by Jo Goodman
“That has never happened before,” she whispered. “You didn’t…that is you only…”
Chuckling, Restell rolled onto his back. “Your breasts are extraordinarily sensitive.” He sat up and removed his frock coat, then threw his legs over the side of the bed and loosened his stock. Glancing at Emma over his shoulder, he said, “Do not fall asleep. There is a matter of quid pro quo.”
“That is not terribly gallant.”
“Oh? Have I ever represented myself as a gentleman?”
“No.” Emma plucked at her chemise where it clung damply to her breasts. “Your father thinks you aspire to be a rake.”
Restell paused in the removal of his boots. “He told you that?”
“The conversation took place before we were married. Shall I tell him that you’ve abandoned the dream?”
“I do not intend to pursue it,” Restell said. “But I’m certain that I shall never abandon it.” He let his boot thud to the floor to punctuate his intent. “You would not like it if I did.” He removed his stockings before he stood and shrugged out of his linen. Turning slightly as he began to lower his trousers and drawers, he caught Emma watching him. She did not try to hide her interest. “You are rather more openly curious than is strictly flattering.”
“Am I? I do not mean to be.” Still, she did not look away. “You have a pucker.”
“A pucker?” He followed the line of Emma’s sight and attempted to look at his backside. “This?” He pointed to the vaguely star-shaped scar just above the curve of his left buttock.
She nodded. “The cicatrix. How did you come by that?” Before he could answer, she was sufficiently intrigued to roll toward him and come up on her elbows for a closer examination. “It looks as if it might be a puncture wound.” Her eyebrows lifted in tandem as she stared up at him. “Were you shot, Restell?”
“Move over.” He dropped his trousers, pulled the string on his drawers, and stepped out of both, kicking them out of the way. When he turned around, Emma had already made room for him again and was obligingly holding up the bedcovers. “You do not want to know the particulars.”
“But I do.”
Restell slipped between the sheets, then between her parted thighs. He lay hot and heavy in the cradle she made for him. His hips ground once against hers.
Emma’s breath hitched. “Perhaps the particulars can wait,” she said after a moment. She raised her knees, then her pelvis, and felt him move into her with a slow, deliberate thrust. “Perhaps I will hear them…but…just…not…now.”
Seated deeply inside her, Restell held himself still until Emma’s dark lashes fluttered open. “You have the most splendid eyes,” he whispered. Bending his head, he brushed his lips against hers. “Do you ever watch us?”
Emma stared at him. “You wish to talk?”
His slight grin dissolved as she contracted around him. He required a moment to catch his breath and master himself. “I wondered if you ever watch us.”
“I watch you.” Restell’s beautifully sculpted features were taut just now, every aspect stamped with desire denied. The jaw was set firmly enough to cause a muscle to jump in his cheek. His clear blue eyes, so frosty on occasion, burned brilliant and hot. She lifted one hand and brushed back a lock of his pale hair that had fallen over his forehead. His skin was warm. She cupped the side of his face and passed her thumb across the arch of his cheek. “I always watch you.”
He kissed her again and whispered against her lips, “It is a good beginning. Now watch us.” He threw back the covers so only candlelight and shadow bathed their bodies. Lifting his hips, he drew her eyes in the direction of their joining. He thrust again.
Emma stared and saw the rise of her own hips as she met him. She had hardly been aware of the effort. How easily she responded to him. How simply he made it happen.
When she finally closed her eyes and gave over to all the feeling, the vision that she had in her mind’s eye was clearer than ever before. This time she watched them as if from a distance, seeing him, but herself as well, and this remarkable moment of stepping out of her body was not the least bit frightening. She observed all of it. The slope of his back. His tautly curved buttocks. Her fingers tightening against the flesh of his upper arms. The arch in her own throat. The long line of his legs. The swell of her breasts.
They rocked in unison, hard at first, then with less urgency. The cadence of his breathing changed, while she could not hear herself at all. His pale hair was burnished gold by the candlelight. Dark copper strands highlighted her own. She could make out the corded muscles in his arms and the tension across his back. Her own body seemed sleek and smooth by comparison. They fit in unexpected ways. His mouth at the curve of her neck; the hollow at the back of her knee against his thigh. His palm on her hip; hers cupping the nape of his neck.
She climaxed quickly with barely a whimper. Restell threw back his head and surrendered to pleasure with a deep, husky groan.
They lay side by side, and except for the rise and fall of their chests, they were still. Neither of them spoke. An occasional breeze stirred the curtains at the window, but it was a warm evening, and they were not troubled by the threat of rain to rise from the bed and close the sash.
Emma was the first to move. Still lying on her back, she walked her fingers across the small space separating her from Restell and found his hand. She laced her fingers with his and was satisfied with the gentle squeeze he gave in return. Moments later, she was sleeping.
Restell felt her hand relax in his. He carefully pulled away and turned on his side, gauging the depth of her slumber before he rose from the bed. He gathered up his clothes, then went to the dressing room where he washed and put on his nightshirt and robe. He did not ring for Hobbes until he removed himself to the sitting room and closed the door.
Hobbes frowned slightly when he entered and saw that Restell was already dressed for bed, but that mild disapproval vanished when he saw the door to the bedroom was closed. It seemed that Bettis would not be required to attend the mistress either.
“There is something you need, sir?” Hobbes asked.
“Who is watching Miss Vega this evening?”
“That would be Lewis. He pulled the short straw. It is to be the theatre, I believe. A drama. He has no fondness for dramatic works.”
“Indeed,” Restell said dryly. “It will be a hardship. Do you know if she will attend with her uncle or Mr. Charters?”
“I understand it will be Mr. Charters.”
Restell nodded, not surprised. Sir Arthur had not indicated any plans for this evening. “I think there is no help for it but that I must go out tonight. I also have need of some specific items, not for this evening, however. You will have perhaps a sennight to collect them. I trust that will be sufficient.” He sat down at the small writing desk and quickly penned the list. “I will depend on your discretion, Hobbes, as always.”
Hobbes regarded the paper in his hand for several long moments before looking to Restell. “All of them, sir?”
“Is there a problem?”
“It is…unusual.”
“None of it is for me, Hobbes.”
“Oh. Well, you might have said so from the first. It did give me a bit of a start, wondering what queer turn your mind had taken.” He glanced at the list again. “So it is for a young lady, then.”
Restell could see that Hobbes wanted to say more. Clearly the man had the wrong idea about what he was being asked to do. “I haven’t taken a mistress. You would do well to look to your own mind for queer turns of thought.”
Suitably chastened, Hobbes said, “Well, then, if I might know the approximate size of the—”
Restell interrupted. “It is all for my wife.”
Now the valet’s sandy eyebrows jumped in the direction of his hairline. “Miss Hathaway?”
“Yes, but we’re calling her Mrs. Gardner now, remember?”
Hobbes did not respond to Restell’s wry rejoinder. He simply stared.
; Restell stood. Rather than wait for Hobbes to recover his wits, he opened the door to the hallway and ushered him out. “Send Mr. Crowley to me, if you will. I will be making some changes that will affect his staff.” That announcement, he thought, would be sufficient to stir everyone from the kitchen helpers to the housekeeper.
The butler arrived only a few minutes later. Restell noted that the man appeared somewhat ill at ease owing to the fact that he was out of breath. It was not difficult to imagine that Hobbes’s own bemused state had something to do with the butler’s haste in answering the summons.
“How many servants have quarters in the garret?” asked Restell.
“Four,” Crowley said. “Mrs. Wescott’s two young helpers share a room. The upstairs maids, Payne and Hanley, have another.”
“There are two rooms empty, then.”
“Yes. At the front of the house. Do you wish to hire more servants?”
“No. Is the house not adequately staffed?”
“I believe it is, sir. I thought you might have need of someone else like Lewis or McCleod.”
“No, I have them in sufficient numbers at present. They must be a sore trial to you, Crowley. They are barely adequate as footmen.”
“I make do, sir.”
“They were excellent footpads.”
Crowley did not raise an eyebrow. “One hopes they are reformed.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about the silver,” Restell said as he returned to the writing desk. He gestured to the butler to join him. He smoothed out a sheet of paper and applied his pen to it, scratching out a rough floor plan of the uppermost story. “This is fairly accurate?”
“I believe so,” Crowley said. “What do you have in mind?”
“I want to remove this inside wall and add windows here and here. There should be a small balcony as well with doors wide enough to accommodate an easy entry and exit. The furniture should be kept simple. A table. Stools. A chaise longue, I think, and a few comfortable chairs. Shelves along both these walls.”
“You wish a library, sir?”
“I wish a sanctuary,” Restell said. “Can you arrange this?”
“If you like. It will necessitate hiring craftsmen and laborers.”
“I will leave all of those details to you.” Restell scrawled an amount that he was willing to pay for the renovations. “There is your allowance. If all can be accomplished in one month, then you and your staff shall share in a bonus equal to five percent of this total.”
“A month. That is very little in the way of time.”
“I am fully aware,” Restell said. “There is one more thing. You must keep this from Mrs. Gardner.”
“Sir?”
“She is not to know. She spends the better part of most days with her uncle. I will make certain that if she is not there, she is gone from the house. I am hopeful that my mother or one of my sisters will arrange an adequate diversion if I cannot. What you make of the time she is gone is up to you and the men you hire. Five percent hangs in the balance.”
“You mean to keep your sanctuary a secret from her?”
Restell thought Crowley was going to say more on the subject, but the butler visibly reined himself in. His disapproval had already been made clear. Restell realized that while he and Emma may have been estranged these last six weeks, the same could not be said of Emma’s association with the staff. Whatever they had observed, their sympathies apparently lay with his wife.
“I mean to build a bridge,” Restell said after a moment.
“A bridge.” Crowley looked doubtfully at the plan lying on the desk. “Mayhap you should consider applying to the earl for help. I understand he knows something about building bridges.”
“Ferrin knows something about everything.” Restell’s tone held no rancor. “But I do not require him for this.” He sat back, folded his arms across his chest, and looked up at his butler. “Well, Crowley? Are you the man to see this through, or shall I put the challenge to another?”
The butler picked up the drawing. “Everything will be as you wish.”
Restell had never doubted it. He permitted himself a small smile as Crowley departed. Emma’s sanctuary. His bridge. Yes, it was in all ways the right thing to do.
He got up and poured himself a small drink that he then carried into the bedroom. Emma was stirring but not awake. He found Nightmare Abbey still unopened on the bedside table and picked it up. After nudging the wing chair closer to the candlelight, he sat down, made himself comfortable, and began to read.
“Is it good?” asked Emma.
Jerking at the sound of her voice, Restell almost spilled his drink. Nightmare Abbey tumbled off his lap and onto the floor. “I cannot say whether it is good, but it is diverting.” He picked it up and put it to one side. “You slept well?”
Emma was lying on her side, her head propped on a pillow, which rested on her arm. She nodded. The cotton was smooth against her cheek. “Have you been awake long?”
“I never slept. I have to go out, Emma.”
“You do?”
“It is regarding a matter that was brought to my attention before our introduction.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“No. It is sensitive.” He saw by Emma’s expression that his explanation was in no way adequate. “The French ambassador’s son is involved. The poor fellow’s fallen in with a pair of young bucks who are regularly taking advantage of him. Being French, he assumes he is not so naive as to permit himself to be misled. His superiority makes him a most perfect mark.”
“His father hired you?”
“No. The foreign minister did. For reasons that should be readily apparent, no one is desirous of an incident that will put us in a bad way with the French. Napoleon is not yet dead a year. Our people are still mourning the death of Queen Caroline, and few members of the parliament expect our king can be effective. He lacked gravitas as prince regent. Naturally there are concerns now. A scandal is to be avoided.”
Emma required a moment to comprehend the whole of what she was hearing, but when she did, it was Restell’s solemn expression that broke her attempt to remain straight-faced and respectfully concerned. She pushed her face into the pillow to stifle her laughter. Her shoulders shook. Her efforts to restrain herself came to nothing.
A full minute passed before she was able to compose herself and look at him askance. “That is a very good story, Restell, but if you must go to a gaming hell this evening, you should put it before me without elaboration. You lose credibility in the details.”
“I do?”
“I’m afraid so, but it is good of you to try so hard. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the foreign minister does approach you with delicate, diplomatic concerns.”
Restell chuckled. “I shall remember that. It is invariably the details that trip one up.” He finished his drink and rolled the tumbler between his palms as he regarded her sleep-flushed face. “What say you, Emma? There are arrangements that must be made, so it cannot be tonight, but, if you like, you may accompany me to the hell by week’s end.”
Chapter 12
The hell was not at all what Emma imagined it would be, at least from the outside. Located not far from Covent Garden, the gaming house was a singularly plain gray stone town house, indistinguishable from the houses around it. Emma commented on this as their carriage drew close.
“That is because the other houses are more of the same,” he said. “Gaming hells and brothels. Sometimes both. Nightfall and candlelight puts a pretty cloak on the place, fog improves it tenfold. The district has a genteel shabbiness during the day. You would know to stay away from this street if you were out walking, and no reputable hack driver would bring you within a hundred yards of it.”
Emma restrained herself from staring out the window. The occasional glimpse she had of the pedestrian traffic revealed gentlemen cut from the same cloth as Restell and women who were most definitely of a certain reputation. She nervously fingered the ends of
her sheer rose scarf, drawing it over her bare shoulders.
Restell shook his head, indicating she should lower it again. “You must not flaunt yourself,” he told her, “but too much modesty will also attract attention. You should make every effort to be at your ease.”
Emma glanced down at the deeply scooped neckline of her bodice. Fearing that her breasts would spill over the top, she had been careful to take only shallow, measured breaths since putting the gown on. “I am almost naked,” she whispered.
“And I am painfully aware of that fact.” His eyes dropped to her bodice. A rose satin ribbon seemed to be all that was holding her together. “It is not too late to turn back. Whittier will be pleased to take you home. Frankly, I will be pleased to let him.”
“Do you want me to go, Restell? I will, if that’s what you want.”
Restell did not answer immediately. It was not that he regretted asking her to join him, but that he did not know if good would come of it. “I want to be certain this is what you want, Emma. I can be satisfied with that.”
The carriage door opened, but neither of them moved.
“Well?” asked Restell.
Emma’s chin came up. “You will not leave me in there, will you?”
“I doubt a surgeon will be able to remove me from your side.”
“That is all right, then. I will not regret my decision; neither should you.”
Restell nodded once, then he alighted from the carriage and held out his hand. If she was transformed by the clothing and accoutrements that Hobbes found for her, then Restell knew himself to be transfixed.
She wore a pale pink gown, several shades lighter than the rose scarf and ribbon. Tiny seed pearls studded the bodice, the hem, and her elbow-length white gloves. She carried a lace fan and wore slippers that matched her gown. It was her red hair, an elaborately coifed wig with pearls and another rose ribbon, that made her seem altogether different in nature. The pink hues that usually colored her complexion were gone, covered by a light application of rice powder and rouge. Henna tinted her eyebrows and a bit of kohl lined her eyelids and lower lashes. The overall effect was not garish, but it was most definitely painted and without question, exotic.
