The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances (26 page)

“Of course, my lord.” The servant inclined his head as two of the maids shot each other sideways glances.

Emma wanted to jump out of her skin with excitement. “I’ve never had so much brandy in my life,” she confessed to Jack as he looped her arm in his and led her toward the drawing room.

“Good for the constitution.”

“Good for the body in this clime!” She tried for levity to mask her nerves.

He opened the double doors to the drawing room.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” she twirled about gazing at the splendor of the ivory walls, the red velvet upholstery and the sapphire oriental rug. Last night, she had seen little of the house because they had arrived so late. Built in the grand Palladian style, the white stone manse was a huge two-story monolith approached by a circular drive and surrounded by gardens and stables. The inside was luxuriously appointed in Turkish rugs and French tapestries, Italian silk settees and Chinoiserie draperies at every window. “The statuary?” she asked about the Carrara marble nudes dotting the perimeter.

“From my father’s Grand Tour.” Jack strolled toward a portrait on the far wall. The man there resembled Jack so much that were it not for the powdered wig and lace jabot, Emma might have thought it a study of her new husband. “He brings home beauty whenever he finds it.”

“You say that with sarcasm.” She walked toward the painting to note the silver eyes, the midnight hair, the killing handsomeness of Jack’s sire. “Because he has had so many wives?”

“Because he had so many lovers. In quick succession.”

Children, too, from what she’d heard. On both sides of the blanket.
But not wishing to pry too much, she demurred and nodded. “I see.”

“The ton, I know, declares it is a centuries old family trait,” Jack said with some wry amusement.

Though Emma wished not to think more of it, she could not help what was whispered about Jack himself.
They say you carry on the tradition with a new mistress each season.

A knock at the door had Jack calling to his butler who entered with the brandies.

“You may leave us,” Jack told him after he set the tray on a deal table.

“Your luncheon is also ready, my lord. Laid out as you require.”

“Thank you, Simmons. You may tell the staff not to disturb us for the remainder of the day. You may leave us now.”

The man nodded and retreated, a resounding click to the two doors as he closed them.

Jack pressed a snifter into her hands. “To you, Emma. Your happiness.”

“And to yours.”
Not to ours. Not to the future
.
Only mine. How fitting for the limits of my offer to you. So be it
.
She took a draught, threw it back and found herself choking on the sentiment.

“Hold on!” Jack laughed as he took her glass and patted her back.

“That is quite wonderful,” she got out with a cough as she eyed the crystal decanter. “I’d like another.”

“You would, eh?” Jack frowned. “For courage?”

“I am not foxed, if that’s your worry. But courage is not a bad reason.” She put out her empty glass to him. “You know me well.”

“I daresay,” he said as he took up the decanter and splashed out more brandy for her, “not well enough to do as we are about to do.”

A flash of excitement dashed up her spine. She took another sip, more slowly this time, and pondered his words. “How well have you known the women you have taken to bed?”

“Ah, well, a gentleman does not tell.”

“I don’t want names.”
Though if I knew, I’d hunt them down and scratch their eyes out.
“I want details.” She took another sip, feeling quite deliciously warm now, head to toe.

He looked her over and arched a long black brow. “Attraction is not based on knowledge.”

No.
“But instead on what?”

“An allure.” He took a long drink of his own spirits and swirled the remainder in the glass. “A connection of the mind that feeds on an appreciation of the other’s figure and speech.”

“Camaraderie.”

He emptied his glass and filled it up again. “True. Like ours.”

“We have a friendship?” She downed her own glass and raised it for a refill.

He dribbled some in. “We do.”

“You’re being stingy.”

“And you’ll be drunk!”

“Pour, my lord.” When he did, she asked, “And so you mean to say you find me alluring?”

“I do.” He shot her a look filled with mirth. “As you do me.”

“I am astonished at that, you realize.” My god, what was she telling him? She needed to entice him not repel him. She needed to be in his arms and his bed and quickly, too, before her courage failed.

“I am certain you are no more surprised than I am that we get on so well.”

“Will we get on well after this?” she asked, her voice quivering with desire to be out of the dashed sweltering drawing room and into his bedroom. And his bed.

“I will ensure it,” he whispered. He put his glass down and beckoned her with one hand. “Give me this,” he said as she stood before him and he removed her snifter from her fingers. “These are the rules.”

“Rules? I don’t—”

“Darling Emma, I know you do not obey anyone’s rules save your own. But these are necessary to your happiness afterward. Hear me out.” He cupped her elbows and drew her flush to his body. Had she ever noticed that he was a head taller than she? That his eyes were deep pewter with desire? That his voice was so deliciously low and sent waves of delight to her bones and her breasts and her belly? “We will climb the stairs to my suite and I will kiss you. Here.” He touched her cheek. “And here.” He thumbed her lower lip. “And here.” He traced the line of her throat to her shoulder. “At each kiss, you will tell me if I may proceed.” He stroked the hollow of her throat, then let his eyes drift suggestively lower and back to hers. “Or not.”

“I like to kiss you.” She confessed, bold with the brandy.

“I thought so.” He smiled consolingly. “But there is more to love than kisses.”

Of course there was. And it was high time she stopped being a ninny and learned about it. She put her hand in his and said, “May we please cease all this talk and go before I melt here at your feet in a puddle?”

He leaned back and chuckled. Before she knew what had happened, he had upended her world, caught her up in his arms and headed for the door. In minutes, he had them up the curving staircase, down the hall and into the dark mahogany shadows of his suite. With a shoulder to the door, he closed it and set her to her feet. His hands went to her shoulders.

And hers went to his.

“Stop,” she warned with the brightest of intents.

He looked like the house had fallen on him. His disappointment was so ripe it rendered Emma even more in his thrall. “You’ve changed your mind? Well, hell. I might have known you would not want—”

“But I do,” she affirmed and beamed at him. “I must be the one to lead or I will never have the patience to bear you going slowly, you see, and so I—”

He cursed roundly. “Then hurry! My patience is thin.
Very
thin.” He spread his arms out like a scarecrow. “Undress me?”

“Not a bad idea,” she replied. “But not just yet.”

His arms flapped to his sides. “What
would
you like me to do to seduce you then?”

“Follow.”

“Follow?”

She winked at him. “My lead.”

“Tormentor. Get to it, will you?” He stretched his arms wide once more, his fingers waggling in urgency.

His good humor for her madness tickled her. So with more determination than she’d felt in years, she knew now what she must do. She reached up to circle her arms around his very sturdy shoulders and beseeched him in a whisper. “Do kiss me again as you did after we were wed.”

His pewter eyes deepened to shades of darkest metal. “I must embrace you to do that. Are you certain this is what you wish?”

“I do,” she murmured, already placing her lips against his moist ones. “I very much do.”

What he did, how he enfolded her with such care and such fierce restraint was an act she told herself to never forget. But the meeting of his lips on hers, the matching of his desire to her own had her gasping for air as he took her mouth, broke away and then came back for more. He possessed her with arms so strong they felt as if they might hold up the world and keep her here and his for small eternities. She cried out, in joy or triumph or plain need. All a jumble, her emotions had her hugging him closer to her and wishing for more.

Everything.

“Can we sit?” she asked him, breathless.

In a thrice, he had her up in his arms, just as he had carried her before, and took three steps to a massive settee. He sat against the far arm and drew her over his body. Against her thigh, she felt his cock. She moaned into his seeking mouth. How huge was he? She was no cloistered nun, had seen animals mate and knew the way men and women joined.

“Shall I kiss you more?” he asked with a husk to his bass voice, pushing her disheveled hair back from her brow and cheeks.

“Yes, do.” She worked at his cravat.

“And shall I help you with that?” he asked when she fumbled and plucked to no avail.

“I’m a failure as a forward woman,” she offered in pique.

One corner of his mouth tipped up in a laugh. “You are perfect as a forward woman.”

“Folderol. You’re coddling me.” She pouted.

He arched a brow, slithered off his cravat and shook his head. “Not in the least. May I take my coat off?”

She pressed her lips together. “Do.”

“And my waist coat?”

She wrinkled her nose at him and stuck out her tongue.

He captured her, cradling the back of her head in his large palm. “I have better uses for your tongue, my darling.” He sat up, and in one swirl, had her under him on the couch. “Let me show you with mine.”

The kiss stole her mind. Sweeping inside the warmth of her mouth, he took her with a breathless impatience. Plundering her, he defined the scope of her inner recesses and plunged into the depths of her consciousness. He pulled back. His dark eyes startled and searching.

She knew he asked for permission or guidance. She knew only that she needed more of the same. “Jack,” she whispered as she cupped his jaw and drew him forward. “Jack, again.” The sweetness of his kiss undid all her senses. “Again,” she begged when he pulled away once more.

“Emma.” His lips were on her cheek, her lower lip, her shoulder. All as he had promised.

She pushed him away. His midnight hair was mussed, his eyes clouded, his shirt gaping open to reveal the contours of his naked chest. And on his face was the question
,
shall we go on?

“Yes, let me up.”

He pulled her to her feet. “Emma?”

She presented her back. “Undo me.”

He groaned, muttering something about ties and seamstresses as his fingers worked at the fastenings and his lips took a journey down her spine, pressing kisses to her flesh. “God, you are lovely.” He twirled her around. “Take it off.” His eyes sought hers. “Take it off, Emma.”

She had wanted to lead. She was. He required it. She tried to smile but the need to be rid of the gown was her most urgent goal. She crossed her arms and tore at the bodice to tug the gown to her waist.

His eyes narrowed. His breathed quickened. His nostrils flared. “Step out.” He retreated. “I want to watch you.” He lifted a finger to point to her chemise. “The rest.”

She swallowed hard. Mad to have him now, she pulled at the tiny ribbon threaded through her thin cotton bodice, knowing beneath, save for her thigh-high stockings, she wore not a stitch. “Are brides always…?”

“Naked?” he asked. His gaze went from hers to her fingers. “They should be.”

“Right you are,” she agreed on a surge of daring and lust, then pulled the last of the ribbon through her garment. The thing fell and she was free, the cool air caressing her breasts and making her nipples pucker—and her nether regions pulse in need of whatever her husband would provide.

How long she stood there staring over his shoulder at the wainscoting she could not measure. But from the corner of her eye, she could tell he toured her body like a man intent on making notes. Making maps. Making journeys she knew not of.

“If you don’t say something soon, I shall leave,” she threatened him.

“You are gloriously made, my darling Emma.”

She gulped back some of her fear he would reject her. “Truly?” she prodded and he affirmed her beauty once more. “My breasts are not too small?”

“Each will fill the palm of my hand.”

She ventured a glance at him then. His eyes, dark slate and heavy with lust, drifted to hers and back down her body. “And my hips are not too thin?”

“Svelte as a siren, darling.”

She cleared her throat. “And my legs are not ugly?”

“Straight near your thighs, curvy little knees, long calves. And delicately boned feet.”

“I am acceptable?”

“More than, sweetheart. Any man would prize you.”

“Oh, Jack,” she cried, her voice breaking in nerves, “no need to say that if you don’t think it. I have no need for compliments. Really. If you will just please stop looking at me like that.”

“On one condition.”

“Ask it.”

“May I hold you?” he asked, a reverence in his tone she’d not yet heard there.

“Oh, yes. And kiss me, too. I want to be kissed. Make me warm like you did in the coach.”

He opened his arms. “You need to be near me, then.”

Stepping over her wedding dress and chemise, she took a step toward him. “You need no clothes, either.”

“Shall I discard them?”

In a flood of reason, her mind declared he must be naked to make love to her. “I want to help you.” She stood ever so near again, her fingers to his shirt, his buttons, his flies, his small clothes while he stepped out of his boots.

As his breeches fell and his undergarments with them, she looked down at his body. Her daydreams of how a man’s cock might look were astonishingly inadequate. He was huge, red and standing tall. A long, thick, rigid piece of flesh she found enticingly handsome.