“This gentleman,” began Dorothy, “has demanded he––excuse you, sir, you may not enter my home––how dare––”
Braedon pushed past the protesting Dorothy and took Emma’s hand in his own. “In here.”
Pulling her into a room, Braedon ignored the outraged voice of her landlady and closed the door. They were in a very small sitting room, embroidery and doilies everywhere.
“What do you think you are doing!”
Braedon turned to her––Emma. The woman he loved.
She looked furious. Her cheeks were pink, fiery hair slightly unpinned, and eyes narrowed.
She was perfect.
“You simply cannot turn up here and expect everyone to do as you wish,” Emma said forcefully. “Poor Miss Anthony, she––”
“I love you.”
Braedon had not intended to blurt the words, but there they were.
Emma blinked. “You can’t. Not…not after everything that has happened between us.”
“I can, and I do,” he said fiercely. “All of you, as you are.”
“You––you cannot just say things like that!” Emma looked scandalized, unsure how to deal with this man who had just turned up and started making declarations of love. “You go too far, Fitz!”
Braedon nodded. All his fears were gone, and the words he needed to say were clear.
“Yes, yes, you are right,” he said distractedly. “Words need actions.”
Stepping forward, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately.
There was no resistance. Emma melted into his arms, and Braedon felt alive again for the first time since their argument at Marnmouth’s wedding.
How long they stood there, lost in each other, he did not know.
And then he took a deep breath. “You think you are protecting me, but I do not want protecting. I want you.”
“And yet you forget,” Emma said softly, her eyes fixed on his, “I am barren, I cannot give you the children that you––”
“Blast children.” Braedon had not intended to interrupt so forcefully, but he had to make her understand. “You don’t marry a woman for the children she might give you. You marry her because you love her, and she loves you. You…you do love me, don’t you?”
In his rush to declare himself, he had not heard her say anything of affection.
Emma’s eyes were blazing as she kissed him. It was all the reassurance he needed.
“Of course I love you!” she said. “You are such a fool, Fitz. You believed every lie I told you, even those that broke my heart. But…but I am a mistress, I never thought I would be a bride.”
Braedon’s heart sang. “The prettiest bride,” he said teasingly. “The cleverest bride, the––”
Emma laughed as she pushed him away. “Flatterer.”
“Yes. That is my job. To love you and flatter you the rest of our lives.”
She smiled, every confusion between them solved.
“Let me in there! Miss Tilbury, are you quite alright?”
Emma laughed as Braedon looked at the door in horror. “Dear God! Your landlady must think I am…well, taking advantage of you!”
“Probably,” said Emma with a grin. “Let’s reassure her that really, ’tis I who have been taking advantage of you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Emma opened her eyes. There it was, that ceiling she had considered strange, once. When she had first seen it, she had been alone in this large bed, but now the ceiling was familiar and, more importantly––she was not alone.
Gentle rays of sunlight peeking through the curtain told her they had slept in. What did it matter? If she wanted to stay in bed with the man she loved, then she would.
Emma closed her eyes as she snuggled into Fitz’s arms. He did not open his eyes as he pulled her closer.
She sighed happily. Everything she could have ever wanted, even the things she did not even know she wanted, all in one place. One person.
Fitz. He had shown her what it was to be loved, what it was to love. And now she had him all to herself. Though really, they should not be doing this.
There was a smile on her face as Emma kissed him. “We have got to stop doing this.”
Fitz’s sighed happily, tightening his grip. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
It was impossible not to laugh. Every day brought her fresh surprises, but there was something so solid, so dependable about Abraham Fitzclarence, Viscount Braedon.
“This!” she said with a giggle. “This, us, in bed together! Every day we tell ourselves we are going to be good and not do this again.”
Fitz chuckled. “You mean do each other again.”
Emma laughed with him. This was what she had wanted, though she had been unable to express it. A husband. A man who would hold her, even when they were supposed to be apart. A man who would stand by her, defend her, even when perhaps he should not.
A man, in short, who could see past what she had done and see who she was.
They had ridden to Tidgley Manor a few days ago. London was too full of gossips, people looking to tear them down before they had even managed to wed.
Emma Tilbury, the old mistress of the Earl of Marnmouth, to wed his friend?
There had been no stopping those who wished to make cruel comments, and so after Emma had convinced Fitz not to go after each and every one of them with the set of dueling pistols he had inherited from his father, they had compromised.
Tidgley Manor. Where they had been so happy.
“Besides,” said Fitz sleepily, “I like making love to you. I have no wish to stop.”
“I am not saying we stop forever. That would be ridiculous. But,” she continued in a mockingly harsh voice, “we are getting married in a week! A week isn’t too difficult, is it?”
Even as she said the words, Emma knew it would be impossible. True, there had been a few days when they had managed not to succumb to the temptation of each other. It had not been easy, certainly, but they had managed it.
Once or twice.
But forbidding themselves the pleasure of lovemaking? Restricting the sensation of touch, from holding hands to sitting tangled together on a sofa as one read to the other?
No. Emma did not want to live that life. She had waited so long to find love like this, and she wanted the rest of her life to start now.
“If you are awake, you should know I have no intention of not making love to you,” said Fitz sleepily. “I enjoy you too much for restraint!”
Emma smiled as she felt his heartbeat, slow and steady, under her fingertips. There was not a moment in her past that she could remember feeling so happy.
Fitz suddenly sat up violently.
“Oi!” Emma fell to the bed. “What are you––”
“The whole day is ahead of us!” Fitz was grinning, genuine excitement glowing on his face. “A whole day––the perfect day! And here we are, lounging about in bed!”
Emma felt the richness of the linen sheets beneath her fingertips. “Is that so bad?”
But there was a light in Fitz’s eyes, and she knew it would be impossible for him to stop, now he had an idea in his head.
“Come on,” said Fitz, throwing back the covers and starting to clamber out of the bed as Emma groaned. “Let’s go for a ride!”
Emma could not help but laugh at his exuberance. “What, before breakfast?”
Fitz shrugged as he pulled on his breeches. “We can take breakfast with us. We can go without breakfast! We can have nothing and then spend the rest of the day demanding various delicacies from Mrs. Sibley––I know she feels proud to be a part of our story.”
There was nothing Emma could do but smile. Fitz was so reckless. There was nothing like him for making her feel alive, and every time he touched her, he gave her such pleasure, such ecstasy she had never known before.
Emma shivered. Even the memory of their last lovemaking was enough to make her warm. Fitz was truly a man she did not deserve.
“Are you sure I cannot tempt you to stay here,” Emma said teasingly, moving the covers so he could see she was naked. “Stay here, with me?”
Fitz groaned, his shirt pulled on but the buttons undone. “Damnit, Emma, you know I have absolutely no self-restraint when it comes to you––and you were the one saying we need to restrain ourselves!” With a flying leap, he launched himself back into the bed, pulling Emma into his arms and groaning at the feeling of her. “Damn you, woman,” he growled, kissing her neck as she moaned. “Emma…”
Emma was lost in the sensations, the strength, the hardness of his chest, and the softness of his kisses. She could spend the rest of her life like this very happily. Marriage? A wedding was not necessary for Fitz to belong entirely to her.
“Fitz,” she moaned.
At that instant, Fitz pulled away. “No, no, you are right!”
Emma groaned with disappointment, arms empty and body crying out for him. “What? Where are you going? Come back here and finish what you started!”
But Fitz had moved beyond her reach and was now attempting to button his shirt. Emma smiled. It had always amazed her, just how coddled the rich were, particularly the men.
“You have never buttoned up your own shirt before?” she asked.
“I have a man for that,” Fitz protested.
And Emma had laughed, for the idea that he could not do his buttons was frankly hilarious. He had attempted to make a point of undoing his buttons that evening–– then simply ripped off the shirt in his haste to make love to her.
Emma laughed now, watching him attempt to do up a shirt.
“You foolish man,” she said affectionately.
Fitz was utterly at sea. “What have I done wrong this time?”
Emma shook her head. “Your poor valet will have to sew all those buttons back on––and if you cannot find them all, then you’ll have to go to Mr. Wright! Oh, the whole thing is too ridiculous.”
Fitz grinned, pulling off the shirt and reaching for another one. “Come on. The whole world is out there!”
Emma allowed Fitz to help her into her gown. “I think we have more fun when you are helping me out of this!”
Fitz chuckled. “When we are married, we can spend days here, completely naked. I can send all the servants away, and we’ll run riot!”
“No servants?” Emma shook her head as she pulled on her stockings and boots. “I hope you don’t think I am going to cook for you! Not after Mrs. Sibley’s cooking, we’ll starve!”
“Well, maybe we’ll keep Cook,” said Fitz, throwing open the door to the landing and bowing her out.
Emma giggled as they stepped into the brisk outside air. “And some stable lads. I don’t want to rub down both horses myself.”
“Well, maybe them, too,” admitted Fitz. “This is starting to feel as though we’re just going to be naked in front of all our servants. I wonder if––ah, Tom,” he said hastily.
Emma stifled a laugh. They had never exactly made an announcement to Fitz’s servants, other than their engagement, of course. How did one inform one’s servants that a former mistress of the master’s friend was going to become the lady of this house?
One of the footmen had handed in his notice, and Emma had watched Fitz calmly and politely give the man two months of pay and an excellent reference before raging about it behind closed doors.
Just another reason why she loved him. Another man would have raged at the footman. But not Fitz. He knew his duties as a lord and master.
But the servants were not stupid. They must know that she and Fitz were…well, not exactly waiting until their wedding night. Thankfully, no one else had said anything. Fisher had looked disapproving, but Fitz had reassured her the butler had been disapproving of Fitz’s actions ever since his father had died––and he had disapproved of him, too.
Still. Tom was blushing most heartily and refused to look at her, which told her the poor boy had finally figured it. “Y’horses are ready, m’lord.”
Fitz blinked. “But…but I have not given the order, Tom.”
The boy nodded. “Yes, but…well, I know you, m’lord, and so I thought to prepare them for you. In case.”
He glanced at Emma, and his cheeks burned.
“Well, you have earned yourself a raise, I must say,” said Fitz grandly. “And you do not miss London?”
Tom shook his head, eyes bright. “Not half, sir! Living in the country, with more horses than I know what to do with?”
Fitz ruffled the boy’s hair, and within a few minutes, both he and Emma had mounted.
It was only as they started to ride out toward the woodland that she said quietly, “They…they all know, don’t they? Your servants?”
Fitz nodded. “I imagine so, but I think they like seeing me happy. I certainly like being happy.”
Emma smiled. There it was again, that strange honesty and openness she was still getting accustomed to. When one had lived a life of lies, it was rather disorienting to be around a man who spoke his heart so freely.
Then something caught her eye. “Ah, I can see my favorite grove.”
Fitz frowned in the direction where she was pointing, his horse trotting alongside hers. “What do you mean, favorite grove?”
“You do not recognize it?” Emma almost giggled at the confusion on his brow. “Oh, come now, Fitz, you know it.”
He took a moment to examine it before shaking his head. “I do not believe I could say anything particular about it, not––ohhh.”
Emma laughed. “That is where we first––”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Fitz hastily, as though someone else could hear them.
Emma was filled with the desire to stop. It had been so special. And not just because it was the first time she had made love with her future husband.
“I still cannot believe that was your first time––you were so confident, so good!”
She glanced at Fitz and saw his cheeks were still pink. “I think we have to chalk that up to you and your expertise.”
If anyone else had spoken those words to her, she would have been offended––but she knew Fitz. He only spoke from love.
So innocent, Emma thought. So innocent in so many ways.
“Well, as we are passing,” she said airily, “we could always––”
“Emma!” Fitz shook his head. “Let us try to actually go on a ride, shall we?”
As they turned the corner around the woodland, the lake appeared on the horizon. Small ripples moved from one corner where a swan gently moved along the bank.
Emma sighed. “I still cannot believe you live here.”
“I cannot believe I ever left,” Fitz said honestly.
“I…I cannot thank you enough for not minding about me. About my barrenness.”
“Do not ever say that about yourself,” said Fitz fiercely as their horses came to a stop on the brow of a hill overlooking the lake. “You are who you are, and you are the person I love. No thanks are needed. I should be thanking you!”
Emma reached out and took his hand. “Goodness, why?”
His other hand closed over hers. “Because you are the only woman I have ever wanted, and I got you. If I did not believe in miracles before, I do now.”
His fingers interlocked with hers, and Emma knew precisely what he wanted. Leaning forward, they kissed and then leaned their foreheads against each other in contended silence.
Epilogue
Braedon swallowed, throat tight, as he looked at his reflection in the looking glass. Nerves, yes, he had had them before. But nothing like this. This was…this was entirely new.
Today was the day when everything would be right, and all he had wished for would finally come to pass.
His wedding day to Miss Emma Tilbury.
His heart fluttered. She was everything he had ever wanted––more so. No other woman had ever caught his eye.
Against all the odds, despite his stupidity and her desire to protect him, they had found each other.
“Do not touch it!”
Braedon jumped. He had not even noticed he had been playing with his cravat, tugging it from side to side, but his valet was glaring as though he had just thrown it to the floor.
“Now then, my lord,” said Morris, tutting slightly. “You have managed to get it all crooked. Please, stay still.”
“I…I thought I was straightening it,” Braedon said lamely. “It looked crooked.”
The valet continued to tut under his breath as he attempted to right the terrible wrong Braedon had inflicted on his design.
“I do not suppose it will matter anyway,” muttered the valet under his breath. “Crooked cravat for a crooked woman.”
It was only after Morris had stepped away and started brushing down his coat that Braedon realized what he had just said.
“Crooked cravat for a crooked woman.”
“Say that again.”
It was a miracle he was able to say the words. Heat was rushing through Braedon’s body, his fingers tingling, his legs barely holding him upright.
Morris turned, his cheeks red. It could not be more clear that the man had not realized his words had been so clear. “I-I…nothing. I did not say anything,” the man stammered.
Braedon took a step toward him. “Say it again.”
His valet did not repeat the words but did tighten his jaw and look at his employer directly. “I…I cannot believe you are marrying her, my lord. A harlot, a strumpet––”
“Please,” said Braedon, interrupting with a raised hand. The valet fell into silence, and Braedon made sure his words were absolutely clear. “Please consider this your two weeks’ notice. I will give you sufficient reference to find another position and no more.”
“But––my lord!”
“As you cannot be civil to your new mistress, I see no reason for you to stay,” said Braedon stiffly.
He took no pleasure in it. He really thought the footman––McGough?––would be the last. No other servant had expressed their displeasure with Emma.
The valet opened his mouth, closed it again, and then said angrily, “Fine. Good! I would not want to be in this house when she arrives anyway.”
Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11) Page 18
