What a Lady Requires (6 page)

If he didn’t miss his guess, she thawed somewhat at that. A spark flashed through her eyes, gone the next moment. It could be nothing but intrigue. Oh, yes, the project might take some determination on his part, but he’d have her soft and responding under him yet. Never let it be said he backed away from a challenge.

Before Emma could reply, a footman padded in. “This was just delivered for you, miss—er, ma’am.”

“Oh?” She looked awfully surprised to receive what could only be a note of felicitations.

She took the paper from the salver and unfolded it. As her eyes scanned the message, any color Rowan had managed to put in her cheeks drained away.

Was it more than a polite note on the occasion of her marriage? Her damnable aunt had approached him just before the ceremony and suggested he ought to keep an eye on his wife. The warning had contained enough cryptic hints that he’d written it off as maliciousness. If the woman had explicit evidence against her niece, surely she would have come out with the bald facts. But now he was no longer sure.

“Watch her correspondence,” the harridan had said.

Well, here was a bit of correspondence, and the news wasn’t good, seemingly.

“What is it, darling?”

Emma didn’t even flinch at the endearment. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

But as she tucked the paper into her bodice, her fingers were trembling.

Emma drew a brush through her hair, hardly noting any discomfort when the bristles caught on a snarl. Clad in nothing but a night rail and dressing gown, she’d long since dismissed her maid. At any moment, Battencliffe might come through the door that connected their bedchambers, but her mind was elsewhere.

Ever since she’d received that dratted message, Mr. Hendricks had occupied her thoughts. Through a tedious supper, and while her maid had undressed her, and now, still, a man whose identity she didn’t even know had taken the place of her husband. It wasn’t right, but there was nothing she could do to rectify the situation.

Under her husband’s scrutiny, she’d reformulated her reply a hundred times, but she still couldn’t get it right. Not after the note had rattled her so.

Mr. Hendricks’s most recent missive mocked her from its place on her dressing table. A few lines of terse scrawl, but they’d changed whatever she’d come to expect of the relationship. For the hundred and first time, she wondered if she should confess the acquaintance, such as it was. Bundle the entire story up in as pretty a package as she could invent and hand the entire thing to her husband. Let him handle it.

The only problem was, none of this had anything to do with Mr. Battencliffe. If Mr. Hendricks had just lost a significant sum, the blame lay on her shoulders. It would be wrong to shift that responsibility to another. She’d got the man into a fix—however unintentionally—so it was only fitting she get him out.

She simply needed to give her excuses in the proper terms.

Naturally, he’d begun to make demands in the face of her silence—the blame for which she could lay entirely at her aunt’s doorstep. Her father’s and Mr. Battencliffe’s, as well. This hasty wedding had so occupied her, she’d neglected to complete her second letter, let alone send it. Of course, Mr. Hendricks would worry that his source of investment advice might suddenly dry up. Perfectly understandable.

In the face of his loss, he had every right to be upset, but she didn’t care for his tone, nor the way he’d reminded her, several times, that she owed him. He could reveal their correspondence and make her look bad to the entire level of society she’d just joined. He could ensure she’d never fit in. Part of her didn’t wish to tolerate such outrage. A firm reply with a few final words of advice would end things. Just one more letter and she’d be rid of the man.

The snap of the door latch made her jump in her chair. In the nick of time, she stashed the message between the pages of Lydia Lindenhurst’s journal and placed the book out of sight in a pigeonhole. Her pulse throbbed in her neck as heavy but quiet footfalls thudded across the bare floor. Even, slow, and steady. Above all, assured. Closer and closer until they halted just behind her.

She’d never imagined feeling another presence the way she felt Battencliffe’s. It commanded, as it had the first day.
Look at me.

She obeyed.

Turning, she caught her breath. Like her, he was dressed for bed. A blood-red banyan knotted at the waist, veed open to reveal a white swath of linen shirt. His cravat hung about his neck, exposing a tantalizing wedge of bronze skin. Good heavens. Her earlier whim—the one where she touched her fingertips to his living flesh, where she met his lips and tasted his salt—eclipsed all other thought.

But then her gaze lit on the wineglass in one hand, the bottle in the other, and her eyes narrowed. “Only one glass?”

“I brought this for you.”

“Were you planning on drinking straight from the bottle?” Petty of her, perhaps, but she could not forget his intoxicated state the first time she met him.

“I won’t need any.” The confidence in his voice filled her with a glow as much as a glass of full-bodied red would. “I thought a little tonic to calm your nerves would be just the thing.”

“What makes you think I’m nervous?”

“An educated guess.” He tipped the bottle and filled the glass. “Not to mention you’ve been holding yourself stiff since your family left. Any number of boards would be jealous.”

“Oh.” She forced her shoulders down.

He looked her over from head to foot, his gaze lingering but not necessarily in the expected locations. Oh, he paused over her bosom, but she also felt the heat of his glance trace her shoulders, the length of her arms, her face, almost like a touch. “I must say I like this.”

“You like what?”

“Your hair loose. It softens you. And this.” He plucked the spectacles from the bridge of her nose. “Much better.”

“You think it better that I cannot see properly?” Somehow, the blur that settled over their surroundings brought him into sharper focus. Objects across the room became foggy, but she could still see Battencliffe clearly enough to detect the fullness of his lower lip, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that were even now deepening into crinkles.

“Your spectacles won’t be a help to you once your eyes are closed,” he murmured. “Now perhaps if you didn’t hold yourself so rigid.” He proffered the glass.

She wrapped her fingers about the stem quickly to hide their trembling and took a sip. The finest hermitage, rich, robust, and earthy.
Corsé,
as the French would term it, from Côte du Rhône. Hints of blackberry coated her tongue, and a chocolaty finish washed down her throat, trailing warmth to her belly. A glance at the label confirmed her suspicions. He’d been into the back of the wine cellar.

“Will you not take any yourself?”

His glance flickered about the chamber. “Perhaps I ought to,” he muttered, almost to himself. “But no.” He seemed to shake himself and stepped closer. “It’s best I keep all my faculties about me tonight. You, on the other hand, may have all you can manage. Drink up, drink up.”

She sipped. “This is some of the best of my father’s private collection. He wouldn’t sell it to the king at any price—if the king even knew of its existence.” Good old King George would be entirely too likely to swill the stuff the way Battencliffe was encouraging her to do. “Wine this fine is meant to be savored, not guzzled.”

“Savored, indeed.” Something in the way he drew out the syllables of his reply made it sound utterly wicked. “I can think of a few other things that are meant to be savored.”

Her glance flitted to the bed. His followed, lingering for a moment on the soaring bedposts. Again that shake, so small she wondered once he continued if she’d imagined it. “Soon, but not just yet. Finish your wine, and while you’re doing so, we can chat.”

“Chat?” They’d done that before supper—during supper as well—without getting anywhere. He’d claimed to want to get to know her better, but clearly, they still hadn’t progressed beyond the awkwardness of new acquaintances. Yet, society required her to remove her remaining garments, climb into that bed, and engage in all manner of intimacy.

At the thought, something fluttered through her midsection, but whether that something was more nerves or a growing excitement, she couldn’t tell. She eyed her wineglass, considering the wisdom of downing its contents as he’d suggested. Or perhaps she’d simply reach for the bottle.

He moved even closer, crowding her almost, and his hand brushed the side of her arm, the touch fleeting, nearly negligent. Should he continue to approach in this manner, she could almost pretend his intent wasn’t seduction.

“If you have another suggestion as to how we’re to occupy this evening, I’m willing to listen.”

“Oh.” To cover the sudden flutter in her belly—one that must certainly be apparent—she took another sip from her glass. “I must confess myself at a loss. My education on the relations between men and women is sorely lacking.”

Drat. She’d meant that as a simple observation, but the wine was having a strange effect on her voice. It was somehow pitched lower. One might even apply the term
sultry.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and he traced a line up the length of her arm until his hand came to rest on her shoulder. Much more deliberate, that touch. Much harder to ignore.

“We might find a remedy to the situation.” He dragged his thumb across her lower lip. “You had a dribble of wine on your mouth.”

A spike of heat drove through her, and her breath expelled on a gasp. His palm crept higher to form itself about the nape of her neck.

“Easy,” he whispered, plucking the glass from her hand and setting it on the table behind her. “We don’t have to learn everything all in one night.”

Emma had long ago learned to detect the signs that a gentleman was about to steal a kiss. Enough had tried—fortune hunters to the last, attempting to compromise her. She’d become adept at dodging overeager lips, ducking out of embraces, and delivering a well-deserved slap. But his last statement rendered her utterly powerless.

With practiced ease, he closed the distance between them. His lips brushed the corner of her mouth, a press and release like the opening bow before a reel. His arms slipped about her. With a gasp, she turned into him, and his next kiss settled full on her lips, warm and firm. He sipped from her mouth, the way she’d sipped from the wineglass, savoring, no doubt the lingering traces of Hermitage.

Throughout Emma’s limbs, nerve endings she never realized she possessed sprung awake and tingled. They demanded she, too, seek more. Somehow, her hands found their way to his shoulders, and she fitted her body to the length of his.

Easy, just like he’d said. Simple. If the rest of the evening might proceed on this note, it would be very pleasant indeed—perhaps even a great deal of fun, as her former maid had implied.

All too soon, he pulled away. “You seem a ready enough student. I like that.”

Something in the way he was looking at her made her pull her lower lip between her teeth. The wine emboldened her. “I’m ready for another lesson now.”

One corner of his mouth pulled up in a devious half grin. “Your servant.”

His lips descended again, more pliant, more persuasive, slowly teasing hers apart. The moist heat of his tongue swept across her mouth. A buoyant sensation in her head threatened to take over, like a surfeit of wine. She pulled back a moment, hesitant, but his arms let her retreat only so far.

“Just a little taste,” he purred, “or is it too much?”

“No.” The oddly compelling note in his voice brought her back. She’d considered the flavor of his lips, and now he wished to sample hers. Who was she to stop him? And so she tried again, opening fully to his questing mouth, allowing him his taste, quenching her own curiosity and tasting him. She raised her tongue to meet his, and her head grew ever lighter, as if they were once again waltzing. In a sense, this kiss
was
a waltz, if far too intimate and scandalous for the ballroom. He would guide her through it, though, as long as she let him lead.

All the while, her entire body seemed to come alive. The low hum inside her built to a persistent ache, demanding attention. Demanding complete satisfaction. He could give it to her, if they continued.

But almost abruptly, he retreated. He muttered something under his breath, something her light-headedness prevented her from catching.

A wordless protest emerged on a whimper.

“In a moment. First, I’d like to know what upset you today.”

She attempted a shrug. “It’s nothing. Merely wedding nerves.”

He stared at her, hard, while his fingers drummed against the writing desk. “You’ve just proven yourself at ease with me.”

Good Lord, they’d been having a pleasant time of it, and he wanted to stop and have a discussion? She picked up her goblet and took a sip, letting the complexity of the fine wine coat her tongue and throat. “After you calmed me.”

“I saw something else. I noticed your nerves worsened after you received that message.”

As it had earlier, the temptation rose in her to confess—even though she’d done nothing wrong. But no, she could handle this. She’d been handling her father’s affairs; she could deal with Mr. Hendricks. “That message does not concern you.”

“I am your husband now,” he said with the sort of shiver-inducing command she imagined an officer used on his troops.

“And this is nothing but business. Private business.”

“An affair, don’t you mean?” He loomed close enough to block out the rest of the room. With the breadth of his chest filling her vision, the bed was no longer a distraction. “Most ladies wait until they’ve done their duty and born an heir.”

An eruption of outrage rocketed her to her feet. How dare he? “What are you insinuating?”

“I am trying to discover the exact nature of your undertakings. Your aunt saw fit to drop a few hints this morning, along with a broad suggestion that I keep you under close watch.”

He already had her under close watch—his chin hovered mere inches from her eyes, but she refused to retreat. The wine sloshed dangerously in her glass. Good heavens, she was shaking. He’d deserve it if she dashed the dregs in his smug face. She was more than ready, but no. She refused to waste such a costly and rare vintage.

Instead, she raised her chin. “You may watch all you like. You will never see me set so much as a toe out of line.”

“Yes, you like things neat and tidy, everything in its place, don’t you? And now you have what you want—a
ton
marriage. Except you’re finding the best way to ruin it from the outset.”

Good gracious, where was all this sudden aggression coming from? “For a man who only recited his vows a few hours ago, you seem to know a lot about the topic.”

“Like you, I observe.” He kept his voice low, but emotion seethed beneath his words. “I can tell you all about
ton
marriages. They may look neat and tidy on the surface, but down deep, they’re anything but. I’m hardly in a spot to make demands, yet I will set a condition on you. I want complete faithfulness. There will be no other man in your life. No one but me.”

“Do you plan to return the favor, or will you keep a mistress?”

“I’ll show you mistress.” He crushed his lips to hers, allowing no quarter. This kiss was the unforgiving antithesis of those that had preceded, yet it still held the power to wipe every last thought from her mind. Before she could even think to push at his chest, he pulled away, his breathing ragged.