The Birthday Scandal (15 page)

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him?—How very unlikely that was!

He turned his attention to her other breast, licking and nipping. Fire leaked through her body, and she moved restlessly, tossing her head and trying to ignore the heat that seemed to pool low in her belly. She was relieved when he moved over her, gently spreading her knees.

Soon this will be over.

She braced herself for invasion, but instead he knelt between her knees, drawing circles with his fingertips on the soft skin of her thighs—circles that gradually climbed higher until each new stroke brushed the dark curls between her legs. She shifted, trying to escape, but he held her more firmly and slipped a finger inside her. She jerked, and he pulled back—but a moment later he probed once more, and this time she was startled when the heat inside her seemed to go all slippery and liquid.

“That’s the way.” He sounded breathless. He leaned over her, sliding one arm under her shoulders to support his weight. He took her mouth once more, his tongue teasing past her lips to thrust in the same rhythm as his finger. Every muscle in her body tensed, out of control—seeking something she did not understand. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’ve got you safe.”

Safe
? What an utterly stupid thing to say.

But she couldn’t think clearly enough to speak—or else her voice had quit working. Before she could retort, her body clenched and then shattered, and she sobbed in her release.

He caught her cries against his lips and cradled her close to his body, and only when she stopped shaking did he move again, probing and entering. Still stunned by the storm that had just rocked her, she was only vaguely surprised that there was no discomfort, only heat and slick smoothness as she took his body inside hers.

He paused, and said, “I’m sorry. It will just be a moment.” Then he thrust hard, and she shrieked, though more with shock than actual pain. He held himself still until her discomfort passed, and then slowly eased further inside her. With each long slow stroke, her breathing grew tighter, harsher, until once more the storm took her—but this time, he, too, cried out, burying himself deeply inside her at the moment of her release, and his.

E
mily’s maid was full of news when she brought up the usual tray of chocolate in the morning. As she bustled around drawing back the draperies and building up the fire to take off the morning chill, Sally rattled on about the grand party that was planned for a few days hence. “And it’s not only the ball,” she gushed. “There’s to be a garden party on the grounds that day, before the ball. All the people of the estate are invited, even the servants. Chalmers and Mrs. Meeker announced it in the servants’ hall. They said the duke wants everyone to have a holiday—and we can, if all the work is done.”

Emily let the words wash over her while she sipped her chocolate. She was still half-asleep, for she had lain awake long into the night and then tossed restlessly. She felt as though she had only dropped off into a truly restful state about a quarter of an hour before Sally bustled in.

“Not much like Barton Bristow, is it? Oh, thank you for bringing me, my lady. I never thought I’d get a chance to see a castle. What the folks back home are going to think, when I tell them all about Weybridge! It’s nothing like they’ll ever see—and they’ll likely not even believe me when I tell them how grand it all is.”

Not much like Barton Bristow…
Emily could easily put herself back to sleep by counting the many ways Weybridge Castle was unlike her cottage in the village, starting with the fact that the entire cottage would nearly fit inside this bedroom.

But it wasn’t sheer size, or the grandeur of gilt and satin and brocade, or even the glamour of parties that formed the greatest contrast in Emily’s mind. Here at Weybridge there was always something going on—some unexpected event to keep her on her toes. And there was always someone to talk to.

Emily had loved her Season—the parties, the shopping, the excitement, the people. Each day had been a new adventure—until everything had come to a crashing halt with Philip Rivington’s death, and she had salved her pain by retreating to Barton Bristow.

After the duke’s parties, she would once more go home to her cottage, where she would spend her days as she had in the last year, occupied with small housekeeping tasks. She would go to the market and visit neighbors. She would read when someone loaned her a book—for her small income did not allow her the luxury of joining a lending library, even if the village had boasted such a thing. She would sew—though mostly she would mend, since she had no funds to buy new materials.

She thought wryly that she might turn the new ball gown into pincushions and sell them.

It wasn’t like her to be at loose ends. She had always been able to entertain herself—but at Chiswick and in London there had never been a shortage of things to do.

When she had first arrived in the village of Barton Bristow, Emily had been in such pain that nothing else mattered. All she wanted was quiet and peace and the opportunity to heal in a place where no one asked uncomfortable questions or expected her to pick herself up and go straight back into the marriage mart to catch another husband.

But now…she must have healed more than she had realized, for after only a few days of being in company, Barton Bristow looked just plain dull. And there hadn’t even been parties as yet—only family gatherings and rides and long talks with her sister. Add in the promise of dancing and dining and flirting, and how could Emily possibly go back with a smile to activities like judging the flowers at the village show?

Not that Barton Bristow was a bad place—but the idea of going back to her cottage, to settle down there forever, dragged at her spirits.

There were alternatives, of course. From the safe distance of Barton Bristow, Emily had doubted that the door her father seemed determined to push her through—into marriage—was still open to her. Yet she was an earl’s daughter, and to get her off his hands, Chiswick might even increase the dowry that Philip Rivington had been promised. Surely somewhere there was a man who would be tempted, despite the scandal of her previous betrothal.

Never forget how that proposition turned out for Isabel.

No, Emily would not marry to suit her father, and she would not marry in desperation, simply to have a different sort of life. After the debacle of Philip Rivington, she could scarcely trust her own judgment—and even though Rivington had initially been her father’s choice, Emily had agreed to the match.

Not even the blessing of a child or two could compensate for the misery which would come of putting herself in the hands of a husband who saw her only as a source of wealth. Rather than take the chance, she would prefer to spend her life alone, relying only on herself.

But being independent was not nearly as inviting as it had been a year ago. With Mrs. Dalrymple going off to marry the squire, Emily would not even have a hired companion to keep her company. Instead, she would go through her life in solitary state—at the breakfast table, in the parlor after dinner, in her bed each night.

If she were a man she would take a lover, and no one would think twice. Why couldn’t she do the same? Because an unmarried woman was not allowed to have a lover.

But why was that? Indulging in a love affair would make her unfit for marriage, of course, which was no doubt why the behavior was forbidden. But that restriction didn’t apply to Emily. Since she had already chosen not to marry, what possible obstacle remained?

The fact that a woman preferred to avoid matrimony didn’t mean she had no longings, no curiosity about what men and women did together. Once, just after their betrothal, Philip Rivington had kissed her. Emily had felt mostly apprehension, for she had never been kissed before—and the way he had poked his tongue into her mouth had frightened her. And yet, there had been something else—a little curl of anticipation, of looking forward to the time when her husband would show her what men and women did together, and why so many of them seemed to like it.

She turned the idea over in her mind, examining it for flaws. Taking a lover would allow her to satisfy not only her curiosity but her physical needs. When she tired of her lover, she could do as the gentlemen did and move on. And there was a bonus—if her father were again to press some worthy suitor on her, she could inform him that she was no longer a suitable bride.

While it was easy enough to make a convincing argument, she knew that finding the right man would not be nearly so straightforward. Barton Bristow was small—the only gentleman in the village was the squire. Even if he had not been her companion’s new husband, the large, square, and florid Sir Cedric Reynolds was hardly suitable for the role Emily had in mind.

No other man in the village came close to fitting the bill. The fishmonger’s boy was closest to the right age—his title reflected his occupational status rather than his birth date. During the summer, as she walked past the smithy where the blacksmith had shed his tunic to shoe a horse, Emily had noticed that he displayed a commanding set of muscles. But she could not see herself taking either of
them
into her bed.

Perhaps it would be better if the man she chose was not one she would meet on a regular basis. Even a woman of no experience could recognize that it might be awkward to encounter one’s former lover at the village market or the flower show or on the walking path. Especially after one had told him the affair was over.

It was apparent this new plan of hers would require some thought.

Though the duke ordered out his carriage to take them to Mallowan for Lady Fletcher’s dinner party, the vehicle was not large enough to carry all six passengers in comfort. Lucien suggested slyly that Gavin drive his curricle and offered to make the sacrifice of riding with him in the open air rather than in the greater luxury of the carriage. “sacrifice?” Gavin grinned. “I suppose you’d also force yourself to drive.”

The two of them had a grand time, taking turns with the reins, catching up with the carriage and passing it, then dropping behind once more, all the way to Mallowan. By the time they arrived, the early evening sunlight cast long blue shadows across the fields, and Lucien wanted nothing more than to turn around and drive straight back to the castle.

“You’re a good sort after all, Gavin,” he announced as they made the sweeping turn into the estate and tooled smartly up the long avenue of lime trees leading to the square, blocky manor house.

Gavin’s eyebrow quirked. “
After all
?”

“You must see that life would have been easier for us—Isabel and Emily and me—if you had been completely impossible. As it is, Uncle Josiah seems quite taken with you.”

“And here I thought the way he lambasted me meant he was anything but!”

“You call
that
lambasting? You’ve obviously never been on Chiswick’s bad side. We had hopes, you know. All three of us are suffering a serious lack of resources—well, you obviously noticed that our father’s not quick to hand out the funds, and Uncle Josiah had led us to believe…” An innate sense of justice made Lucien start over. “No, that’s not fair. He didn’t promise anything, I suppose. Still, it came as a bit of a shock to the ladies when Uncle Josiah only plunged to the tune of new ball gowns and not a nice sum of hard cash.”

Gavin said slowly, “Is that why Lady Emily has been so perturbed all day?”

“Was she? I didn’t notice, so I daresay she wasn’t any shorter-tempered than usual.”

“I should describe her as distracted. Having something weighty on her mind.”

“No doubt it was the weight of the purse she was hoping to get—and didn’t.” Lucien sighed. “About that other matter, Cousin—are you absolutely certain you can’t see your way to sweeping Miss Chloe off her feet?”

“I’ve already rescued you from a long ride in a closed carriage. That’s the extent of my knight-errantry for one day.”

“It’s not just for my sake, you know. You’d win the everlasting gratitude of my sisters, too, if you broke up that match. Isabel says Chloe is too complaisant to stand up to someone like our father.”