A Stockingful of Joy (20 page)

"As long as we both shall live," he said huskily as he moved his lips to her throat.

Her arms came around him hard, and once again they were flesh to flesh. But this embrace was not for warmth or consolation. It was wholly carnal as the desire in him sang to the sleeping desire in her.

Her response was hesitant at first, but as honest and true as Emma herself. He caressed her lavish, womanly body, searching for what pleased her, and discovered that everything did. Every touch, every kiss. Every gentle exploration, every discovery of a new, secret place.

Despite the urgency of his own craving, he took his time. It was very much in his best interest for her to be a joyous, ardent partner. The longer he denied himself now, the more unselfishly he wooed her, the greater the reward for them both.

He pleasured her until she gasped with wonder, her body convulsing and her arms locking desperately around him. Then, when her ragged breathing slowed, he claimed the final intimacy that made her his wife. At first she stiffened from the pain. Panting with the effort of restraint, he held still and soothed her with soft words and gentle kisses until she relaxed and began to pulse against him.

Together they found a rhythm that went from mutual exploration to fierce possession to the final madness. And in the end, she cried out his name in a voice that pierced him to the heart.

They both collapsed, spent and shaking. He buried his face in her thick silky hair as he struggled for breath. How strange that he, who considered himself a master of the amatory arts, should have learned so much from her. His sweet, wise, brave wife.

As his breathing slowed, he rolled onto his side and drew her once again into his arms. Soon she was asleep, her head trustingly on his shoulder.

He stayed awake a little longer, drowsy but struck by the wonder of what had taken place between them. Letting his hand rest in her tangled hair, he murmured, "My one and only." Then he, too, slid into sleep.

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Emma awoke the next morning to blue skies and pale wintry sunshine. The events of the previous night might have seemed a dream, except that Anthony slept beside her. He was gloriously naked, with one powerful arm wrapped around her waist to hold her close. She should be embarrassed at being equally naked, but her sense of well-being was too great. The sheer animal warmth of her position made her want to purr.

She was in love. What she had felt for Anthony when she was a girl had not been mere infatuation, but the first distant notes of what was now a grand symphony of emotions. Whatever the future held, that love would always be an integral part of her.

She lay in mindless contentment until she succumbed to the need to stretch. When she moved, Anthony's eyes opened. His dark lashes were really ridiculously long, a devastating frame for his light eyes.

His mouth curved into a smile. "Remember—any more night walks on the roof in snowstorms, and you get thrashed."

"Yes, my lord and master," she said, her meek words belied by her saucy smile.

His hand moved lazily, possessively, to her breasts. "I'm going to like being married to you. I'm glad you were foolish enough to propose to me."

The desire to say that she loved him was almost overwhelming. Firmly she clamped down on it. This was not the right time for such a declaration; it might never be the right time. At least they had become friends. Not only had Anthony risked his life to rescue her from her own foolishness, but they had shared profound intimacy.

Some of her pleasure dimmed as she realized that for him, sexual relations must be a matter of course. Needing to know how he felt about what they had done, she said shyly, "Last night—is it always as nice as that?" She felt herself blushing. "The… the being married part, I mean."

His brows arched, and she could feel her heart sinking. Why had she assumed that he had taken any special pleasure in what she had found so rapturous?

"
Nice?
" he repeated in a deep, ominous voice. "We discover a rare degree of passion together, and all you can say is 'nice'?"

Even as she recognized that he was teasing, she blushed some more. "Well, I have nothing to compare it to. I would appear foolish rhapsodizing over something that was utterly routine." She paused pensively. "Though if that was routine, no married person would ever get out of bed."

He laughed and caught her in his arms, rolling her over so that she was lying on top of him. "No, my sweet Emma. Last night was not routine by any standard. It was special." He kissed the tip of her nose. "As special as you are."

She didn't think it was possible for her to be any happier. Stretching out along his warm, muscular frame, she said softly, "I'm glad you think so."

He skimmed his hands slowly down her back and hips, stirring delicious sensations in places that she hadn't even known existed before the previous night. "Are you sore this morning?"

"Only a little. I'm not the least bit refined or delicate, you know. My mother once said that with all the riding and tree climbing I did, I'd have an easy wedding night. She seems to have been right." Emma rocked her hips against his provocatively. "I'm certainly not sore enough to forgo what I think is about to happen."

"Delicacy is overrated," he said huskily. "Let's
not
get out of bed all day."

And he pulled her head down for a kiss.

They did rise in time for a very late breakfast. In the cheerful confusion of the house party, they hadn't been missed. Emma was glad when Anthony suggested a walk after they'd eaten. Much as she loved socializing with her long-lost family, she wanted to savor the enthralling new intimacy between her and her husband.

The previous night's storm had transformed the landscape into white sculptured shapes of unearthly beauty. As the wind blew icy plumes from the drifts, they set off along an untouched lane.

The snow was about six inches deep, which made walking awkward, but Anthony helped Emma through the drifts and kissed her at every stile. When they reached the shelter of a beech wood, she gave into temptation and flopped on her back in a drift. "I'm going to make an angel," she said as she energetically waved her arms up and down through the soft snow. "I haven't done this since I was a child."

Anthony laughed and dropped beside her. "Neither have I. Why do we stop doing things like this when we grow up?"

She propped herself on one elbow and studied her husband's snow angel critically. Since he was unhampered by skirts and his cloak was less voluminous, his angel was better than hers. "I don't know, but perhaps that's one reason for having children. One can pretend to do childish things for their sakes rather than for oneself."

She hesitated, then said awkwardly, "I should have told you about the other forty thousand pounds. It wasn't that I didn't trust you, but…" Her voice trailed off. She
hadn't
trusted him. But she did now. "I'll tell Mr. Evans that I've changed my mind about putting the money in a trust."

Anthony said gravely, "The gesture is much appreciated, but it's not necessary. You had every right to protect your future from a man who might be irresponsible. In fact, based on my history, probably was." He reached out and took her gloved hand in his. "We don't need the money. Now that the mortgages are cleared, Canfield will give us a very comfortable living. Keep the trust for our children."

She squeezed his hand, loving the way he said "our children" so naturally. It was tacit acknowledgment of the fact that they were going to build a life together.

His expression became less serious. "We've done snow angels. Now it's time I taught you about snow devils."

Her brows drew together. "I've never heard of them."

A wicked light in his eyes, he stripped off his gloves and tossed them aside. "I should hope you haven't."

Then he pounced, trapping her with his body as his cloak fell around them both. As she gave a squeak of surprise, he captured her mouth in a mesmerizing kiss.

It was a wonder they didn't melt the snow.

Anthony and his wife finished a thoroughly decadent day by napping after their walk. When they rose and prepared for dinner, he wondered if his intrepid bride would have been as eager for another passionate session as she had been for the earlier ones. He'd been too drained to find out, but was sure that by the end of the evening, when they went to bed again, he would have recovered sufficiently to offer another example of husbandly devotion.

Smiling for no particular reason, he glanced at Emma, who was putting on a pair of gold earrings he'd bought for her. Even though he'd always fancied petite blondes, he must admit that his wife, who was exactly the opposite, was quite irresistible. Even now, when desire was temporarily sated, he wanted her. It was impossible to imagine
not
wanting her, no matter how many years they were married.

The dinner bell clamored through the long halls. Emma rose from the dressing table and turned. "Do I look all right?"

He found her lack of confidence rather endearing. "You look magnificent," he said with complete sincerity. "That shade of russet silk is perfect for your coloring." And this time she was not covering her bountiful curves with a gauze scarf.

She smiled and took his offered arm. "The only drawback to a formal dinner is that I can't sit next to you."

He said meaningfully, "That doesn't matter, since you'll sleep next to me."

Her blush was so enchanting that he paused to nibble from her ear to her shoulder. She tasted delicious. Both of them were breathing more quickly when he escorted her from the room. If it weren't for Brand's enmity, this would be a perfect holiday.

After a long and lavish dinner, the duchess rose in the signal for the ladies to withdraw. As the crowd of chattering women made their way to the drawing room, the dowager duchess appeared beside Emma. "Come, child. I want to talk to you. We've scarcely had a chance so far."

"So many Vaughns, so little time," Emma said with a laugh. "You're in such demand, Grandmère, that I didn't wish to monopolize you."

"Then I shall monopolize you instead," the dowager said tranquilly. In pale, ice-blue silk and ostrich plumes, she was as lovely now as in the portrait Gainsborough had painted when she was twenty and a newlywed duchess.

When they reached the drawing room, the dowager steered Emma to a pair of wing chairs set in a quiet corner. As they seated themselves, she said, "Is Verlaine treating you well?"

Emma blushed. "Very well, Grandmère. We have much still to learn about each other, but we… we seem to suit."

"I guessed as much," the dowager said, her faded blue eyes twinkling, "when I saw you coming in from your walk this afternoon. Such a quantity of snow on you both."

Another blush. Really, Emma thought with resignation, she'd blushed more in the last few days than the previous ten years.

"I'm so glad you married Verlaine," the dowager said seriously. "He has a good heart, but he needed an anchor, a sense of direction. You'll give him that, I think."

Startled, Emma said, "I thought the benefits of this marriage went mostly to me."

"Not at all. A good marriage is a benefit to both partners," the dowager said briskly. "You will give Verlaine stability, and he will teach you to laugh and enjoy life."

Emma looked down at her wedding ring, absently turning it on her finger. "I haven't had many opportunities for laughter in the last ten years."

The dowager sighed. "I wish you had come here. Even if you wouldn't stay at Harley, surely we could have found better employment for you than what you had."

Emma glanced up. "You were the one responsible for the fact that every year I received a Christmas invitation, weren't you? That's how you know about my various employers."

The dowager nodded. "I was afraid you might be lost to us, so I did my best to ensure that wouldn't happen. You should have come long ago."

Emma had not known that anyone was so interested in the welfare of an orphan who was a mere connection, scarcely a member of the family at all. A little defensively, she said, "I wanted to be here, Grandmère, but I could not have left my work for so long. Nor could I have come as a beggar."

"You have your share of Vaughn pride," the dowager said dryly. "I know it well." Laying a gentle hand on Emma's, she continued in a softer voice, "But, my dear girl, I want you to know that you would have always been welcome."

Emma swallowed hard, torn between tears and a strong desire to kick herself. The dowager was right—it was foolish pride that had kept her away, far more than her circumstances. Still, she was here now. She gave the dowager a heartfelt hug. It healed a loneliness deep inside to know that she never really stopped being a Vaughn.

When the Duke of Warrington gave the signal that it was time to leave the port decanter, Anthony held back as the rest of the men—including Brand—got to their feet and ambled off to rejoin the ladies. In a group so large, it was proving fairly easy to avoid his glowering cousin.

It was a Harley custom to have casual dancing the evening before Christmas Eve. Anthony had always enjoyed the event more than the grand Twelfth Night ball that would end the house party. For some of the younger guests, this would be the first public dancing of their lives. That had been true for Anthony a dozen years earlier. He smiled at the thought of how grown up he had felt then, when in fact he'd been the merest boy.

He joined the stream of Vaughns heading toward the ballroom, where a pianoforte was playing seductively. Emma would have been too young to dance at Harley during her last visit. He looked forward to introducing his wife to the polished dance floor.

A small hand touched his arm. He turned and found Cecilia regarding him with great tragic eyes. "Anthony, I must talk to you," she said urgently. "In private."

He hesitated. "It would not look good for us to go off together."

"No one will notice." She touched his arm again, seeming on the verge of tears. "Please, Anthony."