain she did not want to entertain any conversation that dealt with keeping secrets. “Do you regret that Ferrin and his wife could not attend our wedding?”
“It is not precisely regret. I would not act differently tomorrow than I have today so regret seems like an indulgence. What I wish is that he was more often in town and that of necessity I did not have to exclude him.”
“Will he understand?”
“He will understand perfectly.”
Emma waited. It seemed he was on the verge of saying more, then he caught himself and the moment passed. Emma glanced toward the mantel where an ormolu clock ticked off the time. It was gone ten, late enough for them to retire if they had not already slept the better part of the day away. She at least had gotten up to greet Bettis and sort through her clothes when her trunks arrived; Restell had slept like the dead, making up for every hour lost on the road between London and Walthamstow.
Restell was not privy to the leapfrogging of Emma’s thoughts, so he was not prepared for her to ask about the drawings he’d carried back from Walthamstow.
“May I see them?” she asked. “You said you would show them to me when we were in your home.” She raised her hands to indicate the room. “Here we are.”
“It is late, Emma.”
“I am not tired.”
“Another time.”
She was not entirely sorry that he denied her the opportunity. “Well, then, do you suppose that we might find something to eat? I am astonishingly hungry. I do not think we ate more than a third of what was on our plates.”
Restell stood and approached her chair. He removed the book from her lap and held out his hands for her to take. “That is because we satisfied a different hunger. Come. Mrs. Wescott will have left us something in the kitchen.”
Chapter 10
Emma wondered how her marriage might have been different if she had been honest with Restell. If she had been more resistant to his proposal, would he have pressed for the truths she concealed? It was not that she had lied to him but that she had omitted so much—and continued to go on in that manner.
He did not press, a fact that she found curious in its own right. Did he truly imagine he knew her so well, or was it that he was waiting for her to come forward? The morning after their wedding night, she’d awakened with the return of such dread that throwing off the covers required an act of supreme will. Restell had seemed oblivious to her distress, and she was both relieved and angered by it.
She hardly knew what to do with herself. He’d presented her with a house that was already well run by a staff that was almost slavishly loyal to him. They anticipated his needs in a way that she doubted she ever would, even if she was of a particular mind to do so. She found herself often going to the house where she was needed. Her uncle’s home provided some small respite for her. Passing part of each day in Sir Arthur’s studio was preferable to wandering about Restell’s home at sixes and sevens.
She was prickly and out of sorts and could not seem to help herself. Again and again, her thoughts flitted back to the time she could not account for on their wedding night. She saw herself standing behind the dressing screen, then sitting on the other side of it with no memory of what she’d done in between. Daydreaming did not account for it. There was a sickness upon her, and she could not hope to keep it hidden forever.
Restell did not remain oblivious. Emma watched him grow bewildered by her uncertain moods. He approached her directly, then with kid gloves. He invited her to tell him what manner of things troubled her. He played to what remained of her humor with his own. He escorted her to the theatre, but she found the crowd uncomfortable in spite of Restell’s constant presence. He kept his promise to return with her to the park, and they took the phaeton there on warm evenings. He never begged off if she suggested they play a game of chess or cards. When she finally discovered how he earned his considerable income investing and recommending investments to his family and others, he allowed her to sit with him poring over newspapers and journals and daily reports from the insurance houses and banks. It was the one interest she’d never imagined they would share.
She had married a kind and generous man, intense and intensely curious. She’d known that at the outset and wished she might complement him in that regard. Emma witnessed the arrival of strangers to their door, men and women like her who came to him for help, sent there by a friend or acquaintance or another stranger who had once benefited from Restell’s intervention. She knew he did not agree to act on every situation that was presented to him. No such commitment was possible. For all that he seemed to have an informant or foot soldier in every part of London, he was still but one man. She had never considered how it might settle on his conscience to turn people away. In contrast, her own concerns seemed trifling and selfish.
She was careful not to place demands upon him. There was often one or two nights each week that he had to leave the house. She always knew when he’d been to a gaming hell but not where he went on other occasions. She admired him for maintaining the confidences of the people he helped, but she was also kept distant by it.
Several different times she asked about the drawings he’d had made at Walthamstow. He always found some reason not to show them to her. They avoided speaking about her abduction, though Emma did not have the sense that it was for the same reasons that her uncle and Marisol never spoke of it. She did not believe that Restell was willing her to forget what had happened, but rather that he was willing her to rem
ember.
It frightened her in ways she could not describe, and the shame of what she felt kept her silent.
For his part, Restell was ever mindful of the tactics that Emma used to set herself from him. Sometimes it was a word exchanged; sometimes it was a word left unsaid. He knew the moment she’d stepped out of the dressing room on their wedding night that something had been profoundly altered. He apologized for his blunder, and she graciously accepted it—even made light of it—but Restell came to understand over the course of the next days and weeks that what had been changed was Emma’s thinking about herself and their marriage and no apology, no matter how sincerely made, could turn her thoughts to make all right again.
Restell was not accustomed to feeling helpless. It did not rest easily on his shoulders. He would have rather borne the weight of her fears than be forced to watch her shoulder them alone. She was maddening. She was afraid. Mostly, Restell thought, she was inconsolable.
He was never so far from her as when he held her in his arms. She did not deny him. He thought it probably did not occur to her that she could. In their bed she turned to him easily, yet held herself from him at the same time. It seemed to Restell that Emma became less a participant in making love and more an observer of it. She remained curious but not connected, eager but not engaged. She might have been any whore and that had no appeal to him.
There were glimpses of the woman he’d married from time to time. When her guard was lowered, usually late in the evening, he could surprise a genuine smile from her or coax her to laughter. One night he awakened from a pleasantly erotic dream to discover that her hand was nestled between his thighs. He’d placed one hand on her wrist, though whether his intent had been to keep her there or remove her was never fully answered. Her fingers curled around his rigid cock and his last coherent thought dissolved.
It had been Emma who’d given him pleasure on that occasion, though he couldn’t say how conscious she was of it. She seemed to linger in that drowsy state between sleep and wakefulness. She spoke in hushed tones, most often with her eyes closed, and when her eyes were open they were openly wanting. But they wanted him. He did not mistake that, and it gave him hope.
