The Reunion

by Sara Portman

  “I…well…I have not asked him to pay more attention to me. There is no need.”

  “You are not happy.”

  “I worry. I have much to do. Once things have calmed down with Charlotte, I will be content.”

  “Only content?”

  Emma sighed. There really was no way to hide her feelings from Lucy. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hide them.

  “My marriage was built upon a bargain, not a romantic dream.”

  “Does it have to follow, then, that you cannot be happy in your marriage? Are there no marriages of convenience that become more than just convenient?”

  “I cannot claim that I am not happy in my marriage. My husband is kind and honorable. I respect his desire to restore his sister to her rightful place. My resistance to marrying him was, in hindsight, obstinate and foolish,” she admitted. “He is a good man.”

  “I believe the primary reason for your objection was the fact the matter had been decided for you,” Lucy offered wisely. “But wisdom prevailed, didn’t it?”

  “Marriage to the duke was, as you say, a wise choice. I am fortuitously near to Beadwell, my husband is exceedingly kind, and I cannot in good conscience complain of the fact that nearly all of my conceivable desires are addressed with immediacy by a perfectly trained staff of a number I could not begin to count.”

  “But not all of your desires,” Lucy suggested softly, her eyes searching.

  Emma tried to ensure her responding smile was in no way self-pitying. Perhaps she even succeeded.

  Lucy took Emma’s hand in hers. “I knew there was more.”

  Perhaps she did not succeed after all.

  She exhaled and met her friend’s gaze directly. “The unfortunate truth, Lucy, is that I have made the grave mistake of falling in love with my husband.”

  Lucy released an incredulous laugh. “Was that so difficult to admit? I suspected as much,” she insisted. “But why must that be a grave mistake? You have said yourself, he is kind and honorable.”

  “And honest. His reasons for marrying were made very clear. He has been a responsible and kind husband and duke. He is…attentive,” she said, struggling for the word, “to his husbandly duties.” The heat rose in Emma’s cheeks. “But he has many responsibilities. We do not spend much time in each other’s company. We are not a love match, nor will we become one.”

  “Are you so certain?” Lucy asked.

  “I am a grown woman. I may not possess as much wisdom and practicality as you do, dear, but I have enough good sense not to be mooning around composing sonnets about unrequited love.”

  “What good would a sonnet do?” Lucy asked sharply. “If you want to see what can be made of your marriage, you don’t hide in your room writing poetry. You seek out your husband and spend time in his company.”

  Emma laughed this time. “I cannot very well chase the duke around the estate all day, as though he is the fox in a hunt. He may, in fact, find that unsettling.”

  Lucy’s expression remained one of concern. “I am in earnest, Emma. Affection cannot grow between you while you are apart. If he has not yet become thoroughly enchanted by the woman he has taken to wife, I am convinced it is due to a lack of time in your presence, not any lack in the woman herself.”

  “So speaks my most fiercely loyal friend.”

  “Dismiss if you will, but I am unwavering in this belief. What harm can it cause to test my hypothesis?”

  “Perhaps.” Emma’s response was intentionally noncommittal. She was tempted to follow Lucy’s advice. But why was she tempted? Did it appeal to her for its practicality, or because, out of weakness, she was grasping at a seemingly rational excuse to chase down her husband and claim some of his time and attention for herself?

  Lucy knew her too well. “Do not deny I am correct, Emma. The consequences of not testing my theory may be greater. In the end, inaction constitutes acceptance.”

  Emma considered this. Was she ready to accept? She had accepted these circumstances when she agreed to marry John, but her feelings and wishes had changed. She was not ready. She did want more. “Very well, Lucy,” she said with a decisive nod. “I shall test your theory. I shall endeavor to seek out my husband’s company and see what may come of it.”

  * * *

  Dressed for dinner, Emma walked into the drawing room, pleased to discover only her husband. He stood on the far side of the room, gazing out the window at the estate cast in the last light of evening. She wondered if he saw it at all. His gaze appeared unfocused, as though he was more attentive to his thoughts than the picture before him.

  He was dressed for dinner as well, his tall, broad-shouldered frame trimmed in perfectly tailored clothes. He looked entirely ducal from head to toe—from the rich cloth of his jacket to the perfectly clipped dark locks at the nape of his neck to his unyielding posture. She liked how he looked just then—dignified, authoritative, regal almost.

  Her teeth tugged at her lower lip as she recalled she also very much liked the way he looked with mussed hair and a wolfish grin. She was, sadly, thoroughly enamored with her husband. Emma had come to terms with her sister-in-law this week. She was not ready to come to terms with her husband—not these terms anyway. She was going to follow Lucy’s advice, and though she had no skill, or even an inkling of how to begin, she was going to seek to capture her husband’s attention.

  She released a quiet sigh.

  The slight sound prompted him to turn.

  “Emma.” The smile she received allowed her to believe he was genuinely happy to see her. He crossed the room in a few long strides and took her hands. “You are a vision this evening. I do not recognize this dress.”

  “It’s new,” she confirmed, girlishly pleased that he should notice. She had ordered several new dresses along with those for Charlotte. This dress was her favorite among them. Her conversation with Lucy had inspired her to take extra care with her appearance that evening.

  “A lovely color,” he added. “Brighter than I’ve seen you wear, but you are beautiful in it.”

  The dress had been a bold choice for her. She possessed rust-colored dresses that were nearer to brown and felt they were a fair complement to her coloring. This dress, however, could not bear a name so drab as rust. It was the red-orange of flame, with not a hint of brown to mute the tone.

  “I’m pleased you like it,” she told her husband. “I was just thinking as I saw you what a dashing picture you make yourself this evening.”

  He grinned. “Pity that we are such a handsome couple but have only Brydges, Charlotte, and Miss Betancourt to see us. I fear they have known us too long and too well to be impressed with our finery.”

  Emma barely recognized the sparkling laughter as her own. If only this could always be the way between them. She smiled up at her husband with open affection, being for once completely unguarded.

  Her efforts were rewarded as he gazed back at her with equal warmth. His hand still held hers and he squeezed it, tugging her gently toward him. The heat in his blue eyes intensified and held hers.

  She stood, arrested by her own desire for him, until he lowered his mouth to slowly brush his lips against hers. The kiss was not long, his touch barely a whisper, yet she shivered.

  At the sound of voices in the hall, he stepped back a respectable distance, but continued to hold her gaze with a look that promised of a moment delayed rather than a moment ended.

  “Good evening, Lucy, Mr. Brydges.” She turned and greeted their guests with a bit more exuberance than intended.

  “Good evening to you,” Lucy responded with an amused grin and an elevated brow. “You are looking especially lovely.”

  “Why thank you. As are you.”

  “That color is striking,” Mr. Brydges observed, in a rare compliment to Emma.

  “Thank you.” She nodded graciously. She was not of a mood in that moment to be annoyed with any of their party.

  She was not even annoyed with Charlotte, who arrived considerably lat
er than the rest of them, leaving the group to wait before dinner.

  Once they were seated for the evening meal, the conversation began easily enough. John remarked upon the cooling weather and Mr. Brydges insisted he preferred the brisk temperatures for riding. Emma concurred with his sentiment.

  They were well into the meal before John turned to his sister and commented, “I understand you’ve been granted a furlough from lessons, Charlotte. I hope you’ll find something to occupy your time.”

  Charlotte’s smile was cryptic. “I am looking forward to some rest and time to myself.”

  John set his utensils aside and regarded her more intently. “For my part, I apologize if we have asked too much of you too quickly. I want you to be comfortable here. This is your home, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte seemed taken aback by her brother’s forthright manner, but Emma was glad for it. It was well past time for John to pay his sister some well-needed attention.

  “I…I know this is my home now.” Charlotte glanced around the table. “I am becoming accustomed to things here.”

  Whether or not Charlotte was becoming accustomed to life at Brantmoor, she certainly seemed more subdued, to Emma’s great relief.

  “Are these tavern biscuits?” John asked. He broke one open and tasted it. “They are. Charlotte, did you give Cook your recipe for my favorite biscuits?”

  Charlotte’s face reddened and she glanced around the room before answering. “I, um, yes. I told Cook they were your favorite.”

  John turned to Emma. “Charlotte used to make these for me in Boston.”

  Emma smiled, keenly aware that Charlotte must be anxious to know their reactions. It was exactly the kind of thing for which Charlotte would be judged by others, but Emma saw nothing shameful. “I did not realize you were so skilled in the kitchen, Charlotte. You must have been a great help to your mother.”

  “They are delicious.” Lucy announced it to the table at large.

  “I do believe she makes them nearly as well as you do, Charlotte,” John declared.

  Charlotte smiled and glanced at…

  Mr. Brydges?

  Emma watched in surprise as the two shared an unspoken exchange before Mr. Brydges broke the contact and reached for another biscuit.

  “My first was a bit dry, actually. I think I’ll have to try another.”

  “They aren’t at all dry,” Charlotte insisted. “I believe Cook has outdone herself.”

  Had Lucy witnessed this? Emma turned to her friend.

  Judging by Lucy’s triumphant expression, she had indeed.

  Could Lucy be correct? It still seemed so unlikely. Conversation at the table moved from an evaluation of the biscuits to discussion of the other food, and the general consensus was reached that Brantmoor’s cook was without equal. Emma, however, was still pondering the possibility that Mr. Brydges may have developed an interest in Charlotte.

  It was her concern, after all, given that Charlotte’s debut season and chaperonage were really in her hands.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Undressed for the night and exhausted from the day’s activities, John dismissed his valet but did not climb into his bed. He stared at it instead. He had begun to hate the thing. It was a luxuriously large and soft chamber of tortures. It was the cold, empty scene of sleepless nights and unsatisfied lust. His wife’s similarly soft, significantly more interesting bed was just steps away. Besides, he reasoned, enjoying the benefits of his marital status was not only a right but a duty for a duke such as himself. How did one go about producing heirs if one did not bed one’s wife?

  It was a lot of bollocks, that. John didn’t give a damn about an heir at that moment. He wasn’t even with Emma and he was already fully aroused. Denying himself had been a wasted effort. He certainly hadn’t prevented distraction. He was more randy now than he could ever remember being in his damned life. And at every ridiculously inappropriate moment. She’d been delectable in that red dress, and he’d been dangerously close to taking her right there in the drawing room where anyone could have seen them.

  That was it. He swung a dressing gown over his shoulders and charged toward the door that led to his wife’s chamber.

  Emma was not alone. She was still in her own dressing room, on the far side of the chamber, seated at her dressing table. Her long hair was unbound and her maid stood behind her, brushing through the chestnut tresses with long, steady strokes.

  Though her back was to him, Emma met his eyes in the mirror as he approached and smiled warmly. He smiled languorously back at her reflection and, taking the brush from the maid’s hands, sent the girl from the room.

  John continued the task himself, pulling the brush through the full length of his wife’s thick fall of hair. He followed the brush with the palm of his hand, smoothing the silken locks after each stroke. He watched Emma’s face in the mirror as he continued, watched her eyelids flutter closed and her head fall farther back in surrender to his ministrations. Her lips parted with a faint sigh, and he felt the stab of lust as sharply as though her hot hands had closed around him.

  He wanted her hands there…wanted to put his hands on her, but he continued brushing and smoothing her hair with long, deliberate motions. He had no need to rush. He intended to do the opposite, in fact. He had plans to slowly revisit all the places on his wife’s body that warranted attention, and he could think of several. As he inventoried them in his mind, he watched the rhythm of her breathing change, her chest rising and falling as though his every thought had been whispered aloud to her and heightened her arousal.

  When his need to touch her became too great, he gently lay the brush on the table and brought both hands to her shoulders, kneading with his thumb along her neck and driving his fingers into her mass of hair.

  She released a ragged sigh and leaned back against him in full surrender. He reached forward with one hand and untied the tidy bow at the neckline of her nightgown. The collar thus freed, he pushed the garment down, baring her shoulders, and moved his massage outward. He kneaded her shoulders and upper arms, pushing the gown lower as he went until it was barely draped across the upturned, tightened peaks of her breasts.

  Unable to resist any longer, he slid his hands forward to cup both, while leaning in to trace his lips across her collarbone and along her neck. He kneaded and teased and watched in the mirror as her lips parted farther and her breath became more labored. When she opened her eyes, he was gratified to see the cloud of desire that reflected back at him.

  Their eyes held for a moment while he touched her then she rose and turned to face him. As she did, he pushed the thin nightgown all the way to her waist, leaving her top bare. She reached for the tie to his dressing gown, pulled it undone, and slid her hands inside, pressing herself against him so her bare breasts teased his chest. He could feel her heat against his arousal, despite the thin fabric barrier that remained.

  She lifted her face to his and he captured her mouth. He probed with his tongue while she clung to him and slid his hand down her backside until the nightgown finally fell away, then he cupped her buttocks and pressed her tightly against his arousal, this time flesh to flesh.

  She groaned. At least he thought it was her. He couldn’t be certain, because it was so good, this hot desire that rippled between them as his hands slid and grabbed with a will of their own, and his mouth plundered hers with bruising kisses. With one arm around her back, he slid his other hand between them to tease her sex. He slid one finger inside her and felt her quiver, felt her lean more heavily on his supporting arm. Eyes closed, her head lolled backward, lips open, and John thought nothing could be more arousing than watching his wife surrender to the ecstasy of his touch.

  Then she lifted her head, opened her eyes, and locked her gaze on his just as her warm hand reached forward and closed around his erection, forcing John to amend his prior judgment.

  No longer able to trust himself on his own two feet, John interrupted their exploration to lead his wife to her bed and la
y her sideways across it. With complete lack of inhibition, she opened herself to him. He could bury himself inside her right then, but no. He had given in to his baser need, thrown all his fears and better judgment away. He was going to take his time and make every moment of this worth the wait and the self-sacrifice he had forced them both to endure.

  Hovering over her, he trailed a single finger upward along the pale satin skin of her inner thigh, brushing ever so lightly past the apex between her legs and watching her tense and quiver as he approached. Then he trailed the finger just as slowly down the other side. Cupping her mound with one hand, he bent his head and traced his lips along the line his finger had drawn. When he had finished teasing her with both his hands and his lips, he used his fingers to spread her folds and lowered his mouth to kiss her.

  She lifted her head. “John…I don’t…is that…”

  “Shhh.” He reassuringly massaged the inside of one creamy thigh. “Trust me.” He bent his head again and licked her, eliciting a shiver that seemed to course through them both. She was beautiful and she was his and he was going to savor every last part of her. He’d been wanting to do just this for so damned long. “Trust me,” he repeated, then set himself to the task of making love to her with his lips and his tongue.

  She tensed at first, then relaxed, clutching the bed linens at her side as he brought her to the brink this way she’d never experienced. Then he slid a finger inside her and she strained against him—against his mouth.

  “Holy God.” She barely whispered it.

  He felt her muscles contract around his finger, felt her body succumb to climax. He kissed her through it. He placed a soft, slow kiss on her inside of her thigh as she fell from the precipice.

  “John,” she said hesitantly, “I didn’t know…”

  “Now you know,” he said, rising to sit back on his heels. “I should have shown you sooner.”

  She looked at him through passion-clouded eyes. “But you haven’t…” He eyes dipped meaningfully.

  “Not yet.”

  “But we can still…”