The Reunion

by Sara Portman

  As though in answer to her thoughts, John gathered handfuls of the fabric at her sides and pulled the garment up over her head in a single motion. She stood there while he bared her completely. She was silent all the while, but her mind was still crowded. She was grateful to be facing away from him. She wondered at her own lack of modesty as she stood bared before him. Mostly she wondered at her own insufficiency and her dread of his inevitable disappointment. The whole thing had seemed very intriguing until she’d gone and wrested that ridiculous promise from him.

  He turned her body to face his. She complied without resistance, but she kept her head down, keenly aware of the heat that painted her cheeks.

  John set his finger under her chin and tilted it gently upward until her reluctant eyes met his. “What’s this? Are you frightened?”

  Horribly frightened. “No.”

  His large, firm hands stroked gently up and down her bare arms. “What’s wrong, Emma?”

  She had bared her body; she may as well bare her soul. She released a determined sigh and decided she had best come out with it. “I may have made a mistake.”

  His hands stopped. His expression warned of thunder. “What do you mean a mistake?”

  “I fear I may have created an impossible situation for myself.”

  He shook his head then bent to nuzzle her ear. “You’re speaking in riddles, Emma.”

  Her eyes closed briefly. It felt good, what he was doing just then. Her bared breasts arched involuntarily toward his naked chest. She could just let him continue, but… She pushed back from him. “I trapped you,” she blurted. “Into promising fidelity. Now in addition to women you’ve known in the past, when we…make love…you’ll be comparing me to women in the future—the women you might have known.” She dropped her head, too humiliated to look him in the eye as she finished. “How can any flesh and blood woman of the present—particularly an inexperienced one—compare with a woman who is naught but a hope or a potential—a promise of better, or even perfect?”

  “Oh, Emma.” John hugged her to him and the skin-to-skin contact was as deliciously intriguing as she knew it would be, even as she felt his laughter rumble through his warm, broad chest. “Don’t you see, you have it wrong? A flesh and blood woman doesn’t have to compete with a ghost or a dream.”

  She let him take her hand and lay it between them, on his bare chest where she could feel his heartbeat through his skin.

  “Your flesh against mine and your blood sending heat through your body. That’s the only way we can do this.”

  He slid his hands up to cup her breasts. She leaned into his touch, unable not to.

  “Right there.” His murmur in her ear was husky. “How does that make you feel?”

  “Like I’m falling,” she admitted. “Or suspended, but I want to fall the rest of the way.”

  “Hmmm. Not yet, sweet Emma, but you will, I promise.”

  He dipped his head to put his lips to hers again. He kissed her softly at first, gently tasting. She parted her lips only a little to start, hesitantly tasting his tongue with her own, but his insistence drew her into the kiss. His tongue teased her lips farther apart and danced freely with hers. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, burying her fingers into the nape of his neck, pulling herself more tightly into him, crushing her breasts more boldly into his hard chest. He ran his hands up and down the length of her back, and she sighed into his mouth at the loveliness of it. Then his hands slid lower and cupped her bottom as she clung to him, and, God, she like his hands there even better. Her fingers speared into his hair and she moaned. Still he kissed her—deeply, hungrily, until she felt an urgency building inside her. When he finally wrenched his mouth from hers, they both needed deep, panting breaths. He let his forehead fall against hers as they took in needed air.

  When he lifted his head and spoke, his blue eyes bore intently into hers. “Lovemaking is not for what might be tomorrow or years from now. It’s about losing yourself in this moment, with this person. There has never been anything that is less about the past or the future and more about right now.”

  She looked in his eyes and she believed him. She couldn’t imagine herself in any moment other than this one, with his hands moving over her body, sending jolts of sensation to every corner of her being. She let John gently lift her and lay her down across the bed.

  He quickly divested himself of the last of his clothing and joined her there. He hovered over her with a knee on each side and lowered his head to her breasts. She nearly rose from the bed as his mouth closed over one nipple. She plunged her fingers into his hair and clutched him to his task. His hand stroked the inside of her leg at her knee and gently teased upward toward the place where her need pulsed the hottest. She twitched and squirmed as he dragged one finger upward at the opening to her very center.

  “John.” She gripped the bed linen as she called out his name, not certain whether it had been a shout or a whisper.

  Emma was acutely aware that she should do something—participate somehow—but she was incapable of anything more than simply reacting to these new sensations and the restlessness building inside her.

  His mouth fell onto hers as his hands continued to stroke and knead in places she’d never understood could be so painfully sensitive—so wonderfully, painfully sensitive. She slid her arms around his neck and clung to him, giving all the urgency and passion he was creating inside her back to him in that kiss.

  She held on and prayed that the feelings wouldn’t stop, even as she begged him to cease his torture.

  “John…I need…”

  She didn’t know precisely what she needed, but she trusted John to know—had no choice but to trust him.

  John’s breath was labored and short as he hovered above her, watching her. His eyes burned with an intensity that held her focus, warring with the effect his rhythmic touches were causing until she was able to hold no other thought in her mind besides knowing that the hottest part of a flame was not orange or red, but blue. This blue. His blue. Oh God. Her back arched. Her eyes fluttered closed. “Please.” It was barely a whisper.

  “Emma, open your eyes.” He said it sharply enough to penetrate her haze, even as his hands and his body worked to keep her fully distracted.

  She complied, then gasped, as his fingers plunged inside her.

  Her lips stayed parted and he captured them again.

  “Look at me, Emma,” he said again, once he’d broken the kiss.

  Her eyes fluttered open once more and he smiled, wickedly pleased. Her hips undulated involuntarily against the motion of his hand.

  “What did you do yesterday?”

  Emma’s mind struggled to respond, but the urgency prevented even basic comprehension of his words.

  He dipped his fingers inside her again. The low moan she released started in her throat, but reverberated through her body.

  “What did you do yesterday, Emma? What did you do this morning?”

  Her mouth opened, silently at first. “What…I don’t…”

  He changed rhythm and her arm flung to the side, clutching at a fistful of bed linens.

  John buried his face in her neck. “There is no before or after,” he whispered. “Only now.”

  She quivered at his words.

  “I’m going to make love to you now, Emma,” he whispered, his lips moving against the skin just below her ear. His voice was low and ragged. “I’ll go slow. I don’t want to hurt you. I just can’t hold out any longer.”

  His words pierced the veil of Emma’s haze. Her eyes opened widely as his fingers slid out of her and his erection probed at her instead. Emma gasped and tensed as John’s body slowly invaded hers. There was tightness, she realized, but no pain. He moved rhythmically, first deeper, then shallow, then deeper again, and she relaxed to the pleasure of the sensations his rhythm produced. The rising need for release began building all over again.

  She clutched him tightly as it built. She was aware of making sounds, but didn’t s
eem to be in direct control of them. Then the crescendo broke and she clutched him even more tightly. She held him through it as the waves shook her, then felt his body tense. He released a low groan and lowered himself atop her.

  He lay there a moment before he spoke.

  “I must be heavy. I will move just as soon as I am able.”

  He was heavy, but she didn’t mind the weight. It was…reassuring. She lay there quietly, stretched out underneath him, their bodies in contact in so many places, and tried to simply take it in. This, she decided through a slowly clearing mental fog, was an aspect of marriage she could not have understood beforehand.

  John pushed himself up and rolled to his side. He reached down to pull the bed coverings over them both then settled in next to her, with one arm draped across her.

  Snugly in this position, Emma was quickly overcome by the exhaustion of the day. She smiled to herself as sleep settled in and granted her own measure of forgiveness to those girls who found themselves tempted into assignations without benefit of the marital blessing. If only she’d understood, she’d have been tempted herself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emma awoke when Liese entered her room. Startled, she turned to see that she was alone in her room. She reached a hand to the spot where her husband had been and felt it still warm. She smiled.

  “Good morning, Liese,” she said cheerily.

  “Good morning, ma’am. His Grace sent me to see if you’ll be wanting to dress for breakfast, or have a tray in your room.”

  “I believe I shall go down to breakfast,” she said, anticipating the company of her husband. Emma sent Liese away after she dressed, as she recalled the location of the breakfast room from the previous day’s tour and did not require an escort. She wore the nicest of her morning dresses, a pale green she thought complimented her brown hair and eyes. The flutter in her stomach as she went to meet her husband was entirely involuntary.

  She shook her head at her own girlishness. There was no need to feel fluttery. He was her husband. They had done what husbands and wives do. She thought for a moment that food may be the cure, but the feeling intensified as she drew nearer to the breakfast room, and she knew that whatever a meal might do to lessen the feeling, the presence of her husband would have the opposite effect.

  Goodness. She had better get herself together. She would be mortified to blush and stumble her way through breakfast.

  “You found your way, I see.” He rose as she entered. “Did you have any difficulty?”

  The smile she returned was involuntarily exuberant. “No difficulty, thank you.” Heavens. Was she blushing? She walked to the sideboard and busied herself filling a plate with toast, ham, and a boiled egg. She chose the seat at John’s right and noticed that no plate sat in front of him. “Have you finished?”

  “No, actually, I was waiting for you,” he said, and flashed her a charming smile before setting about the task of filling his own plate. “Tell me,” he said once he returned to the table, “what has been your impression of Brantmoor, Emma? It has been without a chatelaine for a long while. There may be areas my father neglected.”

  “None that are evident to me,” she commented. “I’ve not had an opportunity to speak much with Mrs. Dewhurst, but my impression of both the woman and the house is that she must indeed be quite competent.” Emma glanced idly at the stoic footman who stood at the ready to see to their needs. She had not noticed any lack, but was also wise enough to realize if she had commented upon anything, that fact would be swiftly reported.

  “I am anxious to learn all there is to know about my new home,” Emma said.

  “There will be time for all of that. We will not be at Brantmoor long, however. We must return to London to meet Charlotte’s ship when it arrives.”

  “Will her ship arrive soon?”

  “Very soon. I would like to depart for London tomorrow morning.”

  Tomorrow? She’d only been duchess for one day. She’d had yet to confirm that Mr. Crawford would indeed be abandoning his claims against Simon. She couldn’t return to London until she could be certain Simon was safe. What if Mr. Crawford had changed his mind? “Tomorrow is quite soon for me to travel. I am still unpacking my belongings and moving things from the cottage. I have matters to settle there.”

  “What is there to settle?” he asked. “It’s a tiny cottage and the Browns seem competent.”

  For the briefest of moments, she considered apprising him of Mr. Crawford’s threats to Simon, but she did not. Though her new husband had certainly demonstrated a nobility of character in supporting his mother and rushing to his sister’s aid, he had also demonstrated sufficient stubborn will and highhandedness to give her pause. She simply could not be confident, at this early stage, if he would honor his promise regarding the cottage. “Well, there are things to be packed. And I must make sure the Browns and Simon have directions regarding my mother’s garden.”

  He set down his knife and frowned at her. “These matters shall have to wait, I’m afraid, as the arrival of Charlotte’s ship will not.”

  Emma swallowed. “Certainly,” she said, “I would never suggest that you not arrive in time to meet your sister. I thought perhaps you would travel to London without me.”

  “I don’t particularly like this idea,” he stated, a little more loudly, as though addressing a larger group than just Emma.

  She felt a brief tug of guilt for her omissions. Could he be lamenting the lack of her company? She warmed at the thought that he was loathe to leave her behind.

  “Your responsibility is to Charlotte, and Charlotte will be in London.”

  Her guilt faded. He was concerned about her end of the bargain, nothing more. Well, his end of the bargain had been a promise that she could see to the cottage when necessary. “Surely you don’t expect Charlotte to begin her education the moment she disembarks,” Emma said primly. “She must have time to…absorb England. Besides, she will have missed you, and will want to reacquaint herself. I, on the other hand, am a stranger to her. Perhaps it is better that she and I meet after the two of you have been reunited.”

  He eyed her unhappily. “I don’t understand. You will need to return to London. Charlotte will be there.”

  “Bring Charlotte to Brantmoor. That is much better, really. You and I have just been married in the country. Everyone will expect us to host our first event as a couple when we return to town. To do so anytime soon would be premature. If Charlotte attends, she would be unprepared. If she does not attend, she will be conspicuously absent.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Emma could not determine if her rationale was persuading him, but she continued. “If you bring Charlotte to Brantmoor, we will have some peace and isolation in which to prepare her. We can then return to London in time to attend a few events and host a ball of our own before the season is ended.”

  John leaned back in his chair and silently contemplated her suggestion. Emma wondered if he was already regretting his choice and wishing he had found a more biddable wife.

  Eventually, John relented and agreed to collect Charlotte from London without her, a concession for which Emma should have been glad. But her husband left the room quietly after breakfast and her spirit was unaccountably dampened.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Despite being the peak of the season, White’s was oddly deserted. John would have preferred a bit more action to distract himself that evening. If he and Brydges wanted to sit quietly and consume indecent amounts of liquor in private, they could have done so at Worley House without the trouble of a perfectly tied cravat.

  “You are quiet this evening,” Brydges noted.

  “I am rarely outspoken,” John responded, though he knew his friend was correct.

  Brydges lounged back in his chair and took a fortifying sip of fine French brandy. “How is Mrs. Brantwood settling in these days?”

  “Fine, I imagine.”

  John swirled his own brandy under his nose, breathing deeply. “Ahh, I’v
e missed that.”

  “So the new duchess is settling in, is she? You’re satisfied with your choice?”

  “Perfectly,” he said, then sniffed his brandy again. “Of course, I don’t expect we’ll be in each other’s company much. She’ll have plenty to occupy her time once Charlotte arrives and I’ve countless areas on the estate requiring my attention.”

  If Brydges had any questions or had drawn any conclusions as to why the newlyweds had not returned to town together, he did not voice them. Let him judge in silence if he would. John was a bit annoyed by the situation himself. Here he was in his third day of marriage, drinking brandy at his club in London instead of home in bed with his wife. He’d bedded his new wife only once. From his perspective, they’d done a fine job of it, yet she’d been no less stubborn after the event than before. And she’d been more worried about the blasted cottage than accompanying him to fetch Charlotte.

  Brydges shook his head. “So the old man left things a mess at Brantmoor, eh?”

  John shrugged. “Not entirely, but I think he may have gotten a bit neglectful at the end.” He set his snifter on the side table and sat straighter in his chair. “I could use your expertise in evaluating the stables.”

  Brydges nodded. “I’d be happy to lend it.

  “I know you’ve been busy while I was away,” John said, feeling guilt that he had yet to see the successful stud operation Brydges had built during his absence. “I’d like to come out and see what you’ve built, but there are other demands to my attention at present.”

  “You may consider it a standing invitation,” Brydges assured him. “Are you thinking of expanding the Brantmoor stables?”

  “Maybe a bit. Nothing on the scale of what you’ve got.”

  “Well, I imagine you’ll need a couple of ladies’ mounts to start.”

  John’s mouth turned down again at the reminder of his wife. “You’re right. The duchess plans to ride a good deal, I understand. Charlotte’s never ridden, but she’ll have to start.”

  “Never ridden? But you ride like the animal is an extension of yourself. I can’t imagine you having a sister who’s never ridden.”