What a Lady Requires (11 page)

A whimper escaped her lips, the response more eloquent than a complete sentence.

“I can think of other places to try.” He tightened his fingers about her thigh, rucking her skirt upward. “Better ones.”

The rasp of a clearing throat stopped him cold. Distinctly masculine, that sound. Not Emma calling a halt, damn it.

He glanced past her shoulder to find the deuced butler hovering on the threshold, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“What is it?” Rowan snapped,
Can’t you see we’re occupied?
on the tip of his tongue.

“Your pardon, sir. I regret to inform you that callers have arrived. Mrs. Strawbridge and Miss Strawbridge await in the front parlor.”

A single brow raised, Rowan cast a glance at his wife.

Regrettably, Emma took advantage of the moment to wiggle her way out of his lap. “Aunt Augusta and my cousin.”

“Ah.” With a nod, he shifted in his seat, but nothing helped the fit of his breeches. “And don’t they have perfect timing?”

Emma wasn’t sure how she made it to the sitting room. The vestiges of desire still buzzed through her, turning her knees to water. And the echo of Battencliffe’s promise.
I can think of other places to try. Better ones.

Heavens, she ached in some downright scandalous places, ached and throbbed. She could only hope by
better ones,
he was talking about those very spots and he’d make good on his word soon.

Blast her aunt for choosing this moment to pay a call. They’d been on the verge of consummating their marriage, she and Battencliffe. No matter they’d chosen a rather unorthodox manner. The impending pain be damned, Emma wanted relief. More than that, her body required it the same way it required air and nourishment.

She stopped on the threshold in hopes the small pause would calm the hammering of her heart. Uriana occupied the settee, her spine straight and her derriere the required two inches from the seat back. Aunt Augusta stood in the far corner—the one where Emma often took care of her correspondence under the guise of more ladylike pursuits—ruffling through some forgotten papers.

Emma cleared her throat. “Have you misplaced something?”

Aunt Augusta started and pivoted on her heel to regard Emma through narrowed eyes. “As a matter of fact, I thought I’d left some embroidery silks in this room in my haste to move out. You wouldn’t have happened to find them?”

Under her aunt’s scrutiny, a blush crept up Emma’s cheeks, which were doubtless already pinker than usual after her encounter in the study. She had the feeling her aunt knew exactly what she’d interrupted. Among other things, Emma’s lips must give her away. They were still tingling. However, none of that meant she should put up with her aunt’s disingenuousness.

Since her marriage, Emma was the lady of the house, after all. “I cannot imagine why they’d be in
that
corner when you’ve always sat closer to the window. For the better light. I might also note that I’d never leave anything of a personal nature lying about.” Previous letters to Mr. Hendricks notwithstanding. “Not when I’ve the entire house at my disposal now.”

Aunt Augusta didn’t even have the grace to look away. “So you admit to the necessity of hiding—what is it, your personal correspondence? And after I warned that husband of yours—”

Emma marched forward a step. “I will thank you to keep your nose out of my affairs.” Aunt or no, some things were not to be borne. “Was there a reason behind this call, or did you only come to spy?”

Aunt Augusta sniffed. “Perhaps I came to see how married life was treating you. Perhaps I was interested in whom you might be receiving.”

Emma made a show of glancing about. “It looks as if I’m receiving you.” And more the pity. “As for married life, it’s treating me just fine.” No thanks to Aunt Augusta’s meddling.

Uriana leaned forward in her seat. “Is it really?”

Her words emerged slightly breathless—not with disbelief, not quite. But it was something between incredulity and hope. Aunt Augusta must have frightened the chit so with her description of conjugal relations that Uriana expected to find Emma in bed languishing. Poor thing.

“I’ve never felt better in my life.” Perhaps that was taking matters too far, especially when she hadn’t yet experienced the full scope of the marriage bed, but given the feelings her husband aroused in her, she couldn’t imagine the consummation hurt all that dreadfully.

Unless it was left unfinished.

Aunt Augusta tsked and headed for her usual seat. “While we’re here, I may as well ask you about your invitations.”

“What?”

“Your invitations. I wish to see if your wedding has gained you entrée into some of the better parties. Word has it the Posselthwaites are holding a masquerade.” Aunt Augusta shook her head. “Ridiculous name, Posselthwaite.”

Emma clamped her lips shut on a retort. The woman had no place criticizing anyone’s name when she called her own daughter
Uriana.
“The stack is in the study.” Not that she was inclined to fetch it. “I may well have, but I really haven’t looked.”

“Haven’t looked? Unheard of. That was the entire point behind this wedding, and now if Uriana is to have a chance at a decent match…”

With a sigh, Emma sank into a chair. “Shall I ring for tea?”

“Of course, and send Grundy for your invitations while you’re at it. You will need my guidance as to which you’ll accept. And you really ought to put some thought into hosting some form of entertainment yourself. Nothing as extravagant as a ball, not so early in your career, but a small dinner party would make for a splendid launch. If you make the guest list somewhat exclusive, you might even find yourself in demand before too long.”

Aunt Augusta made the prospect sound like the most sumptuous Christmas present wrapped in fine white paper and tied with a silver bow. To Uriana, it would be. Emma could not imagine a worse torture, not when she’d be expected to entertain society wives. She’d far rather drink port with the gentlemen and discuss business.

“I’ll take your suggestion under consideration.” And she’d consider it the moment pigs sprouted wings.

Aunt Augusta rummaged through her reticule until she produced a sheet of paper. “I’ve a menu all worked out. Now, if we can just see which functions you’ve been invited to, we can settle on an acceptable date. As for the guest list…”

Thankfully, or perhaps not, Grundy chose that moment to bring in his salver, stacked high with invitations. A few of them drifted to the floor as he presented it to Aunt Augusta. Rather attentive of him, that—or had he been hovering at the door?

Uriana clapped her hands. “So many.”

“Indeed.” Aunt Augusta sounded as delighted as a pauper presented with a fat Christmas goose. “Now, let’s see.” She picked up the first card. “Oh, no. Lady Epperley is giving another ball in honor of her blasted cat. We’ll be declining that one.”

Lady Epperley…why did that name sound familiar? Oh, yes, Henrietta Sanford had mentioned her in passing. Emma reached for the invitation. “I think I ought to accept this.”

“Good heavens, why would anybody wish to encourage such utter nonsense?”

“I believe it would only be polite, as I’ve made the acquaintance of one of her relatives.”

Uriana perked up. “Oh, really? Who?”

“A Mrs. Sanford called on me yesterday, along with her sister-in-law. Mrs. Sanford is connected by marriage, while Lady Lindenhurst is a distant relative.” There, that ought to satisfy her social-climbing aunt. She’d received a titled lady.

“Oh, no,” Aunt Augusta bust out. “Oh, no, no, no. Those are most definitely the sorts of social connections you’d best avoid.”

“Why?” Although Emma might well guess. Her aunt specialized in finding out the most shocking tidbits.

“There is scandal connected with that entire family. I know who Mrs. Sanford is. She was born Henrietta Upperton.” Aunt Augusta paused, as if she expected Emma to fill in the blanks on her own. Uriana seemed to, for she gasped.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Her brother,” Aunt Augusta pronounced, as if that explained everything.

“Whose brother?” As far as Emma knew, that might refer to Lady Lindenhurst’s brother, Alexander Sanford, or some other nameless sibling.

“Mrs. Sanford’s brother. He married that disgraced Marshall girl. They’ve retired to the country, naturally, but that hasn’t kept word from circulating. As for Lady Lindenhurst…” Aunt Augusta trailed off ominously.

“What have you heard, Mama?” Uriana asked.

“Nothing but rumor, and those are bad enough. Only be assured these are not the sort of people whose company you wish to cultivate. Not if you expect to rise in society.”

Emma kept her mouth closed, but the wheels in her mind began to turn. Henrietta and Cecelia might be the perfect friends if she wished to avoid her aunt’s version of social climbing. Henrietta, in fact, might tell her something of his brother’s wife—ammunition of a sort to be used against Miss Emily Marshall’s attacks. Not only that, the ladies’ husbands were once friends with Battencliffe.

If, in the end, he decided to renew that acquaintance, she could hardly cut their wives. Not when they’d done more than any of the other ladies. They’d extended the hand of courtesy to her first.

Rowan pushed aside a brimming mug of ale and cast a cautious eye about his surroundings. The table before him sported a thick layer of grime, rendering it only slightly cleaner than the floor. In fact, the wooden planks beneath his feet seemed to suck at his boot soles. In the very back of the dim room, two toughs hunched over mugs and eyed him.

Assessing the cove, no doubt. The contents of his purse would disappoint them, but they wouldn’t realize that until they’d kicked the stuffing out of him.

The public house near Covent Garden wasn’t his idea of an ideal meeting place, but then he hadn’t chosen the venue. After he sent word to Dysart yesterday, nothing less than a summons had arrived in reply.
The Cock and Bull, tomorrow afternoon.
If only the Bow Street Runner would hurry. The pair in the corner had glanced over more than once.

One of them pushed to his feet. Shite. Under the cover of his table, Rowan casually groped for the knife he’d shoved into his boot before heading here. Halfway across the room, the man paused and turned back.

In the next moment, Dysart yanked the chair opposite Rowan from beneath the table, spun it about, and sat hunched over the chair’s back. “Wot choo want?”

“I talked to a few members of my club yesterday.” His club, on St. James Street, which offered more than its share of safer meeting places than this. “I thought you’d be interested in my findings.”

The same serving girl who had brought Rowan his dubious mug of ale sidled over. “Wot choo having?” She leaned over, offering a generous view down her bodice. “Ye knows ye can have wotever ye wants.”

Dysart barely spared her a glance. “P’rhaps later, luv. I gots business.”

The girl poked out a lower lip and nodded at Rowan. “Ye want t’ introduce me t’ yer friend? He ain’t very forthcoming.”

“Off wit’ ye.” Dysart reached into his ragged topcoat and produced a cheroot. Without lighting it, he sucked on the end for a moment before turning back to Rowan. “Interested in yer findings, is it? Wot choo hire me for if yer askin’ questions yerself?”

Rowan waited for the serving girl to flounce off before replying. “Among other things, I thought you’d like to know Crawley isn’t involved in making off with the blunt.”

Dysart drummed his fingers on the top rail of the chair back. “How d’ ye reckon that?”

“The whole scheme is too big. It wasn’t just me and him and a few others. Higgins took in a great many more. Why, there’s Andrews and all his friends. Fotheringham. Everyone I’ve talked to seems to know someone else who’s lost something.”

“Andrews. Fotheringham. Those names supposed to mean something to me? And why should they exonerate Crawley?”

Rowan stared at him for a moment. Who would expect such a rough character to spit out a word more suited to a classroom at Eton? “Crawley didn’t know about all of them. I’m sure he couldn’t have. And if he did, wouldn’t he be flaunting his wealth?”

Dysart shook his head slowly. “Not if he valued his hide.”

“Right. Or he’d have left the country like Higgins. Have you found anything new about him?”

“I’ve put out the word. My friends will be on the lookout for him. I hear anything, ye’ll know.” Dysart reached for Rowan’s untouched mug. “Ye goin’ t’ drink this?”

“No. Now, what about Higgins’s valet?”

Dysart took a deep gulp of ale and ran a sleeve across his mouth before replying. “Valet? Wot about him?”

“You haven’t found him?”

“First I’ve known I was lookin’. Wot’s the name?”

Damn. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Higgins’s butler.”

“Butler’s gone. I been t’ the house. It’s all shut up.”

Of course it was. The servants had been in the process of clearing everything out a week and more ago. “Well, find the man. Find the other servants. Someone might have overheard something. Higgins might have confided in someone.”

Dysart helped himself to another swig of ale. “That a fact? D’ ye tell secrets to yer footmen?”

For some odd reason, Rowan felt a ridiculous urge to look about the common room and make sure no one could overhear. “I haven’t got any.” Not in his personal employ, at least. “Can’t afford the salary.”

“P’rhaps I should be askin’ how ye were planning on paying me.”

“I can afford you.” Or rather, his wife could.

Dysart lowered his brows. “I’m not so sure.”

Rowan pushed back from the table. Enough was enough. “Find Higgins, then. You find him, you’ll find the money, and you’ll be paid.”

Twenty-two. Emma raised her candlestick, squinted toward the back of the shelf, and counted the bottles again, but their number remained obstinately the same. Her stomach twisted. Six bottles of her papa’s private collection missing. Six bottles of the finest Hermitage. Not even the king had access to this vintage.

Blast it all.

She forced herself to inhale slowly through her nose. The chill air in the wine cellar carried the heavy scent of damp earth and mustiness. Setting her candle on the empty shelf, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She must ask Grundy to question the servants, naturally, but another suspicion chased the first thought from her mind.

Her husband had served one of the missing bottles to her on their wedding night. A little tonic for the nerves—a frightfully rare and costly tonic, but he hadn’t known it at the time. Now he was aware of the bottles’ existence, but he couldn’t have drunk them. She’d have noticed by now if he made a habit of over-imbibing. Since that first day, she hadn’t seen him in his cups, not once.

Taking up the candle once more, she turned for the door. The cellar was far too chilly this time of year to endure for long, and she clearly wasn’t going to find the answers to her questions on an empty shelf.

She rounded the aisle and nearly collided with a solid wall; although, for a wall, it was suspiciously warm and pliant. Battencliffe.

“Good heavens, what are you doing sneaking about?” That came out rather more sharply than necessary, but her heart was only just settling back into her chest.

“I came looking for you. Grundy said you were down here, if you must know.”

Looking for her, indeed. Ever since yesterday morning’s encounter in the study, he’d been carefully avoiding her. He’d gone out goodness only knew where and didn’t come in until late in the evening. She’d lain awake, waiting in vain for him to come through the connecting door.

“Did he tell you what I was doing?”

“No.”

“I’ve been taking inventory. It seems a few bottles of Papa’s private store have disappeared.” She set her candle on a spare table, where an open bottle already sat. A nice strong claret but fit for everyday consumption. No doubt Grundy had set it out to breathe for their supper before he left on his half day. Wishful thinking on the butler’s part. Since their wedding day, they hadn’t dined together once. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Battencliffe drew himself up. Given their past interactions, she could hardly blame him. “If you’re going to accuse me of drinking them, I haven’t.”

“But…Your pardon. I wish I didn’t have to point this out.” Truly, she didn’t. Part of her recognized that, as badly as this marriage had begun, Battencliffe had made certain efforts. Yes, he showed reluctance when it came to dealing with his finances, but he
had
made an attempt to calm her wedding-night nerves. He
had
demonstrated a desire to get to know her, even if she didn’t always know how to reply to his questions. For those reasons, she wanted to be absolutely certain of his innocence. “You did know of them, their value.” And in all the time he’d spent away from the townhouse over the past days, he could have peddled them, no matter that she hoped to goodness he hadn’t.

“I haven’t touched the bloody wine.” He spat the denial. “Not to drink, not to sell. Although suddenly the thought of a glass wouldn’t go amiss. Though I prefer something stronger.” He raked a hand through his hair and looked away. “In fact, this entire house requires something stronger.”

“What?” Granted, she’d confronted him directly enough to set him off, but the circumstances didn’t seem to warrant such an extreme reaction. What did the house have to do with it?

“Nothing.” Again, that keen edge to his voice.

Time to try a different tack. “What did you come after me for, then? Surely you can’t be asking for another session at balancing the books.”

Blast, and why had she made reference to that disaster? Her snappy reply called up inadvertent images of sitting in his lap while his hands wandered. Her nipples tightened as if his thumbs were once again teasing them to hardness.

That entire encounter had remained decidedly incomplete. Her body somehow knew it, and her brain kept calling up reminders at the most inconvenient of times.

Such as now.

He stepped closer. Too close. The freshness of sandalwood cut through the mustiness of the cellar. “If I asked you to, would you give it to me?”

Good Lord, how did he do that? The question might have been perfectly innocent but for the husky note underlying the words. She’d give him anything he wanted as long as he continued to talk to her in just that seductive tone.

No, he’s distracting you, the same way he did yesterday.
This was his war; this sensuality was nothing but a salvo.
Would it be so bad if he won?
He’d have to, eventually, if she was ever to bear him his heir.

“Heaven only knows you need the practice.” There. Let him make of that what he wanted. “And while we’re on the subject, it occurs to me that you might start learning what estate management entails.”

“My brother doesn’t even bother with that.” Any hint of seduction dropped out of his voice, and his words once more took on an argumentative edge. “He lets his land steward handle those matters.”

“I thought we’d established that letting someone else see to these things for you is a good way to get fleeced.” She crossed her arms against the penetrating chill. “It’s the same principle as doing your own books. That way no one can cheat you.”

He made no reply to that. He simply mimicked her stance, folding his arms. Although she couldn’t see very well in the flickering candlelight, she imagined him setting his square jaw.

“You’ve a whole town full of resources, you know, with so many landowners in for the Season and more coming every day. You could talk with them. See how they manage.”

“I imagine every last one of them leaves it to a land steward, same as my brother.”

“I’ve been looking into it. Lord Highgate has extensive properties in Dorset. The Marquess of Enfield holds lands in Kent, as does his younger brother. I hear the brother does quite well breeding horses.”

“Yes, and there’s also Higgins in Derbyshire,” he muttered.

“There you are, though I haven’t heard of him. Then in Cornwall, the heir to the Epperley title holds more than one manor.”

“Yes, his grandmother lives in one, and trust me, you don’t want to deal with her.”

“And then there’s Lord Lindenhurst.”

“Lindenhurst?” He released a breath as if he’d just been punched in the gut. “Who told you anything about him?”

Oh dear. She hadn’t meant to pry into Battencliffe’s past. The name had come out in all innocence. “I hear he’s in Town,” she said cautiously.

He turned his head to one side, studying her from the corner of his eye. “Yes, but who told you?”

“His wife paid me a call.”

Blowing out another breath, he strode across the room and back. “You met his wife?”

“Yes, just the other day.”

A silence. Then, “What did she tell you?”

“Nothing.” Only that dropped hint, which had to be unintentional. But yes, there was clearly something behind it. Something in Battencliffe’s past he’d prefer to keep hidden. Part of her wanted to lay a hand on his arm. She suspected that under his polished veneer, he was shaking. “Not anything of substance. And what would you expect from a first meeting?”

“There won’t be another.” He fired off the order rapidly. “Not if I have any say in the matter. She must have had a reason for coming.”

“She wished to meet me. And she may have hinted at a history between you two.”

“What. Did. She. Say?” Each precisely clipped word trembled with agitation.

“Nothing clear. I meant to ask you for details when the time is right. Clearly, this is not it.”

“No. No, it’s not. What’s more, it will never be. How dare she—”

Abruptly, he turned and stalked to the entrance. Emma was certain he was about to walk out on her, or she would have stopped him. Too late, she realized his intent.

“Wait!” Her order echoed off the walls not a second after he slammed the door closed. She rushed over and pulled on the handle. Drat it all. The latch had caught. “You realize you’ve just shut us in?”

“What?”

“Why did you close the door?” She fought to keep her tone even, especially since her teeth were likely to begin chattering at any moment.

“I didn’t want to chance the servants overhearing.”

“It’s their half day. We’ll be down here for hours before anyone misses us.”

“Nonsense.” He reached for the handle and pulled. When the door refused to budge, he yanked. “What the devil sort of door is this?”

“A broken one. Once it’s closed, you can open the latch only from the outside. Papa meant to have it repaired, but he hadn’t got round to it. Since the servants were all aware, we reckoned there was no danger. They all know to leave the door open when they’re down here.”

“That’s utterly ridiculous.” He beat his fists on the door and shouted.

“No more ridiculous than carrying on so. There’s no one to hear you.”

Still, he kept at it, while Emma hugged herself against a growing chill. At last, he let out a string of curses that would have made Aunt Augusta reach for the sherry. He landed a final jab in the center of the door and came away shaking his hand.

“What have you done to yourself?” Emma asked.

He shrugged. “My fists have suffered worse against human opponents. Bony things, noses.”

“Let me see.” She took his hand in both of hers. The skin over his knuckles had split. “You’re bleeding.”

“So I am.” He produced a handkerchief for her to bind about the wound. And then he turned the tables on her, wrapping his fingers about hers. “Your hands are blocks of ice. How long have you been down here?”

“Long enough to count the wine bottles twice.”

His fingers went to the buttons down his front. “Take my coat.”

“What good will that do? Then you’ll be cold.”

“I insist. It’s only fair since it’s my fault we’re stuck here.” He shrugged the garment off and set it about her shoulders. His freshness and the warmth of his body surrounded her as she poked her arms into the sleeves. “I shall simply have to find another way to warm myself.”

Despite their contrariness, her heart gave a hopeful patter that his methods would somehow involve cuddling close. Until, that was, he reached for the open bottle of wine breathing on the table.

“It isn’t brandy, but in a pinch it will do.” He set the bottle to his lips and took a swig before offering it to Emma. “I suppose this is more of the forbidden private stock?”

“Not this one.” She inhaled the bouquet before taking a mouthful. She closed her eyes to fully experience the flavor of this vintage. Heavy and rich, the wine trickled warmth down to her belly, its acidity an ache at the curve of her jaw. “This is quite a decent claret, but the flavor isn’t as subtle as the Hermitage.”

His gaze was fixed on her throat. Slowly, he raised his fingers and traced them down the column. The movement sent a bolt of heat into her belly, headier than any sip of wine. Good Lord, he might be more intoxicating than the entire bottle if he insisted on staring at her with such intensity.

“I enjoy simply watching you drink,” he murmured in a raspy tone she somehow associated with kissing. “The expression of pleasure on your face…”

“Why not share in the indulgence?” She proffered the bottle. “Take a sip and tell me what you taste.”

He did so, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. “Wine.”

“Well, yes, but not all wines taste the same. This one—” She took another mouthful and held it for a moment. “—holds hints of plum and…well, earth.”

He gave her a grin that bode no good at all. “I suppose I could give it another go, but if I taste anything remotely resembling horse manure, you can have the bottle.”

“If you let yourself become intoxicated, you’ll lose all the subtlety.”

“Because horse manure is the very definition of subtlety.” He took another mouthful. “Thankfully the horses were pastured somewhere away from the grapes.” Eyeing her, he set the bottle down. “You could laugh, you know. Are you always so serious?”

She folded her arms. Despite the fine wool of his coat and the claret in her belly, the chill had settled into her bones. “I’m serious about good wine.”

“And your account books and everything else I’ve seen you do. What would it take to get you to smile once in a while?”

“You learning how to keep proper accounts.”

“You see? Completely incorrigible. I mean to do something about that.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, rubbing up and down her arms.

“What can you do? It is my nature. You cannot change me.”

“I can make you laugh.”

Oh, good Lord. No, he really couldn’t. She would not allow it. But she could not summon the words that would stop him while he stroked her like that. She wanted those hands on her. She wanted them at her waist, her thigh, her breast…But most of all, those scandalous places he had promised.

“What? No protest? You’re even taking the challenge out of this. But no matter.”

He pulled her into his arms, flush against his body. She didn’t question the action; she simply wrapped herself about him, drinking in the heat radiating from his person. His big hands spread across her back and pressed her close.

“Now, what shall we do to make you laugh? Certainly not jokes about German sausage. They’re the wurst.”

She raised her head from his shoulder. “That was bad.”

“No, I just said it was the worst.”

Her lips quirked upward. She couldn’t stop them. To cover the movement, she said, “How is it you’re not known to all society for your profound witticisms?”

“This isn’t wit. It’s intentionally poor humor. And I saw you. You nearly smiled. So why don’t I tell you about the time I stayed up all night? I wanted to see where the sun went, but then it dawned on me.”

If the heat of his body weren’t so delicious, she’d have pulled away and crossed her arms. “Really, now.”