The Marriage Bargain (28 page)

He took a resolute step to the door. If she expected him to come to her this night, he would do so. If she turned him away, he would accept it. If she wanted him in her bed, he would do his damnedest to make it pleasurable for her. He’d do anything to keep from disappointing her again.

Taking a breath, he tested the doorknob. It turned. He opened the door ever so quietly. A candle burned near her bed, but she did not move. He stole closer and gazed down at her.

She slept on her side, her arms tucked close to her chest. The candle illuminated her flawless complexion, her pink lips, her thick lashes twitching ever so slightly.

“Emma?” He kept his voice just above a whisper.

She opened her eyes and stared back at him, almost as if he were a dream.

“Shall I join you?” He suddenly did not want her to refuse him.

She did not speak, but moved over to make room for him. He shed his banyan and climbed in, aroused already by the scent of her, the warmth of her body.

“Do you wish to make love?” he murmured, wanting, needing her to say yes.

Her gaze did not waver. “I want to make a baby.”

He accepted that blow. “I am aching too much to hold myself over you.”

“Then I will do it.” Without removing her nightdress she climbed atop him. Without kissing him she positioned herself over him. He feared hurting her if she were not ready for him, but he feared any hesitation as well, lest she feel he was disappointing her again.

For a moment he was poised in indecision, but ultimately his body was too greedy to wait. He entered her. At first she moved against him like an automaton, and it grieved him more than he could bear. Still, every stroke accelerated his need. He did not want to take his pleasure at the expense of hers. He gripped her waist and forced her to slow down, to move slow and easy. Slow and easy. He finally felt her relax, accepting the leisurely pace, giving herself over to his direction. He watched her face and saw the hardness of her expression ease, then fill with passion. Still, he was careful to move slow, knowing her pleasure depended upon drawing out the moment, intensifying her need.

She felt delicious around him. He savored her lavender scent, the tickle of her hair as it swept his chest. She made small sounds from the back of her throat, urgent sounds that gratified him. Quickening their rhythm, he was reminded of waltzing with her in his arms, twirling faster and faster.

A moment later his thoughts were no longer coherent. Sensation took over, but still he bided his time, the instinct to please her even deeper than pleasing himself.

Then he felt it, felt her spasm around him, heard her cry out. He let go, giving himself over to his own shattering climax.

She collapsed on him, her breath gradually slowing to a normal rate. Then she slipped off and turned her back upon him. Her shoulders shook.

“Emma?” he whispered.

She did not answer, and he was left to endure the torture of her silent weeping until she finally fell asleep.

Emma woke the next morning to her maid entering the room. “Did I wake you, my lady? I will come back later if you wish.”

She was alone in her bed, and it almost seemed like a dream that Spence had come to her in the night. She again felt him touching her, making love to her, so much like that transcendent experience they had once shared, a cruel mockery of what she once fancied to be love.

“I will rise now.” She made herself throw off the covers and climb out of bed.

“Do you wish to dress, m’lady?”

She might as well force herself into the day. “Yes. Pick out a morning dress. Any will do.”

Tippet selected the pale blush muslin, as delicate as Emma’s emotions. Skilled at her job, the maid dressed her, arranged her hair, and made her all ready to go downstairs in no time at all.

When Emma walked out of her room, she glanced at Spence’s door, wondering if he were abed or if she would face him over breakfast. She did not know how she would feel. Ashamed? Or aroused? She had been so easily aroused the night before.

Reuben sat in the dining parlor, breakfasting alone.

“Good morning, Reuben,” she managed, with some effort at cheer.

His lower lip jutted out. “Good morning.”

She fixed a plate for herself and sat opposite him, pouring herself some tea.

“What is it, Reuben?” He was so obviously sullen.

He did not answer right away, darting glances at her. She waited.

He worked his mouth before speaking. “I cannot like what transpires between you and my cousin, Emma. I fear this attempt at reconciliation will wound you even more.”

Emma lowered her eyes. “That is none of your affair, Reuben.”

He leaned over the table. “I disagree, I am your spiritual adviser, after all, and I believe that gives me some right to warn you when the devil is at your door.”

Her eyes shot up at him. “The devil?”

He fussed with his fork. “My cousin. You know what I mean. You are leaving yourself open for heartbreak by returning to his bed.”

“Reuben!” she cried, horrified.

He stared back at her and crossed his arms over his chest.

With blood rushing to her face, she fought to control her temper. “That is quite enough. You have been my dearest friend, but neither that nor your vicar’s collar gives you leave to intrude upon my private matters, especially regarding my husband.”

“You have confided in me about Spence in the past.” He huffed.

“I have done no such thing.” She straightened in her chair. “I lamented my lack of money with you, and begged your help contacting Spence, but never did I discuss my marriage with you.”

He pursed his lips. “I am well able to read between the lines.”

She felt her eyes flash with anger. “Do not credit such imaginings, and never speak to me like this again.”

The door opened and Zachary Keenan entered, breaking his stride when he saw Emma. His brows furrowed. “Have you found everything to your liking, Lady Kellworth?”

Still angry at Reuben, her words caught in her throat. “Yes. Thank you.”

He nodded curtly and proceeded to the sideboard.

She had forgotten about Keenan this morning. His appearance ought to have rattled her, but at the moment, he merely looked like a grim old man, not the lecher she so feared when she’d been seventeen.

He sat and glanced at his son. “What the devil is wrong with you?”

“Not a blessed thing.” Reuben sulked.

Spence walked in. “Good morning,” he said, favoring her with a warm look.

She felt her cheeks grow hot.

Reuben set his teacup noisily in its saucer and stood. “I beg your leave.”

At the same time his father said, “Go,” Spence said, “Very well.”

Reuben did not move.

Keenan coughed. “I beg your pardon, Spence. I misspoke.”

Spence turned from the sideboard. “Good God, Uncle. I do not care about precedence here. Give your son permission to leave the room.”

His uncle glared at him. “Perhaps you ought to care about precedence.”

Spence shook his head. “Let us not discuss that now.”

“I will say what I think as I have always done,” Keenan snapped.

Emma glanced at them all. She suddenly felt as if she were in charge of a nursery instead of sharing a meal with an earl, a Member of Parliament, and a vicar.

“Shall we have a peaceful breakfast, gentlemen?” she broke in.

All three gaped at her.

“Of course, Emma,” said Spence. “I do apologize.”

“Your forgiveness, my lady,” Keenan added.

Reuben merely glared at her.

Spence placed his plate next to hers and sat down. “Do you have plans today, Emma? If not, I would like to take you to the shops.”

She spread jam on her toast. “I have no need to go to the shops.” He’d once offered to buy out the shops in Maidstone for her. She now had no intention of being seduced by gifts.

“Then some other place. Something novel.” He tapped his knife against the tablecloth as if thinking. “The Egyptian Hall, perhaps. Have you been there?”

She shook her head, but was unhappy at this reference to Egypt, knowing he pined to travel there, as far away from her as she could imagine.

She glanced up to see both Reuben and his father watching to see how she would respond. After Reuben’s outburst she dared not appear churlish toward her husband.

“I believe I must meet with the housekeeper, but I am at liberty to accompany you after that.”

“That is excellent.” Spence smiled at her, but she turned her attention to her toast.

“Do I have your leave or not?” Reuben still stood looking like a petulant schoolboy.

Spence did not even glance up at him. “Of course you do.”

Reuben walked out with a dramatic flourish.

“What the deuce is the matter with him?” Spence said to nobody in particular.

His uncle answered, “Devil if I know.”

Emma was not likely to tell either of them. At least the moment of greatest tension in the room had passed.

“Sir?” Spence looked at his uncle, “I need to speak with you at some length. Can you give me some time—while Emma meets with the housekeeper perhaps?”

Keenan stiffened, glancing from her to his nephew and back again. Emma felt the tension rise once more.

Finally his uncle answered, “I am engaged all day, but I will be available to you tomorrow morning.”

“That will do.” Spence nodded.

Emma’s meeting with the housekeeper was brief. She needed only to direct the woman to continue as she was. The menus Emma selected were copied from Keenan’s past ones.

No more than two hours had passed before she and Spence were walking the streets of Mayfair toward Bond Street. They took a hack to the Egyptian Hall on Piccadilly. The outside of the building, with its huge columns, hieroglyphics, and statues of Isis and Osiris, looked as if it had been transported straight from that exotic ancient land.

But inside was nothing of what Emma had imagined. There was only one room filled with the antiquities she expected to see. Another was packed with naturalist specimens, animals that had been stuffed to appear as they had in life. For the first time Emma realized the size of an elephant, marveled at the stripes of a zebra, and the ferocity of a polar bear. Another room was transformed into a tropical jungle, complete with an Indian hut. In spite of herself, Emma was fascinated by these things.

Next they waited to get into the most crowded of the exhibits, where Napoleon’s carriage, captured at Waterloo, was on display. When they finally pushed to the head of the crowd, Emily stared at the blue vehicle trimmed in gold, thinking it looked much like any other gentleman’s carriage.

“It looks so ordinary,” she remarked.

“Not ordinary on the inside,” Spence responded.

They were able to get close enough to see the clever compartments inside the carriage, where wine and food and weapons were stored. There was even an emperor’s bed that could be made up.

Emma knew Spence had been at Waterloo that day. After news of the battle reached Kellworth, Emma had pored over the lists of officers killed and officers wounded, name after name after name, for fear of finding Spence listed there.

As they walked out of the room, she asked, “Did you see the carriage that day?”

“I glimpsed it, I think.” His face turned bleak. “There was much I witnessed that day.”

She felt a surge of sympathy. “I am certain.”

She also felt companionable, sharing this new experience with him. How easy it was to be seduced into believing this gentlemanly escort, this interesting conversationalist, this excellent guide, was not also a man who could so easily walk away from her.

They left the Egyptian Hall soon after and rode back to Bond Street. Spence had the hack drop them at Berkeley Square, where he treated her to an ice at Gunter’s, taking her to eat it in the square under the shade of an old maple tree. They could easily walk to the townhouse from there. The day was sunny and not too chilly, though eating the ice made Emma shiver, even as she enjoyed its fruity sweetness. Spence engaged her in conversation about what they had seen and the time was pleasantly spent.

When they had finished their ices, they crossed over to Charles Street. Suddenly the sound of hooves thundered in Emma’s ears. From out of nowhere, a horse and rider charged straight for them.

Emma screamed.

Spence grabbed her and dived for the pavement, rolling them both away. The horse’s hoof landed inches from her face, spattering stone chips against her cheeks.

She landed on her back, the wind knocked out of her. Spence knelt over her. “Are you injured, Emma? Are you hurt?” He felt her arms, her neck, her legs.

Other people who had been lounging in the square ran over.

“By Jove,” one man said. “That fellow meant to run you down.”

Emma sat up. “I am not hurt.”

“Can you stand?” Spence’s voice was as taut as a string.

“I believe so.”

As soon as her words were spoken, he lifted her to her feet. She dusted herself off, still shaking. Spence pressed a hand against his wounded shoulder.

“But you are injured!” she cried.

“It is nothing.” He turned to the onlookers. “Did anyone see the man? Did you recognize him?”

“He had a hat covering his face,” one said. “His clothes were plain. Brown coat, I think.”

“Brown coat,” another agreed.

He turned his attention back to Emma. “Let us leave this place.”

He thanked the people and hurried her away, holding her close against his side. When they turned the corner out of sight, he suddenly threw his arms around her, pressing her close.

“Emma, Emma,” he rasped. “I almost got you killed. I almost got you killed again.”

Her emotions, all raw to begin with, swirled into confusion. She embraced him in return, unmindful of the public street, heedless of propriety.

“I am not hurt,” she repeated, clinging to him. “Do not fear. I am not hurt.”

He finally released her. His eyes glittered with emotion. “It was deliberate. I am sure of it. We were meant to be run down.”

“Deliberate?” Her heart pounded.

He wrapped her in his arms again and held her so tightly she could barely breathe. “I’ll not have any harm come to you, Emma. I cannot risk it. You must go back to Kellworth in the morning. You must go back.”