Knightley's Tale (2 page)

Emma had Knightley right where she wanted him.

In her arms.

Well, almost.

True, her arms were about him, but his back was to her, which was not quite the position she was hoping for.

Still, she felt powerful and wicked—although that, too, could be attributed to the nakedness under her dress. Leaving one’s drawers at home could be positively liberating.

She liked the new sensations that rocked her body each time she touched him.

And she liked touching him. Exceedingly well.

As her fingertips stroked his hair, a curling dark lock slipped through her fingers like the finest French silk ribbon.

Her bottom clenched.

Emboldened, her hands crept over the rippling muscles of those arms that had always tantalized her. Yes, they were just as hard as she’d imagined.

Heat surged through the V at her legs.

The feeling was so intense she had to lean against him to remain standing. Her breasts melted into his back. Softness against hardness. And more heat emanated from him. She pictured placing the heat of her V against his naked back.

Whoosh. Warm liquid saturated her thighs.

More,
a voice urged from deep within her.
More.

As if he could hear her thoughts, their gazes met in the mirror and locked. His look communicated danger…and something she’d never seen before in him.

Hunger. Intense hunger. The hunger she imagined a beast displays before it devours its prey.

The next instant the beast was gone, and so was he.

Damnation.

How was he ever going to initiate her into the bounds of love if he kept walking away? It was all rather unsettling, especially when she was sure she had felt his desire—hard and pulsating—when she had nudged her leg against him.

What she needed was a diversion that would land him right back in her arms. Preferably before his mood turned blustery.

“Let’s get on with it and be done with this night,” he growled.

“Let’s get on with it, indeed,” Emma grumbled at his back.

His sore attitude didn’t mollify her—she could always charm Knightley out of a bad mood. For years she had studied him, committed every facial expression, indeed, every quirk of an eyebrow, to her memory.

Yet, tonight, he was a virtual stranger.

Perhaps it was the mask. Dark and uninviting, the black silk hid his expression, especially the eyebrow quirk. She couldn’t read his thoughts or predict his moods. His mysteriousness was maddening. And exciting.

But Knightley was full of secrets.

Such as, where did he go when he disappeared “to London” for weeks on end and then returned, relaxed and good-humored, to lecture her on her meddling?

And, why was he always shooing her out of his library? Not that that ever stopped her.

As she shadowed him through the anteroom to the terrace doors—and how was he so familiar with these “demoralizing” gardens?—she vowed to herself that tonight would be a night of unveiling for both of them.

With one step onto the terrace, her schemes abandoned her.

“Oh my,” she breathed.

This was no ordinary garden, but a fairyland—a fantastical outdoor wonderland of flowered trees and shrubs enclosing a glistening dance floor. Tiny lanterns hung from wires crisscrossing the sky twinkled candlelight onto the occupants below. A white gazebo to the left housed the orchestra, and thick bushes on the right opened into narrow pathways where people were disappearing or reappearing in pairs or groups.

Even though no music played, the dance floor was crowded as were the chairs and tables scattered around the floor.

“It’s breathtaking. Whyever do they keep this a secret?” Emma asked Knightley as he led her along the edge of the floor.

“To protect the innocent.” His sneer matched that of the woman stalking toward them. Knightley tightened his grasp on Emma’s arm, but there was no avoiding the confrontation as the woman glared down at Emma’s clothes.

Apparently, this ball had room from only one “Red.”

Emma pasted on a placating smile. Really, the woman’s costume—a crimson gown and matching demi-mask—would have been unremarkable had it not fully exposed her breasts.

As if no one had ever seen Lady Willingham’s painted nipples before.

“Why you’ve come as Rose Red. What a clever disguise, Lady W.” Emma chattered. Knightley groaned. Hailing a passing waiter, he grabbed a champagne flute and emptied the contents down his throat.

“Have we met?” Lady W was trying to be coy but her mouth was set in a hard line. It perfectly matched her tits. Usually they were covered by the sheerest of ball gowns, but Emma had always marveled after them. Could they, as the fables claimed, cut glass?

“But of course. I am one of your greatest admirers,” Emma said smoothly. “You should wear scarlet more often. It accentuates your finest assets.”

Knightley choked.

Emma struggled to maintain a serene smile, as Knightley twisted his head to look anywhere but at Lady Willingham’s rouged tips.

“My dear, you have me at a loss for I do not know your name.” Lady W was turning up the coyness.

“Red Riding Hood, to be sure,” Emma answered sweetly, patting her hood more tightly over her head.

“And she must not talk to strangers along the way,” Knightley broke in, pulling Emma into the throng on the dance floor.

Well, at least she had gotten more than a grunt out of him. When they were out of Lady W’s clutches, Knightley waved for another glass of champagne. As an afterthought, he reluctantly handed a flute to Emma.

She smiled into her glass and returned to unmasking other attendees.

“Look there. I’m sure that’s Sir Osgood Fielding the Third dressed as the Frog King,” Emma whispered to Knightley. “He’s the man wearing green silk and sticking a very long tongue to the neck of that lovely statuesque woman? But why can I not place her? You see, the princess there? It seems I would remember a lady so tall.”

Knightley wheezed and gulped more from his glass. In a raspy voice, he offered, “That’s because the princess is Lord Dafney.”

It took Emma a full minute to comprehend. She had always heard of such things. She gazed curiously back at the pair who were enjoying a laugh. Heads together, intimate, happy.

Knightley interrupted hoarsely, “Don’t stare.”

“I am not.”

“Emma?”

“Really, I am not.” But she could not help herself from sneaking another glance.

It took the orchestra’s lilting music and organized movement on the dance floor to draw her attention away.

This was something new.

Dancers were not just touching fingertips, they were touching everywhere. Wrapped in each other’s arms, couples twirled around the floor in three-quarter time. So scandalously close. So deliciously sensual.

“What are they dancing?” Emma asked breathlessly.

“The waltz,” Knightley said from behind her. “From Vienna, I believe. It’s apparently all the rage on the continent.”

“It’s lovely.” She looked up at him and he must have guessed her wistful thoughts. For the first time this night, his face beneath the mask softened. A slight smile formed at the corners of his mouth.

“Would you like to try it?”

She nodded. “You know this dance?”

“I’ve had a turn or two.”

“How? When?”

“Would you rather pepper me with questions or dance?

“Dance.” She raised her arms to him.

When he entered into her personal circle, she tingled with delight. Here was her diversion. He was going to hold her again and she was positively giddy with anticipation. It was perfect.

He did not make eye contact as he ensured the correct placement of their hands and feet. With his large hand splayed across the small of her back, she felt deliciously feminine and delicate. When his other hand possessed hers, her heart beat wildly in her chest and she couldn’t catch her breath. Apparently, he was oblivious to the effect.

Slowly, he began to rock her back and forth, asking, “Do you feel the rhythm?”

“Rhythm? Uh-huh.” she croaked.

He gazed down at her then and actually chuckled.

“Relax, Emma. Enjoy this.”

Slowly he turned them, while continuing to rock. Compelled to glance at their feet, Emma stumbled. She offered an apology, but he only drew her closer into the embrace.

“There’s no use looking down. I’ve got you,” he said quietly.

He truly had possessed her. As he whisked her around the floor, her feet barely grazed the ground.

By the second overture, she had forgotten everything except the heat of his body and the sharp jaunt of his profile as he surveyed their progress around the dance floor. How well she knew the sharp edges of his nose, his cheekbones, his chin.

She had the inexplicable urge to run her tongue along the length of his jawbone.

“What I wouldn’t give to have Sir Osgood’s tongue.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Had she made that last wish aloud?
Quickly,
she thought,
change the subject.

“Have you had many partners?” She blurted out, quickly adding, “for dancing.”

His head snapped forward. He gave her a hard, quizzical look before answering.

“A few. I’ve stood up with you innumerable times, too.”

“Would you say I am passably fair…as a dance partner?”

“Fishing for compliments, Emma?” He tried to tease her, but she wouldn’t allow him to avoid the question.

“I don’t prize myself as a skilled dancer,” he said, measuring his words. “I select my partners very carefully. You and I…we fit. We’re neither overly graceful nor terribly clumsy. We laugh at our embarrassing missteps. And our heights are perfectly suited.” He smiled at her. Really smiled.

It was these moments with Knightley that she cherished most.
More,
the little voice inside her begged.
More.

“So, if two people were perfectly matched for dancing, the same would be said for other activities too. Perhaps…kissing?”

He missed a step.

Encouraged, she proceeded.

“I’ve read that kissing can be very…energetic.” Oh, she hoped she didn’t regret going down this path.

“You’ve read?” His voice was wary. “What books have you been reading, Emma?”

“Well,” she prolonged the single word as long as she dared. “In
Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure…
”

“What?” He accused. “You read
Fannie Hill?
”

“Well, yes. And
The Way of a Man with a Maid, The Heptameron
and
The Lustful
Turk,
which, I have to say, was quite…er…energetic.”

Knightley abruptly halted their dance, just as the violins struck the last note. His face was but inches from hers, and her chest rose and fell in even breaths, anticipating his next move. For a long moment he held her in this intimate embrace and simply looked at her. The mask hid the darkest of his emotions, but she could feel the heat—mixed with anger—rolling off him.

Wrong path.

Without ceremony, he released every part but her hand and stormed off the dance floor.

She followed at first but then started tugging to free his hold on her.

“Really, of all the high-handed, pig-headed…” she actually tripped into a man wearing a snout and pink ears. He was bent over a woman’s open dress. They weren’t alone. Three women dressed in white gossamer robes were stroking the couple up and down. They seemed to be quite enjoying themselves.

“Excuse me,” Emma called out, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the small group.

It did, however, cause Knightley to tighten his grip on her. She was sure he was taking her to her carriage and sending her home. Instead, he turned right and headed beyond the trees into the maze of shrubs.

“Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t answer, instead focusing his energies on maneuvering through the pathways and around the dozens of partially clad bodies.

Breasts, buttocks, full nakedness—they were in full bloom next to the spring flowers. In pairs, in groups.

Why, they had walked into a full orgy.

Curious—and titillated—Emma craned her neck to see what these people were doing and, more importantly, how they were doing it. But Knightley had increased his speed. Regrettably, he was in no mood to stop and watch.

Deep into the center of maze he dragged her until they reached a small private copse. He swung her around to face him. For a moment they huffed to catch their breath. A thin cloud passed over the moon, casting a hazy glow around them. Soft grass tickled her ankles. Everything was suddenly still, except her heartbeat in her chest, wanting.

“Why?” Knightley gritted out the single word.

“Why?” She tossed back. “Whatever do you mean: Why?”

He breathed deeply.

“Why are you doing this to me?” He stepped forward, almost intimidating her with his height. Almost.

“Doing what?”

He changed tactics.

“You were in my library.”

“Perhaps.”

“You were reading about…
things
—things that a properly bred girl should not have knowledge of. Emma, you are practically my sister.”

“Precisely my point. I am not your sister. Your brother married my sister. That gives us familiarity, not familial relations. Furthermore, I am not that neighbor girl in pigtails you once petted on the head,” she paused. Her breasts heaved.

This was her moment of truth. In for a penny… “I want to be petted, but not on my head.”

There was a long pause. Damn, but she could not read his expression. He was so near, he sucked all of the air from her.

“Emma, you do not know the game you are playing at.”

“I think I do.”

“You are stretching my limits.” His hands gripped her upper arms, bringing their faces nearer.

“They need stretching,” she shot back.

“You are practically begging me to…” His voice was tight, as if he were fighting his last resolve.

“Begging you to kiss me?” She meant the question to come out archly. In reality, it sounded like a longing whisper.