Damn it.
He pulled his arm away from Maggie. “Pardon me, I have to go.”
Her expression turned hard as ice. “Oh.” Her right eyebrow arched. “I see.”
Her tone could have frozen a man’s cock right off.
What was there to say after that? He’d squarely slammed the door in his own face. It didn’t matter. He’d already acknowledged the folly of thinking he could soon forget Emily in some other woman’s bed. No matter how welcoming or warm. He nodded to Maggie and went to catch up to Emily.
He intended to set her straight on just what sort of a gentleman Peter was.
* * * *
Emily asked Peter to fetch her a cup of punch then she escaped to the balcony. The chilly breeze did little to relieve the hot flush of jealous anger from her face. How could Alex have replaced her so soon? She’d been nothing to him. Nothing. Just another in a long line. Raw aching burned her throat and she closed her eyes, fighting tears.
“Emily.”
The sound of Alex’s voice sent heated chills through her. It also shocked her. She hadn’t expected him to follow. She inhaled deeply then turned. The sight of his face took her breath. Not because of his handsomeness but because every line and contour of his visage was so dear to her. Because she loved him. Loved him even knowing his weaknesses. What did that say about her?
“You need to be wary of Peter,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He scowled. “You know what I mean. Don’t play coy.”
The thought that he might be jealous made her heart leap with joy and put warmth in her belly. But she couldn’t let herself feel those things. She couldn’t care about that any more. She forced herself to be cool. “Oh, I need to be wary of Peter? How thoughtful of you to take the time away from your mistress to tell me.”
“She’s not my mistress.”
She let her lip curl up. “Save your lies for your other women.”
“He’s not the man for you. I know he seems kind, he is kind. But he has another side. A wild, reckless side. He gambles, he duels, he chases women unrelentingly. He has a fierce temper once provoked. You really do not know him.”
“How is any of that different from you?”
A muscle jumped in his cheek and he took a sharp breath in. “We’re not discussing me. Peter is not the husband for you. Do you know Elizabeth is not his only illegitimate child?”
“You’ve a lot of gall to say these things to me. I don’t want to listen any more.” She pulled away from him then fled the balcony and out into the gardens. She heard the sound of boots on the gravel path. Of course he would follow her. He would not even let her have the privacy to lick her wounds in. Resentment burned through her. He wanted to own her, to dictate her acts while claiming freedom for himself.
“Leave me alone,” she called over her shoulder.
“Emily, wait, just wait.”
His voice, pure tender appeal, tugged at her heartstrings. She resisted. “No, just leave me be.”
She hurried to the row of hedges lining the farthest edge of the garden, then moved along the stone garden wall, looking for the gate. Where she expected to go, she didn’t know. She only knew that she couldn’t risk getting close to him. Not this soon. She was still too raw, too weak to his appeal.
“Emily. What are you running for? Are you that afraid I am speaking the truth?”
His certainty infuriated her and anger gave her strength. She stopped and faced him. The light from the torches shone through the hedge and cast uneven shadows on his handsome face, distorting his expression. One moment he seemed friendly, the next he seemed to be scowling at her. She closed her eyes, willing the illusion to disappear.
“You want to be Peter’s wife and spend all your nights alone in New York while he travels everywhere and warms his bed with other women? Your pride won’t like that.”
She blinked at him pointedly. “Why should I believe marriage to you would have been any different? You certainly seem to have found someone to warm yours quickly enough. If you weren’t seeing her on the sly all along.”
“Oh, come, that kind of suspicion flatters neither of us. Surely we are above it.”
“What about your baseless suspicions of Peter?”
He chuckled softly, the sound brittle with cynicism. “My suspicions are hardly baseless.”
“Peter has simply been kind to me.”
“Oh, I am sure he has. The man is in a fever of lust for you.”
“No, it’s not like that. He’s been a complete gentleman.”
He placed his hand lightly about the base of her throat. “You tell me if that changes, I’ll call him out on it.”
“It’s not your place any longer.”
The breeze moved the hedge and light spilled over his face, throwing his handsome, classically sculptured features into sharp relief. His gaze dropped, as if staring at her mouth. “Isn’t it?”
Chapter Seven
The warmth of Alex’s large hand on her awakened all of her desire. Emily wanted to feel his hands all over her. Crushing her body to his. Hunger swept through her, so strong she closed her eyes and opened her mouth. A moan escaped her.
His heated breath wafted on her face an instant before he pressed his lips on hers. How dare he? She flattened her palms on his chest and shoved.
He took her shoulders and held her firm. She panicked, struggling, pushing and twisting. He grasped her wrists and pulled them behind her, pressing them to the cold stone wall. Her energy evaporated and she sagged weakly. All the while, he continued kissing her. Oh, God, she had longed for the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hands upon her. She couldn’t resist for long. On another moan, she opened to him, nestling herself closer to his strong, hard body.
She put all of her anger and jealousy and the fire of her longing these two weeks past into her response, almost lashing her tongue against his. His scent filled her senses and the feel of his body fuelled her hunger.
He pressed his erection to her thigh and her internal walls contracted. With her shoulders braced to the wall, she shifted her hips and lifted on her toes so her cunt made contact with his hardness.
His whole body went rigid and he tore his mouth away from hers. “Christ.”
He released her wrists and leaned away from her. At the loss of his body, she moaned in protest. Brisk air bit through her silk stockings, rushing upwards. He was lifting her skirts. She leaned weakly back against the cold stone wall and thrashed her head.
Yes, yes, yes.
She wanted this. Even just this once more. Even here in the outside in the chilly weather, in someone else’s garden against a stone wall where anyone might discover them.
He touched between her legs. She lifted her hips, eagerly seeking stimulation. His fingers teased her soft, inner folds slowly, as if they were not in danger of public exposure. Her wetness flowed, her inner lips swelled and she was so ready to be filled by him. So very ready. Achingly empty. Dripping wet.
She opened her mouth, preparing to beg him to hurry.
Laughter echoed on the slight breeze. Two ladies strolling very close to them.
He withdrew his hand and dropped her skirts. He rested his forehead on hers, panting harshly. “You make me insane.” He stepped away from her and his gaze swept over her. “You’re completely undone, your hair…”
She ran a hand over her mussed hair. “I can’t go back in there.”
He took her arm lightly. “Then I shall take you back to Mrs Hazelwood’s house.”
She nodded. Though it was madness to continue to be alone with Alex, it was the only way. She couldn’t bear for anyone, even Peter, to see her like this. He would know how shamelessly she had fallen under Alex’s spell.
* * * *
In the carriage, Emily quietly stared out of the window at the night. But Alex knew she was crying. He could sense it in the way his guts were twisting. Finally, he could take it no longer. He moved across the seat, closer to her, and touched h
er face. It was wet.
She tried to turn away but he stopped her. “Emily.”
He put his mouth to her cheek, tasting her salty tears, and he moved to her lips, kissing her with tenderness that slowly grew into hunger as she opened to him and responded with passion. For long moments they kissed and the taste and feel of her mouth made his heart race. Blood surged into his cock, lengthening and hardening it and forcing him to shift on the seat.
She reached between his legs and grasped him. The shock of her boldness aroused him almost as much as her touch. Her hand gripped and then closed over his erection. He groaned deep in his throat. She opened and closed her hand with flawless, sensual instinct. He’d never had to teach her that, she’d been born to make love.
She began undoing his buttons. His erection stretched his fall and provided resistance and the process was painfully, deliciously slow. His heart beat so hard now, he wondered if it would break. Finally, she had him undone and his cock sprang into her hand. She stroked him. Her hand was rose-petal soft and warm. When had she removed her glove? He groaned and his cock leaked freely. He put his hand over hers and felt his own wet eagerness on her. Together they stroked him and his desire flared almost beyond bearing. He put his other hand to her cheek, pressing her head backwards into the top of the carriage seat and he thrust his tongue deeper into her mouth in long, lingering caresses.
Soon, they were forced to part. They both panted for air. She still caressed him. Gripping him, closing and releasing, running her nimble fingers up and down, making him harder, longer than sanity could bear. He wanted to flip her skirts up and fuck her. Hard. Right here, right now. But it wouldn’t be right. She deserved better. She deserved time and tenderness. He wanted to make her come and come. And come again after that.
He took her wrist and pulled her hand away. “That’s enough of that.”
He cupped her face and stared into sherry-brown eyes that reflected back all his love and longing and desire.
“We have to… We have to…” Her voice was husky, accentuating each word with a hitching little catch that spoke more than anything of her need and ratcheted his own hunger so that his cock throbbed painfully.
He placed his lips to her temple. “I know, I know.” He closed his eyes and inhaled her gillyflower scent mixed with the tangy aroma of her feminine arousal.
“You’ll take me to your rooms?” The question was all sweet persuasion.
As if he needed any persuasion. But what she’d asked was impossible now.
“I let the rooms go. I gave the landlord the key back.”
“Why?” Her tone quavered with sadness.
“Because I couldn’t bear the thought of going there with anyone else.”
“Oh.”
She sounded so sweet and submissive, he couldn’t hold back. He cupped her face and brought his mouth down on hers again and tasted deeply of her kiss again. She touched him again. Gripped him. Squeezed him.
He growled deep in his throat. He broke the kiss and leant back and let her have her way, closing his eyes and shuddering all over with the pleasure until his balls drew near to his body and his orgasm drew too close. Groaning with pained desire, he removed her hand again. “Emily, you’re killing me. Absolutely killing me.”
“Whatever shall we do?”
“I’ll take you back to my house. Rachel and everyone will be abed, we can sneak into my study.”
* * * *
Emily’s bare hand was still sticky with Alex’s leakage and tightly clasped within his. They were on the stoop of his house on Chestnut Street and he was putting his key into the door. He loved her still. She had seen it in his eyes. Tasted it in his kisses, felt it in every throb of his erection.
Their separation was surely over. They couldn’t part after this. He would relent and see things her way. He would let her come back into his life. He would marry her and still let her produce her book. Do whatever she wanted to with her art and crusade as she wished. No man who could kiss her like that, make her feel like that could ever be so insensitive to her again.
The door opened. In the light from the lantern overhead, he turned and looked down at her with passion and tenderness in his eyes. He pulled her into the house. The familiar spice and citrus scent filled the air. Her heart contracted with relief to be back in this house. It was home to her now and no other would do.
Light shone from the parlour and the soft rumble of voices engaged in polite conversation echoed along the dark entryway. Emily removed her hand from Alex’s and fished in her pocket for her discarded glove. Finding it, she hastily donned it , as if leaving her hand bare would have been indecent and allowed others to guess at the intimacies that had just passed between her and Alex in the carriage.
Alex turned and looked at her, his gold eyebrows drawn together. He swiftly recaptured her hand and led her to the parlour.
As they entered, Will barked. From the wingchair, Rachel glanced up. Her black hair was elegantly coiffed and she wore one of her best evening gowns of deep blue silk. Her face lit with surprise. “Oh, Emily, how lovely to see you back—Alex, I am so glad you’re home early. Look who is here.”
A short, dark-haired man and a raven-haired woman with warm brown eyes sat on one of the settees. A girl of about ten sat between them. Her hair was as gold as coins in the firelight. Alex’s muscles went hard as iron beneath Emily’s hand. A fine tremor shook his arm. An uneasy tingling centred on her navel.
A huge smile spread over the man’s homely face. “Alexander!”
Alex remained rigid, motionless. The girl turned and large, startling blue-grey eyes stared into Emily’s. They transfixed her for a moment. She tore her gaze away and glanced at Alex. He’d gone white, like he’d seen a ghost. Emily felt ill, as if her senses had detected something her mind had yet to know. She felt as if she’d walked into a dream.
The short, dark-haired man rushed forward and reached his hand out.
Alex took it, his expression numb, stunned. “François.”
“Alexander, it is so good to see you.” He shook Alex’s hand vigorously.
The touch seemed to jolt Alex out of his numbness. Genuine pleasure seemed to melt his stony expression. He turned to Emily. “Miss Eliot, this is my cousin, François, and his wife, Manon, and their”—did she imagine the catch in his voice?—“daughter, Aimee.”
“Alexander, you must be wondering what we are doing here in Philadelphia when we are supposed to be on our way to Montreal.”
“I think I shall have a brandy. Would you care for one?” Alex flashed one of his most charming smiles, his grey-blue eyes twinkling with all the warmth of the sun.
But Emily knew him well. It was a sure sign he was covering for something.
François was a cousin on Alex’s mother’s side. But Alex looked like his father. Emily had seen the portrait of the stern-faced, golden-haired man in the parlour. François was dark like Rachel who was Alex’s mother’s sister. Her heart beat even harder and her stomach began to roil.
François smiled in return. “Your aunt has fed us quite well. I am satisfied.”
Alex nodded and did go and pour himself a brandy. And drank it immediately. He poured another and returned to the group. He’d said nothing to the girl. Yes, adults often did ignore children in company but Alex was never like that. Odd, very odd. Emily stole a glance at the child, this time not so distracted by the piercing nature of those large eyes. She noted the beautiful features. Familiar features. Aimee looked like Alex and Alex did not look like his mother. He looked like his father. The blood rushed from her head to her feet. She sank onto the settee and took a deep, steadying breath. As soon as she sat, Alex collapsed beside her.
Emily darted a glance at Rachel. Surely the woman had noticed the girl’s uncanny resemblance to Alex and total lack of similarity to her parents? But Rachel had a pleasant, calm smile on her face.
“Our ship ran into a bad squall,” François said.
Manon released a ripple of musical la
ughter. “A bad squall! Would you listen to my husband? It was the worst storm I’ve seen.”
François waved her off. “It was not so bad. But the captain seemed somewhat, uh, caught off guard. And the ship was not built so well. But, alas, it was the best we could do. I wanted to get out of Jamaica. Those British make me nervous.”
François laughed and everyone else did, except for Emily and Alex.
Alex’s eyes had drifted to the little girl and the skin tightened across his cheekbones. He took a deep drink of his brandy. On second glance, the girl looked to becloser to eight or nine. It was hard to tell. Her frame was dainty, fragile and petite. Nine years ago, Alex would have been nineteen. Right in the midst of those lost years Peter had told her about. And he said he’d been in France. Oh, he had not been living any kind of unspeakable horror. He’d been entertaining himself with a mistress and had dumped the resulting child on to his obliging cousins.
Manon was still speaking. “The ship was damaged and the captain decided to divert to Baltimore. I told François we will not take chances. We will come to Alex and he will know the first-rate captains and ships.”
Alex tore his gaze away from Aimee, a expression akin to guilt embossed on his face. “Yes, certainly. In fact, one of Asahel Sexton’s ships is leaving in a month for Montreal.”
François turned to Emily. “We have family there. Aimee will have lots of cousines to welcome her.”
“Oh, very nice,” Emily replied automatically while she looked at Aimee and smiled, all the while wishing she could quell the rising sense of terribleness. Alex was even more feckless than she’d come to know. He not only could turn his back on the sufferings of the world but he could turn his back on his own flesh and blood.
And she’d almost given herself to him again. Had thought of reconciling herself with him. God. Oh, God. She released a hitching breath and shuddered all over with the realisation.
Alex turned to her. “Miss Eliot, you should go to bed.”
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