Eventually, he made his way to the sofa where Emily sat. The crowd around her parted when he reached her. The young woman beside her proved to be none other than Miss Iddings, whom he liked against his inclination. She strongly resembled her mother, but her face was open, agreeable, and sincere.
He kissed Emily’s cheek amid swooning ahs from onlookers, and was swept into another wave of introductions. He recognized the besotted admiration of the company around his wife. Men and women alike fell under her spell. For the next hour, he chatted with strangers who had long wished to know him better and who now plainly admired Emily. He had several conversations about land usage, hunting and hunting dogs, and entertained one or two sly jokes about gaming hells, which he pretended not to understand.
The crowd eventually began to disperse, with Emily or himself escorting one or more of their callers to the parlor door. And then, somehow, he was alone with his wife, and their first social event as Lord and Lady Bracebridge was behind them.
Having seen out the very last caller, she returned to the sofa and sat with her head leaning back. She pressed a hand to her forehead and let out a long breath. “We have survived.”
He wondered whether he ought to sit beside her but ultimately did not. “I apologize for leaving you here to deal with most of Hinderhead and beyond descending upon the house.”
She sat straight. He had no idea how to deal with Emily as his wife. Should he be demonstrative with her when there was no prior affection between them? Was that not in some way dishonest? The state of their marital relations suggested otherwise, but satisfying intimacy was not the same as a years-long friendship, which they did not have. He again considered sitting beside her, but his thoughts went immediately to holding her in his arms. Was that not proof that what he had with Emily was something other than friendship?
“Pond was wonderful,” she said, oblivious to his thoughts. “My compliments to him and your staff. As for the rest, you Hinderheadians are a charming lot. I enjoyed meeting them.”
Two footmen silently removed the detritus of the party while another closed the connecting doors, returning the parlor to its usual dimensions. The servants completed their work, and he and Emily were truly alone.
“I was surprised you joined us.” She curled her legs underneath her. “I told everyone you would not return in time.”
After all, he did sit beside her, closer than would have been proper were they not married. This was his house. His home. She was his wife. “I’m glad I did.”
She leaned back, chin tilted toward the ceiling. “I saw Mrs. Iddings take you aside. I was about to come to your rescue when you managed to get free. I am sorry. She can be a difficult woman.”
“We arrived at an understanding.”
She shot him a quick look. “About?”
He had no habit of confiding in Emily. She wasn’t Anne, with whom he had so much in common. He and Anne shared favorite poets, their opinions on many subjects were similar, and they were often amused by the same things. He had always found her serenity to be a soothing counterpoint to his volatility. When he was with Anne, he always came away convinced he could be a better person than he was. But Emily? He’d spent the past year actively avoiding her because he was not a better person around her.
As he sat beside Emily, he acknowledged a prick of resentment. Anne was the woman he loved, and he did not want his marriage to interfere with that. He did not know Emily even half as well as he knew Anne. “Mrs. Iddings and I have agreed to hold our mutual dislike in abeyance.”
“That is a relief.”
“I was not aware that you knew her.”
“Why would you be?” She rearranged her legs and the distance between them, surely by happenstance, increased. “I like Miss Iddings. We’ve always got along. I was resigned to being obliged to call on her at Fontain, rather than invite her here, for I know her mother disapproves of you. She’s another Mrs. Glynn.”
“There is no shortage of women who disapprove of me.” He stretched an arm along the top of the sofa. “You may entertain whomever you like.”
Emily shifted to face him. “I ought to tell you before I forget, I’ve promised the vicar I shall assist him with a school he is attempting to organize. I hope you don’t mind. If you do, I can make an excuse.”
“No need. Do just as you like.” He pressed his hand against her far shoulder, and she moved closer to him until her shoulder touched his chest. They’d done this all backward. Lovers before the kind of encounters that led to respect and friendship. How on Earth did one begin?
“Mrs. Miller promised to send us her famous raspberry cordial, by the way.”
He bumbled about in his memories for a recollection of this Mrs. Miller but came up blank.
“Your neighbor to the north. Grey hair going white, very spry, but like Pond, she has a painful knee.”
“Did you recommend a similar poultice?”
“Yes. She walked here, and Pond tells me she is five miles distant. I sent her home in one of your carriages with everything she needs to improve her knee.”
“That was thoughtful of you.” Mrs. Miller, he now recalled, was a widow of some years. Exactly the sort of lady who avoided a man like him.
He contemplated taking Emily’s hand again but didn’t. She was wearing a pair of white kid gloves more suited to morning calls than the pair he’d bought her. Several shops in Hinderhead had already sent on bills for accouterments of the sort ladies required. He had put them in line for immediate payment.
He took her hand and toyed with the buttons on her gloves. “Until your things arrive from Bartley Green, purchase whatever you need from Hinderhead. Or send to London, if there is someone there you prefer.”
“Thank you, I shall.”
He unfastened the buttons at the wrist of her gloves and stripped them off.
As if he hadn’t, she said, “I should like to have Mrs. Elliot come here. You need a housekeeper, and Mrs. Elliot will do quite well. Pond would appreciate the assistance. May I write to her?”
He worked off her other glove. He approved of the suggestion, and not the least because Mrs. Elliot would be her ally. “Yes, please. There must be someone to deal with female staff.”
She moved closer. “I rather thought Maggie might be the first and last.”
He kissed the tip of her first finger. “Mrs. Elliot shall be an exceptional housekeeper. If you had not suggested it, I would have. Write to her at Rosefeld. If she’s not there, Aldreth will know how to reach her.”
“Thank you.”
With his fingers lightly around her forearm, he kissed her second finger, then the third, and finally the smallest. Her skin was so soft. From experience, he knew this was true everywhere. He moved closer and, at last, she ceased staring at the ceiling.
“Miss Iddings told me you were the most intimidating gentleman she’d ever seen and that she never dared look you in the eye.”
“I am the terror of Hinderhead.” He moved closer, twisting so he could look into her face. She was simply exquisite. There was a deathless silence between them as he gazed into her face. His focus settled on her mouth, and he slowly drew her close. Why shouldn’t he kiss his wife?
She came willingly, arms around his shoulders, smiling, inviting. He kissed her, and she relaxed into his embrace and answered his lust with desire of her own. All his uncertainties and regrets faded away, to be replaced with a spreading lightness. There was no one less suited to him than Emily, except in this one thing. As a lover, she had no equal.
But he did not want this opportunity to know his wife better to be lost in dalliance, however appealing the idea. “Did Cynssyr or your sister say why they left?” He did not realize how treacherous the subject was until he’d broached it, and then he wasn’t certain how best to recover. “I regret I was not here to bid them goodbye.”
Emily’s response was smooth, entirely unexceptional. “No, they did not. I asked them to stay, but Cynssyr said they never intended to stay long.�
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He did not trust her heart-stopping smile. She used her smile the way a knight used his shield. “Anne might have helped you entertain.”
Silence fell, and still she was smiling as if at this very moment, the world was the best of all possible worlds. Us. He ought to have said us. What a blunder.
“I am capable of entertaining callers,” she said. “As for being prepared, you could not ask for a better manager of your staff than Pond. He and York rose to the challenge.”
“Indeed, they did.”
“Even if you cannot trust my competence, you ought to have trusted theirs.” She stood. “I’ve had a long morning. I’m tired.”
With a sinking heart, he watched her leave. He’d bungled that badly.
Chapter Nineteen
Emily stayed where she was when she saw Bracebridge come around the corner. Behind her, the path forked. To the left the path would take one to the house; to the right was the lake. He did not see her yet, so she took the opportunity to steady herself.
Frieda, now aware Bracebridge was headed their way, strained at the leash, but Emily said, “Sit,” in a determined voice, and the dog obeyed. What a good girl.
Hinderhead did not have an academy like Mr. Johnson’s in Bartley Green, but a retired pugilist owned a tavern in town, and Bracebridge often sparred with him. He took his fighting condition seriously. Every day he engaged in some form of training, whether it was a morning breather, sparring, or lifting heavy objects.
Bracebridge was at last close enough to see her, and Frieda left her seated position with a yelp, surging forward to the full extension of the leash. Emily stood to one side of this shady section of the path with a bottle in one hand and an umbrella in the other, which was necessary as a ward against the sun since her effects had yet to arrive from the Cooperage. She did not want to spend money on a new parasol when she had so many of her own. She closed the umbrella when he was close enough to know it was her.
Today must have been only a breather, as he called them, an exercise intended to improve one’s wind and bottom, in the pugilistic parlance. He wore only a shirt, shoes, stockings, and his breeches, the latter being held up by a sash.
Despite the clear sky, the weather was cool, so in addition to her borrowed umbrella, she wore a woolen coat recently procured for her in Hinderhead. Her half-boots were the same brown leather ones she’d been wearing since she’d left Bartley Green. The same bonnet that had made the trip to Scotland and back was on her head.
Bracebridge came to a stop several feet away. Her pulse sped up. She did like his height and the breadth of his shoulders. At the moment, his hair was a riot of black curls, and that dishevelment appealed to her as much as the rest. He never failed to make her pulse race. She’d had the idea that her relationship with Bracebridge might become something like her friendship with Harry Glynn, but it wasn’t that at all. Harry never smoldered the way Bracebridge did.
He put his hands on his hips and took in and released several breaths before he spoke. He didn’t seem annoyed or angry that she’d met him out here. “Em,” he said with a nod.
She came close enough to hand him the bottle, which he accepted with an appreciative nod. “Have you been waiting for me, or is this happy coincidence?”
“Not coincidence.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “I’ll warrant you’re the prettiest bottleman I’ve had at my side.” He referred, of course, to one of a prizefighter’s attendants during a bout.
“Mary says Mr. Rachagorla is very pretty.” As soon as the words were out, she wished them back. They made her sound as if she only cared about his looks. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Mr. Rachagorla was one of her husband’s closest friends. There was far more to him than his looks, whatever they might be.
“He is.” He leaned down to pat Frieda. “What a good girl you’re being. Gopal, however, never distracted me from a fight.” He unstoppered the bottle and drank deeply. “You would, though.”
She smiled. During her two seasons in London, she had successfully conversed with gentlemen and noblemen, cabinet ministers and members of Parliament, and she had never felt awkward or at a loss at any time. Bracebridge made her feel both. All the time.
He frowned at her, eyes narrowed. His lashes were thick and as black as his eyes. She had, in the privacy of their bedroom, kissed his beautiful eyes. She wondered what he’d think if she walked right up to him and did that now. “I should not have said that,” he said.
“That Mr. Rachagorla is pretty? Why not, if it’s true?”
“Not that.”
She patted Frieda’s shoulder. “What a good dog you are. She’s behaving very well, don’t you think?”
“When I compliment you, it is impossible to tell whether you take any pleasure in what I say.”
Her heart sank. This would soon be another mark in the column for failed conversations. “I assure you, I am always pleased.”
He handed the bottle back to her, then crouched down, hands cupped. She understood what he intended, for she poured water into his hands so that Frieda could drink. “You do not like flattery. That is my conclusion. What I don’t understand is why.”
“I do not want to argue. Not again. I apologize for making you think I do not appreciate your compliments.”
“This is a discussion, not an argument. I want to understand.” He stood and took back the bottle. He managed to wash off his face with what was left. When he was done, he rubbed his fingers through his hair.
“I suppose I could lie and tell you I wish to be flattered every moment of every day. But it isn’t so.” She waited until the lump in her throat was gone. “I appreciate your kind words, but are there not other things you might say to me? You might comment on the weather or something you have recently read. Anything.”
His expression moved from concerned to amused to something that made her think she really ought to kiss him. He looked at her from beneath half-lidded eyes. “Sometimes I tell you ‘more’ or ‘harder’ or ‘this spot over here.’”
“Yes,” she said, willing to have him divert her in this manner. “Sometimes you do say that.” With her most innocent expression and voice, she said, “I always follow your instructions.”
“You do.” He took a step toward her. “When we are intimate, I wish to tell you what I feel. Whatever your opinion about all the gentlemen who flatter you, you are an extraordinarily beautiful woman. May I tell you that, in those circumstances, without worrying that I am displeasing you?”
“Yes, of course.” She took a step closer to him.
“I’m not fit company for a lady when I’ve been training.”
She looked away from his face, from his soulful, expressive eyes. She had the right now to stare at him as much as she liked. Slowly her gaze moved downward. Her attention lingered at his chest and then at his hips. “Yes, look at you,” she said in a voice full of the white-hot spark of desire arcing through her. “What a sight you are.”
“Em.”
“I am not in the least offended by you.”
He grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands. “When I’m like this?”
“True, I like you better when you haven’t a shirt at all.”
He peeled off the shirt, revealing his heavily muscled chest. He gave her a wicked grin when he stood there, bare chested, his shirt clutched in one hand. “Like so?”
“Just so.” His smile melted her inside. She did like the way he looked. “There’s shade here,” she said, indicating a spot between several trees, three or four steps past the opposite side of the path and into the surrounding trees. “Wouldn’t you prefer to stand in the shade?”
Her entire being focused on Bracebridge when he glanced that direction. When he looked back, it was he who examined her from head to toe. She’d do anything for him when he looked at her like that, like he wanted to devour her. He took Frieda’s leash and tied one end to a branch suitable for the purpose.
“You prefer a disreputable m
an?”
“No doubt you’re ashamed to have a wife such as I am,” she said.
He grabbed her hand and walked them both off the path. “You’re correct. I had much rather be in the shade.”
She faced him, and he placed his hands atop her shoulders. She lifted her hands and set her fingers lightly to his chest. His skin was warm. She pressed her palms to his pectorals and slid her hands down. His body was hard, and she wondered why that did not frighten her, when he was so much larger than her.
“Give me your coat,” he said in a voice that was half growl. He stood behind her to assist her.
Her memories of that day a year ago when he had disabused her of the idea there could be anything between them pained her still. He had not been kind. But she had never been able to forget the moments leading up to those words.
She closed her eyes. This wasn’t Bartley Green, but all the same emotions burned through her. Bracebridge touching her, kissing her, his hands on her in places no one else had ever touched. Drugging, glorious, kisses. Her heart’s desire within reach.
When the garment was in his hands, he kissed the top of her shoulder.
That infamous day, they had been outside in the woods near the Cooperage, like now, on the edge of physical paradise. She had not known then what she did today, and she understood now why he had been so horrified. He had known that they were on the edge of unrecoverable ruin.
She was not the same woman now; how could she be? She was married, no longer innocent of all that, and the one thing she knew without any doubt at all was the two of them were physical creatures. Perhaps that was all they’d ever have.
He spread her cloak on the ground between the trees and helped her to sit. Once he was beside her, he kicked off his shoes. Her heart jumped because his smile was genuine and private, meant only for her. Only her.
Surrender To Ruin (Sinclair Sisters Book 3) Page 18