What a Lady Requires

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  At last, but would their physical joining do anything to alleviate the contentious nature of their dealings? She could only hope. If he wished to lock horns with her now, she was drained of all energy a way she’d never been in her life.

  Mary knelt before the hearth and poked at the fire. A crackling told Emma the flames had been stirred to life, but she didn’t feel any warmer. Perhaps if she could get herself closer to the fireplace.

  She waited until the maid had gone before making another attempt at sitting. The struggle left her gasping for breath. Blasted sickness. It had left her weak as a newborn. She stared at the brocade chair standing near the mantel, willing strength into her reluctant muscles. The several feet of floorboards separating the bed and her goal seemed an impossible distance.

  Before she could make up her mind to attempt the journey, the thud of booted feet announced her husband’s arrival.

  “Mary said you’d awakened.” A broad grin stretching his lips, he strode across the room with annoying ease, his long legs encased in well-worn buckskin breeches. Their cut formed them to his thighs. “How are you feeling?”

  “If a merchant’s wagon ran me down in the street, I imagine I’d feel better than I do now.”

  His smile melted into a more somber expression. “I’ve sent to the kitchens for some hot broth. It should be along presently.”

  At the prospect of food, her stomach rumbled. “Do you think I might take it somewhere besides this bed?”

  He plucked her hand from the coverlet casually, as though he didn’t notice what he was doing. “Are you up to standing?”

  “I don’t know, but I fancy a spot closer to the fire. If you wouldn’t mind helping, that is.”

  “I can do that.”

  He pulled the counterpane from the bed. Reflexively, she clutched at the closure of her night rail.

  “To wrap about you,” he explained. “And I’ve already seen you in less.”

  That statement brought another flash of memory—her bodice unfastened, his lips at her breast, drawing on her nipple. Heat crept up her cheeks, and his grin returned, irritating and self-satisfied. He knew exactly what she was thinking, blast him. Not only that, he was enjoying her discomfiture.

  She frowned and gathered the counterpane about her shoulders.

  “Now wrap your arms about my neck.”

  The next thing she knew was a sense of buoyancy that made the fog in her head swirl. An effect of her illness, naturally. It couldn’t be anything else. Certainly not the firm chest pressed to hers or the straining muscles of his arms as he carried her to the chair.

  He sat and arranged her across his lap.

  She looked into a pair of deep blue eyes. “I said I wanted to be closer to the fire, but—”

  “You also asked to take your broth somewhere other than the bed. Are you in bed?”

  “No, but—”

  “No buts. If you want to be nearer the fire, you must be cold.” He leaned unimaginably close and rested his forehead against hers. “I think we’ve already proven how two bodies are warmer than one.”

  She pulled back, no easy prospect when he held her so near. “You cannot mean…”

  “Oh, not when you’ve been so recently ill, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a little closeness. What do you think?”

  She hardly knew what to reply when so many of their dealings had ended with them at odds. But she also couldn’t deny the pleasure she derived from sitting in the circle of his arms with no other expectations. Not so much a physical pleasure—although the low hum of awareness of him as a man buzzed through her even now—as a pleasure of the heart, one that settled over her chest like a comfortable blanket. “I suppose this is nice.”

  “Nice? Is that all? Perhaps I ought to liven things up. You know how I can be a punny sort of fellow.”

  She immediately quashed the smile that threatened to break out over her face. “Please don’t.”

  “No?” His grin bode nothing good. “Then you won’t hear about the man whose whole left side was cut off. But don’t fret. He’s all right now.”

  “Someone ought to have corrected your tendency to such poor humor, for my sanity’s sake, at least.” Even as she protested, a traitorous giggle bubbled to the surface. She suppressed the impulse, but she couldn’t prevent the tug she felt at the corners of her mouth. “I am certain mirth cannot be good for my condition.”

  “That is arrant nonsense.” Almost idly, his fingers traced a gentle caress along the length of her arm. “If anyone needs to laugh more often, it is you. But no matter. We can simply sit and consider some other pleasant topic.”

  “Such as?”

  He raised his hand to her neck, his touch light and soothing. “Before I forget, I can tell you I’ve discovered what’s become of your father’s missing wine. It’s not missing at all.”

  “Oh?” She snuggled into his arms. The position really was rather pleasant, surrounded by his scent, his heat, his body. This must be what a cat felt like when being petted. She certainly wanted to close her eyes and purr. “What’s become of it?”

  “I mentioned it to Grundy. It turns out your father sent someone for it the other day and it slipped everyone’s mind to alert you.”

  Thank goodness it had been found. The last thing Emma needed was this worry on top of everything else. “I shall have a word with Grundy about it. He should not have been so remiss in his duty.”

  The door opened and a pair of footmen wheeled in a cart. Battencliffe removed the silver dome in its center to reveal a steaming bowl of soup. He reached for the spoon.

  “You are not going to feed me as if I were a child.”

  “Would you rather I ate this myself? No matter that I’ve already eaten and it will do you no good that way.”

  He held the spoon to her lips. As ridiculous as the situation was, she allowed him to tip rich beef broth into her mouth.

  “And while you eat, you can tell me,” he said as she swallowed. “What are you planning on doing with your marriage portion?”

  She nearly choked. “My marriage portion? You are the one who received the dowry.”

  “I know that your father sweetened the deal for you, as well.” He dredged up another spoonful and offered it to her. “An incentive, I believe the term is. Am I right?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “So what are you planning on doing with your incentive?”

  “I’ll invest it, once I get it. Why, I’ve just heard about a very interesting project.”

  “Really?” He offered her another spoonful. “You wouldn’t take some and do something amusing?”

  She swallowed before replying. “It’s no wonder you’re nearly bankrupt if this is how you think. Money is a tool. It is not something to be spent the moment you have a little.”

  “Fun,” he muttered. “Oh, yes, indeed.”

  She scowled at his obvious sarcasm. “I’ve already told you that dealing in figures is fun for me.” How easy her ledgers were. How predictable, in the main. Unlike people—they rarely did what you expected, and when they did, the result was generally disappointing, at least among society ladies. A man who moved easily through the ton the way Battencliffe did would never understand. “I suppose I could lay some funds aside once the investment pays off.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “Years, no doubt.”

  He set the spoon down. “I was hoping for something shorter term.”

  She lowered her brows. If this dashed illness hadn’t left her so weak, she’d have pushed out of his lap altogether. “Why? Is there another passel of creditors you haven’t told me about?”

  “No, nothing like that. I was thinking…Well, I was hoping…I thought a wedding trip to Italy might be just the thing.”

  “A wedding trip?” She stumbled over her tongue just as he had. Good heavens, when was the last time a man like Rowan Battencliffe had difficulty expressing a wish simple as that to a woman? Unheard of in someone blessed with his
charm and looks. Lord, but he must have ladies fawning over him right and left at balls. “I suppose we could consider it. They produce wine in Italy. I might be able to make some contacts for Papa.”

  “Oh, no. You are not going to conduct business on your wedding trip of all things.”

  “Not even if it includes sampling the local wines? You could participate in that.”

  “I might allow it, then, but honestly.” Somehow he tightened his arms and drew her even closer. “A wedding trip is meant to be enjoyed.”

  “I enjoy tasting new wines and making contacts.”

  “Yes, yes, same as you do investing.” He ran his free hand down her cheek, trailing his fingers along her throat, a silent reminder he could find other things for her to enjoy. Hot, physical things, fraught with temptation and pleasure.

  “About that.” She forced her brain to focus on the practical. “I really ought to tell you. I think you should set some of your own funds aside for this project. I’ve heard of plans to build a railway between Liverpool and Manchester. A project like that will require a lot of capital to get started, but if it’s a success, the payback will be enormous. You ought to consider it yourself.”

  “If it’s a success.” A furrow formed between his brows. “Why on earth would I want to do that? I told you that’s how I got taken in the first place.”

  “This is why you don’t invest everything you have in one scheme. And you look into the project thoroughly at first. See who’s involved and what sort of record they have at making sound decisions.”

  “Just where did you hear about this project?”

  “A few gentlemen were discussing it at the Pendleton ball. You were there.”

  The crinkles at the corners of his eyes eased as his smile melted away. “Yes, I recall. Crawley was being rather persistent.”

  She waved that thought aside. One would think he was jealous. “No, no. He has nothing to do with this. It was the older gentlemen talking about it—Highgate, Anstruther. Your brother was listening in, as well.”

  His expression remained solid, immutable, retaining nothing of its usual easy charm. “And what was their learned opinion?”

  “They were skeptical, but that is merely because they don’t see the potential. They don’t think we need a railway when we have canals in place, but they don’t realize that faster transport means a higher volume of goods, which in turn means more potential for profit.”

  Oh, she was explaining this all wrong, but that was his fault. Something about his presence distracted her in the most delicious manner, to be sure, but in a way that completely muddled her thoughts. She’d have to work on her approach if she wished to convince him the project was viable. An investment in railroads—or anything else, for that matter—would oblige her to use his name.

  She’d laid out her arguments for the scheme rather nicely in her last letter to Hendricks. At the thought, she stiffened. Oh, good Lord, Hendricks. Even though she’d told him she was ending their correspondence, he’d responded in such insistent terms the last time she’d gone silent on him. A letter might even have arrived while she was ailing, and she could only hope it lay lost in a growing pile of invitations. She could hardly ask Battencliffe about it.

  He was already acting distant over the thought of her discussing business propositions with other men. If he discovered she’d continued her correspondence with Hendricks despite his orders to the contrary, the pleasantness of this interlude would come to an end, and rather quickly.

  But then it already was. Despite their proximity, she could sense the barriers reconstructing themselves between them, walls that she hoped would disappear. He’s hardly left your side. Those were Mary’s words. He’d taken such close care of her over the past few days.

  In consummating their marriage in however unconventional a fashion, something had changed between them, a connection as delicate as spun sugar—and just as easily destroyed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Emma had put her hair up in one of those tight little knots again, Rowan noted as soon as he entered the study. Her maid had dressed her in a long-sleeved woolen gown that covered her from toes to chin, but no matter. The cut skimmed her curves, and he knew quite well what delights lay beneath. He’d touched and tasted; he was eager to do so again, the moment she recovered.

  And it appeared she had. She stood with her back to him, but based on the movements of her arms and head, she was sifting through her accumulated correspondence. The thought flitted through his mind that she might be looking for a message from her forbidden business contact. No. He mentally beat that idea back. Whether it was true or not, he would not confront her about it. Not now and not on next to no evidence. Since the episode in the wine cellar, they’d declared a truce of sorts, and he quite liked dealing with his wife on more peaceful terms.

  Why should he wish to meddle with that? He was powerless, however, against the wave of possessiveness that rose within him. She was his, damn it all—her tantalizing lips, her luscious breasts, every last enticing curve of her body.

  But for now, he contented himself with hovering a few steps into the room and focusing on her coiffure. Once again that tempting radiation of pins must secure it. From this distance they were well hidden among the chestnut strands, but if he could steal up behind her…And he thought he could—she hadn’t yet reacted to his presence.

  He took a careful step forward. Thick carpeting muffled his footfalls.

  She discarded one envelope and took up the next.

  Another step. She turned her head slightly, and he held his breath. Had she heard him? Did the back of her neck prickle with intuition? No. She picked up another letter.

  Another step. Another. He was nearly on her.

  Reaching out, he plucked a hairpin between his thumb and forefinger.

  “What on earth?” Emma raised a hand to pat at her hair. With a cry, she spun on her heel and jumped back, her hip colliding with the desk, her fingertips at her breastbone. Envelopes cascaded onto the carpet. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  He grinned. “Conducting an experiment.”

  “What sort of experiment?” Some of the color returned to her cheeks. “Seeing what it takes to make me jump out of my skin?”

  “Not quite.” He shifted forward, balancing on the balls of his feet. If he was quick, he had a chance. His hand darted out. She ducked away, but not before he’d snagged another hairpin.

  “Stop that.”

  “How else am I to learn how many pins it takes to hold up your hair?” He lunged for another, but she evaded him this time.

  She lowered her brows, but something about the gleam in her eye told him her severe expression was more a show than serious. “It takes precisely ten pins, if you must know.”

  “I beg to differ.” Like a boxer in the ring, he feinted left, and when she dodged, he stepped in front of her. She put up a hand to fend him off, but he caught her wrist, and snatched another. “I’ve captured three now, and your hair is still holding firm.”

  “It won’t for long if you keep this up.” She twisted her arm in his grasp, but he maintained his grip.

  “I prefer it down.” He ran his thumb along the delicate skin at the base of her hand.

  Her lips parted, a forcible reminder of her easy responsiveness that coursed straight to his groin. “If you keep this up, it’ll be down before you know it.”

  He took advantage of her softening to pluck another pin. Several rich, brown curls descended to frame her face. “Splendid.”

  “I thought you’d gone out,” she muttered half to herself.

  If she’d meant that remark as a criticism, it struck home. In the days following their wedding, he’d certainly spent as much time as he could avoiding this house. “I haven’t gone out in nearly five days. Since you fell ill.”

  She had to know it, too. He hadn’t dared leave lest her blasted aunt send for her physician again. Rowan would be damned if he’d allow any quack to weaken Emma further by
bleeding her. And in the intervening days, he’d seemingly begun to make a tentative truce with his past, as well as his wife.

  Or perhaps he was creating new memories to overshadow the old ones.

  “I think the next time I go out, you ought to accompany me,” he added.

  “You can’t possibly take me to your club.” Good Lord, she sounded interested in that prospect, impossible as it was.

  No doubt she would accompany him if she were permitted. She’d wish to pick the other members’ brains about that railroad scheme—or whatever it was—she was so dashed keen on. She probably wanted to discuss the latest agricultural techniques, as well, and see what she might apply to the Sparkmore estate. Hell, if she could, she’d probably find someone to rattle on at length about banking.

  Every last topic of conversation Rowan couldn’t care less about, and yet these things impassioned her.

  Damn. He needed her, not just to set his finances in order, but to keep them that way. To ensure his life remained on an even keel, so that, in the end, he could have a life. All these sorts of details—the ones he had no patience for or means of understanding—were her exact spheres of interest. He had to admit, from a practical standpoint, his brother had chosen well, simply because practical was a term no one could ever accurately apply to Rowan Battencliffe.

  “Not even I could get away with that,” he acknowledged.

  “Well, you can’t mean to come on social calls with me.”

  “If it would make them easier for you to stomach, I would.” As easily as he could imagine her in his club, discussing the important matters of the day, he reckoned that going from fashionable address to fashionable address and catching up on the latest gossip would be the last thing she enjoyed.

  Her jaw dropped. “You would…Oh, give me those.” She grabbed the pins from his hand. With shaking fingers she began to secure her wayward curls. How unfortunate.