What a Lady Requires

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  But for the moment, he resisted. They had still the entire morning ahead of them. “I don’t understand the fascination with all…” He gestured vaguely at the pile of ledgers and stacks of business correspondence. “With all this.”

  “There is a beauty to it.” Emma glanced fondly at the page of figures. A sudden, odd desire lanced through him, akin to her shifting on his thighs, but originating somewhat higher. How long had he wanted a woman who would look at him like that once in a while? Who approached him with tenderness, rather than blatant temptation and the intention of leading him astray. “Don’t you see? A perfect logic when it works. And when it doesn’t, you have to search for your mistake. It becomes a puzzle you have to solve. Once you find the error, everything falls back into perfect balance.”

  No, he didn’t see. Not at all. But she did, apparently. Whatever beauty she found in the logic of her books was reflected in her shining eyes. Such passion in her. A passion he longed to unlock for other reasons. If she could show this much enthusiasm for her columns of numbers, imagine what he might coax out of her in bed.

  You tried arousing her passions. It wasn’t enough to overcome your past.

  He shook the thought aside. He hadn’t begun this little game to contemplate his shortcomings in the marriage bed—shortcomings that were resolving themselves in the blasted study, of all places, and before the deuced books. What would she make of it if he cleared all her precious ledgers off the desk and used the wooden expanse for a more sensual purpose?

  He swallowed. This vein of thought wasn’t doing anything for the suddenly tight fit of his breeches.

  He’d meant to prove he was in control, but had he really? He’d distracted her, yes, but at the same time, he’d distracted himself. Damn it all, he wanted her, and despite their surroundings, his body was complying.

  Once again, her weight shifted, a painful reminder of the rounded curves that awaited his discovery. He could unwrap her like a gift. Did she realize the significance of the hard ridge of his arousal beneath her thighs? She must feel it; God only knew its ache might kill him yet. Was she thinking about what it meant? Wondering how she’d take all of him into her?

  He caught her gaze—held it—watched the deep blue of her eyes darken to violet behind her spectacles. Her lips parted, and her tongue darted out to moisten them.

  “God help me.” The words burst out of his throat on a growl the instant before he took her offering.

  Without a single hint of protest, she opened to him and twined her tongue with his. He raised a hand to her nape, holding her head steady while he deepened the kiss. More, more, but not enough. Never enough.

  Something seemed to break inside him, and a powerful wave of passion welled up. Months and years of emotion held in check. How his prim and businesslike wife had defeated the memories held in this house, he didn’t know.

  Perhaps it was her very innocence. Perhaps it was because this was his right and he took it. Either way, she’d unleashed him, and he ached to plumb the full depths, to span the heights until they both lay spent and disheveled and naked.

  Their kiss had turned into something wild and ferocious, and Emma was matching every one of his tongue-strokes with a thrust of her own. A sensual battle, like parrying swords, but in this, too, she was his equal.

  Her hands mapped a path up his arms and tangled in his hair. He tore himself away for a moment simply to look upon her flushed cheeks and swollen, pouty lips. On the bridge of her nose, her spectacles lay askew and smudged. Her eyelids opened slowly, unveiling the fire behind them.

  More. Not a mere statement, but a demand, one he would gladly fulfill.

  “What is this?” Her voice was hoarse with need.

  “Lust.” Deliberately, he moved his hand to the fullness of her breast. Beneath the layers of muslin and stays, her nipple strained into his palm. “Desire, if you will.”

  “Is it always like this?”

  He nearly pulled back. Last night, his heedless reference to his experience had soured the mood—the last thing he wanted now. But she must learn to accept him for what he was, whether or not he ever confessed his entire past.

  “It is a very, very powerful thing.” He punctuated his words with the brush of his thumb over the hardened tip of her breast.

  Her eyes fluttered closed, and her head tilted back. Victory. At least he was going to manage his duty as a husband and consummate this marriage. Soon, soon he could relieve the ache in both of them, the emptiness, the need.

  He dipped his head to set his lips to the base of her neck. “Do you want me to touch you in scandalous places?” he muttered against her skin.

  A whimper escaped her lips, the response more eloquent than a complete sentence.

  “I can think of other places to try.” He tightened his fingers about her thigh, rucking her skirt upward. “Better ones.”

  The rasp of a clearing throat stopped him cold. Distinctly masculine, that sound. Not Emma calling a halt, damn it.

  He glanced past her shoulder to find the deuced butler hovering on the threshold, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

  “What is it?” Rowan snapped, Can’t you see we’re occupied? on the tip of his tongue.

  “Your pardon, sir. I regret to inform you that callers have arrived. Mrs. Strawbridge and Miss Strawbridge await in the front parlor.”

  A single brow raised, Rowan cast a glance at his wife.

  Regrettably, Emma took advantage of the moment to wiggle her way out of his lap. “Aunt Augusta and my cousin.”

  “Ah.” With a nod, he shifted in his seat, but nothing helped the fit of his breeches. “And don’t they have perfect timing?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Emma wasn’t sure how she made it to the sitting room. The vestiges of desire still buzzed through her, turning her knees to water. And the echo of Battencliffe’s promise. I can think of other places to try. Better ones.

  Heavens, she ached in some downright scandalous places, ached and throbbed. She could only hope by better ones, he was talking about those very spots and he’d make good on his word soon.

  Blast her aunt for choosing this moment to pay a call. They’d been on the verge of consummating their marriage, she and Battencliffe. No matter they’d chosen a rather unorthodox manner. The impending pain be damned, Emma wanted relief. More than that, her body required it the same way it required air and nourishment.

  She stopped on the threshold in hopes the small pause would calm the hammering of her heart. Uriana occupied the settee, her spine straight and her derriere the required two inches from the seat back. Aunt Augusta stood in the far corner—the one where Emma often took care of her correspondence under the guise of more ladylike pursuits—ruffling through some forgotten papers.

  Emma cleared her throat. “Have you misplaced something?”

  Aunt Augusta started and pivoted on her heel to regard Emma through narrowed eyes. “As a matter of fact, I thought I’d left some embroidery silks in this room in my haste to move out. You wouldn’t have happened to find them?”

  Under her aunt’s scrutiny, a blush crept up Emma’s cheeks, which were doubtless already pinker than usual after her encounter in the study. She had the feeling her aunt knew exactly what she’d interrupted. Among other things, Emma’s lips must give her away. They were still tingling. However, none of that meant she should put up with her aunt’s disingenuousness.

  Since her marriage, Emma was the lady of the house, after all. “I cannot imagine why they’d be in that corner when you’ve always sat closer to the window. For the better light. I might also note that I’d never leave anything of a personal nature lying about.” Previous letters to Mr. Hendricks notwithstanding. “Not when I’ve the entire house at my disposal now.”

  Aunt Augusta didn’t even have the grace to look away. “So you admit to the necessity of hiding—what is it, your personal correspondence? And after I warned that husband of yours—”

  Emma marched forward a step. “I will thank you to
keep your nose out of my affairs.” Aunt or no, some things were not to be borne. “Was there a reason behind this call, or did you only come to spy?”

  Aunt Augusta sniffed. “Perhaps I came to see how married life was treating you. Perhaps I was interested in whom you might be receiving.”

  Emma made a show of glancing about. “It looks as if I’m receiving you.” And more the pity. “As for married life, it’s treating me just fine.” No thanks to Aunt Augusta’s meddling.

  Uriana leaned forward in her seat. “Is it really?”

  Her words emerged slightly breathless—not with disbelief, not quite. But it was something between incredulity and hope. Aunt Augusta must have frightened the chit so with her description of conjugal relations that Uriana expected to find Emma in bed languishing. Poor thing.

  “I’ve never felt better in my life.” Perhaps that was taking matters too far, especially when she hadn’t yet experienced the full scope of the marriage bed, but given the feelings her husband aroused in her, she couldn’t imagine the consummation hurt all that dreadfully.

  Unless it was left unfinished.

  Aunt Augusta tsked and headed for her usual seat. “While we’re here, I may as well ask you about your invitations.”

  “What?”

  “Your invitations. I wish to see if your wedding has gained you entrée into some of the better parties. Word has it the Posselthwaites are holding a masquerade.” Aunt Augusta shook her head. “Ridiculous name, Posselthwaite.”

  Emma clamped her lips shut on a retort. The woman had no place criticizing anyone’s name when she called her own daughter Uriana. “The stack is in the study.” Not that she was inclined to fetch it. “I may well have, but I really haven’t looked.”

  “Haven’t looked? Unheard of. That was the entire point behind this wedding, and now if Uriana is to have a chance at a decent match…”

  With a sigh, Emma sank into a chair. “Shall I ring for tea?”

  “Of course, and send Grundy for your invitations while you’re at it. You will need my guidance as to which you’ll accept. And you really ought to put some thought into hosting some form of entertainment yourself. Nothing as extravagant as a ball, not so early in your career, but a small dinner party would make for a splendid launch. If you make the guest list somewhat exclusive, you might even find yourself in demand before too long.”

  Aunt Augusta made the prospect sound like the most sumptuous Christmas present wrapped in fine white paper and tied with a silver bow. To Uriana, it would be. Emma could not imagine a worse torture, not when she’d be expected to entertain society wives. She’d far rather drink port with the gentlemen and discuss business.

  “I’ll take your suggestion under consideration.” And she’d consider it the moment pigs sprouted wings.

  Aunt Augusta rummaged through her reticule until she produced a sheet of paper. “I’ve a menu all worked out. Now, if we can just see which functions you’ve been invited to, we can settle on an acceptable date. As for the guest list…”

  Thankfully, or perhaps not, Grundy chose that moment to bring in his salver, stacked high with invitations. A few of them drifted to the floor as he presented it to Aunt Augusta. Rather attentive of him, that—or had he been hovering at the door?

  Uriana clapped her hands. “So many.”

  “Indeed.” Aunt Augusta sounded as delighted as a pauper presented with a fat Christmas goose. “Now, let’s see.” She picked up the first card. “Oh, no. Lady Epperley is giving another ball in honor of her blasted cat. We’ll be declining that one.”

  Lady Epperley…why did that name sound familiar? Oh, yes, Henrietta Sanford had mentioned her in passing. Emma reached for the invitation. “I think I ought to accept this.”

  “Good heavens, why would anybody wish to encourage such utter nonsense?”

  “I believe it would only be polite, as I’ve made the acquaintance of one of her relatives.”

  Uriana perked up. “Oh, really? Who?”

  “A Mrs. Sanford called on me yesterday, along with her sister-in-law. Mrs. Sanford is connected by marriage, while Lady Lindenhurst is a distant relative.” There, that ought to satisfy her social-climbing aunt. She’d received a titled lady.

  “Oh, no,” Aunt Augusta bust out. “Oh, no, no, no. Those are most definitely the sorts of social connections you’d best avoid.”

  “Why?” Although Emma might well guess. Her aunt specialized in finding out the most shocking tidbits.

  “There is scandal connected with that entire family. I know who Mrs. Sanford is. She was born Henrietta Upperton.” Aunt Augusta paused, as if she expected Emma to fill in the blanks on her own. Uriana seemed to, for she gasped.

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Her brother,” Aunt Augusta pronounced, as if that explained everything.

  “Whose brother?” As far as Emma knew, that might refer to Lady Lindenhurst’s brother, Alexander Sanford, or some other nameless sibling.

  “Mrs. Sanford’s brother. He married that disgraced Marshall girl. They’ve retired to the country, naturally, but that hasn’t kept word from circulating. As for Lady Lindenhurst…” Aunt Augusta trailed off ominously.

  “What have you heard, Mama?” Uriana asked.

  “Nothing but rumor, and those are bad enough. Only be assured these are not the sort of people whose company you wish to cultivate. Not if you expect to rise in society.”

  Emma kept her mouth closed, but the wheels in her mind began to turn. Henrietta and Cecelia might be the perfect friends if she wished to avoid her aunt’s version of social climbing. Henrietta, in fact, might tell her something of his brother’s wife—ammunition of a sort to be used against Miss Emily Marshall’s attacks. Not only that, the ladies’ husbands were once friends with Battencliffe.

  If, in the end, he decided to renew that acquaintance, she could hardly cut their wives. Not when they’d done more than any of the other ladies. They’d extended the hand of courtesy to her first.

  —

  Rowan pushed aside a brimming mug of ale and cast a cautious eye about his surroundings. The table before him sported a thick layer of grime, rendering it only slightly cleaner than the floor. In fact, the wooden planks beneath his feet seemed to suck at his boot soles. In the very back of the dim room, two toughs hunched over mugs and eyed him.

  Assessing the cove, no doubt. The contents of his purse would disappoint them, but they wouldn’t realize that until they’d kicked the stuffing out of him.

  The public house near Covent Garden wasn’t his idea of an ideal meeting place, but then he hadn’t chosen the venue. After he sent word to Dysart yesterday, nothing less than a summons had arrived in reply. The Cock and Bull, tomorrow afternoon. If only the Bow Street Runner would hurry. The pair in the corner had glanced over more than once.

  One of them pushed to his feet. Shite. Under the cover of his table, Rowan casually groped for the knife he’d shoved into his boot before heading here. Halfway across the room, the man paused and turned back.

  In the next moment, Dysart yanked the chair opposite Rowan from beneath the table, spun it about, and sat hunched over the chair’s back. “Wot choo want?”

  “I talked to a few members of my club yesterday.” His club, on St. James Street, which offered more than its share of safer meeting places than this. “I thought you’d be interested in my findings.”

  The same serving girl who had brought Rowan his dubious mug of ale sidled over. “Wot choo having?” She leaned over, offering a generous view down her bodice. “Ye knows ye can have wotever ye wants.”

  Dysart barely spared her a glance. “P’rhaps later, luv. I gots business.”

  The girl poked out a lower lip and nodded at Rowan. “Ye want t’ introduce me t’ yer friend? He ain’t very forthcoming.”

  “Off wit’ ye.” Dysart reached into his ragged topcoat and produced a cheroot. Without lighting it, he sucked on the end for a moment before turning back to Rowan. “Interested
in yer findings, is it? Wot choo hire me for if yer askin’ questions yerself?”

  Rowan waited for the serving girl to flounce off before replying. “Among other things, I thought you’d like to know Crawley isn’t involved in making off with the blunt.”

  Dysart drummed his fingers on the top rail of the chair back. “How d’ ye reckon that?”

  “The whole scheme is too big. It wasn’t just me and him and a few others. Higgins took in a great many more. Why, there’s Andrews and all his friends. Fotheringham. Everyone I’ve talked to seems to know someone else who’s lost something.”

  “Andrews. Fotheringham. Those names supposed to mean something to me? And why should they exonerate Crawley?”

  Rowan stared at him for a moment. Who would expect such a rough character to spit out a word more suited to a classroom at Eton? “Crawley didn’t know about all of them. I’m sure he couldn’t have. And if he did, wouldn’t he be flaunting his wealth?”

  Dysart shook his head slowly. “Not if he valued his hide.”

  “Right. Or he’d have left the country like Higgins. Have you found anything new about him?”

  “I’ve put out the word. My friends will be on the lookout for him. I hear anything, ye’ll know.” Dysart reached for Rowan’s untouched mug. “Ye goin’ t’ drink this?”

  “No. Now, what about Higgins’s valet?”

  Dysart took a deep gulp of ale and ran a sleeve across his mouth before replying. “Valet? Wot about him?”

  “You haven’t found him?”

  “First I’ve known I was lookin’. Wot’s the name?”

  Damn. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Higgins’s butler.”

  “Butler’s gone. I been t’ the house. It’s all shut up.”

  Of course it was. The servants had been in the process of clearing everything out a week and more ago. “Well, find the man. Find the other servants. Someone might have overheard something. Higgins might have confided in someone.”