by Jo Goodman
She shook her head again, this time with a modicum of restrained humor. “The bent of your mind is most peculiar.”
“Mother says I am an original thinker.”
“She was being kind, I fear.”
Chuckling, Restell pushed himself upright. He reached for Emma, taking her hand so that he could get to his feet, then draw her up also. When they were standing toe-to-toe, he kissed her. “Come. I know where there is a lovely clearing where we may take our own rest.”
Emma darted a look past his shoulder. No one was yet stirring on the blankets. “If it was rest you had in mind, we would be joining the others.” Before he could acknowledge it as fact, Emma began pulling him toward the wood. “It is this way, I believe.”
Restell thought it indecent to ask how she came by that intelligence. If it was a place used by Ferrin and Cybelline, or any other member of his family for that matter, he did not want to know it.
Slim beams of sunshine were filtered by the canopy of pine boughs. A thick bed of needles made a fine, soft spot for them to lay upon, though Restell sacrificed his frock coat as well. The occasional breeze struck down a dried leaf from the nearby chestnuts, then lowered it gently to the ground.
That was how Restell lowered Emma, cradling her so carefully she barely felt his fingertips against her back. He lay on his side, fit closely to her, and sifted her silky hair with his fingertips. Her smile was soft, a bit dreamy, but her blue-green eyes were clear and focused. She slipped one hand around the back of his neck and applied the slightest pressure.
“I’m always willing to take direction,” he whispered. Then he kissed her. Her mouth was sweet and warm. He touched his tongue to her lips and tasted a hint of the apple cider that was another of autumn’s pleasures.
Their lovemaking was unhurried. Sunshine dappled their bodies; the breeze lifted the fragrances of tall grass and fecund earth. The rush of water in the distance was a steady thrum, first in their ears, then in their veins. They exchanged only a few words, yet nothing was left unsaid. A touch, a glance, the shift of a shoulder, the fine edge of a smile, all of it had purpose, all of it had meaning.
Healing was behind them; what remained was hunger. Peripherally conscious of an audience they might attract, they nevertheless indulged their healthy appetite. Restell kissed Emma’s open mouth when she would have cried out, and he buried his face against her neck when he would have done the same.
Replete, they lay unmoving long enough to steady their heartbeats, then set about righting their clothes so they might make a more modest presentation when they returned to the picnic. Restell plucked pine needles from Emma’s hair. She straightened his stock. Eventually they pronounced each other fit, though neither made to leave the clearing. The exchange of glances that had worked so well for them when making love, demonstrated that it had wider application as they simply lay back on Restell’s frock coat.
“I don’t suppose they’ll be trekking to the house any time soon,” Emma said. Her head rested comfortably in the crook of Restell’s shoulder. “We shall have to face them sooner rather than later.”
“You are rather slow coming to that epiphany.”
“I came to it earlier. I am only speaking of it now.”
Restell was not proof against her tart tongue. He pressed his smile in the crown of her dark hair. As a consequence, Emma was perfectly agreeable to nestling closer.
“It occurs to me, Restell, that you have yet to secure the favor I owe you.”
“Perhaps if there had been a more satisfactory resolution, but under the circumstances, no, there is no favor owed.”
Emma understood his reluctance. “You used a favor on my behalf,” she said. “There should be some exchange for that.”
Curious, Restell asked, “What do you know about it?”
“I know Neven Charters has removed himself to Paris. Although, as I think on it, it may be that he was removed. I have it on good authority that he was accompanied—or escorted—by Monsieur Jourdain and his ambassador father. It seems Mr. Charters has acquired a position authenticating certain antiquities acquired by the government during the Napoleonic wars. He has also surrendered his treasures to the Royal museum.”
“You know all that, do you?” Restell couldn’t quite see Emma’s smile, but he imagined it was smug. “I suppose you had it from my father.”
“In his defense, he didn’t understand the import of what he was telling me. I imagine it was all arranged because you brought the influence of the foreign minister to bear.”
“Perhaps.”
“You will not admit to it?”
“I don’t think so, no. There should be some mystery. A rogue would cultivate a sense of mystery, don’t you agree?”
Emma turned so that he could not miss the superior arch of her eyebrow, then settled back in the cradle of his shoulder.
Restell waited until his chuckle faded before he spoke. “There is a favor I would have from you, though.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” A slight smile edged Restell’s mouth as he felt Emma hold her breath in anticipation of what he would say. “Breathe, Emma. It is not a Herculean task I am going to place before you. I merely want you to release me from my promise.”
“Promise? What promise is that?”
“The one you made me swear to before you would marry me. Do not say you don’t remember.”
Now that he put it before her in plainer terms, she did recall it. “I made you promise that you would divorce me if I asked.”
“Yes. I want you to release me from it.”
“Very well. I release you.”
He blinked. “What? There is to be no argument? No negotiation for other terms?”
“As I have no intention of releasing you from your vows, arguing is entirely disagreeable.”
Restell considered this for a long moment. “It occurs of a sudden—and I do not find it at all objectionable—that I am to be made a kept man.”
Emma turned and raised herself up so that she might look at him and that he might have the same advantage. “A kept man,” she repeatedly softly. “Yes, I suppose that’s so.”
Restell drew her hand close to his chest so that it rested just above his heart. “As you are a kept woman.” He squeezed her fingers. “Here. Always here.”
Emma kissed him warmly on the mouth. Some truths could be communicated in just such a fashion, and Emma’s truth was this: If her home was in his heart, it didn’t matter where she lived.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2007 by Joanne Dobrzanski
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ISBN: 978-1-420-12943-4
About the Author
JO GOODMAN lives with with her family in Colliers, West Virginia. She is currently working on her newest Zebra historical romance, once again set in the Regency period. Look for it in 2008! Jo loves hearing from readers, and you may write to her c/o Zebra Books. Please include a self-addressed envelope if you would like a response. Or you can visit her website at www.jogoodman.com.
