Jesus Christ, help me. What is happening to me?
She opened her mouth to ask what they were doing but he stopped her words with a quelling gesture of his hand. His hand traveled up her leg, tracing the veins that disappeared behind her knee. She twitched her leg, feeling tickled and he glared up at her for moving. She stilled immediately and he smiled at her, his body relaxing into hers, his eyes so soft she could hardly bear to look into them.
Is this supposed to feel like this? Utter submission yet ultimate power? What sorcery is this?
He moved her leg further, creating a v between her leg where he could fit comfortably. He lowered himself over her, his body covering hers. She took in a deep breath, parting her lips. She did not know whether she wanted to utter a protest or a plea but before she could do either, his mouth was over hers, and he was taking her lips again, in no less brutal a manner.
He devoured her lips, and all she could do was hold tight to the pillow and let him. This was a hell of an apology he was demanding from her but she had never been more glad to give it. She needed this as much as he evidently did. She wanted him as close to her as he could get. She wanted to feel him everywhere.
His hand pushed at her gown, exposing her legs more and more. His hips canted, and ground downward. She could feel his manhood, insistent against her thigh. She began to shake with the fear of the unknown, wondering what he meant to do to her.
He made a sound deep in his throat, like a growl and she jerked with surprise. His hand came down upon her bosom, pressing downward and then kneading as if she was a particularly stubborn piece of dough. Impatiently, he pushed aside the collar of her gown so that he could hold her naked breast in his hand. His hot mouth came down on it, suckling like a baby. It was the single most confusing feeling she’d ever experienced.
Tendrils and offshoots of electricity shot from that one point to every nerve ending she had. She squirmed beneath him, seeking something she had no name for. She almost cried in fear, overwhelmed by the overload of emotion and sensation.
His hips ground down in a spiral fashion against her thighs, and she shuddered, feeling as if he might be inside her.
Is this intercourse? Are we engaging our carnal desires?
The thought should have scared her, and she did not know what to do with the fact that it did not. Her own hips swiveled in answer to his. Suddenly he began pumping, erratically, his eyes rolled behind his head and then he shuddered, and stilled.
She blinked at him, shocked at his reaction, not knowing what to do, whether he needed help or succor. She wondered if she would call out for help as he slumped against her.
Would I be willing to be seen in flagrante like this, to save his life?
Emily decided the answer was yes.
She reached out and touched his arm gently, shaking him. “My Lord? Are you all right?”
Slowly, to her relief, he lifted his head and stared at her with glazed eyes. He stared deep into her own, first one and then the other. The lazy pleasure disappeared, replaced by horror.
“Oh God!” he scrambled off of her, falling to the side of the bed and staring at her as if she was a ghost or a dragon in his bed. Fear warred with horror warred with disgust and her breathing shortened and grew sonorous as she watched him silently reject her.
It seemed that whatever she did, her destiny was to be a wanton, only useful in the moment then cast aside like a dirty rag. The Earl quickly rose from the bed, his step uneven as he moved toward the windows.
“Please I’m sorry, but I need for you to leave,” his voice was rasping even as he spoke in such low tones she could barely hear him. He sounded as if he’d been shouting for hours.
She opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. Slowly, she shuffled off the bed, noting that her gown had a wet spot at the front. She touched it curiously, wondering where it might have come from.
“Please, Go,” his voice was louder now, though no less raspy and bleak. His eyes were the same; dark, hot and filled with despair. She didn’t want to leave him like this.
“Go!” his whispered urgency did more to get her moving than anything else.
She snatched the door knob and swung the door open, hurrying out before he could say another word. Her cheeks flamed with mortification as she hurried to her room. When she got to her door she stopped short, wondering if Betsey was waiting for her inside.
I hope not.
There was no way to explain what had just happened and she did not even want to try. Holding her breath, she slowly opened her door and was glad to see that her room was empty. Very slowly, she sat down on the bed, her hands falling in her lap. Her right hand brushed against the wet spot on her gown and she peered at it, wondering where it could possibly have come from.
It was a better thought than the one that wanted to overwhelm her. That what she had done with the Earl had forever placed her beyond the pale. That she had become everything she was running away from. That her life was a barren ruin stretching in front of her in lonely isolation. That she would lose everything she had gained, and more.
She rubbed at the spot obsessively and deliberately thought of nothing.
Duncan watched Miss Fletcher leave his chambers, her whole demeanor the very picture of confusion and discomfiture. He felt a burning stab of shame and guilt run through him as he thought about his–highly unforgiveable–actions.
He did not know what had come over him. One minute he was seething with rage, wanting nothing but to escape his pain and eliminate the hurt of her actions. The next minute, he was crowding her, anger turned to lust, blaming her for being here, for tempting him, deliberately perhaps…his lips were devouring hers before he could deliberate further on it. Once their mouths fused together all thought was obliterated. All there was, was a need for completion, a thirst to take and slake and dominate.
He let his baser instincts take over, rule in the stead of reason. Now he had done something he could never take back.
Ideally, he knew he should offer for her. But he hesitated, knowing that she might have…
What if she did it deliberately? What if she came here with the sole purpose of seducing me and making me…?
Duncan couched his head, his brow furrowed, hands pulling at his hair in frustration.
“I cannot…think,” he growled to himself. “I need to get out of here.”
He crossed to his armoire and grabbed a carpet bag. Opening his wardrobe, he began to randomly stuff clothes into it.
“What are you doing, My Lord?” his valet stood at the door looking positively scandalized.
“I am…packing for a trip.”
The man huffed in annoyance, striding toward Duncan and veritably pushing him aside. “Let me do it.”
He grabbed the bag, put it on the bed and began to fold Duncan’s shirts neatly and placing them carefully inside. Duncan sighed, turning away. He could not meet his valet’s eyes knowing what he’d just done. He needed a wash, to change his breeches, and then he needed to leave. Once his valet was done with the carpet bag, Duncan directed him to fetch a basin of water.
As soon as the valet left, he took his breeches off and washed. He grabbed his carpet bag and took the back stairs, leaving the house via the stables. He felt a moment’s regret, knowing he was leaving without so much as a goodbye to his children, but he just could not make himself go back. His shame chased him out of his own manor like a thief.
He decided to take a horse rather than a carriage, the better to leave with less fanfare. Promising himself that he would write a letter to his children as soon as he was settled somewhere, he headed toward Holburn’s town house.
Emily took her gown off slowly and placed it in a basin of water. She might not know what the mysterious wet stain was, but she could wash it off. Her hands were shaking. She could not make them stop. Neither could she stop her lip from trembling.
Everything is a mess. What should I do?
A lone tear ran down her cheek as she placed the gown
on the clothesline to dry before she hurried back into her room and sat on the bed in her shift, staring at nothing. A tentative knock at the door had her jumping with startlement.
“Wh-who is it?”
“It’s Lady Anne, Miss Fletcher. Can I come in?”
Emily’s heart sped up again, this time with anxiety. “Just a minute.” She got to her feet and crossed to the door, where her night robe hung. She put it on, closing the sash tight before opening the door. Putting a smile on her face she looked down at her charge. “What’s the matter?”
Lady Anne was pale and looked quite ill. “May I come in?”
Emily stepped back at once. “Of course, come in.” she reached out to squeeze Lady Anne’s shoulder and led her to the bed. There really was nowhere else to sit except for the stool near the armoire.
“What’s wrong?”
Lady Anne sighed. “Father is sad isn’t he? About that gown you wore?”
“Yes, h-he is. But don’t you worry. He is not annoyed at you.”
“He left. Father left,” Lady Anne’s voice trembled.
Emily drew in a shaky breath and tried to put on a brave face, feeling guilty for causing this girl additional pain with her actions. “I expect he needed some fresh air. He will very likely be back soon. Maybe when you wake up in the morning, he’ll be waiting for you at the breakfast table.”
Lady Anne leaned on her. “I don’t want him to go. I don’t want him to be sad.”
“Me neither,” Emily’s voice was quiet but she found that she meant the sentiment quite sincerely.
They sat in silence for a while.
“I do not think he is angry at you,” Lady Anne said apropos of nothing, “He’s still angry with Mother I think.”
“Oh?” Emily wished she had something more to say to such a profound insight but nothing came to mind.
“Yes. He used to get angry when she got too happy by using the purple stuff. We weren’t supposed to know about it but she didn’t hide it very well. I think he’s still angry about it.”
Emily blinked a few times, trying to assimilate her words.
Purple stuff?
She tried to think what that might be and then realization dawned. An insight that explained the Earl’s aversion to laudanum.
Lady Sulby must have been an opium eater!
The priest at the Whitehaven parish had suffered from that particular affliction so she knew it well.
Her heart hurt for him even as she felt even more acutely the pain of his rejection.
He must have loved her deeply.
Drawing from a well of strength she did not know she had, she pulled Lady Anne closer. “You have to know that he isn’t angry at you either. He probably just needs some time to himself, to get himself back together. We should be patient and wait.”
Lady Anne nodded. “You’re probably right. He’s going to come back. He always comes back.”
Emily realized that this must be an old worry of Lady Anne’s and hastened to reassure her. “Of course he’s coming back. He has you and Lady Nancy and Lord Essex waiting for him. Why wouldn’t he?”
Chapter 23
Emily knew that her heart had yet to catch up with her mind. She was disgraced, even if no one knew it. Why she felt as if what she had shared with the Earl was something rare and special she could not fathom. He had clearly been disgusted at her, probably contemptuous at how easily she gave away her virtue. Emily could not blame him.
It is no lie. I feel just as contemptuous of myself as he feels of me.
She was able to fumble through every demanding day, making sure she was too busy to really contemplate how much everything had changed in one evening. She simply put one foot in front of the other, going from duty to duty day in and day out. It wasn't too difficult not to think of her own unfortunate circumstances when she had enough to do to keep five governess’ run off their feet.
Lady Anne and Lord Essex kept her on her toes while her always fraught relationship with Lady Nancy frayed into tatters. She seemed even more unmanageable than ever and Emily most certainly had less patience with her. She could not completely banish the notion from her mind that Lady Nancy had something to do with a pink satin gown ending up on her bed.
It wasn't until she slowed down in the evening that she found the actuality and misery of her position sinking in. The respite from dealing with her three charges from moment to moment gave her too much free time to think about the Earl and to remember that fateful evening three nights–had it only been three nights–ago.
Emily Fletcher was usually thankful for her situation. She knew how much worse it could have been. Most people who had been in her precarious position would be. But she could not deny that the situation with the Earl was making her markedly miserable. Not just moody with herself, but her charges as well as poor Betsey who was just trying to make the best of things.
It was not that Emily wasn’t thankful for her position. She was happy to work, she was glad to have a stable place of residence, people she might call family, even if she must call them the family instead of her own. For all intents and purposes, Emily should have been completely content. It was expected of her, and she had absolutely no reason not to be, and yet it was so difficult to remain complacent. Her moods swung harshly from minute to minute, going from bitter self-recrimination to incandescent rage at the Earl in the blink of an eye.
How dare he just go without a word? What right did he have to just leave them all hanging, awaiting his return like eager moths to a flame?
She tried to turn her thoughts off by escaping into sleep but sometimes she did not manage. Today, she’d tired herself out to the point where she fell on her bed and was asleep in moments. It was a great relief to her when she woke up feeling rested.
She completed rolling her chestnut hair atop her head, securing the final pins firmly within the precisely arranged chignon. It was not yet six in the morning and much of the manor still slept.
“Miss Fletcher!” piping voices in the corridor had her turning her attention in that direction. The voices were immediately followed by the pitter-patter of small feet. The door to her bed chamber was suddenly thrown open to expose two of her three charges, clothing disheveled and hair was undone as if they’d already been rolling about in the grass. It would not surprise Emily at all if they were. She thanked the Lord for their exuberance and boundless energy which kept her so completely busy. She really did not know what she would have done without them.
Emily turned with her hands on her hips giving the children a distinct frown.
“What have I said,” she began, “about coming into my chambers without asking permission?”
The twins dropped their eyes as one to the floor.
“Well?” she asked again, crouching to their level.
“We are not to enter your bed chamber without permission,” Lady Anne replied swiftly going on to make her case without awaiting rebuttal. “But Miss Emily—”
“And I don’t know why you feel the need to drop the formalities my dears. You must still call me Miss Fletcher. That is the appropriate form of address to your governess. You know this well. Your father would not be very happy if he knew you were calling me Miss Emily.” She felt a pang at her own mention of the Earl but dismissed it decisively.
“But Emily is such a lovely name. And we feel very close to you when we use it.” Lord Essex’s voice was quiet but sincere. He peered at Emily warily as if to estimate her possible level of ire, and seeing that she was gently amused, risked a smile.
Emily smiled in return. “Well, there's nothing more to be said for it,” she stood back up, shaking her head. “By the look of things, you've been rolling around in the grass again. And the day has barely broken! Between the two of you, there must be enough grass stains to turn all your clothes green, and you haven't even had breakfast. I assume you know what this means?” She quirked an eyebrow at them as they stood at attention in front of her, their faces full of an eloquent kind of horror
.
“No, please, Miss Emily—Miss Fletcher—” Lady Anne stuttered, but to no avail.
“I have no choice but to have a bath drawn for the two of you.”
While Lady Anne favored Emily with all the scorn her ten-year-old expression could muster, Lord Essex began to shed real tears in earnest.
“We're sorry! We'll never come into your bed chamber without asking again!”
“I'm not bathing you because you've come and barged into my bed chamber, but still, try not to do that again. I am bathing you because you are the children of an Earl, and gentry in your own right. You must observe the highest standards of cleanliness. It’s next to godliness you know. And besides, what if your father decided to join you for breakfast? What would he think of his newly green children?”
A Wicked Earl she can't Resist: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 19