Emma hesitated, knowing she would have to remove her stays in order to change her chemise and petticoat. Alistair had said he would keep his eyes closed. Even still, was it entirely necessary for her to change her chemise? Was its state destroyed to the point of warranting she undress to full nudity in front of him?
She glanced down the length of her body. Her eyes immediately settled on the massive patch of maroon where Jenny's blood had dried. Emma flinched, her heart wincing over the young woman's death. The stiff cloth had been too long laying against Emma’s skin, the memories slicing too deep with each glimpse.
Yes, changing out of the dirty garments was paramount. She must.
“My stays, if you will.” She tried to sound confident when she spoke, but had begun to tremble so much, she doubted she did.
If he was surprised by her request, he said nothing and simply set to work loosening the laces of her stays as she'd requested.
“You promise you will keep your eyes closed?” she asked.
“I am a gentleman, Miss Emma.” His voice was low and rough and caught at a baser part of herself, which set her pulse pounding.
She tugged off the stays and petticoats and paused at the removal of her shift. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. She could do this.
She yanked the mass of fabric over her head and tossed it to the bench before reaching for the new one. It was when she was bent over, with her balance precariously tilted, that they hit a bump in the road. The carriage jostled and sent her sprawling into Alistair's lap wearing absolutely nothing.
***
Alistair had kept his eyes closed. That was until Emma fell against him. He grunted in surprise and reached instinctively to keep her from falling. His hands met supple, warm skin. Naked skin.
His eyes flew open to find a very shocked, and incredibly lush, Emma in his arms. Yes, completely naked.
Her mouth worked open and closed, her cheeks brilliant red. “You-your eyes.”
He plucked up the fallen shift and held it out on one fingertip, and closed his eyes obediently. However, not before the image of her imprinted itself onto his mind with the most decadent sear. Her body was full and curvy, the perfect shape for skimming his hands over, a shape that was unquestionably woman. Her skin was white as cream, unblemished and smooth against his palms, all except those pink nipples which stood proud atop the fullness of her incredible breasts. Perfect for being licked, and tracing with his tongue before drawing them into the heat of his mouth.
She scrambled off of him, and the panicked fluttering of fabric sounded as she no doubt tried desperately to wrest her way into the chemise.
His cock roared to life.
Dear God. She was even more lovely than he'd imagined.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and attempted to ignore the ache that had settled deep in his groin. She was a lady, an innocent who had asked for his help, not one of the widows he spent evenings tupping. Though right now, he wished he were traveling with one of those widows instead. A woman experienced and eager, one who would shamelessly lift her skirts and ride him where he sat.
Only his mind replaced one of those amorous widows with Emma. Her breasts arching toward him, her teeth biting into that sensual lower lip, her wide blue eyes hazy with pleasure.
Alistair grunted.
“Are you well?” Emma asked.
“Aye,” he answered tightly.
“Would you please assist me with my stays?”
He opened his eyes to find her back facing him. The chemise draped over her in a shapeless length of fabric, but he knew now what lay underneath, the curves.
He was torturing himself. His cock rose hard and eager beneath the length of his kilt. Never once had he been gladder for adopting the Scottish apparel in lieu of the English breeches. A placket wouldn’t have offered much discretion in light of his current state of arousal.
He hurriedly tied the laces of her stays with his eyes closed. As impatient as she was to be dressed, he was far more so. The torment of having her this close and not having her - it was unbearable.
If he didn't know his cousin, Hamish, was waiting for them on the outskirts of Edinburgh some days away, he'd insist they stop for a respite. He needed time away from her, and something had to be done about the pressure of his swollen cock.
“My gown, if you please.” Her request was softer this time.
Alistair sat forward, grateful she was clothed, and fastened the line of small buttons going up her spine.
“I'm sorry for falling on you,” she said. Her back tensed under his hands. “Especially…well…in a…a…state of…well…”
“Nudity?” He secured the final button.
“Yes.” Emma moved away from him and sat down on the bench opposite him. Her fingers went to the emerald and pearl bracelet she held an obvious affinity for and gently twisted it about her wrist.
“Where did you get that?” he indicated the bracelet.
Her fingers stopped. “My mother. It was hers.”
“It’s lovely.”
She smiled softly at that. “She was lovely. She died of a fever when I was eight. I put the bracelet on for comfort, and…” she shrugged. “I never took it off.”
He knew the nonchalance with which she spoke went far deeper than she wanted him to realize.
“And your pin?” She gestured to the gold W pin on the lapel of his jacket.
He practically grimaced. While her story had been one of love and honor, his was one of sin.
The “W”, the emblem of the Wicked Earls, declared him as a man of utter wickedness. He’d been readily accepted into the band of earls that was made up of rogues and rakes.
It was his whisky smuggling which had gotten him in, that and the memories shared with several from their time at Eton. His fellow Wicked Earls had been the only ones willing to take him in when the rest of the ton had been so ready to turn their backs. The men were of questionable character, even for earls, but they were his friends, his companions.
“It is part of my gentlemen’s club.” He did not elaborate, and instead changed the topic away from the pin and what it meant. “I assure you, there have been far worse occurrences in my life than having a beautiful woman land naked in my lap.”
She bent over, presumably to hide the bright blush on her cheeks, and gently ran her hand over Beast's golden head. The dog immediately popped upright in anticipation of affection, his tail thumping against Alistair's leg in the enclosed space.
“I wish you would stop saying that.” She frowned. “I am aware of the limitations of my own appearance and can assure you the compliments will not win you any favors on my part.”
“If I meant to win any of your favors, I wouldn't require words to do so.” He regarded her carefully. The blue gown could use a good pressing, but was otherwise serviceable for a woman to pass as a lady. She did appear to be more contented.
However, her figure was significantly more complimented in the whore's gown with its narrow waist and low bodice that put her womanly curves on full display. The fashionable day frock, albeit a poor fit made for a different woman, cinched under her bust and formed a tent of fabric over her small waist.
“Is that why you are unwed?” he asked.
She stopped petting Beast and looked up at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“If you were wed, you'd have a husband to see to your affairs and your circumstances would be considerably less complicated.” He lifted his brow. “Are you so plagued with false pretenses of your own attractiveness that you prefer to have no man in your life?”
Her cheeks went pink. “Your question is completely inappropriate. A gentleman should know—”
“A gentleman wouldn't have had the temerity to get you this far.”
She made a little humming sound and ceased petting Beast. He gave a whine and settled his head on her lap.
“I have the opportunity to possess my wealth without the burden of a man seeing to my affairs, as you put it.” She
rubbed at the fur behind Beast's ears. “When I am five-and-twenty, I'll be wealthy in my own right.”
It was a good reason, he'd give her that. Though it did make her the only woman he'd ever met who did not desire a wedding and the family that followed.
“And what of children? Do you not want to have them?”
Something dark flashed in Emma's eyes and she pursed her lips. “I cannot believe even the joy of children could make up for the hurt a husband could cause.”
Alistair scoffed. “You act as though you've been married before.”
“I was engaged.” She tsked quietly. “You are not up to date on your gossip, my lord.” She tilted her head in consideration. “But in your defense, it was a while ago.”
He hadn't heard. And he wondered what lies the fool had told her to give her such a skewed image of herself. He'd never been one for gossip, but found himself wanting to know this particular bit of it.
“And you?” She asked. “I assume you intend to marry. Or…” Her face paled. “Are you already?”
“I am not wed. I do not relish the idea of it.”
“But you're an earl.”
“And you're a daughter.”
She studied him, her hand rubbing absently behind Beast's ears. “Why do you not wish to wed?”
“Whose question is completely inappropriate now?” He smirked.
“I'm no noble born daughter, merely a merchant's daughter.”
“An extraordinarily rich merchant's daughter.”
She sighed. “As no one allows me to forget.” She gave Beast a final pat and settled against the cushion. “And you are avoiding the question.”
He narrowed his eyes. She was right. Banter was significantly more entertaining than discussing his life or the horrible failings of his parents' union.
Outside, a squat building came into view with a band of reinforced fencing lining the premises. The coaching inn.
“Suffice it to say, I've seen poor examples.” They rolled to a stop. He rose and gallantly held his hand out to her. “May I lead you outside for a brief respite?”
The door opened to reveal MacKenzie dutifully in place. Beast shot out between Emma and Alistair and splashed joyously into the thick mud below.
A smile teased at Emma's full lips. “Very well.” She settled her small hand in his. “But I believe you owe me more of a story than has been hinted at.”
Alistair led her from the carriage, ensuring to steer her away from the worst of the mud-thick puddles. “As am I owed more of a story, dear Miss Emma. As am I.”
Chapter 7
Neither of them brought up the topic of marriage again, and for that Emma was undeniably grateful. Though when the first inn keeper had assumed them wed despite their separate rooms, neither of them corrected him nor the ones who made the same mistake in the following days. After all, their assumptions protected her reputation.
Fortunately, Alistair had ceased attempting to placate her with pleasantries and flippant compliments. For that she was grateful as well.
It was a relief for him to view her as simply just another woman, and that gave her a greater feeling of comfort than she'd possessed around others in some time. The silence between them was agreeable. Companionable. And their conversations had been light and pleasant without either prodding too deeply upon the other.
He did not expect her to entertain him, nor did he attempt to fill the stretch of time with pompous boasting as many men were wont to do. And true to his word, they had slowed their pace, stopping at inns in the evenings for respite. He always ensured his room was beside hers and reassured her she could call on him for anything. And she believed him.
The silence between them had been so congenial that when he announced their arrival into Scotland a week later, she found herself somewhat disappointed. The time had gone far faster than she had anticipated. After all, she had every intention of going about on her own without him. Eventually. Having arrived in Scotland at present, she would have to do exactly that.
He had been kind, yes, but she would not put him at risk by remaining with him. Her uncle was a determined man, one willing to stop at nothing in pursuit of whatever it was he wanted. And he wanted her dead.
Alistair helped her from the carriage and led her to the inn set at the heart of a small village. Inside, the tavern was crowded and warm, its golden light cast from scores of sputtering tallow candles and a roaring fire in the heart. The air was thick, almost suffocating, and redolent with the odors of unwashed bodies and stale ale. It was not much different than other inns they’d stayed, and Emma anxiously awaited the opportunity to lay in a real bed without the ground rolling and bumping beneath her.
A tall, lanky man with a mop of red hair approached them with a broad grin.
“I dinna think ye'd make it.” The man clasped Alistair by the forearm and pulled him into a hearty embrace.
For his part, Alistair did not seem to pull away from the affection and instead patted the man on the back before releasing him. Had they been expecting to meet him? Alistair had not said anything.
“And who's this bonny lass?” He grinned and nudged his elbow in Alistair's rib. “The ladies always did favor ye, with yer broody silence and braw shoulders.” He gripped Alistair's shoulder and pushed slightly.
Alistair did not move. The gold “W” pin on his jacket glittered handsomely in the candlelight.
Emma observed the exchange with growing ire. She'd already been dressed as a whore in order to escape a house party of debauchery. She had been alone without an escort for more than a week, and had been unintentionally flung, sans clothing, into his lap. Now she stood in front of the stranger, wearing an ill-fitting and wrinkled frock, with no lady's maid to speak of.
By God, she was Emma Thorne, daughter of a man so esteemed he would never have allowed her to be perceived so poorly. Yet this young man would see her as a light skirt, flaunting herself at Alistair's side as if he were all she had in the world.
“It isn't as it appears,” Emma said without thinking. She twisted at her bracelet.
Both men peered at her.
The man looked between her and Alistair, his eyes twinkling. “What is it?”
“We're married.” Emma lifted her head and met the man square in the eye as she told the lie. “He's my husband.”
Alistair's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Strange, he hadn’t acted thus when inn keepers had made similar mistakes. He hadn’t rushed to correct them any more than she had.
Emma pushed aside the skin-crawling urge to cringe. This man was no inn keeper, but clearly one of Alistair's acquaintances. And yet surely he was someone Alistair would not see again once he returned to London.
Alistair was unwed by his own proclamation, and had stated he was not engaged either. The lie was innocent enough.
Why then did her stomach twist so?
The man didn't know who she was, nor who her father had been. Why had she offered the ridiculous statement? Blast it, but she was a fool of the worst kind.
This was why she preferred the country, around people she knew - there was no worry of saying daft things in an instant of panic.
“Married?” the man asked incredulously. “I dinna take ye for one to wed.” He looked to Alistair, as if in confirmation.
Alistair did not move or speak for a long moment. Finally, his gaze found Emma's, the questioning bright in his eyes. He could easily call her out on the falsehood. In fact, she deserved it.
“Aye, we are married, Emma is my wife,” Alistair said slowly. “Only very recently.”
“Congratulations, cousin,” the man exclaimed. He caught Alistair in another great hug. “That explains why ye asked if I would smu—”
“Aye. And it can be discussed later.” Alistair’s abrupt reply cut off the man and piqued Emma’s curiosity.
She had not forgotten his conversation with MacKenzie in Bedfordshire, the one where it was stressed he could not get caught.
“Hamish, I'm honored
to introduce you to my wife, Emma, the Countess of Benton.” Alistair indicated Emma. “Lady Benton, allow me to introduce my cousin, Hamish. He will be joining us on our trek to the Highlands.” He looked pointedly at her.
Emma hoped she smoothed out her grimace and the pulled smile on her lips was believable. She permitted her hand to be kissed by young Hamish and tried her best to be pleasant, the awkward circumstances notwithstanding.
Drat. This turn of events had not gone as planned.
“I'm sure ye're both tired, especially after so long a trip.” Hamish said. “There are no rooms left save the one ye had me get for ye early on. MacKenzie can stay with me. Go on to yers, up the stairs and down the hall. It's the last on the left.” He handed a key to Alistair.
Emma forced herself to keep her jaw from dropping open. They would be alone together. To sleep.
There was no way out of it due to the ridiculousness of her own lie.
“Thank you,” she said to Hamish. “I anticipate getting to know more of you and the rest of Alistair’s family.” She attempted to smile and hoped it passed for being genuine before she turned to Alistair. His face betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
Beast remained with MacKenzie as he did every night, leaving Alistair and Emma utterly alone.
Alistair offered his arm to her, which she took, and allowed him to lead her up the stairs. To their shared room.
What had she gotten herself into?
***
Alistair was fully aware Emma had no idea what she'd done. In declaring themselves married, and having them both agree to it publicly in front of a witness, they were indeed married.
She beheld the single bed within their close-quartered lodgings. “Thank you for not declaring me to be the liar I am.” Her cheeks were a brilliant red and her eyes shone glossy in the firelight of the hearth they were lucky to have.
Much as he hated to admit it, despite the strength she'd exhibited thus far, she looked ready to break. He ought to tell her they were truly wed, and yet he could not bring himself to do it. At least not yet.
The Earl of Benton: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club) Page 6