Once Upon a Scandal (23 page)

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Authors: Barbara Dawson Smith

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Once Upon a Scandal
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He wanted what Emma had already—a child to brighten the darkness of his life. A son or a daughter like Jenny. Emma had robbed him of a normal family, and now he would demand his due. It was as simple as that.
Or was it? Aware of a rigidity in his muscles, he very carefully set down his empty glass. The truth was, he wanted Emma to desire him. He craved her surrender on a deeper level than physical passion. He wanted to own her soul. As she had owned his for far too many years.
His hands shook with unmanly emotion. He braced them against the mantelpiece. It might take weeks of seduction to coax her into trusting him again. Weeks of denial before he finally sated the raging hunger inside himself. But he would woo her gently if it killed him. He would have her willing—or not at all.
The faint rattling of the doorknob broke the silence. Cool air whisked against him. In no mood for company, especially not Hajib again, Lucas wheeled around. “I thought I told you—”
He froze. In the connecting doorway stood his wife.
His mouth went dry. His palms dampened with sweat. His inner turmoil exploded into renewed desire.
Emma’s unbound hair shimmered like a mass of moonbeams around her shoulders and down to her waist. The sheer fabric of her nightgown embraced her breasts, then cascaded to the floor. Beneath the scalloped hem, her feet were small and bare.
Her gaze skittered to the huge bedstead; then those big, blue eyes focused on him. “I’m sorry for panicking, Lucas. It was just … an unexpected memory. I—I hope you can forgive me.”
Words failed him. His groin tightened unbearably, swelling against his breeches. He could think only that she was naked beneath the gown. The shadow of her sex showed
faintly against the virginal white cloth. Why did she continue to torture him?
She ventured a few steps into the room. Her fingers pleated the sides of her nightdress. “You told me to come to you when I was ready,” she went on. “Well, I am ready. I made you a promise, and I fully intend to keep it. Tonight.”
“I won’t force an unwilling woman.” Each word felt dragged from him.
“I know that now.” She held out her hand. “That’s why I want to be your wife. Will you show me how to please you?”
Lucas could scarcely believe she was giving him a second chance. A chance to rectify his clumsy mistakes. A chance to show her she had nothing to fear from him. And a chance to prove to himself he had nothing to fear from her, either.
He took her hand. It felt as sweet and dainty as a bride’s. “It would please me to bring you joy. A man likes to know he’s given as well as received.”
“Not all men.”
Her eyes went cloudy with memories. Interwined with his fury at her attacker was a thread of powerful tenderness. He settled her against him, one hand at the base of her spine, the other tipping her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “I’m not like that bastard. Just remember that.”
“Of course,” she said, too quickly.
“I mean it, Emma. If you tell me to stop, I will.” He twisted his mouth into a wry grimace. “No matter how difficult it is.”
“I know. You’ve proven that to me.”
“And I can promise you pleasure. The same pleasure you felt a few nights ago. You only have to trust me.”
She bit her lip and nodded slowly. “I do.”
“Good.”
Scorched by the heat of his stare, Emma felt a thrill of trepidation. Lucas looked so fierce, so wild. He had stripped down to a white shirt opened to the waist and the dark breeches he had worn on their picnic. His chest was a beautiful burnished tan, and now the black thatch of hair pressed
against her breasts. There was nothing between them but a few scraps of cloth. She was aware of his body heat, his male scent. And the deep, disturbing pulse that throbbed within her.
He wanted to kiss her; she could see it in his eyes. The knowledge made her glow. Unwilling to lose the feeling, Emma urged him toward the bed. “Come, Lucas,” she said in a husky murmur. “Come with me.”
He smiled then, a secretive smile that deepened the dimples in his cheeks and made him look extraordinarily handsome. “Ladies first.”
She sensed a hidden meaning to his words, but before she could puzzle it out, his arms caught her up and she found herself sprawled atop him on the bed. The heavy bronze silk hangings enclosed them in shadow. Lucas reclined beneath her, large and dark against the snowy linens. Her heartbeat surged into a maddened rhythm. She lay very still, absorbing the strangeness of his hard, masculine body under hers.
“Shouldn’t we … switch positions?” she asked.
“You said you wanted to pleasure me.” He glided the flats of his palms down the back of her nightdress. “And I like it this way.”
“I just thought … this doesn’t seem …”
“Proper?” His big hands cupped the curve of her bottom. “There can be nothing improper between a husband and wife, Emma. Surely you know that by now.”
He was referring to their other intimate encounters—when he had massaged her, when he had plied her with the peacock feather, when he had transported her to heaven with his clever fingers. And then she realized what was different this time. She was no longer under his subjugation. He was giving control over to her. “But what shall I do?” she whispered.
“Whatever feels good.”
He lay back, waiting, a devilish smile on his lips. Lucas wanted her to take the lead. He wanted
her
to seduce
him.
This was not how she had envisioned the consummation of their marriage.
The rise and fall of his chest tickled her breasts. The nightgown had ridden up past her knees and their legs were tangled together. His hands felt warm and possessive, his thumbs rubbing lazily against the fabric covering her bottom. She knew a flash of frustration, the shocking desire to feel his touch on her naked flesh.
Without daring to think, Emma sat up, lifted the nightgown over her head, and flung the garment to the floor. Stark naked, she scrambled back into place over Lucas. His hands spanned her slender waist. The texture of his shirt and breeches rasped delightfully against her skin. Only then did she risk looking at his face.
The smile was gone. His eyes burned with intensity again, an intensity that sent a compelling quiver down to her secret core, where she could feel herself growing damp and soft and ardent. His lips were parted invitingly. Dear heaven.
Dear sweet heaven.
Feeling decidedly wicked, she scooted herself closer to those lips and rested her hands on his strong shoulders. How heady was the power he had given to her. It banished the fear that had long ruled her. “Lucas,” she whispered, wishing she could put into words the tumultuous feelings tumbling inside herself. “May I kiss you?”
“You don’t need my permission.”
Their warm breath intermingled. His eyelids were lowered halfway as he waited patiently. She touched her lips to his and savored the surprising suppleness of him. She tasted brandy on him, licked the essence and followed the flavor into his mouth. Like a delicious elixir, it spread through her body, warming and strengthening, stoking the blaze within her.
Lucas returned the kiss with equal fervor. His hands found her breasts and adorned them with lavish caresses. Somehow he seemed to know exactly what she wanted. And yet there were other wants inside her, enticements she did not wholly understand.
Whatever feels good.
She could not keep herself still, especially her lower body.
She gave in to the urge to rub herself against him, and the pleasure of it quaked through her. Lucas’s chest expanded with a harsh breath. His fingers convulsed around her arms, but he made no move to overpower her. Emboldened, she pressed herself to him again, and yet again. Each time felt more compelling than the last. Each time multiplied her aching need for relief. Each time satisfied her less.
She reached down blindly between them, fumbling with the buttons on either side of his breeches. His hand circled her wrist. “Emma?”
She couldn’t bear to stop and think. She trusted him, and that was enough. “Please,” she begged.
His fingers tightened a moment; then he brushed her hand aside and unfastened the front placket. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and lowered herself against him, though not inviting him inside yet. He was thick and hard, a potent contrast to her feminine softness. Giddiness swept over her, a harbinger of panic. What was she doing?
Whatever feels good.
Obeying instinct, she slid herself along the length of his shaft. Lucas groaned. His mouth was hot against her breasts, his breath shuddering in and out, in and out. Yet still he did not wrest control from her. She gave herself up to the sweet friction that tantalized her with the glimpse of paradise. If only she could reach the shattering glory first, perhaps it would ease the agony of his entry. If only …
Grasping her hips, he muttered something she didn’t quite catch … and then his lower body gave a sudden upward thrust, filling her with a pressure so extraordinary she tensed and went still.
He held her close and rubbed his cheek against her hair. “Emma. Sweet Emma. Forgive me—” He exhaled in a strange sort of groaning laugh. “Hell, don’t forgive me. Just let me stay.”
She heard him through a haze of amazement. “We’re joined.”
“Yes.” He took her face in his palms and rained kisses over her. “And for God’s sake … don’t tell me to stop.”
“Why would I? Oh, Lucas. This feels so …” Words failed her. She felt no pain, no revulsion, only a boundless pleasure that expanded far beyond the physical. She laid her cheek against his sweat-slickened chest and heard the strong beating of his heart. The musky perfume of passion enveloped her. She cherished their unique closeness, the precious delight that pulsed through her as she rocked her hips experimentally, accepting him deeper into herself.
“Oh, my.
Oh, my.
” It was the most awesome feeling to be one with him. As if she had stepped off a ledge and found herself soaring instead of falling. She kissed his corded throat, taut with the strain of holding himself back. “Lucas … my husband … I’m yours now. Your bride. Your lover.”
“Yes,” he grated. “
Yes.
”
Never taking his dark gaze from hers, he rolled Emma onto her back, laced his fingers through hers, and pressed their entwined arms onto the pillows. He almost withdrew, then moved slowly into her again, initiating a rhythm somehow recognized by her untutored body. The absence of fear created an infinite capacity for joy, for the splendor of rising with him, faster and higher, their hearts beating as one, their bodies bonded in perfect rapport, their souls ascending to the summit of ecstasy and then floating in the sweet aftermath of release.
“
P
ardon me, m’lady,” Stafford said. “There is a visitor to see you.”
Standing in a pool of late morning light that poured through the library windows, Emma looked up from the small elephant-god statue in her hands. She resisted the urge to grin foolishly at the footman. He couldn’t know her mind had been occupied by far more earthly thoughts than Hindu deities. She had been remembering the rapture of the previous night.
All those years of fear and loathing had been cast aside. Today, a languid peace flowed through her body, and yet at the same time she felt revitalized, tingling with the marvels of life. In one tumultuous encounter, she had risen from the darkness of hell into the brilliance of heaven. Even more wondrous, Lucas had clasped her close as if he too could not bear for the night to end. He had said little, and she had been happy to set aside their differences for the moment. Later, they had made love again, and afterward, drowsy and replete, she had fallen asleep in his arms.
The sun was shining when she had awakened alone to see the swarthy, smiling face of his manservant, Hajib. She blushed to recall his glee at finding the marchioness tangled in the sheets of the master’s bed. Lord Wortham had left in his carriage some time ago, he said, but to a destination his humble valet knew not. And Emma had spent the morning
in a state of restless anticipation, wondering when Lucas would return and imagining how he would sweep her into his arms—
“The gentleman’s card, m’lady.” Stafford’s voice startled her. The bewigged footman pointedly held forth a silver tray in his white-gloved hands.
“Thank you,” Emma said, amused at her own woolgathering. This sudden propensity for daydreaming had her behaving like a starry-eyed miss when in fact she felt as if she’d just been initiated into a secret sorority of womanhood.
Setting down the little elephant god, she picked up the card. The name printed on the white pasteboard jolted her like a thunderclap. Dear God, how could she have forgotten—? Composing herself with a deep breath, she said, “Send him in at once, please.”
“Yes, madam.” The footman bowed and left.
With trembling hands, Emma smoothed her peach gown and then hastened to the wall mirror to tidy her hair. She paused, struck by the change in herself. Her skin had a rosy tint from Lucas rubbing his cheek against hers. There was a softness about her that had been absent a day ago. A sweet, heavy ache warmed her womb.
Her hands strayed to her midsection. Perhaps she had already conceived. The thought filled her with dread—and an undeniable yearning. God forgive her, she wanted to bear Lucas’s child. She wanted it with all her heart. She wouldn’t let herself think beyond that.
If only she and Lucas could shut out the rest of the world. If only they could make up for all those lost years. She wanted Lucas, holding her. Lucas, kissing her. Lucas, moving inside her … .
The tread of footsteps sounded in the corridor. Sir Woodrow Hickey came through the doorway and walked toward her, his shoulders held in a stiff military bearing. He was dressed with customary elegance, his cravat perfectly tied, his buff breeches and blue coat tastefully matched, his shoes shined to a glossy sheen.
He bowed over her hand. “Madam.”
“Sir Woodrow.” One breath of his familiar sandalwood scent banished her sense of well-being. “Please accept my apologies,” she said quickly. “I promised to bring Jenny to Hyde Park yesterday morning, but I was unavoidably detained. I hope you didn’t wait long.”
“Three hours, but that is of little consequence,” he said, his lips unnaturally taut.
Guilt wrenched her stomach. Words seemed inadequate, but she said them anyway. “I’m terribly sorry. Truly, I am.”
He walked back and forth in front of her. “My dear Emma, what matters is that I was concerned about you. I was afraid you and Jenny might have been found out and forbidden to contact me.” He lowered his voice and sent her a piercing look. “Forbidden by your husband.”
“Lucas?” She could feel herself blushing as his name evoked thoughts of dark delights. “No. No, he did nothing of the sort.”
“Perhaps you should enlighten me, then.”
Emma swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat. How could she admit why she’d been so preoccupied? She and Lucas and Jenny had spent a wonderful day at Hampstead Heath; they had laughed and played as a family. Then later—much later—Lucas had swept her away on a private journey of joy beyond her wildest dreams.
Sir Woodrow lifted his sandy eyebrows. “Well? Your husband’s disapproval is the only reason I can think of to explain why you never sent me a note. It isn’t like you to be so thoughtless.”
And it wasn’t like Woodrow to express his annoyance so plainly. He was a mild-mannered gentleman who seldom spoke a sharp word. When other men had regarded her as a fallen woman, he had treated her with unfailing kindness and respect.
“I … was gone all day,” she said. “Lucas required Jenny and me to accompany him out of the city.”
Woodrow’s eyes widened. “Jenny, too? What would he want with her?”
“He thought we needed an outing, that’s all. In the rush
to depart, I forgot to send word to you.” She bit back another apology. She refused to grovel.
“I see.”
Could he? Could Woodrow perceive the shattering emotions she was only just realizing, that she loved no man but Lucas?
She turned, walking swiftly to one of the leaded windows that overlooked the small garden, golden with autumn leaves. The warmth of the sun could not match the radiance inside her. She had been resisting the truth for days, ever since Olivia had pointed it out.
Every time you look at him, your whole face lights up.
The insight threw her long-held plans into chaos. She knew with searing certainty that she wanted to stay with Lucas, to win back his love. No longer did she desire a divorce—and marriage to Woodrow. And therein lay her dilemma. She dreaded the thought of hurting the man who had stood so loyally by her through scarcity and scandal.
Woodrow’s gloved hand came to rest on her shoulder. “My dear, don’t take my chastisement to heart. It is only that I care very much for you and Jenny.”
“It isn’t that,” she whispered. “I deserved your reprimand.”
“Then tell me what has put the frown on your pretty face. If Wortham has been mistreating you—”
“No!” She whirled to face him. His sober gray eyes shone with loving concern. Why had she never desired Woodrow? Why did he not rouse the fire of yearning in her?
Considering the upheaval in her emotions, she couldn’t—she mustn’t—let him go on hoping. “I don’t quite know how to say this. I’m not sure anymore that you should wait for me. What I mean is, I cannot hold you bound to a promise of marriage. Heaven knows when—or if—my husband will ever agree to a divorce.”
Sir Woodrow stood stock-still. His ruddy cheeks turned ashen. “You’re casting me off? After all our years of friendship?”
“We can remain friends,” Emma hastened to assure him.
“I treasure your company and so does Jenny. Our relationship need not change so very much.”
“Not change,” he repeated woodenly. “This changes everything. Everything!” Abruptly he grasped her hands, his expression almost panicked. “Emma, please reconsider. You cannot throw away our seven fine years together for a man with whom you’ve lived for less than a fortnight. He could discard you both at any moment, and you’d have no one. Jenny has come to think of me as a father. I am more than happy to wait for you, however long it takes. If my hasty words have given you cause to think otherwise …”
She shook her head with aching regret. “Dear Woodrow. There are so many other ladies who could give you the love and honor you deserve.”
“Pray, do not diminish my heart by implying it is so shallow. You are the lady of my choice. You and no other.”
The anguish in his eyes touched her deeply. Was it possible he loved her desperately and she had never known? “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t mean to hurt you. I only wish to honor my vows to Lucas. Our marriage has never had the chance to thrive. But now … perhaps …” His nostrils flared. His eyes became cold storm clouds. “So. Wortham has finally enticed you to his bed.”
She gazed mutely at Woodrow, unable to deny it and unwilling to speak of something so precious and intimate.
“Be forewarned,” he said, clutching at her hands when she would have pulled free, “men like him make promises in the dark they never intend to keep. He wants only a son from you. Then he will cast you and Jenny out on the street.”
Was it true? Could Lucas be so heartless? He could, for that was the bargain they had struck. He had left her this morning without a word of farewell. And he had made her no promises last night. It was she who had changed, she who had discovered a dazzling new world that roused a high hope for the future. And now, Woodrow’s warning wormed into her heart. Had Lucas experienced the same soul-deep connection? Or had their lovemaking been a mere physical interlude for him, a passing pleasure?
The door slammed. “Take your hands off my wife.”
Lucas stalked toward them. He looked heartbreakingly handsome in the stark refinement of a charcoal suit and casually tied neckcloth. A lock of windblown hair lay upon his brow, the only softness about his thunderous expression. In the crook of his arm, he carried the tiger mask. Its stripes of brown jasper and yellow diamonds glinted in the sunlight.
Woodrow released Emma’s hands and stepped back. “Wortham.”
“Hickey. I trust you were saying good-bye.” Lucas strolled to Emma and kissed her on the cheek. “Sleep well, darling?”
Emma nodded as her heart swelled with gladness. Colors suddenly seemed brighter, sounds more resonant, smells richer. Then doubts struck. Did he truly mean the display of husbandly affection? Or was he merely staking his claim for the sake of her visitor?
Woodrow made no move to depart. The two men regarded each other like a pair of snarling dogs.
Irked by her inability to read her husband’s heart, Emma stepped between them. “Lucas, how charmingly you welcome our guest.” Before he could do more than raise an eyebrow, she spun toward the other man. “Sir Woodrow, would you care for some refreshment? I’ll be happy to ring for tea.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we spoke another time.” He bowed jerkily to her. “If it wouldn’t be too much to ask, madam, may I stop and visit Jenny on my way out?”
“Yes—”
“No,” Lucas stated pleasantly. He placed the tiger mask on the desk, then settled himself on the mahogany edge, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. “Lady Jenny is in the company of my mother—her grandmother, in the eyes of the world. So shut the door on the way out, if it isn’t too much to ask.”
Sir Woodrow clenched his jaw and glowered.
“Another time,” Emma murmured to him.
He cast a guarded look at her, then nodded crisply and left the library.
The moment the door clicked shut, Emma wheeled on Lucas. “Must you be so rude?” she chided. “He has every right to visit my daughter.”
“And I have every right to monitor the company my wife keeps.”
“When pigs fly,
darling
.”
“You seem a trifle peevish this morning.” A small smile flirted with the comers of his mouth. Cocking his head to the side, he lazily looked her up and down. “M’lady must not have gotten sufficient sleep last night, after all.”
She blushed. The scorching heat rushed up her throat and into her cheeks. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Really, it was ridiculous to let him disconcert her. She, who had once ruled society with her wit and beauty.
“I’m perfectly rested, thank you.” With studied sophistication, she walked around the desk, intending to pick up pen and paper, anything to give her fingers something to do. The tiger’s head caught her attention. “By the way, where did you go with the mask—oh!”
She found herself caught by Lucas, his hands firm around her waist and her bosom crushed to his waistcoat. Nestled between his legs, she could feel a distinct swelling in his breeches. Her own legs had all the substance of jelly, and Emma was certain if he weren’t holding her, she would melt in an inglorious puddle of longing.
“I had a meeting this morning at Montague House,” he said in a husky tone. “There’s to be a new wing constructed to display the objects I’ve collected.” His finger lightly followed the line of her jaw. “Funded by Lord Wortham … and his lady.”
“By me?” To her chagrin, her voice sounded breathy and girlish. “I haven’t the means to build a doghouse.”
“Then let’s pretend that whatever is mine is also yours.” His hands cupped her bottom and snuggled her closer to him. “To do with whatever you like.”
There was no mistaking the twinkle in those dark eyes. Or
the keen ache where their bodies touched. Deliberately misunderstanding him, she walked her fingers up the front of his starched linen shirt. “And if I were to ask you for a thousand pounds?”
“You won’t.”
“Hah. How can you be so sure?”

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