Chambers’s smile broadened. “Mrs. Brimley.”
Twelve
EMMA’S OUTSTRETCHED ARMS ACHED FROM holding the same position. Her ribs hurt, her legs trembled. The posing sessions had become physically demanding and downright boring. After so many hours of standing before Chambers in naught but her chemise and drawers, that particular experience no longer assaulted her sensibilities. True to his word, he hadn’t tried to touch her, not even to steal a kiss, preferring to use his lips to speak incessantly about art. She considered revoking her no-touching edict, but feared it would make little difference. Outside, rain lashed against the windowpanes, thunder rumbled the sleepy countryside. Inside, all remained calm, hushed. Her shoulders slumped.
The movement attracted his notice. Chambers’s eyes softened. He laid down his brush and palette. “Perhaps a period of rest is in order.”
“Thank you,” Emma gasped, stumbling the few steps to the divan. “You failed to tell me that posing required so much effort.”
“The flowers and rocks never complained when I painted them,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “I suppose I hadn’t realized how difficult it could be.”
Emma massaged her aching calf muscles and glanced toward the tea service on a side table. “Do you suppose Thomas could bring more tea? I believe this has grown cold.”
Chambers started for the corner bell pull but stopped midway and turned to face her. A hesitant smile teased his lips. “Before I do that, there is one thing more I’d like to teach you about painting.”
She would have groaned, but etiquette forbade it. After so many weeks learning about various color combinations, canvas preparations, and composition concerns, she had hoped for a respite. She was even tempted to ask a question about that other subject of which he was so knowledgeable, but with only her chemise and drawers left, she hesitated.
“Before one can master a craft, such as painting, one needs to be familiar with the tools, in this case, the brushes.” He approached his table of implements, most notably a jar full of upended brushes. “Different brushes produce different effects.”
Emma tried to hide a yawn behind her hand.
“Various animals have sacrificed their hide to produce these tips.” He drew his fingers across the bristles. “Just as each animal’s fur has a unique appearance and texture, so do the resulting brushes. Let me show you . . .” He picked up several brushes and stepped toward her.
“Our agreement,” she reminded him with a bit of trepidation. He hadn’t stood this close for several weeks. A spark of excitement ignited in her rib cage.
“I haven’t forgotten,” he said with that same mysterious smile, the one that sounded warning bells in her head. “Extend your arm and tell me how this feels.” He jabbed at the underside of her arm with the bristles of one stubby brush.
“It stings.” She pulled her arm away from his reach and watched an indignant red spot rise to the affected area.
“When used harshly, this brush can bite,” he admitted, without apology. “It’s made from ox, but if I stroke it slow and soft . . .” He motioned for her arm again. Hesitantly, she extended it. “It has a different effect.”
The thick black bristles produced a tingling path up the underside of her arm, teasing dormant nerve endings and leaving a faint blush of pink in their wake. “That’s not as unpleasant,” she admitted.
Chambers slid to the side, then to the back of the divan, all the while dragging the bristles toward the sensitive skin exposed by the armhole of her chemise. A shiver danced down her spine. She attributed the reaction more to Chambers’s near presence than the strange experiment he performed with his brush. “I fail to see—”
“A man can feel like this.” His low voice seduced her senses like fragrant hot chocolate on a cold winter morning.
“Imagine this is a man’s whiskers. Perhaps, my mustache.” The brush dragged slowly across the top of her back, lightly scratching the delicate skin, before dipping between her shoulder blades, tugging at the thin silk chemise. The blunt bristles stimulated more than irritated.
As suggested, in her mind, she allowed the bristles to transform into Chambers’s mustache. She imagined his lips a mere breath away from her skin as he forged a path of sweet torture. The trembling in her legs shifted upward, bringing a renewed vitality to her lower regions. When the brush pulled at the back of her chemise, she imagined it was Chambers’s fingers that lifted the lace from her skin. Oh please, let it be his fingers.
Instinctively, her shoulders lifted, as if pulled by a string. Gooseflesh tingled down her arms.
Suddenly the sensation changed. A smooth silky texture replaced the harsh bristles.
“What did you do?” she gasped.
“This is sable.” His moist breath bathed the back of her neck. She couldn’t see him, but by the sound of his voice, she judged his lips to be near the curve of her neck, else her nostrils wouldn’t quiver at the faint scent of fine-milled soap and exotic spice. If she turned her head, ever so slightly, she might force his touch. She breathed deep, inviting his scent deep in her lungs.
“Feel how the brush glides and strokes the canvas.”
“That is not a canvas, sir. That is my shoulder,” she said, holding her breath while the mesmerizing brush drifted from one shoulder to the other.
“Your delicate skin is a canvas for my imagination.” Chambers slipped around her side, returning to her front. His voice, combined with the delicate fine brush hairs explored all the curves and valleys of her shoulders and throat, igniting fissures beneath her skin.
She should move. She should stand up and walk to the changing screen. But she remained riveted to the divan, afraid any motion on her part would end the exquisite sensation.
“As smooth as silk and creamy white.” He dipped the sable lower, skimming beneath the top of her low-cut chemise. Her breath caught. Dormant nerve endings exploded, stimulating riotous sensation. Her head tipped back, too heavy to remain supported by her hypersensitized neck. The back of the divan cushioned the fall.
“Do you like the way this feels, Mrs. Brimley?” His lips moved a breath away from the underside of her chin. She could barely breathe much less reply, but she suspected he already knew her answer.
“Imagine that the brush is moist,” he whispered, “like a pair of lips.”
In her mind’s eye, she imagined his lips, his tongue, licking and playfully nipping at her throat, just as he had with his kiss so long ago. Why, oh why, did she make him promise not to touch her? But a proper lady couldn’t very well ask to be kissed, could she?
The brush slipped beneath the lace of her chemise, jolting her nerves in ways she never could have imagined. The whisper-soft tease of the brush head swept her breasts, reaching almost to the tip of her tight, constricted buds. Her jaw slackened with an unspoken cry of pleasure.
“Imagine this brush is a man’s hand.”
Please let it be his hand! Let him swirl, and tease, and rub with his talented fingers, not an inanimate brush. The long, wooden brush handle tugged at her chemise as the velvety head stroked the fullness of her breasts. She gasped. This could not be decent, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop his manipulations.
Her back arched, seeking more. Fabric pushed beneath her breast almost as if . . . She opened her eyes. The brush handle had pushed the cloth beneath one of her breasts, leaving it exposed to Chambers’s entranced view. He licked his lips, a fraction of an inch from her straining nipple. He looked up through the veil of his long lashes.
“Are you moist for me, Emma? Do you feel an ache deep inside that longs for the satisfaction only a man can provide?”
Dear Lord above, her body reacted as if in tune with his orchestration. Her woman’s core vibrated with urgency to an unheard note. Her hands clenched tight in her lap, longed to wrap around Chambers’s back and pull him close enough to feel the chaos he had released in her virgin body. Was this how her mother felt? Was this love? She took a quick breath, watching the tur
gid tip of her exposed breast lift to delicately touch Chambers’s lower lip.
“Release me from my pledge, Emma. Let me whisper sweet strains of poetry over your skin. Let me show you . . .”
“Yes.” The word slipped through her lips yet her entire body strained in answer. “Touch me.”
His lips encircled her nipple. She gasped in wild tumultuous pleasure. The brush fell to the floor as both his hands paid homage. He suckled and nipped at her breasts till she cried out in pleasure. Her hands tangled in his thick black hair, pulling him closer, not willing to let him go.
“Magnificent!” He repeated over and over again, kissing his way up to her lips. A fierce desire tugged at her, wanting him closer, needing him closer. Her hands slipped to his back, feeling the powerful knead of his muscles as he stroked and massaged her breasts. She pulled him closer, wanting him nearer. He obliged, pushing her back on the divan till he was lying atop her, between her sprawled legs. His bulge pressed against her exposed tender flesh.
Merciful heavens, this was one of the positions he had told her about. She should stop him. She should demand this go no further. She would be like her mother, ruined and shamed.
Her body hummed with a primitive need. She remembered Beatrice’s words: At least you’ve experienced what it is to be loved. Never had Emma desired anything more in her life than this minute. She needed that experience, that love, with this man and no other.
His fingers slipped under the straps of her camisole, tugging it down her arms. His kisses followed the retreat of the material.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “Who knew such treasure lay beneath all those layers of dismal black.”
“And pink,” she added, remembering her discarded corset.
“And pink.” He smiled, chasing her hesitations away in the process.
He slipped down her body until his knees hit the floor, shifting the burden of his weight in the process. She tried to pull her legs together in a more ladylike pose, but he braced his arms between them pushing them even further apart.
Her drawers offered no protection, the slit providing ample access to her inner core. His fingers slipped inside, entering her in a way she herself would never consider.
Her entire body instantly tensed. She bit her lip and tried to close her legs
“Relax, Emma. I won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice a comforting balm. “I just want you to experience one of the pleasures that can be achieved between a man and a woman.”
Before she could reply, he lowered his mouth to the slit and probed her with his tongue. Lightning ripped from her groin to the tips of her breasts and back again.
She hadn’t believed a man would really do such a thing. She swam in a sea of moisture of her own making. His fingers pulled at her nether lips, exposing more of her private areas to his assault. Her hands found the edges of the divan and held tight.
Need, pressure, and desire built one upon the other like the stones in the walls defining the pastures. Increased need, increased desire, increased pressure, until suddenly an explosion blasted them all away. Wave after wave of languid heat poured throughout her body, seducing, calming, titillating even to her fingertips.
Chambers pulled back, grinning at her over her drawers. “That is the kind of pleasure that can exist between a man and a woman.”
“I . . . I had no idea,” she gasped, struggling for control over her vocal chords. She slipped her hands over her midriff. “I fear something exploded deep inside.”
“That is what I wished you to experience.” His lips pressed against the thin linen covering her thigh. A tremor rippled through her, reminding her of the series of tremors she had just experienced.
“You are whole,” he assured her. “Nothing has ruptured.”
“Are you quite certain?” Whole? How could she ever be whole again? The experience had fractured her innocence beyond repair. She pushed herself up to her elbows so she could see his face, to see if he was appalled by her wantonness. “It felt so . . . powerful.”
His eyes crinkled, his grin broadened. He appeared quite pleased with himself, and by extension, her.
“I assure you, everything is as it should be. You have no cause for alarm.” He drew back, allowing her to close her legs.
Of course she had cause for alarm! Was this not the very thing that led to her mother’s demise? Still, as the tingling faded from her extremities, she was grateful she had experienced this incredible sense of intimacy at least once in her life. She drew in a deep breath and glanced to Nicholas. If she was indeed destined to be ruined like her mother, at least Nicholas had been the one.
“Is that how it felt to you,” she asked, curious if men and women were similar in this regard. “Like a captured burst of thunder?”
“Not this time.” He smiled. “But I enjoyed bringing pleasure to you.” He held out a hand to help her rise to a seated position.
Pity, she thought, feeling far superior and immensely pleased to be a woman. With Nicholas’s assistance, she pulled herself upright, then glanced to her lap. “Why isn’t there blood? I told the girls there would be blood their first time.”
His eyes widened a moment before he sat beside her. “Emma, I didn’t penetrate you in that way.” He took her hand in his and stroked it softly. “You are still a virgin, although a very knowledgeable one.”
The shame of her ignorance heated her cheeks. “You mean, this was not the coupling for which I’m preparing my girls?”
He shook his head. A rueful smile shaped his lips.
“And I am not ruined?” she asked, adjusting her glasses.
Compassion drained from his face. He averted her direct gaze and stood, suddenly searching for some unnamed object. “I . . . I wouldn’t discuss this incident with anyone else, Emma. They might misconstrue what has transpired. Another man would not appreciate that you had been pleasured—”
“Another man?” She asked, feeling shame wash over her. He assumed she would allow another man the same liberties she shared with Nicholas? Earlier she had thought her innocence had shattered in a loud tumultuous explosion. She knew better now. Life-altering events cannot be measured by the noise they make. Her heart had just been crushed with barely a sound.
She rose and walked swiftly to the corner Japonaise screen in order to dress.
“Emma, don’t be angry with me. I’ve done nothing to harm you,” he pleaded beyond the screen.
She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Her constricted throat made it impossible.
“I gave you pleasure. I took nothing away from you.”
“Just my heart,” she whispered, doubting that her voice carried beyond the screen. She could hear the tap of his walking stick accompanying what she assumed was his pacing. With practiced efficiency, she pulled her black bombazine skirt over her head so it could settle on flounced petticoats. However, her trembling fingers couldn’t manage the tiny fastenings needed to secure the garment. She covered her face with her hands, choking back the sob that burned her throat.
What had she done? Chambers had suggested that he had changed nothing about her, that she was still innocent. Yet if that were true, why did her private regions still tingle and throb as if awakened after a long slumber? Why did her chest feel empty and hollow and devoid of the happiness and excitement that had inhabited it that very morning. Chambers said he had changed nothing about her, but in fact he had changed everything.
The tapping stopped. He was near. Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the necessary hooks on her skirt before slipping her arms through the bodice.
“The painting isn’t finished, Emma. We’re not finished.”
She looked toward the ceiling, trying to draw a deep breath. Heavenly Father! How could Chambers expect her to continue after suggesting other men would enjoy the very liberties she had permitted him? You’re just like your mother, her uncle’s voice said. Emma retrieved her mother’s handkerchief, holding it to her mouth to hide the sound of ragged breathing. Was this h
ow her mother felt? Used by a man and then tossed aside for the next man to enjoy? A half-garbled cry rose from her throat.
“Emma? Emma, are you all right? Speak to me.”
She could not, her throat too constricted for words. Instead she drew in breath as best she could and proceeded to button the front of the bodice. If in truth he had left no tangible evidence of the day’s activities, perhaps she should be grateful as he suggested. Her heart may always belong to Nicholas, but from this day forth she would never allow herself to be alone in his company. His compassionate eyes might tempt her, his voice might lull her, but now that she knew his true nature, she was steeled against his seductive ways. She drew a calming breath and stepped out from the screen.
The sight of Nicholas leaning heavily on his stick twisted her heart as if it were broken anew. Her breath caught. Recognizing that she would never be completely able to resist him, she lowered her gaze and hurried for the door, ignoring his outstretched arm.
“Emma, wait. You don’t understand. Emma!” He called after her.
She paused long enough to look back over her shoulder. She sniffed. “My name is Mrs. Brimley.”
THE MOMENT THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND HER, HE ground his stick into the floor. She left. He couldn’t believe it. After the experience they had just shared, she still walked out the door.
The ungrateful wench! Hadn’t she tempted him with skin so soft and delicate that the sable brush proved harsh in comparison? She teased him with breasts that begged to be initiated to a man’s touch. Hadn’t she implored him with her own words, touch me?
A groan slipped from his lips as he remembered the moment. His manhood had throbbed to bury itself deep in her lush body. She laid open to him, his for the taking. Yet he restrained himself. He sacrificed his own pleasure for her maidenhood. He gave her everything, everything!
He turned abruptly and stalked up to his painting of Artemis.
He raised his stick, planning to destroy the canvas, but the sight of Emma’s sweet innocent smile slashed through his rage-induced haze. Her compassionate iridescent gaze, so reminiscent of the sea with all its mysteries, stilled his hand. Her eyes had held that same guileless expression when she asked, Am I ruined? His hasty response had turned those compassionate orbs to emerald hardness. What was his reply? He had been so caught in her web of inexperience, in furthering her education, that he hadn’t been thinking . . .
The Education of Mrs. Brimley Page 16