The Reunion

by Sara Portman

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Are you going after her?”

  His wife’s question broke his temporary paralysis and John looked up. He experienced an unfamiliar moment of uncertainty regarding just what to do next and realized he quite disliked it.

  “I’d say she needs time,” he decided finally. “There will be a period of adjustment.” Heaven knew he had no particular skill in comforting distraught women.

  Brydges stepped up to stand in front of him. “You’re my oldest and dearest friend, Worley, so I’ll tell you for your own good—your sister should be paddled like the infant she’s decided to become.”

  Heat suffused John. “Old friend or not, you’ll watch yourself when speaking of my sister,” he warned.

  Brydges only ignored the censure. “When is she required to watch her speech?”

  “Everything in her life as she knows it has changed in a matter of weeks. She is living in a country she does not remember, her mother has died, and she must learn the rules of an entirely different society from that which she has always known. Perhaps you could find some dregs of sympathy in your judgmental heart.”

  Brydges was unrelenting. “I’m quite capable of sympathizing with her predicament, that does not require that I tolerate her behavior.”

  Emma released a harangued sigh and glowered at Brydges. “Since I’m to be charged with mentoring Lady Charlotte, if you could find it within your power not to be aggravating to her already unhappy disposition, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  Brydges only glowered back.

  “Charlotte will come around,” John said, as much to convince himself as his wife. She didn’t verbally object, but he noted the tilt of her head and arch of her brow as she contemplated his claim.

  Brydges grunted. “Perhaps she might amend her behavior more quickly if you were to clarify its unacceptability.” He shook his head. “I shall leave you to puzzle out this monumental task without me. I fear my contributions on the subject will not be welcome.”

  John watched Brydges as he strode from the room, then turned to his wife. “She’ll come around,” he reiterated, much more confident this time. “Charlotte is back in the life she deserves, with a grand house and servants to do her bidding.”

  “Come around?” Emma’s voice had risen to fragile pitch. “Have you met Charlotte?”

  “She has been through such an ordeal…”

  Emma’s eyes rolled upward. “Yes, yes, the ordeal!” She threw her hands outward. “We have all had our mettle tested in some way, John, but that does not excuse us from returning basic kindness and decency to those who give it. Your sister is abominable.”

  “That is my sister,” he ground out. “Where is your sympathy?”

  “Sympathy? For that?” She marched toward him and poked her finger into his chest. “You deceived me.”

  He stared down at her and waited to speak until he was certain he could do so without a string of words that should not be uttered to a lady. “That is a ridiculous claim. You understood from the very first my reasons for marrying.”

  Her eyes flashed golden fire. “Yes. I understand the bargain I made, but when you spoke to me of your sister, you severely understated the task at hand. You are a liar, your sister is a shrew, and your dear friend Mr. Brydges is a pompous fool. Given these circumstances, I can’t possibly succeed.” She was near to shouting. “If I’m to be general of this crusade of yours, I require willing soldiers at the very least!”

  He glared down at her as his chest rose and fell with the effort it required to recover his ability to respond without shouting. When he did speak, he did so with deadly calm. “I suggest we end this conversation, madame, before you find yourself turned over my knee for your own tantrum.”

  In response to his command, Emma followed Charlotte’s example and quitted the room. One by one, they had all done so, even Brydges, leaving John to stand alone. What the devil had just happened?

  It was an uneasy beginning.

  * * *

  Emma spent the remainder of the day in her room, as she suspected did several other members of the household. She was not hiding, really. She merely needed the time to collect herself. Charlotte’s outburst had been a catalyst, causing the rest of them to lose their tempers and engage in outbursts themselves. Something had to be done to divert the course of the day. Isolation seemed as good a plan as any.

  She read for a bit, though with poor attention. Thankfully, she’d already read the novel once before. Her dinner tray had come, and she’d eaten a little. She occupied most of her time engaged in a concerted effort not to dwell on the present predicament, or more importantly, the future, which currently seemed of interminable duration.

  When she was without any further distractions, Emma rose from her chair, resolved to get undressed and retire for the evening. Her intentions were interrupted by a knock on the adjoining door. She wrinkled her nose at it. She was not yet of a mood to continue the arguments of earlier. She hadn’t yet decided if she should demand an apology from her husband or provide one. Both seemed the likely answer, but she had expected more time for contemplation before she was required to know for sure.

  Sighing, she walked to the door and drew it open. He was there. His shirt was loose and the neck untied. He wore breeches and boots, but no neckcloth. His hair gave her the distinct impression that he’d run his fingers through it more than once. His blue eyes locked into hers, triggering a rush of awareness throughout her body.

  She did her best to ignore it and stepped back from the door in invitation. He entered, his eyes traveling the room.

  “I’ve been reading,” she said, in answer to his unspoken question. “I’ve already eaten. Have you?”

  He nodded. “I had a bit.”

  Emma walked over to her bureau and busied herself straightening her book and laying her hair brush atop her hand mirror. He came up behind her and reached out to still her hand then drew the hand toward him, coaxing her to turn. Standing so near him, she was assaulted with memories of their wedding night and how his closeness could feel. Several places on her body remembered very well indeed. The experience had been so much more than she had anticipated—his touch, the words he whispered in his whiskey voice. Now, a simple hand on hers and his presence here in her bedroom was enough to call forth a jolt of desire.

  “I am sorry,” he said in a voice that was more gravel than whiskey. “I should have prepared you. I knew how resistant Charlotte was to life in England and I should have explained.”

  “What’s done is done.”

  He shook his head. “I did not anticipate how forcefully that resistance would be displayed and I apologize for her treatment of you.”

  Emma looked down. She had already received two apologies without demanding any. It was rather deflating to her state of pique. “You do not owe an apology for Charlotte’s behavior. We each must be accountable for our own.” She laced her fingers together. “Myself included. I am sorry for my harsh words against you, your sister, and your friend.”

  “No, no. I understand. Your temper was justifiably pricked. Charlotte should never have lashed out as she did. And Brydges…he has never been one to keep quiet when he feels strongly on a subject. He was offended by my sister’s behavior, and rightfully so.” John placed a finger under Emma’s chin to draw her eyes to his. “And his comment regarding you—to imply that by marrying you…”

  Emma averted her gaze. She stepped away from John’s reach, seeking respite from her rising warmth and quickening pulse. She walked to the bed and traced her finger through the carvings on the ornate wooden post. “There is no need to apologize for Mr. Brydges either. We need not pretend. We married for practicality, not for love.”

  “A practical marriage does not have to be a prison. We can be friends.” He covered the distance between them in two steps and reached for her hands again. “I thought we were becoming friends.”

  She gazed up at him, unsure how to ask what his friendship entailed, an
d found blue eyes wide with entreaty.

  “I need a friend,” he said huskily. “I need you. We are an imperfect coalition with little cause for hope, but the need for our crusade exists nonetheless. Charlotte may be resistant today, but the fact remains, she has no other choice but this one. There is nothing for her in Boston but poverty or worse. My father tore her away from the life she should have had. The life she lived instead with my mother no longer exists.” His hands tightened around hers with his fervent speech. “She must make a life here in England now.”

  Emma could not turn away from the desperate appeal in her husband’s soulful eyes. His normally guarded expression had opened, giving her a rare window into tortured depths. Gone was the clipped common sense of every prior conversation regarding John’s reasons for marrying. He was pleading, begging, for her help when she had expected matter-of-fact reminders of her obligation. She had the overwhelming sense that, to John, this was not an obligation. It was a quest.

  “This is very important to you,” she said softly.

  “It is not important. It is imperative. I am the duke now. I must restore to Charlotte the life to which she was born.”

  Had he inherited it, then, this obligation to atone for his father’s sins? Did legacies of mistreatment and duty to others pass through generations in the way of land and castles and coin? Emma could not imagine many peers would see it quite this way, but she could not deny the basic nobility of the idea was appealing—idyllic, rather. Yet, how could it be fair or sensible to future generations, the passing of guilt and a burdened conscience?

  “Your sister has been through a great ordeal,” she said. “I will not withhold my assistance simply because she has not yet accepted the need for it.” She watched John’s shoulders relax as she spoke. She felt his grip on her hands loosen. “I will grant your sister every ounce of my available patience. You’ve no need to fear otherwise. She is now my family as well as yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  The warmth that shone in her husband’s eyes at her assurances sparked a new awareness of his hands holding hers.

  He released one hand and drew a single fingertip up the length of her bare arm to her sleeve and down again to her wrist. “I can promise you, marrying you is no sacrifice. We may not have chosen each other, but that is no reason we cannot get on well together.” His arm slid around her waist as he spoke, leaving her with no question as to his meaning. If any doubt remained, he cleared it by leaning close to whisper in her ear, “Making love to you far surpassed my expectations and I would very much like to do so again.”

  His request, more breath than words against her neck, sent trembles through Emma. They were not trembles of fright, but tiny eruptions of delicious anticipation.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  John pulsed with desire already. The shot of pure need that coursed through him when his wife lifted amber eyes in silent acquiescence struck him like a blow. He wanted very badly to make love to his wife. More importantly, he wanted very badly for her desire to match his own.

  There were places for duty and obligation. This wasn’t one of them. He didn’t want that here. Emma had yielded to his requests for Charlotte because she was sensible. He wanted her to yield to him now because she was on fire, and he set about causing that very condition. He captured her mouth with his, tantalizing first, then plundering, claiming her lips the way he longed to claim her body. It was a dangerous thought—possession. He shouldn’t want her this much. He shouldn’t need to possess her.

  She released a throaty moan and lust charged through him again, scattering any thoughts of what he shouldn’t feel. He felt. He needed. And, God, it was good. It was very, very good. She kissed him back. She was willing—enthusiastic even—but it was not enough. He would not succumb to his flaring passion until he knew she was insensate with her own. He tore his lips from hers, steeling himself against his reaction to her disappointed sigh. He placed his lips more softly, this time at the gentle curve at the base of her neck, and pressed slow kisses along the length of her throat, punctuating each with a light flick of his tongue. Laying one hand on her breast, he gently squeezed the soft orb, massaging until he felt her press herself farther into his touch. Then he drew his thumb across the sensitive tip, feeling it harden in response beneath the layers of fabric that imprisoned it.

  He watched her golden eyes cloud with passion and flutter closed, dark lashes falling onto flushed cheeks. Her lips parted, tantalizing him like a ripe fruit. Using his unoccupied hand to brush aside the tendrils of hair that veiled one tiny, perfect ear, he lowered his mouth and brushed his lips across it. “You are so beautiful like this,” he whispered. “From this night on, I will see you just like this.” His tongue raked her dainty earlobe and he felt the shiver course through her. “When you come to breakfast in your tidy dress, with your hair in a prim knot, I will look through that and see you as you are now, shivering with passion in my arms, with lips swollen from my kisses and hair falling from pins we’ll never find.” He teased her earlobe with his tongue again, letting his warm breath blow across her ear. He caught the soft lobe in his teeth then dragged them lightly across it.

  She whimpered and he drew back. She stood, fully clothed, eyes closed, gripping the post behind her, as he caressed her breast with his hand. She was a picture of caged passion—alive with it, squirming with it, not yet broken free.

  Damn.

  He’d fired his own lust as much as hers. It ached. His mouth took hers again, without strategy or intent other than to feed his own hunger. As he ravaged her mouth, he felt her shift. Her hands no longer clutched the bedpost, but were on him, frantically running over his chest and arms and back. Then beautiful feminine hands were boldly tugging at the laces of his breeches. He groaned into her mouth as he kissed her.

  As she tugged at his clothes, he pulled at hers. He did not bother with buttons or laces; he yanked up on yards of skirt and petticoat and tore off underthings. He found her warm and wet and waiting for him. She called his name when he touched her and the knowledge that the slick heat between her legs was for him left him mad with wanting. He wanted to make her mad with wanting. She wasn’t there yet, but he was determined she would be. He tickled and teased her until she squirmed and begged his name again.

  Then he turned his attention to the fall of his breeches. He spent only a moment to finish the work she’d started on his laces and lower his breeches to the tops of his boots. Thus freed he took her hand in his own and moved it to him. Damn, but he wanted her to touch him.

  As her fingers closed around his flesh, her eyes flew to his. The sweet, hot pain must surely have been his limit, but then her lips quirked into a wicked smile as she held him, and the surge in his heated desire nearly incinerated them both.

  Christ.

  He may have only thought it. He may have said it aloud. He had no idea. He pulled her hips forward and leaned back, one hand clutching the post. He thrust into her and watched with primal satisfaction as her head fell back and her lips parted again. He gripped the post above her shoulder and slid his other hand around to cup her bottom—supporting her, pulling her to him to meet his thrusts.

  And he kissed her. God, he kissed her good, their mouths echoing the mating of their bodies. His urgency climbed with every moan of pure seduction she released into his mouth.

  She whimpered his name first, then called it out. She clutched herself to him as he drove into her. She shuddered and moaned, and he felt her body clench around him as it reached its peak. Her release unbound the last of his restraint. He thrust into to her. Once. Twice. He groaned with his own release and held her tightly to him as he came inside her.

  God and the devil.

  Slowly he withdrew and helped her to finish undressing. He led her limp form to lay across the bed. He lay with her, recovering his breath as she did. Recovering his sanity.

  They’d made love half-dressed and frantic, like illicit lovers in darkened corners or secret gardens. It was a heady drug, i
ndeed. Intoxication by that particular drug could only lead to damage. That uncontrolled need was where the danger lurked. His father had succumbed to it, and his obsession for his wife had ruined his family. John would not succumb. He would be stronger than it.

  He sighed. She was asleep. He gently rolled her to her side and rose, his languorous body objecting with every inch of movement. He located his cast-aside breeches and pulled them on. He gathered his boots and shirt. It was time for him to retreat to his own chamber, as gentlemen did once they had bedded their wives.

  Yet he didn’t. Not yet.

  He stood over her instead and watched her in repose. She was not a picture of peaceful slumber. Instead, she looked wild in the aftermath of their lovemaking—cheeks still flushed, lips swollen, limbs flung, and hair splayed around her. Persistent tugs in unknown places deep inside urged him to collapse back into the soft mattress and pull her warm, love-weary body up against his.

  Tempted though he was, he didn’t. He couldn’t. How shortsighted he’d been to think attraction to his wife would make this marriage of convenience easier to manage. He hadn’t managed his lust at all, nor was he managing this insistent tugging at his soul that urged him to spend the aftermath of their passion with her cradled in his arms. The very strength of his longing built his resolve to go. Lovesick foolishness turned too quickly to obsession and became a path to destruction. He’d witnessed it. He was still unraveling it. He would not become it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Emma awoke with a catlike stretch. She’d not slept so well since she was a child. She rolled onto her side and sat up on the edge of the bed. The chill was an instant reminder that she was undressed. She grasped a handful of bedding and turned to look behind her.

  The bed was empty. He was not there.

  How late had she slept? She fetched a wrapper and walked to the window, peering out to take the measure of the day. Her window did not face east to allow her a view of the morning sun and its position, but she could see the early light reflecting on a lawn still wet with dew, still reflecting hues of sunrise gold.