What a Lady Requires (9 page)

Damn, damn, and damn. Rowan should have asked more questions before sinking his last funds into the plan. But he’d been desperate, and Crawley had convinced him it couldn’t fail, as long as Rowan was patient. Of course, then Crawley had been caught up in the debacle, as well.

“Gentlemen, to Higgins.” Rowan wished he’d ordered a drink so he might raise his glass. “A clever enough son of a bitch to take us all. And may God have mercy on his soul if any of us ever catch up to him.”

The others sent up a rousing, “Hear, hear.”

Keaton produced a pack of cards from inside his topcoat. “With all this talk of loss, I suppose now would be a bad time to propose you win some of it back?”

Andrews, the fool, sat a bit straighter. “What, what?”

“What do you propose anybody play with?” Rowan asked. “Lacking in funds as we all are.”

Keaton merely showed his front teeth in a wolfish attempt at a smile. “I’m happy to take markers.”

Not a single one of the others pushed away from the table. Idiots, the bloody lot of them, if they involved themselves in the sort of high-stakes game Keaton was known to excel at. Clearly, in spite of what Higgins had taken them for, not a one of them was hurting for funds. Which meant, no matter what they’d said about Higgins and his sensitive bits, it was nothing but posturing.

“If no one minds, I’m happy to observe.” Rowan really ought to take himself out of the situation altogether, but he held on to a thread of hope that one of them might say something useful.

Either way, Rowan knew he was not going anywhere for at least the better part of the afternoon. A hackney to Bow Street would be impossible to find in this weather. He certainly wasn’t going back to the townhouse, where his wife waited to badger more fiscal sense into his head. For all the good it would do him.

An hour and more passed, deal after deal, during which Rowan only learned one useful thing—his instinct not to get into a game of cards with Keaton was dead-on. The man had uncanny luck at the table.

Rowan might have been tempted to join if the game were with just the others, though. They laughed off their losses, confirming his suspicions. Anything Higgins had taken them for was a pittance to them. And if one or another were hiding behind bravado, that façade would remain firmly in place, unless Rowan could convince one to take him into confidence.

“Good God, this is the last place I expected to run into you.”

The voice, at once familiar and foreign, struck him like a sledgehammer to the gut. He hadn’t heard it for over eight years. He’d never expected to hear it again, at least not in such tones of pleasant surprise. He looked up and met the gray gaze of one of his former schoolmates—Alexander Sanford.

His gaze pinned on Sanford, Rowan pushed to his feet. Slowly, to hide the tension that had invaded his body. Since returning from India almost nine months ago, Sanford had made more than one effort at contacting him. Rowan had left every letter unanswered.

The beginnings of a smile faded from Sanford’s face, and his eyes narrowed. There it was—Sanford’s familiar expression. He’d always been the serious one. In the years since Rowan had last seen his former friend, Sanford’s features had weathered, the creases on his forehead and about his eyes deepening beneath his mop of spiky, light brown hair.

Rowan gave him a curt nod. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Can’t a man greet an old friend?” A level of caution laced Sanford’s tone. Just as well. If Rowan must be on edge, let Sanford be, too.

Rowan continued to eye him, while the air about them seemed to thicken. Sounds muted until Rowan realized they had an audience. Sanford’s interruption had brought the card game to a halt, and even Keaton was watching them.

“Perhaps I ought to let you get back to your game.” Still that wary note in Sanford’s voice.

“I wasn’t playing.”

“Might I buy you a drink?”

The word
why
leapt to the tip of Rowan’s tongue, but he clamped his teeth on it. No reason to give the others even more of a show. He stepped away from the table.

“Will Lindenhurst be joining us?” he asked casually, as if the previous eight years had not intervened. He didn’t even know for certain if Lindenhurst was in Town, but best to make sure.

“No.” Sanford cut him an assessing glance before heading toward a quiet corner.

“Naturally. You wouldn’t want him to discover you’d sounded out the other camp, after all.”

Sanford paused in the midst of pulling up a chair. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

Rowan remained stubbornly on his feet. “You’ve chosen your side, haven’t you? No choice, really, is there, when you’ve let your sister marry Lindenhurst. Oh, yes, I heard.” He might have even admitted he’d witnessed it for himself last August, when he traveled to Cornwall in the hopes of convincing Lindenhurst to drop his revenge schemes. But Sanford could surmise as much. Surely he knew of his brother-in-law’s doings. “And now that he’s family, you’re bound in your loyalty.”

“He has married my sister, but that doesn’t mean the man rules me any more than I rule him.”

“You do know what he tried to do to me?”

Sanford nodded. “Knowledge of the fact doesn’t equal approval. I also know he attempted to make amends and you rebuffed him.”

Yes, Lindenhurst had tried to ruin him, only to offer him his vowels back at the last possible moment. In a fit of pride, Rowan had refused to take them. One of his more noble, if idiotic, gestures.

“Come, sit.” Sanford gestured to a chair beside him. “Put those differences aside. Can’t old friends have a drink together and catch up?”

Body stiff, Rowan obeyed. “You mean you want my side of the tale?”

Sanford crossed his arms. “Only if you wish to give it, but good God, man, I haven’t seen you for the better part of nine years. We might start with something more pleasant.”

Deuce take it, the man wished to chat. The same way Rowan had wanted to chat with Emma yesterday, as a means of becoming acquainted. Or reacquainted, in this case. Could it really be so easy?

Emma stared at the door that connected her bedchamber to Battencliffe’s. She could hear him moving about in there. Not just moving; goodness, was that humming? Oh, yes, he was home, finally. She shuddered to think how he might have occupied his time in the hours since this morning’s discussion.

She’d expected arguments over the household accounts. He was used to overspending and relying on credit. Now that he’d gained her marriage portion, he’d likely patronized all the shops on Bond Street. Dash it all, how was she supposed to teach him good spending habits if she couldn’t even keep him in the house for a few hours?

The light thuds of booted footfalls continued, but the door remained obstinately shut. She ought to be happy about that fact. She’d been asking herself all day how she would deal with the situation if he came in and demanded his marriage rights. Even she knew now was not the time to badger him about his spending habits. Not if she wanted more of his kisses.

And she did. All too well, her lips recalled that particular sensation, both soft and arousing, when he pressed his mouth to hers for the first time. And then the bold thrust of his tongue. The freshness of his scent surrounding her. The solid wall of his chest beneath her palms.

Even that later kiss, the hard one with the brutal edge, had left her with an aching hollow inside. She touched her fingers to her lips, half expecting to find them warm with the memory of his.

Oh, he’d awakened something in her. Something insidious and hungry. Even this morning when he stood in the study, goading her across the desk, whatever it was gnawed at her insides.

At any rate, the sooner they set about the business of producing the next Earl of Sparkmore, the sooner her father would hand Battencliffe the rest of the dowry. The sooner she’d have her own portion to use as she pleased. With wise investments, she could set herself up quite nicely on that money, but to get it she must fulfill her part of the bargain.

So why wasn’t her dratted husband coming in to fulfill his?

She set aside her hairbrush and stood. A mere door lay between them, a simple plank of wood. And if she opened it? If she presented herself in his bedchamber, what would he do? He couldn’t walk out on her if she visited him now, could he?

But her feet remained firmly in their spot on the opposite side of the chamber. Why was this so difficult?

Because he doesn’t want you.

Blasted voice inside her head. She’d spent the better part of the day silencing it—because naturally, it was correct. He didn’t want her, not when he’d walked out last night without completing his marital duties. Oh, he’d seemed to enjoy showing her how to kiss well enough, but why hadn’t he followed through on the tacit promise his lips had imprinted on her? Why had he broken off so suddenly to ask her about her correspondence, of all things?

He’s good at the social game.

That insidious voice again, chipping away at any confidence she possessed. And here, too, it was right. He was good at putting on an act. What had he called it at the Pendleton ball? A display. What if, in the end, he found her so distasteful, he hadn’t been able to force himself to bed her? And then he’d stayed away all day…

He clearly did not want her now, either, or he’d be in here, tempting her with soft, little kisses. Even the promise of extra blunt once she’d produced an heir wasn’t enough to overcome her faults, apparently.

Her throat tightened. No, she couldn’t give in to that type of thinking. She’d listened to the daughters of the
ton
once too often when they’d giggled about her behind their fans.

That Emma Jennings, thinks her dowry can make up for that face.

Or when their cultured tones carried snide insinuations about her family’s origins.
And you are connected to?
Always with the raised brow and knowing smile. A cat ready to pounce on a juicy mouse might bear such an expression. Except the coup de grâce always came far more subtly than a paw full of unsheathed claws—a certain
Ah
accompanied by a dismissive nod, the same end to a hundred conversations.

If that weren’t enough, Emma had paid far too much heed to Miss Conklin’s admonitions about the way a proper lady ought to comport herself.
Do not laugh so loudly, my dear. We aim to titter like little birds, not bray like donkeys.
And
Ladies do not take interest in business matters. Such things are beneath them.
Emma had tried. Heaven only knew how she’d tried, but all that trying still wasn’t good enough.

Not for the
ton
and obviously not for her husband. It never would be good enough, so there was no sense in maintaining the façade a moment longer. She would conduct her business ventures, and she would do so openly, even if she did stain her fingertips with the ink required to keep the ledgers.

A protracted visit to the Rhône Valley would be just the thing. She could travel from vineyard to vineyard sampling the finest wines, negotiating to import the best vintages. She only needed the funds to begin, but that brought her back to Battencliffe’s bedchamber door. She must bear a son before she saw her part of the marriage portion.

“Business,” she told herself firmly.

Direct. It was all she knew. Other girls simpered behind fans, batted their eyelashes, practiced shy smiles, but Emma had never known where to begin with flirtation. She suspected she’d be hopeless if she tried.

“This is just another venture. One that requires negotiation. I must state my requirements if we are ever to reach an agreement.” She’d just have to cross her fingers and pray Battencliffe responded to her request as a partner in a business affair. That was all this marriage was, in any case. An even trade.

With that thought in mind, she raised her chin and made herself set one foot in front of the other, until she stood before the connecting door. Gripping the handle, she turned. The wooden panel swung wide.

Battencliffe stood in the middle of his chamber, clad in nothing but a buff-colored pair of breeches. They hugged his lean hips and thighs like a second skin, but that view was nothing to the broad expanse of muscled back. An image of her tracing the divot over his spine with her fingers—with her tongue—leapt into her mind, and she gasped.

At the sound, he pivoted. In a fluid motion that sent a ripple across his chest, he tossed aside the shirt he’d been holding. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Every last one of her intentions drained from her head and pooled in her belly. Given this morning’s encounter, given the way last night had ended, she’d steeled herself against outrage at her intrusion. The last thing she expected was smooth seduction. Perhaps, just perhaps, that voice was wrong, after all. Somehow the thought did nothing to calm her tattered nerves.

“I…” Her throat was too dry to summon a satisfactory response. “You…”

That word emerged on a pathetic little squeak, hardly the tone of an assured businesswoman. Only the force of this gaze kept her from heading back the way she’d come. Without words, he was once again commanding her.

“I what?” He stepped closer, but that action did nothing to loosen her tongue. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the contours of his chest.

That hard expanse had pressed against her last night, but what would his skin feel like against hers? Would the scattering of hair tickle beneath her fingertips? Could she make those muscles jump if she smoothed her hand along the planes of his belly?

He reached for the silken tie that held her wrapper closed—a wrapper that suddenly felt like flimsy protection indeed against the heat evident in his gaze.

Casually, he rubbed the delicate fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “Whatever you’d like of me, you do not have to be afraid to ask it.”

“I do not have the words.” That much wasn’t completely true. She did have words, but asking him to give her a child seemed wholly inadequate, wholly sterile when measured against the promise she read on his face.

She’d come in here to proposition him in as businesslike a manner as possible. Neat, clean, uncluttered by emotion. As she contemplated his half-clothed body, the notion took on an edge of absurdity. There was nothing businesslike in the way the sight of him was gradually melting her insides like the slow drip of candle wax.

One side of his mouth quirked upward into half a smile. “Perhaps I should ask you this way. Have you decided between hard and soft?”

Good heavens, that question only made the heat inside flutter as she relived his kisses of the previous night, both the ease of the first and the edge of the last. And if she was completely honest with herself, both had their appeal.

She drew her lower lip between her teeth. His gaze riveted on the movement, and an answering pang struck close to her core. “I’m afraid I may require more of a demonstration before I draw a conclusion.”

The low chuckle that rumbled from deep in his chest vibrated through her entire body. “In that case…”

He tugged at the tie, and the knot at her waist gave way. His palms molded about her shoulders, skin against skin. A simple push from beneath was sufficient to send the wrapper pooling at her feet. Beneath the silk, she wore a simple cotton shift, white and virginal—or almost. The fabric was sheer enough to hint at the curves and shadows of her body.

His hands gripped her waist, and he pulled her closer until the tips of her breasts grazed his chest. Her nipples tightened, straining toward fuller contact. His lips descended, but he ducked away from her mouth. Instead, his breath caressed a spot just below her ear. His sandalwood scent surrounded her, filled her senses.

“You must tell me,” he murmured against her racing pulse. “Do you like it that way? Or do you prefer this?” His teeth closed on her earlobe, biting, just shy of pain.

Her knees buckled, and a breathy moan emerged from her throat.

“Or can we combine the effects, the sharp and the sweet?” He bit down again, but after a second’s sting, the hot warmth of his tongue soothed the hurt.

Emma could no longer think, much less respond. Her hands found purchase on his bare shoulders; firm muscles jumped beneath her palms as he drew her closer, until her entire body molded to his.

“You see how it is? The hard and the soft?”

She couldn’t even summon a simple
yes,
let alone observe that he was hard and she was soft, each a pure complement of the other. Opposites in every last possible sense.

“We could explore the concepts all night, if you wanted. Until you learn which you most desire.”

Good Lord, he made it sound so, so tempting. “I…but I need…”

With his tongue, he stroked the entire length of her throat. “I know what you need.”

“If I’m to bear your heir…”