Cheryl Holt (32 page)

He dribbled some of the oil—it had been warmed!—and smeared it into her skin, then he kneaded her sore muscles. His strong, steady hands dug deep into the tissue, and provided her with a glimpse of what heaven must be like.

Never in her wildest imaginings had she supposed that a man might do such a fantastic thing to a woman. Commencing at the tips of her fingers, then working to the tips of her toes, he touched her everywhere, questing, diligent, frequently plunging into naughty territory. Every pore was ablaze; it was physical debilitation coupled with sexual longing, satiation mingled with a desperate craving to have his lean body slick and slippery and moving against her own.

“Take your clothes off,” she commanded, too drained to disrobe him herself.

“Not yet.” He shifted to the side. “Turn onto your back.”

He rotated her, then meandered down, rubbing the oil into her feet and upward, to her mons, her belly, her breasts. Her hips responded, and he centered himself between her legs, letting her feel his cockstand, letting her flex to relieve some of the building tension.

With his hands on her nipples, he ducked down and rooted through her womanly hair, taking her with his tongue. In a few deft strokes, a powerful orgasm whisked through her, and she was easily swept away after the prior hour of restrained stimulation.

He rode the wave with her, pinning her down as she grappled against his mouth. The stirring agitation abated,
and he scooted up, kissing her, allowing her to sample the taste of her pleasure on his lips.

Arrogantly, he smiled, preening over the fact that he was so adept at driving her to such a drastic circumstance.

“Bounder,” she grumbled happily.

“You are so fine.” He spooned her back to his front, covering them both with a blanket. “Rest now,” he whispered, his arms cradling her.

“I love you, John,” she mumbled, rapidly fading away.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing lagged, and dreams flitted through her head. From somewhere far off, through a jumble of scattered visions, she thought she heard him reply, “I love you, too, Em.”

She slept.

J
OHN
lounged in a chair by the window, watching over Emma. Morning had waned to afternoon, and afternoon was on its way to evening, but she continued to slumber.

Previously, he hadn’t dawdled with a paramour for any purpose other than fornication, certainly hadn’t welcomed one to his bed, or yearned to have her tarry. His experiences with the fairer sex were more rough and tumble, more expedient, the pace and duration driven by the level of his arousal and his impatience for the conclusion.

Emma was different. From the day that a physical relationship had begun to seem inevitable, he’d suffered from a deranged urge to make love to her in his room.

Fool that she was, she trusted him much more than was wise, sleeping soundly in the knowledge that nothing bad could happen to her while he was present. She’d staked out the center of his mattress, her beautiful brown hair fluffed across the pillows, and he was forced to concede that his bed would never be his own again. From now on, whenever he gazed at it, he’d picture her there.

Sighing, he felt forlorn and lonely, pondering what he was doing, clinging to this final rendezvous with her, but he refused to delve too deeply into the answers.

He couldn’t explain why he was still at Wakefield, either. His inspection was completed, the books balanced, solutions instituted. The estate agent was a competent
individual, who would reliably carry out the procedures John had set in motion.

In a logical world, John would have left when Ian had, would have traveled with his brother to London, would have relaxed and regrouped, then journeyed—with Ian—on their scheduled excursion to audit the Clayton properties in Yorkshire.

How had it all gone awry?

Since that appalling night when he’d stumbled upon Ian kissing Caro, he’d been trying to deduce why he’d gotten so aggravated, why he’d blown up and created such a scene, embarrassing the three of them.

As he had no romantic bond with Caro, he hadn’t been cuckolded or betrayed, but he’d been enraged at Ian. His brother knew better, understood his place and Caro’s, and he was aware of the reasons she couldn’t be his, so what exactly had he been attempting?

Ian had many faults, but he curbed his baser impulses. He wouldn’t deliberately compromise a woman of Caro’s stature for he couldn’t make appropriate reparation. He wouldn’t be allowed to marry her, and his imbecilic conduct could only have led to disaster.

How he wished he could go back in time to modify his entrance into the library so that his arrival would have been less humiliating for all concerned, but with Ian, it was so bloody difficult to know how to proceed. Though he pretended indifference to John’s position, there had perpetually been an undercurrent to their association, fueled by their joint recognition that all John possessed might have been Ian’s. They rarely discussed it, but it was wedged between them, potent and real.

Was it jealousy that had spurred Ian to seduce Caro? Did Ian view her as one more chattel of John’s that should have belonged to him? Or was it something more profound? Had there been a smoldering partiality between
them of which John hadn’t been cognizant?

Well, he’d never find out. His boorish behavior ensured that Caro wouldn’t receive him again, wouldn’t speak to him, or show up at any event that he might also attend.

As for Ian . . .

John was hurting, despairing over their altercation. He’d had so few genuine friends, and he’d truly assumed that Ian had been one of them. His brother’s opportune appearance in London, their chance meeting and burgeoning camaraderie, seemed to have been brought about by affection and esteem.

It hadn’t occurred to him that Ian was simply working for their father, that their mutual regard had been built on a lie. With Ian’s motives being so suspect, he couldn’t determine how they’d gotten along so famously. The man was a marvel. Such an aptitude for pretense could have reaped him a career on the stage!

Had his brother been fond of him in the slightest? Or had it always been about remuneration and naught else? Ian had often seethed with discontentment, but to learn that his antidote for what ailed him was to spy and tattle! Year after year! Especially when they’d frequently and collectively abhorred their father!

John couldn’t figure out what it all signified, but he was heartsick and couldn’t fathom how they would repair their rift. It wasn’t Ian’s furtive taking of so much money that had John perturbed. He had no problem with Ian’s acquiring some of the family fortune. There were just the two of them, their father’s only acknowledged progeny. John had so much, and he was happy to share it. Rather, it was the dishonesty and deception that had him disconcerted.

Ian’s sweeping, dispassionate commission of fraud made John realize that he hadn’t known Ian at all. The
person he’d thought his brother to be didn’t exist.

How grievously he felt the loss!

His anguish over their split had kept him at Wake-field much longer than he’d intended. With his maudlin condition at a new low, he’d needed Emma, but while he’d languished, depressed and melancholy and anxiously awaiting her, she’d been gallivanting around the neighborhood, doing her remarkable good deeds, freely seeing to his struggling tenants and numerous villagers solely because she believed it her selfless duty.

At first, when he’d sent the servant to her cottage, he’d expected her to join him forthwith, and he’d been greatly irritated by her reply that she was too busy. No one told him no, and his initial reaction had been to pack his bags and head for London.

The hell with her!

But the notion of going home was distasteful. There’d be scandal over his definitive break with Caro, and he’d have to deal with rumor and conjecture, would have to endure teasing, questions, perhaps even angry repartee with her male relatives. He didn’t have the stomach for any of it, and wanted the worst of the uproar to die down.

Plus, Ian would have vacated the town house, and without his irksome presence to liven the space, the residence would seem barren and dreary.

Georgina was the only constant, the lone aspect of his London life that remained the same, but she was no friend by any stretch of the imagination. He’d descended to a sorry state, indeed, when she was the single beacon drawing him back to town.

Reaching out, he riffled through the morning post, retrieving the letter she’d penned, and reading the words once again. Her sister was visiting, and they were eager to entertain him.

Without her being specific, he grasped that it was a lewd invitation, one she hoped would inveigle him to rush to the city, but surprisingly, the lurid enticement held none of the allure it might have a month or two earlier. The concept of engaging in inane lasciviousness had paled in its appeal. With Emma as his lover, he’d enjoyed the emotional intimacy of their encounters, and though the erotic prospects with Georgina and her sister were tempting, he had no inclination to indulge.

Georgina excelled at amusing him, at accommodating his whims and moods, at adapting to his eccentric disposition.

Although she was renowned to be a colossal bitch to those who opposed her, he never had to witness her shrewish side. She comprehended his dearth of patience for conflict or friction, so when they were together, she didn’t fuss or whine, didn’t complain about her lot. His favor was a valuable boon that had vastly augmented her standard of living, and she went out of her way to please him.

She was the perfect mistress, and any rational fellow—at this very moment—would have been galloping down the road to London, yet he’d loitered at Wakefield, desperate to see Emma one last time. Over the past few days, he’d paid a stable boy to follow her and track her movements as she went about her unpaid missions of mercy, so he’d had full reports of where she’d been and what she’d been doing.

The woman was a ceaseless phenomenon. A font of compassion. A bottomless well of empathy.

And he was furious with her! For giving so much to others who didn’t appreciate her, or adequately compensate her for her toil and trouble! No wonder she was exhausted! How could any normal person keep up such a pace? She was insane, laboring so severely, as if she
could single-handedly rectify all the ills in the world!

If he didn’t care about her quite so much, he might take a strap to her pretty behind. He might anyway! Once she awakened. She needed to have some common sense drilled into her.

Staring at the bed again, he was thrilled to have this opportunity to while away the hours as she rested. He was so glad she was with him, that he wouldn’t have to be by himself as he mentally prepared for his departure. He’d made plans to go in the morning, but he could muster no enthusiasm.

When he’d come to Wakefield, he’d deemed the sojourn to be an unavoidable, obligatory chore, but Emma had altered his perspective, had furnished him with a new respect for the estate and the people who depended upon its fiscal prosperity. For the first time since his older brother’s death, when burdens he hadn’t wanted had been thrust upon him, he saw that he might be able to help others, that despite what his father and others had vociferously claimed, he would be up to the task conferred by his ownership of the extensive properties.

He felt strong, in control, proud of who he was and what he would ultimately accomplish as the lord of the ancient title, and he owed this surge of confidence to Emma. He would miss her so much when he left, and He’d like to take her with him, to establish her in London, though he knew she wouldn’t go, just as he wouldn’t ask her.

Regrettably, she’d be so far out of her element, would be devoured by his peers. Or more likely, she’d die of boredom. She wasn’t the sort to loaf and laze away at some elegant apartment he’d purchased for her. She’d want to heal, to nurse, to minister, while he’d insist that she be available for the exclusive purpose of fawning over him.

They were never in step, never moving in the same direction. No future was conceivable, no permanent connection warranted, but he couldn’t make the necessary arrangements to leave her. She was so extraordinary, so different from any other woman he’d known.

When she’d drifted off, she’d mumbled that she loved him, and it was a fine thing to be loved by Emma. Shockingly, he loved her, too, and he’d whispered the same, and it had been grand to profess it.

She’d given him so much, had unlocked his mind to so many possibilities, had transformed his character. Yet, he’d given her naught in return, because he didn’t have anything that she valued.

He was so lucky to have crossed paths with her, but how could a man cosset such an unpretentious female?

Suddenly, he was overcome by the desire to be close to her. He wanted to hold her, talk to her, make love to her. His body was unassuaged, loudly protesting his brief foray into supplying her with pleasure but garnering none of his own.

He needed to be inside her, to bury himself in her sweet nature, to luxuriate in her softness, and he stripped off his shirt, trousers, and other garments until he was naked. His cock rose to attention, rude and heavy, fervent for what was coming, and he clutched it with his fist, stroking himself to ease some of the abrupt tension.

Tiptoeing to the bed, he climbed up, and slipped under the blanket with which she was covered. She was warm, fragrant from her bath, and he stretched out, his torso melding with hers all the way down.

She shifted and stirred, slowly rousing. Her eyes fluttered but didn’t open, and she raised her arms over her head, flexing her calves and toes. He cupped her breast, taking her nipple between finger and thumb, and the gesture caused her to purr like a contented cat.

“You’re spoiling me,” she said.

“Someone should. Why not me?”

Rolling on top of her, he squeezed both her nipples, chuckling at how they puckered. His lips slid over one, laving and sucking, and she gripped his neck, cradling him, urging him on.

He was so hard for her, and he’d meant to hastily slake himself in a boisterous, swift copulation, but it was so luscious to suckle at her breast. Tarrying much too long, he reveled in the details that made her so unique.