by Diana Quincy
She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. She’d heard enough. “There’s nothing left to say.”
“I disagree.”
“Emilia?” Edmund called again.
“Yes,” she called back while staring defiantly at Sparrow. “I’m coming.”
He held fast. “Let me call on you tomorrow. There is much I must say to you.”
She pulled her arm away. “Why are you doing this?”
His probing gaze never left hers. “I shall tell you everything on the morrow.”
She didn’t respond, but he seemed to take her silence in the affirmative because he didn’t try to stop her when she went to join her betrothed.
Edmund frowned when she emerged from the shadows. “What are you doing out here?”
She forced a smile. “I needed some air.”
He focused on her face. “Your eyes are red.”
“I seem to be having a reaction to something in the garden.”
He peered out into the darkness. “Are you alone out here?”
She prayed Sparrow would have the sense to stay hidden. “No, I am with you.”
To ensure he didn’t delve any further, she took his arm and directed him back into the safety of the ballroom.
—
The following day, when Sparrow came to see Emilia, he found her in her studio wearing an old pale smock covered with streaks of charcoal. Her fiery hair was pulled carelessly up in a bun, some curling renegade strands strewn appealingly about her shoulders.
Her message was clear. She’d gone through no trouble to prepare to receive him. She hadn’t even bothered to put on a proper dress as propriety dictated. Not that he gave a damn. To him, Emilia was at her most beautiful in her raw, natural state, without fripperies to detract from her considerable physical appeal.
She stood at her worktable, which was in its usual untidy state. She held a sketchbook and scratched across its surface with the charcoal pencil in her hand. She did not immediately acknowledge his presence, so he just watched her for a moment, treating himself to the sight of her pale porcelain skin, with its smattering of delightful freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, and the small line that formed between her full, perfectly shaped brows when she concentrated on something, as she did now with her work.
“Is that the sketch of me?” he asked.
“No.” She didn’t look up. “I’ve tossed that aside.”
“As you hope to toss me aside?” he asked gently, surprised at how the thought of being discarded by Emilia made his lungs ache.
Her face reddened, and her hand stopped moving, her drawing coming to a sudden halt. She looked up at him with searching eyes that reminded him of the clearest, most precious jade stone. “You said you have much to say to me,” she said in a clipped tone. “Pray do so and leave me to my work.”
“Yes, I am deep in debt. No, I am not a spendthrift, and no, I most certainly did not bed you for any other reason than because I find you to be irresistible in every way. Even now, as you stand angry and aloof, even though you are meant to be another man’s wife in a matter of days, even though I cannot be the husband you deserve, I can think of nothing but taking you in my arms and kissing you senseless and claiming you as mine for all time.”
Her eyes widened, and the red on her cheeks glowed brighter. “If you are not a spendthrift, how do you explain the carriage, the clothes?”
“My cousin, the late, dearly departed Viscount Vale, had a taste for the finer things in life. He did not let the fact that he could not afford them stand in his way of acquiring any luxury he desired.”
“And you are left with the debts.”
“Mountains of them. But I may have found a way to pay them.”
“By marrying for money.”
“No.” He bit back a sharp retort. “But I do not deny I considered wedding Lady Harrington for the fortune she promised to put at my disposal.”
“Have you asked her to marry you?”
“No. She asked me actually. She knows I don’t love her and never will.”
“But she was willing to try to buy you to keep her at your side.”
“Although I found the idea completely distasteful, I felt I had to at least consider it since my tenants have been suffering for years, thanks to my late cousin’s neglect and mismanagement.”
“And now?”
“My dire situation has altered.” He couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips. “Tin has been discovered on my property in Dorset. Not enough to make me a wealthy man, but an amount substantial enough to help satisfy my debts over time and see to the basic needs of the estate, particularly the tenants.”
“I see.”
“I hope that means you see that I don’t need to marry you for your fortune.”
“But, nonetheless, you will be a terrible husband because you cannot bring yourself to love a woman.”
“Precisely.”
“But you loved Marie Dubois, didn’t you?”
“I did, yes, once.” He turned away, a choking sensation in his chest. “I imagined wedding her, having a family.”
“But she left you for Edmund.”
“No. I didn’t even know she was acquainted with Edmund until I saw them together here in London.” He took a deep breath and forced the words out. He was determined to tell her the truth, no matter how difficult the task. “One evening, after we’d…been together…she put something in my champagne that rendered me senseless for several hours. I trusted her so implicitly that I didn’t even realize she’d drugged me until it was too late.”
“What happened?”
“She found detailed plans of an operation I was leading. Two of my men were going to let themselves into the office of a high-ranking French police ministry official. They were tasked with retrieving information the Home Office here in England wanted very badly.”
He turned to look at her. “I don’t know if Marie ever truly cared for me, but I do know she loves money more than anything. She sold the information to the French. When my men entered what we all expected to be an empty, dark office after hours, they found the French waiting for them and were arrested on the spot.”
“Oh no.” Horror stamped her face.
“But they didn’t die quickly.” Agony filled his gut. The guilt of it pressed like a lead weight on his chest. “They were tortured. The French hoped to obtain Crown secrets. In the end, the bodies were delivered back to me. I’ll never forget the state in which they were returned. They had suffered horribly.”
She covered her mouth. “How awful for you.”
“For me?” He barked a harsh laugh. “I betrayed them. I sent them to their deaths.”
“No.” She shook her head in tiny, quick motions. “Marie Dubois did that.”
“She played me. And I allowed it,” he said harshly, allowing all of his self-loathing to permeate every syllable. “Thanks to my weakness, because I thought with my prick, those men—good, decent family men—died a terrible death.”
“You gave Mrs. Dubois your heart and she betrayed you.”
He swung away from her. He didn’t deserve her compassion and he didn’t want her pity. He went to the window and stared out at the small garden below, where the masses of bright yellow flowers seemed to mock his dark mood.
“You are correct about one thing. I did give Marie my heart, and I no longer have one to give to anyone, not even you.”
“Because you love her still.”
“What?” He swung back to face her. “No, I despise her.”
“Are you certain?”
“Quite certain. She came to me recently. And used…all of her wiles…to entice me to take her back and make her my viscountess.”
“What did you say?”
“I cannot stand the sight of her.” Self-loathing roiled in his gut. “I have no heart to give, not because Marie owns it, but because I threw it away on her and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust anyone completely again.”
“I see.”
“There.” His voice was choked. “You know everything. You know what I am now.”
“Yes, I do.” She came to him and wrapped her pale arms around his waist. “Thank you for telling me the truth about Mrs. Dubois. It could not have been easy for you.”
He had not expected absolution and, in truth, no one could give him that, except perhaps the men who’d met their deaths due to his carelessness. He’d borne the shameful weight of his guilt as surely as if he carried those two men’s corpses with him wherever he went. Yet Emilia, with the warm, comforting press of her body against his, somehow managed to ease him, even if she could not erase his culpability.
“You are a decent, loyal, loving man who was horribly wronged and deceived by a vile woman.”
“I am not without fault. I am the reason those men are dead.”
“You made an error in judgment.” She pressed a kiss along the bare skin of his jaw. “And have made yourself suffer terribly because of it.”
The feel of her lips on his sensitized skin made it hard to think. “It was far worse than that,” he managed to utter. “You shouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
“Oh, but I do.” She’d pulled his shirt from his trousers, running her hands over his stomach. “I definitely do want to have something to do with you.” The naughty lilt of her words made his blood boil. Her mouth replaced her hands, and he just about lost his mind. “Your stomach alone is a work of art,” she murmured against his hot flesh. “The ripples of muscle, the fine, hard curves.”
He sank to his knees and pulled her into his arms. Emotion filling his chest, he kissed her with everything in him, his tongue invading her mouth, stroking, sucking, biting. He wanted nothing more than to possess her, and his swollen, throbbing prick was eager to follow through.
It occurred to him then, as he held her in his arms, what made this particular woman special. Since the catastrophe in Paris, his mind had disconnected from his body; the two parts were somehow removed from each other. Even when in the throes of sexual congress with various women, including Amanda, it was almost as if he’d stood apart and watched the goings-on from afar, where they couldn’t truly touch him.
But with Emilia, the two parts of him that had been so savagely rent apart by Marie’s deception, and his own foolishness, melded seamlessly back together. With this remarkable woman, he felt like himself again.
“Emilia.” He uttered her name with reverence. He was frantic with his need of her. He sought her lips and she kissed him just as hungrily.
“Sparrow,” she whispered against his lips. He used the opportunity to plunge his tongue past her teeth and take greedily of the sweet satin of her mouth. His tongue tangled with hers, demanding everything. And his heart sang when she gave it. As always, generous, warm, and open.
He growled when she lay back on the floor and spread her legs, pulling him with her. He settled between those milky thighs, his urgent hands pulling up her skirts; he needed them out of the way. She shifted to allow him to yank up her hem high enough for what he intended, what he needed more than anything at the moment.
He pulled at the placket of his breeches, a clumsy, inefficient effort to free himself. When he sprang out hard and ready, her soft hand enclosed his thick length, stroking, cajoling, bringing it closer to her core. He knew that this coupling lacked any finesse, that she deserved more consideration than a quick screw on the hard wooden floor, but he couldn’t help himself.
Gripping the soft curves of her arse in his open palms, he jerked her closer, positioning her to take him, and plunged inside fast and demanding. The loose floorboards creaked and groaned beneath them with every movement.
Her answering moans and sighs sent him further to madness. He drove into her over and over, giving her no quarter, every part of him clamoring to have complete possession of her. The air sang with her sighs and his grunts, and their combined desperate breaths.
His motions became more frantic as the backs of his legs seized and unbearable pleasure shot up the backs of his thighs. She cried out and relief swamped him as he let go, reaching his crisis as she peaked with hers, their cries and sighs in tune with each other’s, becoming one, intermingling just as their bodies were.
He drew her warm, supple body up against him, where she could surely feel his heart slamming inside his chest. Inhaling the scent of her hair, he relished the feel of her softness against the hard length of his body and wanted to hold on to her forever.
—
“Don’t move.” Sparrow’s strong arms wrapped around her, keeping her in place lying atop him on the settee, where they’d moved after the most indescribably exquisite experience in her life. “I like the feel of you.”
Given the lazy residual pleasure oozing through her, Emilia had no desire to go anywhere. She snuggled closer. “If you insist.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head that made her feel so treasured. “I do.”
She propped her chin on her hands, which were stacked on his chest, so she could see his face. “Sparrow.”
“Hmm?” He traced a light finger along her hairline.
“Why did you jilt me on our wedding day?”
His relaxed body stiffened beneath hers. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve always wondered.” She pressed a kiss against the light fur on his chest. “Was it because you loved Mrs. Dubois?”
“No. I hadn’t even met her yet.” He caught one of the wavy tendrils of her hair and wrapped it around his finger. “I was involved in a particularly precarious case, one that posed a grave danger to any wife of mine. A complete break was the only way I knew how to keep you out of harm’s way.”
“You did it to protect me?”
“I couldn’t have borne it had something happened to you simply because you were my wife and, as there were no strong feelings between us, I felt I should free you.”
She spoke without thinking. “You’re wrong about that.”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head, instantly regretting saying anything. “Nothing.”
He cupped her chin with a tender touch, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I’ve stripped my soul bare to you today. Will you not be truthful with me in return?”
She took a deep breath. “The truth is I think I’ve loved you since you pulled me out of the well.”
“Hero worship.” He kissed her nose. “You were just a girl.”
“I’m no longer a girl”—she drew a long, deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze—“and I still love you.”
His eyes widened. “I had no idea.” She watched the cords of his neck slide beneath his bronze skin as he swallowed. “I…erm…don’t know what to say.”
“Not to worry.” She came down to press a long, hard kiss against his lips, before scooting off him. “I don’t expect anything in return.”
He grabbed her hand. “Don’t go.”
She slipped away, grabbing his shirt as she did so. “Don’t move.”
He scanned her body appreciatively as she pulled his white linen shirt over her head. “Why are you allowed to move?”
She rummaged through the sketchbooks on her worktable until she spied the one she wanted and pulled it from the stack. “I’m going to finish sketching you.”
“I presume you’d like me to assume the position?” He settled back into the reclining position he’d been in the last time she’d sketched him. She rested her hips against the table and stifled a sigh as she studied his form.
He really was beyond gorgeous. His hard body, with its curved musculature, was as sublime as anything she’d seen in any painting. And his soft member, lying against his sharply contoured thigh, made excitement twitch low in her belly even though they’d just made love. She felt the weight of his gaze and avoided it. “Emilia, I—”
She began sketching his thighs, shading in the curve of muscle just so. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“You just told me that you
love me.” The words were soft and intimate.
An agonizing sense of loss twisted through her. She’d never know another man as magnificent as the one before her, even if they had no future. “I understand you cannot return my feelings,” she said briskly. “Nothing has changed in that regard.”
He shifted. “Time is running out. You are to wed Worsely soon.”
She didn’t look up from her work, concentrating instead on the crosshatching technique that would emphasize the shadow between his thigh and hips. “My plans have changed.” It seemed so obvious that she suspected she’d known it all along. The truth had simmered just below the surface until she was fully prepared to acknowledge it and face what she must do next. “I’m not marrying Edmund.”
His face went slack. “You’re not?”
“No.” Sparrow had opened her eyes to life’s glorious possibilities, and she could not settle for less. “You’ve shown me that I need passion and excitement in my life. A loveless marriage of convenience is no way to accomplish that.”
His face brightened, his relief obvious. “What will you do now?”
She shrugged. “Honestly, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m only capable of making one enormous, life-changing, scandalous decision at a time. But you needn’t worry that I’ll expect anything of you. I realize I’m no Marie Dubois.”
Distaste twisted his features. “She has nothing to do with this. I told you I detest the woman.”
“Yes, but you did love her once, which suggests she is the sort of woman who appeals to you. Mrs. Dubois is beautiful—cool and elegant and exciting and exotic.” A sense of hopelessness settled in her chest. “All the things that I am not.”
“You are different from Marie,” he said fervently. “And thank goodness for that.”
Yes, he was no doubt grateful the two women were so different; there was no danger of his falling in love with Emilia, who was the polar opposite of the woman he had once cared very deeply for. “I imagine loving Mrs. Dubois is like falling in love with Paris.” She smiled wistfully. “At heart, I am a simple English girl who could never compare to the glamour and excitement of the French capital.”
