Magnate (25 page)

A not-so-veiled dig over the circumstances of Emmett's birth, that he did not lead the idle life of a proper gentleman, and of Lizzie's scandalous ambition. But Lizzie had navigated these waters her entire life, and she had no intention of tossing in her oars now. Sloanes weren't quitters, after all.

“Yes, I am starting my own investment firm. I do hope to help less fortunate ladies provide for their elder years. Just imagine if circumstances were slightly different, how trying these times would be for you.”

Three mouths compressed into thin, indignant lines at the mention of their advanced age, and Lizzie enjoyed a moment's elation before she continued. “On that note, if any of you decide you'd like to double your pocket money, please come to see me.”

With that, she excused herself, a strange euphoria filling her. It was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, one she'd been carrying around for twenty-one years. She would do this. She would launch the investment company in her own name, to hell with the gossips. Why worry over the future when one could speculate on it instead?

She found Edith and pulled her friend aside. “I am sorry, but I cannot stay for dinner.” Edith began to protest, so Lizzie leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Happy birthday, darling.” She swept from the room, determined but by no means fleeing in shame.

By the time she collected her things, the emotional swing had left her exhausted. She looked forward to a hot soak in her tub. Or, perhaps she'd visit the Turkish bath. Her mind occupied, she descended the steps toward the Cavanaugh carriage—only to have a hand land on her shoulder, startling her.

“Lizzie, wait,” Henry said, slightly out of breath as he came up alongside her. “Please, do not go away angry.” Taking her elbow, he guided her down the remaining steps. “I needed you to know how I feel.”

“Then why didn't you tell me of these feelings ages ago, Henry? Everyone assumed you and I were serious, but you never made your intentions clear. Now that I am married to someone else, I'm to believe you are in love with me?”

“Yes! I
am
in love with you. I have been since the first moment we met.”

He sounded sincere, and she could only stare at him. Henry was perfect—handsome, rich, with a background similar to her own—so she should be wildly in love with him. Yet she'd never experienced any feelings stronger than friendship toward him. No rush in her blood or all-consuming desire to be near him, not like with Emmett. Her emotions for Emmett were so strong, so monumental, that she felt her skin could hardly contain them.

“You were never right for me, Henry, and I am not the right woman for you. Somewhere inside, you know that.”

They stood by her carriage now, the coachman hanging back a few steps, waiting. “No,” Henry said, grasping her forearm to plead his case. “You have always been the right woman for me. I just assumed I had more time. One day I turn around and you're marrying Emmett Cavanaugh. But I know you don't want to be married to that—”

“Stop. Do not finish that sentence.”

He sighed and stared across the street at Gramercy Park. “I won't say anything more than this: Think about it, Lizzie. That's all I ask. I will wait for you, no matter how long it takes.”

* * *

Shadows, dark and depressing, draped the office as Emmett continued to work. He'd shed his coat and vest at some point, leaving him in shirtsleeves and suspenders. His dinner waited, untouched, on the edge of his desk, while a half-empty bottle of gin rested within reach. His eyes, however, remained on the investigator's report that had arrived this afternoon. So far, there were three members of the Northeast Railroad board of directors who, contingent on a sizable bribe, would assist Emmett in taking the company over.

Excellent. He just needed a few more men in his pocket, and then he'd strip the company away from Sloane, giving that pompous bastard exactly what he deserved.

The door to his office opened, yet he didn't look up. His wife had returned a quarter of an hour earlier, so he knew the identity of his visitor. “Where was she?”

Kelly didn't answer right away, preferring to take a seat across from the desk instead. When the silence stretched, Emmett glanced up to pin his friend with a stare. “Well?”

Kelly scratched his jaw. “She . . . uh, she went to Edith Rutlidge's again, this time dressed for a fancy dinner.”

“And?”

“She left early. Seemed a bit rattled. Then Henry Rutlidge followed her to the carriage. I couldn't hear what they was sayin', of course, but I got the impression he was pleading with her.”

Anger exploded in a white-hot rush, tensing Emmett's muscles and obliterating rationality. He shot to his feet and started for the door. “Wait!” Kelly called. “She came home. Alone.”

Hand on the knob, Emmett paused. That she'd returned did not assuage his anger. Far from it. So she'd gone running to Rutlidge again. Christ on a cross, would they never be rid of that son of a bitch? “How long did Rutlidge talk to her? And did he touch her?”

“A few minutes. Held her arm a bit—”

Fuck
. Emmett flew into the hall, racing to the stairs. He had no idea what he would say to Elizabeth, but he would not allow Rutlidge to have her. Not while Emmett had breath left in his lungs. If Rutlidge and Elizabeth thought they could carry on behind Emmett's back, they were sorely mistaken.

He heard Kelly call his name but he paid no attention, taking the stairs two at a time and charging to her dressing room. Not bothering to knock, he threw the door open and stepped inside. Elizabeth's maid gasped, but Emmett ignored her, instead focused on the beautiful, deceitful woman staring down her nose at him despite their clear difference in height.

Blond hair flowed over her shoulders, the locks recently released from whatever complicated coiffure she'd worn earlier, and a silk dressing gown hung from her shoulders. Flashes of bare skin covered in white cotton and lace danced in front of his eyes before she jerked the edges closed, tying the sash tightly. Smudges under her eyes caused her to look tired, and no welcoming light of warmth lit her gray depths as she faced him down. “Thank you, that will be all,” she said to the maid, dismissing her.

The door closed, leaving the two of them alone, and a myriad of emotions ran through him. Fear, outrage, jealousy . . . but mostly the insane craving that grabbed hold of his balls every time he was in her presence. She was stunning, even more so undone like this, and he could vividly remember her eagerness, the passion she had exhibited each time he'd taken her. His cock stirred in his trousers, and he resolutely ignored it.

“Yes, Emmett? I'm assuming you had a purpose in barging in here tonight.”

“What does he want from you?”

Confusion clouded her expression. “I do not know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, don't you?” he sneered. “Henry Rutlidge. Though I can't say I'm surprised you went running to him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I went running to him. That is precisely what I did. Fortunately, my fleeing coincided with Edith's yearly birthday dinner.”

A sliver of doubt worked its way down Emmett's spine, but he pressed, wanting some reaction from her. “Convenient he was able to get you alone, press his case. Let me guess, he believes you can do better than a dirty, common lout like me?”

“It hardly matters what Henry believes. If you trusted me in the slightest, we would not be having this conversation. But you don't trust me. You never have, and I'm coming to accept that you never will.” She reached for her brush. “Now, get out, Emmett.”

Heart pounding, he took a few steps closer. His fingers flexed with the need to touch her soft skin, to cup her plump breasts, to test the wetness of her cleft.... Then he noticed the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her neck, and knew she was not as immune as she pretended. Her response triggered something inside him, an urge to taste her, to have her begging underneath him one more time, a desire so strong that his knees nearly buckled.

He hated this hunger, the insatiable lust that consumed him whenever Elizabeth was near. He was a drunk, willing to do anything for another bottle. Desperate with wanting. But he could not stop the pulsing need, could not prevent his legs from starting forward.

In two long strides, he backed her up to the dressing table. Her palms came up to rest on his chest, both to steady herself and to keep him away, no doubt. In a swift move, he lifted her onto the table, then captured both her wrists, brought them around behind her, and held them easily with one of his own hands.

She struggled a bit, a flush on her cheeks, pupils wide and black. “Let me go,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I do not think so,” he whispered, skimming his nose over her supple cheek. God, she smelled delicious, like vanilla and soap and stubborness. “Tell me what he wants, Elizabeth. Tell me why Rutlidge followed
my
wife to
my
carriage and dared to put his hands on her.”

She gave a sharp intake of breath near his ear. “You're having me followed.”

He nipped the edge of her jaw with his teeth, felt her shiver. He reveled in the reaction, his cock lengthening. “Damn right I'm having you followed.”

With his free hand, he lifted the flimsy layers she wore to her waist, then stepped between her thighs, needing to get closer. Her breasts met his shirtfront as he trailed his fingertips along the smooth skin of her inner thigh. He was rigid beneath his underclothes and trousers, his prick clamoring for friction, but he resisted the urge to release himself and drive into her body.

She was panting now, eyelids closed. “You have no right to spy on me.”

“The hell I don't.” He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of her throat, sinking his teeth into the tender spot where neck met shoulder. She arched closer, and he whispered, “You're mine.”

“Oh God,” she whimpered, her fingers curling into fists behind her back. “Then you must remember that you are mine as well, husband.”

He untied her dressing gown and let the edges fall open. The idea of another woman hadn't even crossed his mind. He was too obsessed with the one in front of him. “How could I possibly ever forget?”

He moved lower, using his tongue, teeth, and lips until she was nearly pushing her breast into his mouth. He licked the puckered tip through the cloth until she writhed, and then he wrapped his lips around her nipple and drew the taut flesh into his mouth. Her resulting moan reverberated in his blood, hardening him further.

The need to coat his tongue with her slickness urged him south. He released her wrists and dropped to his knees. Her fingers wound their way into his hair, clutching him tight as he parted her drawers. He could smell her, the womanly musk that signaled her arousal, and then she was bared before him. Glistening, swollen . . . He nearly shot off then and there. Christ, this woman.

He kissed the edges, sucking gently on the plump lips that guarded her entrance, not giving her what he knew she wanted. When she squirmed, trying to get closer, he said, “Tell me. I'll do anything you need, but you must tell me first, Elizabeth.”

“Please, Emmett.”

“Please, what?”

“Kiss me there.”

“Here?” he asked, and pressed his lips to the tendon at the juncture of her thigh. He flicked his eyes to see her watching him, her silver gaze glassy and dark.

Her lips parted, her pink tongue darting forward to wet them. “Inside,” she whispered. “Use your tongue.”

He was hard and heavy, aching for her, and her words lanced through him like he'd been hit with an electric wire. “Yes,” he hissed, before parting her to give long licks with the flat of his tongue. He loved her taste, would never get enough of bringing her to peak with his mouth. The tip of his tongue circled her clitoris before he pulled back to ask, “Who is doing this to you?”

“Emmett,” she sighed, her fingers gripping his hair painfully as she threw her head back.

He hummed his approval against her skin, the vibration working its way through her sensitive tissues. She gasped and rocked forward. He decided to reward her and began sucking on her swollen pearl relentlessly. When her cries turned to urgent pleas, he quickly unbuttoned his trousers and pulled his erection out of his underclothes. In a flash, he rose, lined up, and drove into her with one thrust.

So warm and tight. Jesus Christ, she felt utterly perfect surrounding him. He captured her mouth and began to move, his hips working hard and fast, with no finesse whatsoever. The tiny dressing table rocked underneath them, crystal and porcelain tumbling to the floor, but Emmett kept pace, driving them higher.

She kissed him with abandon, every bit as wild as he, and when he felt her walls tighten around his cock, his fingers reached between them and brought her over the edge. She clenched, nails digging into his arms, cries ringing in his ear, and he could not hold back any longer. Pleasure built in his lower back, his legs . . . his fucking
toes
. With a shout, he let go, shuddering as spend erupted from the head of his prick.

Awareness began to creep in when the waves finally stopped. They were wrapped around each other, breathing hard, on a table in her dressing room. What was it about this woman? He didn't trust her, no matter what Kelly and Brendan believed. So why had he just pounced on her like a starving man?

Withdrawing, he began putting himself to rights, resolutely avoiding her gaze. He owed her an apology for taking her like this, but the words would not come. She was his wife—not Rutlidge's. “I do not want you seeing him again,” he said gruffly. “Is that clear?”