Chemistry of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  The day was still light enough that she could admire the contours of his lean muscled chest when he flung the shirt at the floor. A stream of gold-tipped hair ran between his flat male nipples, tapering to a rivulet above his unfastened trousers. Once her gaze fell to his hips, she could not raise it. Intellectually, she knew men were made differently. But he might as well have imprisoned a live python in there.

  “Propagation is exactly what I have in mind,” he assured her, dropping down beside her to untangle the ties of her skirt that she had been too stunned stupid to undo. “I had no notion that propagation would add such zest to the pollination process.”

  She almost laughed outright. Except he was exactly right. Just the thought of the miracle they might create tonight terrified and excited her beyond all the boring staid experiences of her boring staid life.

  She lifted her hips so he might yank off her skirt and petticoat and did not protest as they landed in a heap with his shirt. Her corset, under-chemise, and stockings were her only cover. She waited for modesty to make her flush, but she could only watch in fascination as her husband peeled off his trousers. The python pressed demandingly at his drawers.

  “Damn, you smell good,” he murmured, leaning over to brand searing kisses from her ear to the top of her breasts.

  All the hard temptation of his chest loomed over her, and she could scarcely register anything else.

  “I want to smell you, lick you, and frig you all at the same time,” he murmured, tasting her nipple again.

  She thought to protest his crudity, but she made the mistake of laying her palm flat against his bare chest first. The jolt of electricity nearly left her paralyzed.

  She absorbed the prickles, the heat, and the rush of his blood and his breath and the pain in his center all in one blow. The sensations mixed with those of her own intense desire, as if they were all one creature. The ache between her legs became a tension so exquisite, she didn’t know how to handle herself.

  Fortunately, Dare did. He slid his fingers into the nest of her lower hair, and she almost rose off the bed.

  “Yes,” he hissed in satisfaction. “Your blood boils as mine does.”

  Without further warning, he stripped off her corset and chemise and swooped down to suckle her breasts while his fingers played their magic between her thighs. There was no chance of forming any healing connection while he cast her into the throes of lust.

  “Dare,” she whispered urgently, feeling as if she might come apart from the pressure and the dangerous mix of sensations. “Please. I cannot bear—”

  He used his thumb to press while his fingers spread her. The tension reached new pinnacles, her inner muscles clenched, and Emilia arched into his hand, biting back screams. He took full advantage to delve deeper. The quakes, when they came, cast her into another realm, one of nothing but sheer physical pleasure, shaking her very existence. How could just a touch cause such immense revelations? And all these years, she’d feared touching?

  Limply, she was barely aware when Dare tugged off his drawers.

  “Propagation, my sweet,” he murmured in laughter as he covered her helpless body with his powerful one. “Think gurgling adorable infants.”

  And he eased his python into the slippery channel between her legs. Except the stiff, thick—very thick—velvet-covered iron was no wiggly soft snake. Emilia gasped as he pushed into her.

  “Infants for the betterment of the world,” he whispered encouragingly in her ear as her body resisted the invasion. He covered her nipple with his mouth and licked it.

  Whatever he did worked. Emilia opened for him, blossomed, allowed his rod into her pistil and deeper. He tore her open, and she cried out, but his shoulders were right there to grasp, and her sheath was wet and ready, and he slid deep, filling her past all her flower parts and beyond.

  Her books had not explained this.

  Dare felt the congestion in his lungs threatening his breathing, but the pent-up need for physical release was too great to stop and gasp now. He pulled out of the tightness of his wife’s body for a moment, giving Emilia time to adjust. She was his first virgin, and he wasn’t entirely certain what to expect, but at least he had started by giving her pleasure. He hoped that would mean she would be receptive to more nights like this one, even though he seemed to be hurting her now.

  She was so damned tight. She whimpered a protest as he eased into her again, but her slim hips rose urgently, asking for more. Blessed be the mismatched stars that had brought this woman into his life. . .

  He accepted her invitation and drove deeper, higher, desperate for relief. She quivered, and he feared he’d hurt her more. Before he could pull back, her inner muscles clamped around him, and she cried out with another quake of pleasure.

  Her enjoyment was all it took. Pain and ecstasy slammed through him. Dare buried his own groans in her hair as he pumped deep inside her, flooding her with all the seed he’d not spilled in months.

  The sweet scent of heaven wrapped around him, and he nearly passed out from lack of breath. Drained, he still wanted, needed more, but he could scarcely gasp for air.

  Rolling over, he carried Emilia with him, holding her beautifully rounded bottom and staying buried within her. He didn’t want her to escape while he slept.

  She pressed a palm to his chest and heat seeped deep inside him. If he’d killed himself this time, he’d die happy, hoping he’d at least created an heir with his last breath.

  Emilia woke to an unfamiliar woman’s voice chiding the crowing rooster and to a solid male arm and leg wrapped around her. Her face was buried in a muscled shoulder that smelled of raw male flesh, and she inhaled the sweaty saltiness with delight. Who knew it would feel so good to be close to another person?

  With trepidation, she examined how she felt. The pleasant soreness between her legs wasn’t as unsettling as having a big male body sprawled up and down her, touching her everywhere. She waited for the prickles that warned of pain to follow but didn’t sense any. Beneath her excitement and the warmth and weight of him she sensed the dull ache with which he must live, but whatever they’d done last night had neutralized actual pain. She wanted to send him energy—but she wasn’t compelled to do so. Yet.

  She must have squirmed. Dare shifted more of his weight to his side so she could escape if necessary. His python was erect and hard already. It would be simpler if he was more the size of a bird beak. She wasn’t entirely certain her pistil was prepared for another assault.

  A knock on the door reminded them that they were never truly alone.

  “Hot water, m’lord,” a male voice called through the panel.

  An irritated growl filled her ear. She covered Dare’s mouth before he said anything irascible. Feeling very daring, she called, “One moment, please.”

  She slid out from beneath his hold and hurried to the dressing room in search of a robe.

  “That’s why one has maids,” he called after her.

  “And separate chambers,” she called back, tying her robe. “Shall I look into that?” My, she was feeling feisty this morning.

  His reply was a thump on the floorboards. She peered around the door to watch her magnificently naked husband stalk to a dressing screen before shouting, “You may enter.”

  “My lady?” Bessie called from the corridor. “Shall I take your water to the other chamber?”

  One of these days, she supposed they would sort out all this newness. Emilia peered into the smaller bedchamber she had only glanced at yesterday. As she remembered, it was filled with aged wardrobes, a small bed, and an ancient dressing table. Not exactly welcoming, but it had a separate door to the hall, unlike this in-between dressing chamber.

  “Please do, Bessie.” The tweenies had always carried up her wash water at home. Bessie was usually at work at her desk. What had brought about this miracle of thoughtfulness?

  Her secretary maid scurried in, setting an old ceramic pitcher on the wash table, then looking around for the trunk with toilet
ries. “James carried up an entire pail of water,” she whispered in awe as she rummaged through the trunk’s contents for soap. “Shall I see if this place has a tub?”

  Ah, enlightenment—Bessie had wanted to impress the valet. Perhaps she’d name this place Birds and Bees Cottage. “Not this morning. There is too much to do. The tub used to be stored in the kitchen. There’s a little room down there grandfather used for bathing. We’ll have to come up with something more modern.”

  Dare loomed in the doorway, looking tall and rumpled in a maroon robe. “Like servants?” he asked in a low growl. “We’re supposed to bathe in the kitchen?”

  “You are the one who said we should not hire too many people,” she retorted. “I told you Grandfather got by with only a few. And the manservant was elderly when I was little. Mr. Butler mostly polished silver beside the fire. If you wish to bathe in comfort, we will need more help.”

  Bessie laid out a gown and scurried out of the room.

  Dare rubbed his heavy stubble, coughed, and screwed up his brow in thought. “A steam engine to pump water upstairs, perhaps. We could sell the patent if we made it work.” Coughing harder, he retreated to his own room.

  Emilia trailed after him, frowning as he dosed himself from the medicine bottle. She had been mindless last night, lost in so many sensations that she had not felt his pain so much as her joy. But she remembered the unrightness in his gut. Consumption occasionally affected other parts of the body like bones or kidneys, but she didn’t remember reading anything about the digestive organs.

  “Or we could catch rain water on the roof and pipe it down,” he continued, his brain outracing his weakening body. “That would be cheaper, although it’s an old idea, and we can’t sell it.”

  “You are quite mad, but it’s a happy mad.” She watched where he stowed the bottle while her own ideas mulled about in her brain. “If you are to use Grandfather’s workshop for blowing up things, I’ll use his growing house for my herbs. But I’ll need a place to mix and store them. The abbey is too far away for regular use.”

  Dare kissed her hair. “We’ll look after we break our fast. For some reason, I am unreasonably hungry this morning.”

  She hoped and prayed that meant she was helping. Consumption often went into remission, she knew. If her healing energy and fresh country air could make that happen. . . They could have years.

  Not knowing exactly how she felt about that, she hurried off to dress. She had never particularly wanted to marry, had not seen the need for a demanding male in her life, but now. . . She could see the advantage of sharing the burdens of running the estate. And now that there was no question about whether or not she could endure carnal relations, she could definitely see the benefit of having a husband in bed.

  The magical Mrs. Peacock had prepared rashers of bacon, boiled eggs with a savory sauce, and tomatoes cooked with herbs so delicious that Emilia could have eaten them all. The toast arrived hot and buttered. There was even coffee for Dare, and she enjoyed it simply for the effect it had on her husband. Instead of grumbling and poking at his food, he looked blissful, cleaning off every platter placed in front of them after she’d helped herself.

  “We are definitely keeping Mrs. Peacock,” he said, putting his linen back on the table and shoving back his chair.

  “Then you had best discover how much she wishes to be paid, and if she wants to take up residence in the house. I believe she stayed overnight, but she has a place of her own.”

  “I’d better calculate budgets or I’ll be putting my family into the street just so we can pay staff. Will you do the interviews with Mrs. Wiggs?” He stood and offered his hand to help her up.

  “I expect she’ll arrive with an army, and I’ll have no say in the matter. Perhaps you had best calculate budgets first so I can tell her when she exceeds it. And I’ll poke around and look for a place for my work.”

  She had an ulterior motive in sending Dare off to play with numbers. As soon as she knew he was ensconced in the downstairs study, Emilia hurried up to their shared bedchamber. James had already straightened it up and vanished on his lengthy list of duties. She hurried to the dressing table where Dare had stored his foul Fowler’s Solution. He had several bottles. She borrowed one, tucked it in the apron she wore when she worked, and hurried out to the old glass-roofed house her grandfather had once used for his plant experiments.

  The glass was broken in places and covered in ivy. The bedding tables were bare and filthy. One day, she might have it repaired so she could experiment in growing exotic herbs. But for now, it was private, and it had tables, and no one would question if she carried her herbs back here and mixed them.

  It wasn’t sanitary enough for making pills. All her reading had convinced her that clean conditions were absolutely necessary, and Bridey agreed with this theory. Emilia knew she had to wait for facilities at the abbey that she could keep sterile. But for now, she could scrub a table, cover it in fresh linen, and set up her mortar and pestle. She poured some of the foul medicine into a cup and sniffed it. There was an old pharmacopeia in the study where Bessie worked, but she didn’t need to consult medicine lists for what she wanted to do. She simply needed to duplicate smell and viscosity. There was a faint odor of lavender. She dipped her finger in the liquid and licked it. There was a vaguely salty taste. She just needed to disguise the flavor of her healing herbs and his healthy mineral water, create a slight oily thickness, and Dare would never notice the difference.

  It was an experiment, she told herself. If he actually worsened for drinking her healthy concoction, she’d throw it away, and he could go back to his foul solution.

  If her medicine couldn’t help Dare, she’d have to question everything she’d learned and believed about herbs. Her life work would have been a waste.

  She couldn’t let that happen. She’d make a perfectly dreadful housewife.

  Chapter 11

  “There is a dreadful stench coming from that shed,” Bessie said breathlessly, having run past Dare’s workshop to reach Emilia’s glass shed. “And Mrs. Wiggs is here with half the village.”

  Satisfied that she’d done the best she could to create an imitation but healthy Fowler’s solution, Emilia looked around for a place to pour out the foul medicine. All she had was the shallow bowl she’d carried her herbs in. She poured the rest of the Fowler’s in there, refilled the empty bottle from a beaker of her herbal solution, and tucked the refilled bottle back in her apron pocket.

  “I assume the stench means Lord Dare has finished his budget and is now preparing to blow up more glass,” she said distractedly, glancing around at the disorder she was leaving behind. She was accustomed to leaving her worktable neat and tidy. Perhaps, once they’d hired servants, she’d have more time. “Tell Mrs. Wiggs I’ll be right there.”

  She stopped at the shed, knocked, then leaned in. The stench of sulfur was overpowering. “Are you there? Mrs. Wiggs has arrived, and I need numbers to dash her dreams.” The dim light from a single window did little to illuminate the gloom and smoke. She could see Dare peering into the microscope she coveted with all her heart and soul. He’d directed lamp light to mirrors in an attempt to make it work better. Wearing the adorable half glasses she’d only seen him wear the day he’d asked her to marry him, he glanced up impatiently, named a sum, then returned to work.

  Emilia had no idea if it was a generous amount or not. She’d never paid any servant but Bessie.

  Hoping maids would be less expensive than secretaries, she hurried into the house.

  Mrs. Wiggs waited in the crowded parlor beaming happily. “There you are, m’lady. I’ve brought the best the village has to offer.”

  Behind her waited half a dozen young girls, all looking expectant and eager. Short ones, tall ones, wide ones. . . Emilia’s eyes narrowed as she noticed a thin one almost cringing at the back of the pack. She wasn’t much older than Emilia’s younger sisters. The girl’s expression was tight with hope and fear, but her eyes were flat with desp
air. And silhouetted against the light from the dirty parlor windows, she showed a belly rounder than her thin build should carry.

  Oh, dear, this would be much harder than she’d imagined, and she’d imagined a hurdle higher than she was tall. “Why don’t you come back to the office, Mrs. Wiggs? Give me a list of whom you wish to hire for what, and what wages they’ll expect.” She steered the former housekeeper from the parlor and down the corridor.

  “I don’t think you can get by on fewer girls,” Mrs. Wiggs protested as Emilia closed the doors after them. “Mrs. Peacock will leave without a scullion and a kitchen maid. You’ll probably need a pot boy as well, but Tess can handle his duties until I find someone suitable. We’ll need at least one upper and one lower housemaid, a laundress, a butler, and two footmen, but I started with the womenfolk today.”

  “Tess?” Emilia asked faintly, matching this formidable list to the staff in her father’s house and realizing Mrs. Wiggs was understating the total.

  “My grand-niece,” the housekeeper said, twisting her hands together. “She’s young, but she’s a good girl, and needs some training. She knows her way around the kitchen and has helped Mrs. Peacock before.”

  Emilia kneaded the bridge of her nose, looking for the words that were so hard to find. “Would Tess be the thin one at the back of the parlor?”

  “She’s a good girl,” Mrs. Wiggs insisted again. “The best student in the school. Writes a fine copperplate and reads like a scholar. But she’ll be happy washing and chopping and whatever is needed down below.”

  Down below, out of sight, as her belly grew. “And her husband?” Emilia asked desperately. “Will he not object? Or will he be asking for a place as well?”

  The stout old lady almost wilted in dejection. “The lout ran away without marrying her. She made a mistake, but she’s learned a hard lesson. She’s a good worker.”

  “And the babe?” Emilia knew it was possible for women to work while carrying a child, but the work of a kitchen maid required long hours and carrying heavy burdens. Malcolm women were accustomed to pampering unborn children—because they were wealthy and could afford to. How did other women do it? She rubbed her brow some more, trying to work her way through this dilemma.