The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances (25 page)

“Ah.” She thought a long minute. “So have you ever been in love?”

“No.”

The curtness and finality of his reply had her lifting her brows at him in question. “How can that be for a man of your age?”

“My dear, I am not in my dotage. And age does not rule out interest in se—” He cleared his throat. “Interest in intercourse.”

“Still.” She wiggled her eyebrows in merriment. “Most men are married by your age. Especially those of your rank. They want a wife and an heir or more.”

“I have no need to get any. I have two younger brothers, both married. Adam has two sons, and Wes’s wife will bear a child in the summer.”

“So then you have avoided marriage,” she concluded with finality to her tone.

He sought to divert her line of reasoning. She would persist and find herself discussing facts that would not make her happy. “It is easy to avoid the dice tables if one is objective about the real prospects.”

“I see,” she said, crossing her arms and frowning in consideration of that statement. “You credit the family curse with this reluctance, I imagine?”

He nodded.
Always a good excuse when one is not amused.
“It helps.”

She sighed. “I am glad then I will not be considered a true wife.”

A shroud of sadness fell over him. Why should that insult his pride? Why should that inspire a desire to be a true husband?
Careful, man. That way lies danger.

“You are angry with me,” she said, her tone mournful. “I wish you weren’t. I am most grateful for what you are doing for me. The elopement. The marriage. The gowns. Jack, please look at me.”

Her warm appeal, so earnest in her apology, made him appraise her lovely face.

“I am sorry. I promise to be quiet as a mouse and agreeable as a parson.”

“Will you?” he asked, partly to be contrary and partly to prod her. “What if I like you as you are?”

“Well, I—”

“Assertive and charming.”

She tipped her head in question. “Thank you for the compliment.”

“You are welcome. Now do me one favor.”

Relief shown in her smile. “Anything.”

“Show me how grateful you are.”
Where the deuce did that idea come from?

“I…am…not certain what you mean.”

“What do you think a man means when he says that to the woman who is about to become his wife?”

Her brilliant eyes widened in understanding. “Perhaps he means this,” she whispered as she braced herself against his chest and put her soft lips to his.

Her touch was light, brief.

Struck wild with desire, he moved not one muscle.

She withdrew. Only an inch.

Her gaze found his, lingered. Searched.

His own drifted to focus on her mouth.

“Or perhaps…this.” She strained toward him once more, this time placing her mouth on his in a longer caress.

He gripped her arms, brought her closer, held her to him and kissed her back as if he were a drowning man clinging to a raft.

“That,” she murmured as she took her warm lips from his, “could be gratitude. Or this might be,” she got out as she approached him again.

His hunger for her attacked him like a beast. He gathered her against him, crushing her torso to his. She tasted of haste and fresh hot desire.

He scooped her up to sit across his lap. This way, he could plunge his fingers into her hair, plunder her supple mouth and feel the glory of those pointed breasts against his chest.

She broke away, breathing heavily, one hand to his chest,
her eyes glistening with shock
. “This isn’t gratitude, Jack.”

“Never call it that,” he whispered.

“Need,” she offered on a thread of sound as she slanted her lips across his one way and the other, inciting him onward.

He growled, taking all she gave, plunging his tongue inside the moist cavern of her mouth. Christ, she was soft and pliant. He leaned over her, a palm to her breast. Her nipple grew firm and full, blossoming beneath the new gown. He kissed her chin, her throat and worked his way down her bodice to the tip of her pointed areola, hard as a diamond under her gown. There, he sucked her into his mouth, heard her gasp and arch up in offering to him.

“Milord!” His coachman’s voice permeated Jack’s euphoria. “Milord, we’re ‘ere. The vicar is coming out to greet the carriage, sir!”

“Ouff!” Emma exclaimed as Jack picked her up by the waist and plunked her onto the seat, then pulled Madame Duhamel’s cloak across the wet spot on her bodice.

“Come, my dear.” He yanked at his own great coat to cover his raging erection in his infernally snug breeches. Then he smiled at her. “We are about to be married.”

“And you will kiss me again,” she declared, a dazed expression in her eyes.

Oh, he was going to do more than kiss her. “Yes, darling Emma. When you are mine.”
I am going to feast on you.

****

The young vicar was a tiny rabbit of a man. Shorter than Emma by four or more inches with long ears, huge eyes and a nervous tick to his pointed nose. The little man paused so often to twitch that he interrupted the flow of the service. Emma suppressed the urge to giggle like a girl.

But
,
ahem
,
she straightened herself up time and again while she watched Jack do the same. He took to tugging at her hand to keep her in line while each of them recited their vows.

As the vicar approached the end of the ceremony, Emma pushed back the temptation to swoon with delight. To be married was one thing. To be married and out of her nemesis’s clutches was much more. But suddenly to find herself amused and enthralled by the man she had chosen, the most unlikely man, a rake of the first order, was astonishingly good luck. Jack Stanhope. She must pinch herself when she had the chance. But then, she had other ideas in store for what to do after this tedious ritual was complete. In Jack’s bedroom in Durham Manor, she would revel in what she thought never possible for her. Physical union. Intercourse.
Hmmm.
Sexual congress. Bliss. And to do it in the arms of a man whom she had only met days ago, but whom she enjoyed and even trusted thrilled her with expectation.

“The ring, milord?” the little rabbit asked Jack. “Have you one?”

“Of course, I do.” He dug in his coat pocket.

She opened her mouth to ask Jack how he had acquired such a thing, but snapped it shut. She’d keep the vicar guessing about the length of their relationship. The little man had drilled them with questions when Jack and she appeared at his parsonage door. Though Jack had sent a note round to him that they were coming this afternoon to wed, the vicar, Jack told her, had sent a missive back asking for the license. Jack had told the man that he’d acquire one when next he was in London, but for now, this ceremony would be done, duly witnessed by him and recorded in the parsonage records.

“Jack!” She was agog at the sight of the jewelry he produced. A gold band encrusted with tiny emeralds and rubies, the ring was a sizable bauble sure to cover her entire knuckle. “This is lovely. And huge.”

“From the family collection, dear Emma. This was my mother’s wedding ring and now, it is appropriate that it becomes yours. I am told by my father that my mother loved the ring for its inscription, a phrase from the thirteen–hundreds. ‘You and No Other.’” Jack held her hand out and slid the ring upon her finger.

It was much too big.

“No matter,” he told her, “I will have it sized down. Wear it for today.”

Tears came to her eyes at the sentiment and Jack’s thoughtfulness. “I am grateful.”

He laughed and caught her up against his chest. “
Again?”

She nodded quickly. “Most definitely.”

He glanced at the vicar. “Are we done?”

“Yes, my lord. You are now man and wife. Kiss her, kiss her, if you must.”

“I certainly must.” Jack went still, but his expression spoke volumes. Emma could barely breathe as he admired her hair, her lips, her eyes. “My wife,” he murmured as he buried the fingers of one hand in her curls and swooped down to claim her. He lingered, brushing his lips over hers and retreating, his eyes wide, his mouth parted.

He broke away, his arms still around her.

She clung to him for support.

With both his hands, he removed her arms from around his neck and tugged her toward the front of the tiny chapel. At the door, he halted and turned to hail the parson. “Thank you, Vicar Boyle. I send to you tomorrow the fees for the new pews.”

“You paid him to marry us quickly by buying him new pews?” she asked, choking on mirth as Jack handed her up into their carriage.

“One always gives a gratuity to the minister, darling Emma,” he told her as he sat next to her, a smile wreathing his face.

She stared at him, marvelling at his words. “Funny to hear you say that.”

“Say what?” he asked as he spread a carriage blanket over her lap.

“I am no longer Emma Darling.”

Jack looped his arm around her and brought her close. “No. You are Emma Stanhope.”
He lifted her chin and examined her with a reverence in his gaze she’d never seen from any man. “Now you shall be my darling, if you still wish it. Do you, Emma?”

And am I your darling? Might I be, please? If only for one magical night?

She held tightly to his hand all the way home to Durham Manor. A short ride of ten minutes, the journey seemed to take ten years. But snuggled against Jack’s chest, Emma listened to his heartbeat and the pace resounded with her own yearning. To make love to him, to be loved by him for just one night seemed so impossible days ago that she had feared to make this last request in her offer. But he had agreed and now he seemed as eager as she.

Do not delude yourself, Emma. Men love rarely.
Her mother’s voice, her mother’s warning rang in her mind.

Emma struggled with the reality of her situation. She fought back the dour words, so daunting to her fortitude.
But I do not wish for love from him. Only the deflowering.

She squirmed in her seat.
Be honest, Emma, declare you want more. Tell him. Why not?

“You are sad. Why?” Jack lifted her chin and searched her gaze. “If you have second thoughts on this marriage or the consummation, I can—”

“No.” She threw him a weak smile. “I was thinking of people who have nothing to do with us.”

Jack’s silver eyes seemed to look straight through her. “Who?”

“My mother.”

“She has to do with you. So tell me.” He took her hand in his and brushed her fingers through the leather of their gloves.

“She has a jaded view of men. Thinks none worthy of her. Thinks few can honor a woman’s affections.”

He pursed his lips and considered their clasped hands. “Do you believe her?”

Emma licked her lips and saw no reason not to be frank with him about this as in all else. “I always thought her a little…extreme.”

He winced. “Parents often appear that way.”

“They do. After a while, it becomes imperative to rid yourself of their notions.”

He hooted. “How true, my dear. I’ll tell you about my father sometime. His notions are notoriously odd.”

“I have heard.”

“Really? I wonder that they did not deter you from approaching me,” he said with flaring nostrils and apparent distaste for the subject.

Ah.
More honesty was required here.
She frowned, but caught his gaze. “They were, I am ashamed to say, the very reasons that I did,” she admitted, her cheeks burning with the admission. To her credit, she did not flinch when Jack examined her. “I think of you differently now.”

He cupped her cheek. “Do you, darling? How encouraging,” he whispered as he bent and kissed her slowly, his mouth blessing hers time and time again. In the pit of her stomach, his kisses stirred yearnings to be free of her clothes and feel his hands upon her skin. He broke away, his breath short. “Come inside.”

His coachman rolled this carriage to a stop—and Emma was grateful for the chance to catch her breath.

Jack inhaled, collected himself as he stepped out, offered his hand to her and led her up the broad stone steps of Durham Manor. The servants had assembled in the foyer in a line. She had met the butler, the housekeeper and later, one maid last night when they arrived late. Now, here all of them stood, a dizzying array.

“They are here to congratulate you and to receive the new mistress of the house,” Jack affirmed her suspicion as to their purpose here.

She clutched his arm, tingling at his nearness and his endearments, honored that he had told them they were marrying this morning.

“You arranged this, Jack. How wonderful.” She accepted each of the staff’s good wishes. The housekeeper who curtsied to her. The head butler who bowed. The cook who dipped low. The maid who had waited on her last night in her bedchamber after they had arrived at Durham Manor. The coachman who had ferried them around today. Followed by three more maids, two footmen and a gardener. “I thank each of you for this,” she told them wondering how they would feel when they learned in a few months’ time she was not to be their mistress forever.

“Simmons,” Jack bid his butler, “bring the Viscountess and me two brandies in the drawing room. And we will take a cold luncheon in an hour or so in the dining room.”

Emma shivered with anticipation. Her gaze on her husband, she began to undress him in her mind’s eye. His silver grey frock coat, his high starched cravat, his spotless shirt.
My god, Emma. Are you so eager for him?
She fought with her better nature to finally look upon the horsey-faced butler.