Dilemma in Yellow Silk (Emperors of London)

by Lynne Connolly

  Facing her feelings for the first time before someone else she had to admit—probably. For she did not know what love meant or how she should feel. Women in love saw no fault in their beloved, and she certainly saw Marcus’s faults as clearly as she had ever done. His careful consideration of all points in an argument drove her to screaming pitch, for instance.

  Keeping the society smile pasted to her face, Viola fought with her emotions. She could show nobody, not even Marcus himself. His overdeveloped protective streak would have her married to him before she could think straight.

  She did not like Freddie. His curiosity and his sly innuendo did not give her the best opinion of him.

  “I still have to inform my parents of my success, so the ball may not take place until after the wedding,” Marcus said smoothly.

  How could he say that word—wedding—and not tremble? She was trembling enough for two, but she could not detect even a quaver in his voice. Or doubt when he gazed down at her and smiled. She forced a smile in return, but she was not sure it convinced him.

  A small crease appeared between his brows. “You are tired,” he said softly. “We should go back.”

  “No, truly I’m fine.”

  “Nevertheless, I think we should return before your duenna awakes and misses you. We don’t want to upset her, do we?”

  At last they took their leave.

  He would not let them hurry, but paced in a stately way down the aisle with her. Her imagination rioted all on its own. The symbolism was not lost on her. How could they do this in reality? When she would have spoken, he touched a finger to his lips.

  “Churches have ears,” he said. “Also unexpected echoes.”

  So Freddie might overhear them.

  Outside the church, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Without it, she wouldn’t have walked so steadily, or she might have burst out with all her objections. “What was that for?” she demanded, and before he could answer, continued, “You could have said I was your mistress. Why did you not walk away?”

  “Because Freddie, bless him, would have gossiped when he reached town. Unfortunately he has an excellent memory for faces, so he would doubtless have recognized you.”

  “You sound so calm! How can you?” She wanted to slap the smile off his face.

  “What choice do we have? Why the fuss?”

  “Oh, you foolish man! You have committed us to the most dreadful masquerade!”

  He lost the smile then, just as if she had truly slapped him. “Indeed? Why is it dreadful? Do you fear a fate worse than death?”

  She let out a breath and started to walk, abandoning the stately stroll for a full-bodied stride. “No, but you cannot marry me, so why say it? Oh, Marcus, I should never have allowed this to happen!”

  The adventure, liberating and exciting up to this point, took on a shade of foolishness. “I should have returned to Haxby, to my father. We could have borrowed some footmen until—”

  “Until when?” he demanded. “If we do not find who has done this to you, you aren’t safe. I want you safe, Viola.”

  “But there would have been another way!”

  “Not on that road.” He brought her memories back to the house at Scarborough and her terror there. She’d thought them both dead. “Until we reached the house, I thought we were relatively safe. But two people attacked your father, and a different two waited at the house.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “The horses,” he said simply. “And the facts. They did not have time to get there and lie in wait. I drove you in the fastest vehicle in the Haxby stables with two of the freshest horses. They could not have left your father’s house, reached Scarborough, broken in, and waited for you.” He turned, taking her upper arms in his hands. “Even with the half hour it took us to prepare for our journey, even the time it took us to run from your house to the main house, they would not have had time. Their horses were not fresh, and they were riding. It’s not possible, Viola. That means there are more men searching for you. Four at least. How could I leave you to that?”

  “Easily, I’d have thought. Haxby has more than four footmen.”

  He clicked his tongue. “As if I would do that! Absolutely not, Viola. You are my responsibility. Mine.”

  Bewildered, she asked, “Why would you think it?”

  “Because—”

  She broke in. Although sure he had a ready answer waiting, she would not let him persuade her. “You take too much upon yourself, Marcus. You take charge and care for all your family and your dependents. And now me.” How did her regard her? Family or dependent? She would never ask, fearful of hearing the answer. Either way held fraught challenges she was not yet ready to face.

  “And now you,” he said softly.

  But she was ready to face one thing. She still wanted him. When he had introduced her as his betrothed, her first unthinking reaction had been pure joy. She could no longer deny that of all the men in the world, given the choice, she would have him.

  “Oh, well, I can always jilt you.” Putting up her chin in an imitation of jauntiness, she turned and continued their journey back to the inn.

  “You can try,” he said, but so softly she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.

  They couldn’t continue the argument because they had reached the inn.

  Chapter 9

  Marcus watched Viola all through supper. She had not eaten much. The shock of seeing Freddie had coalesced a few matters in his mind. When he’d said “betrothed,” the word sounded like a perfect way to describe her.

  He stuck his fork into an overdone potato, parsley sprinkled over it in a desultory fashion. The food on this journey had been uniformly dull and for the most part overcooked. The pie had black edges. The peas could have been spooned out in lumps. The carrots were of the consistency of mash. They would all go in his personal book of remembrance. With any luck, they would never be repeated in his life.

  With this woman, he could find himself on another harebrained journey and forced to eat mashed carrots and lumpy, overcooked potato once more. He feared he would do it, too. He never knew where he was with her. He found her volatile moods and unpredictability fascinating. She had agreed with him only when he made it clear he would not give in, but she’d been ready to return home to her father. Her real father, the man who had brought her up from babyhood onward.

  Why had he ever allowed his father to separate them? At the age of nine he had little say, but he could have contrived something. If his father had not made him so anxious to fulfill his role in life, perhaps he would have arranged to meet her clandestinely.

  He would not allow anyone to separate them now. Whether they would end this adventure as friends or spouses he did not know—he, who organized and planned everything in his life. Who had condemned reckless behavior in his brothers and sisters. They would so enjoy teasing him now he allowed one small woman to lead him around.

  Once he’d ensured nobody was following them, Marcus had relaxed considerably. That first night he’d spent in the taproom of the first inn, he had remained awake, watching and waiting for an attack. When none came, he was satisfied they had escaped the people who would have killed her—or him. That was why he’d decided to go to London. He would find out who was doing this, and he would stop them.

  Now he leaned back and watched her trying to choke down the food, shooting glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. She was planning something. He had not the faintest idea what it could be, but he would wait on events and keep watching her.

  His announcement had unnerved her, but surely she would not be so idiotic as to try to escape him. He would find out, no doubt.

  Giving up on his meal, he pushed his plate away. “This is by far the worst food in the whole journey. Let’s hope the bedroom is in better heart.”

  Ah. Her glance certainly held apprehension. And something else—speculation. She having such dark eyes made interpreting
her glances difficult, but he fancied he was improving in that respect. Two more days and they would be in London. Freddie wouldn’t arrive until the beginning of next week, and he would probably not consider undue haste necessary. A betrothal, especially of a man not particularly known for excess, would not excite many gossips. Or so he hoped and prayed.

  She forced a few more mouthfuls down before she sighed and leaned back against the hard settle. “You are right, and I’m not particularly hungry.”

  “Shall we go?”

  “Very well.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. He rose from his seat and came around the table to hers. She took his hand suspiciously meekly and allowed him to lead her to the stairs.

  The inn appeared well kept, no collections of dust in the corners. Not something he usually looked for, but in this case, the food had made him suspicious. If that was bad, was the rest of the inn similarly ill-kept? Were the beds clean?

  He opened the door to a bedroom with a reasonably sized bed and gleaming furniture and floors. Simple enough, with no extra furbelows, but adequate. They could find better inns in the city, but he had no mind to seek them out at this time of night. Without compunction, he dragged back the covers on the bed, but he saw nothing but clean white linen. No insects, or traces of them.

  When he turned around to speak to her, she leaped at him.

  Marcus barely caught her. As it was, she propelled him backward on to the mattress. The timbers creaked alarmingly under their combined weight but it held. She weighed nothing, and without her hoops, her body pressed against his all the way down.

  Then she crushed her lips against his, and finally he knew what her plan was.

  She would not have this all her own way.

  * * * *

  When Marcus kissed her back, Viola would have breathed a sigh of relief. Except his mouth was on hers, doing the most delicious things to her. When she opened her lips, he surged inside, exploring her with his tongue. Returning his caresses proved easy. He accepted her with a small groan.

  He kissed her like a man denied sustenance, even though they had eaten well that evening. Unless he was hungry for something else. Oh, she hoped so, because she was. She’d tortured herself in the short journey back to the inn from the cathedral and then during the meal she didn’t want. All the time her stomach rebelled against anything but him. Now she had him. On the bed, just where she wanted him.

  What next? Should she touch him? Her hands had landed on his chest, and now he held her close she could not move them. His heart thundered in a rhythm that matched the pulse between her legs.

  Perhaps she should just follow his lead. Except he still might reject her, as he had before. No, tonight she would discover what all the fuss was about. When he spread his hands over her back she squirmed, trying to make him move, but he needed no encouragement. He slid his hands up to her shoulders where he tugged at her jacket. He left her mouth long enough to mutter, “Take it off,” before he returned to kiss her more.

  She could not remove the jacket without breaking the kiss, so reluctantly, she pulled away.

  Moving up enough to create a gap between their bodies, she kept his gaze. “I have to unfasten the buttons.”

  He did it for her, smoothing his hands around her, until he met the center fastenings. One by one he undid the row of small buttons, watching her reaction. So she smiled, and as he moved down her jacket, she leaned up, sitting astride him.

  Keeping her attention on him, she slid her arms out of the sleeves. If she had been wearing a fashionable riding habit, she’d have found the task more difficult. But the sleeves did not fit as tightly as in a custom-made garment. With a little work she had the jacket off. Underneath she wore her shirt and stock. Lifting her hands to her neck, she unfastened the tiny buckles at the back of her neck and let the stock fall. He touched the hollow at the base of her throat, making her feel strangely vulnerable. But desirous. “I want you to touch me all over.”

  He smiled, slow and slumberous, his eyes warm. “I would like that. Will you do the same to me?”

  She nodded. After undoing the buttons of her cuffs, she tugged the garment out of the skirt. Before she could lose her nerve, she pulled it up and over her head. And off.

  “Lovely. You are lovely.” He stroked her from her throat to her cleavage and back again. He traced the lines of her collarbones. Curving his hands over her shoulders, he cupped them. “Your skin feels like silk.”

  From his lips, the words did not sound like compliments. He made them sound like the truth. She waited as he explored the areas of skin she had exposed, her shoulders and her upper chest. He lifted his gaze to her face and undid the first hook on her stays. Although they fastened at the back, she had a row of hooks at the front, so she could get into her stays without help. He seemed to approve. He turned his attention to his work, and he finished the job with slow deliberation, as if committing every hook to memory.

  Finding the hooks of her skirt, he undid them too. “How far dare you go?” he said with a smile.

  “All the way,” she said boldly. Otherwise, she could not see much point in this.

  He lifted his hand and gestured like an emperor giving orders. “Continue.”

  His aristocratic attitude made Viola smile. She took off the skirt and lifted her foot on to the chair next to the bed to unbuckle her shoes, one after the other. “You should have leather riding boots,” he said. “I will buy you a pair. Then you may wear them for me. And nothing else.”

  The thought of the leather caressing her all the time she rode caused shivers to break out, but delicious ones that increased her sensitivity. His eyes heated more as he watched her.

  “Should you not undress?”

  “How does the idea of you naked and me fully dressed strike you?” Rolling to his side and turning his body the right way, Marcus leaned up on his elbow. He even had his coat on, his neckcloth tied tidily around his throat.

  “It’s dangerous,” she said. “I feel like a wanton.”

  “What’s happening to your body?”

  How could she tell him that? Her jaw dropped, and she paused, her hands on her petticoat drawstring.

  “I will find out soon enough,” he said, almost growling the words.

  “I thought you’d make me stop.” She swallowed. Confession was difficult, as was admitting her vulnerabilities.

  “Did you? Why would I do that? When you want me and I want you?”

  Doubt seized her, tightening her throat. “Are you daring me?”

  “Do you dare, Viola?”

  He was a different person. None of his grave sense of responsibility remained to taunt her. She put up her chin. If he left when she had revealed her body to him, she would never forgive him. But if she did not do it, she would never forgive herself. And she wanted to show herself, to let him know what he could have for the asking. Not even for the asking.

  She stuck out her chin. “Yes, I dare.”

  Before she could change her mind or let her fears get the better of her, she stripped off her stockings. Then she let her petticoats slip to the floor and lifted her shift over her head. “There!”

  He was still fully clothed. He gazed at her, taking his time, his eyes hot, caressing her body, raising goose bumps as if he touched her. “Show me your breasts,” he said. “Hold them for me.”

  Her heart beat so fast she was afraid he would see its pounding. But she would do this. Raising her hands, she cupped her breasts and lifted them, displaying them proudly.

  “Come here.” His voice held a low command that utterly thrilled her.

  She leaned over, releasing her breasts to rest her palms either side of him, letting them swing free.

  He closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath. “I can smell your arousal. It’s sweet and spicy, spiked with sharp fruit. I want you badly, Viola.”

  Those simple words made her gasp. But she did not move away, instead crawled on to the mattress, stra
ddling him. That meant she had to open her thighs. He could see anything he cared to. More than she could.

  Grasping her waist in a sudden movement, he rolled her over so she lay where he’d been a moment before. The abruptness made her lose her breath. Would he leave her now? Was this just so he could judge her and find her wanting?

  He climbed off the bed and stood where she had done a moment ago. “My turn,” he said.

  Viola opened her eyes.

  He already had his waistcoat half undone when she dared to look at him and see him watching her with simmering heat. “Don’t close your eyes again. If you do, you might find me gone. Keep watching, Viola. I want you to see what you are taking with me. I want to see your reaction, and I want to watch you. See me, not the titles or the wealth. Just me.”

  Yes, this was the man she wanted, the direct one, the man who was demanding parity from her now.

  He stripped efficiently but without ceremony until he wore only his breeches and stockings. His chest was bare, his nipples crinkled into sharp points. Her mouth watered. Would he allow her to taste him? Or should she just take? What did he like? Would he like her?

  Those questions and more rocketed through her as he unfastened the fall of his breeches and stripped them and his underwear off. When he stood, she saw everything.

  His member was large, more than she’d imagined, stiff and pointing up. The head looked damp, and a bead of moisture seeped from the tip. Forbidden thoughts entered her mind—tasting, sucking, wrapping her lips around that juicy shaft and tasting him intimately.

  “I fear I must be a wanton,” she said. To emphasize the point, she touched her breasts again. Her nipples weren’t soft any more, either.

  “You want this?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  A strange question, surely. “For as long as you will allow me here. With you, naked.”

  A slow smile curved his lips. “My answer to you is the same. As long as it lasts.” His eyes promised more than she dared to dream. He’d said he wanted her to see him—the man—but his title and his standing in society were inseparable from that. Even the way he bore himself—proudly and without shame—spoke of it.