‘The only thing worth wanting is the thing one cannot have,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And if I take it now, I cannot tell myself that my motives come from a momentary failing of will.’
‘Then I have made a mistake by giving you time to think,’ she said. Before he could get away, she lunged forward, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth.
For a long moment, he made no movement in response and she became convinced that she had done it wrong. She knew little about flirtation and even less about seduction. Trying to be the instigator had simply proved how hopeless she was.
But when she was ready to give up and apologise, his arms came around her, adjusting her lips on his so that he might kiss her back. Then he cradled her against his body as his mouth opened over hers.
He tasted of wine and something else hot and heady that coursed through her body. It made her breasts ache to be touched and fire burn deep in her belly. She pressed herself tightly against him, swaying slightly to try to ease the longing, but instead it grew stronger, making her moan with frustration.
‘Now you know how I feel when you are near,’ he said, running his knuckles along the edge of her bodice, his fingers trailing on the exposed skin above it.
‘Then why do you still resist?’ she whispered.
‘Because there are things more important than fulfilling my own desires,’ he said with a sigh, stepping away from her. ‘And now I am going to my room, for I have business to attend to. I suggest you do the same.’
Then he was gone before she could ask him what he could possibly need to do at such a late hour when normal people were in bed.
Chapter Eleven
Just as Emma had promised, the Weatherby musicale was likely to be a thoroughly boring evening, yet Robert felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck at the thought of attending it. Had it really been so long since he was about in society that such a simple outing raised the spectre of panic?
Perhaps it worried him that he would not be going alone. The idea that he was to be seen as half of a couple again was still very new. During his first marriage, going about in society had been so easy that he’d not even had to think about it. His late wife had been the daughter of a knight and would have been totally at home with the sort of people they would be meeting tonight. Her calm assurance had settled his nerves.
When he had remarried, he had not considered the different needs of his new wife and the way they might affect him. Even if she was not to be a hostess, she would have to struggle to carve a place for herself in a society that might be critical of her birth. And though there was little he could do to help her, he would have to watch her succeed or fail.
On the day of the musicale, she seemed to grow more and more nervous with each passing hour, bumping into walls as she walked past him and rattling her china at breakfast. As he walked past her bedroom, he caught her and her maid, heads together in debate, with half a wardrobe of gowns arrayed on the bed. Though all the garments looked equally attractive to him, apparently, women could see things that men could not.
In the end, a choice was made for Emma appeared on the stairs in a fetching green dress, her red hair piled high on her head and adorned with tiny emerald pins. He offered his hand to her and, after a moment’s hesitation, she took it and let him lead her to the carriage. Then they set off to visit the Weatherbys.
* * *
If he’d had any trepidation before the event, it evaporated once they arrived. The gathering was small, no more than twenty people joined to hear the soloists who, Lady Weatherby assured them, had come all the way from London to provide the entertainment. The refreshments were little more than champagne and cake, which the guests took to their seats which were arranged in rigid rows at the front of the pianoforte. The combination was a recipe not for drama, but an evening of mind-numbing boredom.
At least, it was for him. But as he watched, he learned the reason for his wife’s care in choosing everything about her debut gown. As the hostess introduced her, the other ladies scanned Emma from head to foot as if searching for obvious flaws. Though none was apparent, no one seemed eager to be the first to engage her in conversation. Each behaved in a pleasant but distant manner, as if waiting for another to declare the newcomer socially acceptable.
It annoyed him. Of the other guests, his own rank was nearest that of Lord Weatherby. That gave these lesser women no right to question the pedigree of his wife. But apparently, their doubt was all it took to create doubts in Emma. As he watched, her smile changed from one of eager welcome to the hesitant expression of one left waiting at the door for others to take their place ahead of her.
He was surprised by the surge of protective anger he felt when he looked at her, but could think of no way that he might help. Though she had chosen an event that would not be too taxing for either of them, there was also no opportunity to call attention to her rank as Lady Gascoyne. She would be forced to rely on self-confidence to rule the day and she had scant little of it.
Before the first soloist, he went to her and took her hand to guide her to a seat and they listened in silence together. At the end of the song, he applauded politely. Beside him, Emma was much more enthusiastic, letting out a sigh of satisfaction.
‘You are enjoying the performance?’ he asked, not precisely surprised, but gratified.
‘Very much so,’ she said. ‘It has been some time since I was in London and I miss the entertainments that are found there.’
Was this meant to be a criticism of his desire to remain at home, or simply a statement of fact? When he looked into her eyes, he could see no hidden motive in their expression. But there was something about the innocent eagerness there that made him regret he could not give her what she wanted.
* * *
At intermission, they rose to mingle with the other guests. And as they had been before, the other women were polite but aloof to Emma, as if they were still not sure what to do with her. She was equally polite, but standoffish with them. It did not help that, as she stood in their midst, she towered over them like the only swan in a flock of ducks.
From across the room he sipped his wine and willed her to distinguish herself in some way. When she put her mind to it, she was delightful company and it pained him to see her struggle.
She was speaking to the hostess now, relaying her rapture at the soprano duet and daring to allow a trace of her personality to show. Her hands fluttered in the air as she remembered the music. Did she gesture too broadly? Or was it the fault of the woman next to her, who took a quick step away as if she feared she could be struck? The exact cause of what happened next was hard to discern.
There was a flurry of movement among the ladies, blocking a passing footman who was carrying refreshments towards the dessert table. To avoid the crowd, he turned wide, stumbling over his own feet. The pitcher of lemonade he held slipped from his hand, travelling in a graceful arc, its contents spewing outwards to splash down the front of Emma’s gown, soaking her.
There was a moment of horrified silence followed by an embarrassed giggle from one of the younger ladies and hurried shushing from the older ones.
Emma stood dripping in the middle of the group, the rest of which were miraculously spared a drenching. Her face was red with embarrassment as rivulets of sweet, sticky lemonade ran down into her bodice, then down her skirts to puddle at her feet. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said at last. ‘I am so sorry.’
Robert hurried to cross the room to help her, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, though the linen was far too small to have any real effect on the problem. But before he could reach her, she had been hustled to the ladies’ retiring room, leaving a trail of drips in her wake.
A short time later, Lady Weatherby returned to the music room and informed Robert that, though attempts had been made, the damage to her gown was irreparable and Lady Gascoyne wished him to get the carriage and take her home.
Robert collected her at the door of the retiring room and they walked to the carriage in silence. Despite the furious mopping and wiping, the smell of lemons still hung in the air around her. Once inside there was another profound pause as he tried to think of anything he might say that would make her feel better.
Then, she blurted, ‘I am so sorry.’
‘You are sorry?’ He had waited too long and now she was blaming herself for the accident.
‘I have ruined the evening,’ she said, ‘and my gown as well.’
Actually, the evening had gone much better than he’d feared it could. There had been no sign of the curse, even during the accident. But it might be better to let her think that any fault was his. ‘There is no reason for you to take the blame for anything more than insisting that we attend. I warned you that any outing with me would be risky,’ he said.
‘Because of your bad luck?’ she said as if the idea had never occurred to her. ‘If that is the best your curse can do, then I doubt its significance.’
Her spirit was returning, as was her tendency to argue with him. He smiled. ‘If I agree to that, then you must admit that the evening was not ruined by something that could have happened to any of the other guests. It was not your fault that you happened to be standing near the table when the footman spilled the drinks.’
‘I startled him,’ she said, her hands clenched in the wet skirt at her lap.
‘If the servants at the Weatherby home are so easily frightened, they should not be serving at parties.’ He reached across the carriage and laid a hand on hers, squeezing them gently.
The gesture seemed to comfort her and she relaxed her grip, turning her hands palm up and stroking his wrists with her fingers.
It had been a long time since he’d held a woman’s hand. He’d forgotten how nice the simple gesture could feel. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the warmth of her skin and the gentle, tentative touch of her fingertips. But when he opened them again, he could still see the worry on her face.
‘It was not going well, even before the accident,’ she whispered. ‘They treated me as a curiosity.’
‘They do so at their own peril,’ he reminded her. ‘I am one of the highest-ranking men in the county.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘Because I will withhold invitations from them? The threat is meaningless if you do not wish me to open the house to guests.’
He frowned. It had never occurred to him that accepting invitations might lead to issuing them in return. But now was not the time to start another argument with her over a thing that had not yet occurred. ‘The opinions of other ladies do not matter. I suggest you ignore them.’
‘It would be easy enough to do so if I never had reason to see them again,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But if I accept any more invitations, I am likely to meet the same group of women at each of them.’
His first instinct was to announce the problem solved and tell her that they would not be going out again. But that would only confirm in her mind that this first outing had been a failure on her part. And, if the problem that occurred had been the fault of his bad luck, it was not so very serious that it justified a ban on all future outings.
‘You must teach yourself not to care about what they think,’ he said firmly, trying to encourage her. ‘There was nothing wrong with your behaviour this evening before the unfortunate accident.’
‘I was trying very hard to please,’ she agreed.
He paused, considering. ‘Then perhaps you should not try quite so hard. You must remember that the only person you need to please is your husband.’
‘And do I please you?’ she asked, hopefully. ‘I do not see how I can for I have done nothing but argue with you since the first moment of our marriage.’
Perhaps that was true. But thinking back about it, her contrary nature did not bother him. He could hardly blame her for arguing over things that must make no sense to her. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘You please me very much.’
But in the dim light of the carriage lamps, she still looked lonely and miserable, huddled in the dampened dress that clung even tighter than usual to her curves. She needed comfort and more assurance than words could give. So he pulled her across the carriage and into his lap.
The weight of her was pleasant, as was the warmth of her against him. She moulded to him as if she belonged there, like some piece of his own body that had been missing and was just now returned. Deep within, he felt the first stirrings of desire.
She tried to squirm away. ‘Now I will ruin your coat, just as I have my gown.’
He held her tighter, laughing softly. ‘Then it shall be ruined.’
‘I thought you said there were other things more important than this.’ After his rejection the previous evening, this must be as confusing to her as it was to him. But it was one thing to succumb to weakness on her bedroom doorstep, quite another to snuggle with a woman who needed comfort in the carriage where nothing could come of it.
He sighed and tightened his grip on her. ‘I said there were things more important than my needs. For the moment, let us talk about yours,’ he said and kissed her gently on the cheek, wondering how best to help her. What she needed was to forget the disaster of the evening and lose herself, if only for a little while. ‘As I said before, if you do not blame yourself for the incident at the Weatherbys’, I will not blame it on my luck. It was an accident, nothing more than that. The next time we go out, it will be easier.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, her face lighting with an amazed smile.
For a moment, he forgot everything as well, except for those luminous blue eyes staring into his and the sweet mouth beneath them. Then he put a finger on her chin and turned her face to his so their lips met in an opened-mouth kiss.
She started in surprise, then relaxed against him as he gave her the kisses she longed for. He released her hands and wrapped his arms about her, then leaned her back into the squabs of the seat and gave in to temptation, letting his hands rove over her body.
As he cupped her breasts her back arched and she pressed herself into his hands, eager for more. They swayed together with the rocking of the carriage and she released a shuddering sigh as his lips slid to her throat, then to her breasts. He laughed and murmured, ‘You taste of lemonade’, as his tongue darted into the hollow between them.
He would likely regret this later. But for the moment, nothing mattered but the woman in his arms. Their problems floated away on a rising wave of desire as he moved against her, driving himself mad with the nearness of a pleasure he dared not take. Then she gave a sudden gasp of surprise that trailed away in a series of broken sighs that left her slumped against the seat.
He pulled away from her, surprised as well, then struggled to regain control of himself before things progressed any further. When he raised his head to look, her eyes were wide, confused and clearly embarrassed.
Still shaking, she slid out from under him and sat up, leaning into the back corner of the carriage seat, tugging at the neckline of her gown and trying to compose herself.
‘Are you feeling better?’ he said, trying not to grin.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, glancing behind her as if wondering what the drivers might have heard.
‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said.
The carriage was pulling up in front of the house and, as it slowed to a stop, he reached past her to open the door.
Before he could help her, she leapt to the ground, leaving him alone and uncomfortably aware of the way her still-wet gown clung to her body, and the dampness of his kisses that still clung to her lips and breasts.
She turned back to look at him, clearly wondering if the interlude had truly ended, or if it might continue once they had arrived at a bedroom.
His smile was gentle now and shook his head. ‘Go in the house, Emma, and let you
r maid help you out of your gown. I will see you in the morning.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said softly, but she sounded more puzzled than remorseful.
‘You have no reason to be,’ he said. ‘Until tomorrow.’ And he lifted his hand to his mouth and blew her a final kiss.
Chapter Twelve
Emma slept uneasily, dreaming of clandestine touches and heated kisses, and what might have happened if they had been at home near a bed and not riding in a carriage.
He had claimed that what he had done was for her alone. Perhaps that was why he had been able to stop so easily. But she had lain awake for hours, her body humming with pleasure and eager for more of it. If this was a hint of what he was denying her in not coming to her bed, it made her all the more determined to change his mind.
She did not see him at breakfast and suspected that he was avoiding her so as not to give her a reason to hope. But she told herself that it did not matter if he left her for a meal or two. He could not dodge her for a lifetime. And that was how much time he insisted they would have together.
The last thing she needed was another visit from her mother, especially since that woman had decided to bring a friend along with her. The vicar’s wife, a nervous little woman whom Emma had met briefly on the day of her own wedding, sat close at her mother’s side and stared at Emma in baleful silence as if she realised that her presence was an imposition.
Emma cast a nervous glance in the direction of her husband’s study, wondering if his caution that she not entertain at the house extended to morning calls from the neighbours. Then she sighed and chose to ignore him, just as he was ignoring her. It was not as if she could turn people away at the door when they arrived without looking even stranger than she felt as mistress of this house.
And in a way, Mrs Wilson’s presence was her fault. She had been the one to suggest her mother take Mr Wilson and his wife in, after the fire. It was only polite for her mother to bring her along when making calls.
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