The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne (31 page)

“English collections are very fine, but you will still be impressed when you go to the Continent and see the abundance of riches there,” he said. “You can walk into an obscure, humble church and find an old master to rival the best we have here.”

“Is that how you spent your grand tour? Visiting obscure churches to seek out old masters? I thought young men used those months to pursue bad women and drink too much wine.”

“I confess that I wasted my tour just like the rest of them. That is why I need to do it again. Here is a thought—when this infernal war is over, you will come with me. During the days you will advise me as I buy a collection to rival the one
Arundel amassed. During the nights I will teach you everything I know about sharing pleasure.”

He was teasing her again. Probably. She could not tell. She dared not take him seriously, but fantasies of those distant cities and monuments wanted to occupy her mind. The woman who had surrendered too much to this man wanted to believe he wished it to be true too, that at least tonight he did.

He reached for her hand and raised it to a kiss. “No? Too scandalous a journey for you?” He stood, and guided her to her feet too. “Then the lessons will have to take place here.”

E
mma broke her hand free when they entered the bedchamber. With a frown she climbed on the bed and groped amid the sheets and coverlet. She flipped pillows around. “It must be here somewhere,” she muttered.

She was looking for her reticule again. He lounged on his side and let her. Her expression, a little worried and a lot determined, reminded him of how often her private thoughts revealed deep considerations that she did not share with him.

There had been moments in the dressing room when he saw that in her. Thoughts besides games of pleasure would create little flames in the tenth layer of her eyes. She had been a woman with much on her mind these last weeks, but tonight, at least, if ever, she should be relieved of concerns about Fairbourne’s and the future.

He had a passing notion that this reticule’s contents meant more to her than he knew. The idea did not last long because the erotic potential of her position could not be ignored.

She paused, on her hands and knees, and examined him in turn. She crawled over and stuck her hand under the folds of sheet on which he lay. She yanked, and held up the plump reticule.

“You were lying on it,” she said accusingly.

“So I was.” He reached out and cupped the back of her head, and pulled her forward for a kiss. “Do not move.” He
took the reticule from her, turned, and hung its strings over a knob on the footboard. “You will find it when you need it now.”

She began to sit.

“No. Stay like that.”

She appeared puzzled until he reached under her and loosened the robe. The sides fell in silken drapes from her back, offering mere glimpses of her body. He reached between her hands and her knees, beneath the silk, and softly rubbed the tips of her breasts as they hung there.

She closed her eyes and the pleasure transformed her. She always looked so beautiful when aroused. He could see how she concentrated on the sensations, and how she reacted in nuanced ways to what he did to her.

He moved his caress to her thigh. Tension flexed through her when his hand rose higher on its inner flesh. Her lips parted and her tongue rested there, its tip visible against her upper teeth while she tried to control herself.

He caressed higher, to remind her that she could not contain this now. His own arousal made him ruthless and he stroked her until he brought her to the edge, until her gasping whispers both groaned for more and begged for help.

Hunger ruled him then. He knelt and moved behind her and threw off his own robe. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes slitting to reveal confusion amid the glistens of passion’s daze.

“Stay like that,” he said. “That is how I want you. I will show you what to do.”

He lifted the silk that flowed over her hips. He did it slowly, teasing himself, and his phallus swelled harder and larger with each inch of the fabric’s rise. It affected her too, so much that her stance wobbled. He pressed against her back and she dipped her shoulders until her arms and head lay on the sheet.

The pose made her hips rise. He uncovered them completely and let the silk slide down her back. Her bottom rose even more, rounding erotically. The more he caressed those soft swells, the more she angled herself to invite his touch
and thrusts. He tortured himself as long as he could bear it, his desire coiling ever tighter as her scent filled his head and her cries filled his ears. He waited as long as he dared so the rest would be all the more intense.

Finally he could deny himself no longer. She hissed an assent when she felt the first pressure at the lips of her vulva, then a loud, groaning one when he entered her fully. He withdrew, and the perfection of the sensation, the intensity created by her snug hold on him, almost caused him to lose control.

He knew little restraint after that. He was not aware of much at all except her body’s velvet hold and the way her bottom rose to his thrusts and the desperate feminine cries that rang through the night until her finish turned them into a scream of ecstasy.

“W
hat do you think she is hiding?”

His question came softly in the dark, as if he knew she was not asleep. They still lay where they had landed, a tumble of limbs and spent bodies too sated to move. She had drifted in a half sleep, but had never lost awareness of him.

“Who?”

“My sister. You said she was probably hiding something.”

A man, most likely. Perhaps a lover. She pictured him getting angry that some scoundrel had dared seduce his sister. Under the circumstances, that would be too comical, and too sad. “Something she thinks you would not approve, I suppose. Another friend like Cassandra, perhaps.”

“Perhaps it is a man of whom I would not approve.”

So much for being sly. “Would she not then embrace social opportunities instead of avoiding them? She is not going to have any time with an inappropriate man if she never leaves the house.”

Unless she sneaks him up to
her
chambers and feeds him fowl and champagne in
her
dressing room. Emma doubted
Lydia would risk such a thing, or that the servants would cooperate, but for all she knew, such games happened all the time among the haut ton.

“I suppose you are right,” he said drowsily. “Still, it bears some consideration.” He rearranged himself, and her, in an embrace. He breathed the deeply contented way people did as they fell asleep.

She allowed herself a brief, thorough enjoyment of the tender contentment binding them. She tried lying to herself, that this sweetness could last a long time. Until morning if she allowed it, at least. She knew that she should not indulge even that long, however.

Forcing down a swelling sadness, she tried to lift the arm he had draped over her. “I have to leave.”

“I told my valet to rap on the door at six o’clock. I will get you out discreetly.”

“It is not discretion but duty that demands I leave now. I have things that I must do early in the morning. I do not want to arrive home and immediately leave again.”

That arm did not move. The other one did. He propped his head on his hand and looked down at her. “Those duties distract you often, Emma. I see it in you. Even tonight Miss Fairbourne lapsed into deep thought sometimes. Much deeper than one would expect today of all days, when current duties are finished and current responsibilities will be easily settled.”

He spoke in a speculative tone, even a concerned one. There was no accusation, but she feared again that he had surmised much more than she knew.

She was grateful that most of the tapers had burned out. She doubted she could hide her surprise from him.

“Do you need my help in any of these duties, Emma? We are partners, after all, but I could not refuse you anyway.”

The offer touched her deeply. He did suspect something. She knew it now. He was offering to help her rectify it. An earl’s voice and influence could do far more than any other person’s to fix most normal problems. He might be making the offer out of passing sentiment, or even obligation, but
he had voiced it all the same. She would remember forever that he had thought her important enough to do so.

For the second time tonight the impulse to confide in him almost overwhelmed her. Fear held her back. Fear and also love. She did not want to entangle him in something she did not completely understand herself. Even if she got Robert back, there might be embarrassing revelations regarding her father and brother. And now her too. She could not ask Southwaite to look the other way when it came to criminal matters, or count on him doing so.

She forced her voice to sound light, even mocking. She stretched to kiss him. “That is good of you to offer, Southwaite. However, you have only been seeing the preoccupation of a merchant’s daughter with handing over money in her safekeeping. Such unfinished business creates heavy weights to such as us. Once I disperse the contents of that reticule and settle the auction payments, I will no longer be distracted.”

His hold on her tensed and tightened a little. Then he raised his arm, freeing her. “Go if you must. I will have the carriage bring you to your house.”

E
mma rapped on the blue door at ten o’clock. Mr. Dillon stood guard at her side. Until she entered this house, she would not risk the reticule that she had tucked under her arm.

She wondered if Mr. Dillon knew that she had not arrived home this morning until close to four o’clock. Maitland knew because he had sat in the reception hall waiting to let her in. Her maid did too, and probably all of the other servants now. Her arrival home in the earl’s carriage must have them all wondering what she had been doing. With any luck they would assume that Southwaite had hosted a dinner party and her social life was reaching new heights.

Mr. Dillon retreated once the door opened, to watch the carriage and horse. The same old woman greeted her, but this time she was expected. They did not go to the studio, but Emma could hear the women working there. Instead she followed the old woman to the back of the house, to a chamber that looked out over a garden.

As arranged by recent letters, Marielle Lyon waited for her with the old man who had consigned the drawings. Emma greeted them, then opened her reticule.

“As you may have heard, the auction proved very successful. People came for old masters’ paintings and jewels, but they bid well on everything.”

The old man nodded, but he had eyes only for her reticule. With no further ceremony, Emma pulled out the banknotes and counted out seven hundred pounds. Then she slid one of the catalogue sheets to him. “The amounts realized for each drawing are noted there. It was a public sale, so there is no way for me to cheat you. If you want to add it all up to ensure I am paying you correctly, I will not be insulted. Of course, ten percent goes to Fairbourne’s, as a commission.”

He said something in French to Marielle. She shook her head, took the catalogue sheet, and ran her finger down the figures. “He trusts you. I, however, prefer to add.”

Emma waited until Marielle put down the paper and nodded to the old man. He scooped up the money, stood, bowed, and left.

“It embarrasses him,” Marielle said. “Your discretion with his name—” She pointed to the catalogue line that designated the drawings as from the collection of an esteemed gentleman. “He is grateful. He will tell others, and perhaps more such things will come to you.”

Emma withdrew more money from her reticule. “Twenty percent to you, of what Fairbourne’s received in commission.” She counted out fourteen pounds. Marielle slid it away.

“Where is the other man? I have part of his payment as well,” Emma said. “The proceeds from the wagon.”

“I know nothing of that.”

“I think you do know something of it. He frequents this neighborhood, does he not?”

Marielle shrugged. “Perhaps. Sometimes. It is here that I have seen him, and he me, but not often.”

Emma studied this lovely young woman who had so mastered French insouciance. Marielle appeared bored with the conversation.

“Do you know his name?” Emma pressed. “Do you know if he lives nearby, or only visits these streets? Have you seen
him enter any house?” She paused, but risked the insult. “Does he enter this house?”

Marielle turned her brown eyes on Emma. “You think I have lied to you? If I have, why would I now tell the truth?”

“Because perhaps you have surmised that this is about more than a wagon of wine and silks.”

Marielle turned her gaze to the garden. Her lips pursed, then she clucked her tongue. “So much trouble for four shillings,” she muttered.

“But perhaps not for fourteen pounds.”

Marielle laughed, then shook her head. “I should not like to meet you in the market. I think I would spend twice for my meat than it is worth.” Her inner debate was visible. Finally another shrug indicated a decision. “He is a stupid man. You know this, I think, if you have met him. The stupid ones are the most dangerous.”

“How is he dangerous to you?”

“His stupidity is what is dangerous, not him. He comes here, mmm, two weeks ago. He wanted to have a chamber above. Good pay he offers, like he did with that wagon. Too good. You understand?”

“He wanted to live here?”

Marielle rolled her eyes, as if Emma were now the stupid one. “Not for him. For another who would come to London soon. He thinks he is very clever in this. He does this a lot, as if he and I share a secret.” She winked one eye, again and again, with gross exaggeration. “I know then that this stupid man will get me hanged if I am not careful. He has heard stories about Marielle Lyon, and he thinks he knows what he does not know at all.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said we are all women here, and we do not have any chambers for men. I tell him to leave and to stay away from me. I throw him out.”

Emma rather wished the man had been less stupid, or that Marielle had been less shrewd. “For whom do you think he wanted that chamber?”