by Jane Feather
“God, you’re as provoking as you’re exciting, woman,” Alasdair declared, pushing her shirt off her shoulders. He inhaled with a deep breath of satisfaction as her breasts were revealed. Blue veined and creamy white, they jutted proudly, their rosy crowns erect within their smooth dark circles.
He lightly brushed each soft mound with his fingertips. “I had forgotten quite how magnificent your breasts are,” he murmured, cupping them on his palms, holding them, feeling their weight, their velvet richness. He lowered his head and kissed each in turn, his teeth grazing her nipples, so she moaned with pleasure, throwing her head back, exposing the long white column of her throat.
Alasdair kissed the fast-beating pulse in her throat; he licked upward beneath her chin, then he nipped the point of her chin, making her laugh, releasing the tension for a minute.
It was a habit he had, Emma remembered. He would bring her to fever pitch with his caresses and then do something funny or absurd in the context so that she couldn’t help but laugh and the spiral of arousal would be slowed … only to be started up again with renewed fervor.
Smiling, he stood back from her, running his eyes over her bared flesh. “Where to now?” he murmured, taking her waist between his hands, moving his warm clasp up her rib cage, teasing them both with the delay.
Slowly he reached for the hooks of her skirt at the back. They sprang free and the garment slid to the ground.
“Hell and the devil!” he exclaimed. “I’d forgotten about the damn riding britches.”
“And the boots,” Emma pointed out helpfully. She was wearing leather pantaloons strapped beneath her riding boots.
Alasdair ignored this. He stood back from her, his eyes hungrily drinking in her form in the tight-fitting garment. “Perhaps I’m not in so much of a hurry after all,” he said. “Would you put your hands on your hips and turn around, please.”
Emma did so, the’ sensual demand sending a current of lust jolting her belly, dampening her loins.
Alasdair placed his hands on her hips, tracing their curve with his palms; then slowly, lingeringly, he caressed her bottom. Emma knew her backside was as clearly outlined in the pantaloons as if it were bare, and she felt somehow more exposed than if she were naked beneath his hands.
“Such a treasure trove,” Alasdair murmured. “But now I think I have to see you properly.” The button at her waist came undone, and with the same slow, lingering movement he peeled the pantaloons over her hips and down to her knees.
He knelt behind her, holding her hips. He kissed each rounded cheek, before running his hands down the backs of her thighs. He kissed the hollows of her knees, and Emma quivered, waiting for the next touch, the next brush of his lips, wishing he would finish undressing her and yet aware on some sensual level that this feeling of being half naked was making every sensation even more acute. It would take but a well-placed touch to send her over the edge, and she knew Alasdair was aware of it.
He turned her with his hands on her hips as he remained on his knees. He kissed the smooth white plane of her belly, stabbed at her hipbones with little darts of his tongue, then moved his fingers through the dark muff at the apex of her thighs, playfully tugging at the damp curls.
Emma clasped his bent head, her own fingers curling convulsively into his glossy dark locks. His gently exploring touch had slipped between her thighs now, and she was one taut line of tension, poised on the outermost edge of bliss as the great wave of joy held itself at the crest. He parted the soft petaled lips of her sex, and the wave crashed over her. His fingers moved deep inside her while his thumb played on the little nub that was hard and swollen beneath his touch. The wave receded and crashed yet again and Emma cried out, leaning forward to bury her face in his head, smothering the wild sounds of her joy.
Alasdair held her tightly until it was over, then he stood up. His expression was taut, lined with the effort of his own restraint, and Emma could only guess at how difficult it must have been for him to have kept himself in check.
She kissed him gratefully, and with a little laugh, he pushed her back onto the bed. “Let’s finish this now.” He snapped the strap of her pantaloons away from her boots and yanked off the boots, throwing them carelessly over his shoulder. With the same rough haste, he pulled off her last remaining garment and finally she was naked.
“Now let me undress you,” Emma murmured from the languid depths of afterglow.
“No time.” Alasdair shook his head, his own hands busy with his clothes. “Can’t wait, my sweet.”
Emma chuckled and spread her legs invitingly on the quilt. “I am ready for you.”
“You always were,” he said, pushing off his britches and drawers in one movement, hopping on one leg and then the other to drag off his stockings.
He was beautiful. Emma’s gaze roamed over his spare, sinewy body. His sex jutted powerfully from the dark curling bush of pubic hair, and her own body rose in anticipation. As he came down on the bed beside her, she reached out to clasp him in her palm, wanting to give back some of the pleasure he’d given her.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely, drawing back from her. “Touch me, Emma, and I shall be lost.” He leaned over her, resting on his elbows, gazing down at her face. “I’m very much afraid, my sweet, that I’m going to leave you behind.” He kissed her brow with a regretful little smile that nonetheless contained his own urgency.
“I very much doubt it,” she murmured, sliding her hands to his waist as he held himself above her. “Hurry now.”
Alasdair gave a low laugh. He slid a hand beneath her bottom, lifting her as he slid within her eagerly opened body. He closed his eyes for a minute as the soft velvety sheath closed around him. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “One wriggle and I shall lose what little control I have left.”
Emma lay still, feeling him deep inside her, the throbbing pulse of his flesh filling her, becoming a part of her. She looked up into his face, saw the rigid lines of control etched around his mouth as he fought to hold back the coming hurricane. The muscles in his forearms were corded; the tendons stood out in his neck. He opened his eyes and met her gaze, his eyes deep and glowing as emeralds.
Emma reached around his body. Her hands slid along his thighs, before with precise intent her fingers dug into the taut muscles of his backside, pulling him down to her. In the same instant, she lifted her hips to meet the deep thrust of his body.
Her own body convulsed around him and Alasdair threw back his head on a low, throbbing cry. He pulled himself out of her body, and his hot seed spurted over her thighs and belly as he fell on top of her, his limbs tangled with hers.
Only their deep, gasping breaths could be heard for a long time. Then Alasdair slowly rolled off her. A possessive hand rested heavily on the damp curls covering her swollen pubic mound. He turned sideways, propping himself on his free elbow, and gazed down into her face. Slowly he smiled.
“You were right about one thing, my Emma. We are very, very good together.” He bent to kiss her brow, moving his mouth up into her hairline, licking away the salty dew of exertion.
“Can we try to put things together again, sweet?”
Emma was silent, but she raised a hand to his face, stroking his cheek.
“Is that a maybe?” Alasdair tried to hide his disappointment, but it was there in his voice.
“It’s not no,” Emma said.
Chapter Ten
“Emma love, I’ve been so worried. Wherever have you been?” Maria, dressed for the evening in lavender silk and a ruched butterfly cap, hurried out of the salon as Emma came into the house. It was already dark and the rain had not abated. Alasdair had hired a chaise in Richmond to bring Emma home, himself riding back, leading Swallow.
“We were caught in the rain,” Emma explained. “We had to take shelter in Richmond.”
“Look at your habit!” Maria flung up her hands in distress. “It’s so creased!”
The attentions of Eliza had been less than skilled, Emma reflected rueful
ly. Her riding habit was certainly bedraggled. “I was soaked. But Tilda will be able to retrieve it,” she said. “Did you put dinner back? It’ll only take me half an hour to dress.” She moved toward the stairs, for some reason finding it difficult to meet Maria’s eye.
“Perhaps we should stay in this evening,” Maria suggested doubtfully. “After such an ordeal, you mustn’t put yourself in the way of catching cold.”
“Since when does getting caught in a shower qualify as an ordeal?” Emma scoffed, running up the stairs. She called over her shoulder, “But I think I shall take a bath to warm me up. Half an hour and I’ll be down.”
Maria shook her head over this, but Emma could be a whirlwind when the need arose. However, to be on the safe side, she told Harris to set back dinner an hour. It would still give them ample time to arrive at Almack’s well before the witching hour of eleven o’clock, when the doors were firmly barred to all latecomers.
Not even the Prince of Wales would dare to challenge such an inflexible rule. Not that he was likely to appear at Almack’s under any circumstances, Maria reflected, returning to the drawing room. Dancing, not cards, was the entertainment offered at Almack’s, and the refreshments were not of the kind to appeal to a robust and bibulous appetite.
Tilda exclaimed and lamented over the condition of the riding habit as footmen toiled up the stairs with jugs of steaming water for Emma’s bath.
Emma stripped off her clothes with a sigh of relief and stepped into the copper tub. The hot water laved her skin and eased the slight soreness engendered by a long afternoon’s play.
She smiled rather dreamily as she rubbed verbena-scented soap between her hands. How she had missed this wonderful feeling of languid fulfillment, the sense that every part of her body had been touched with passion. She felt soft and open and aglow. And she would not yet spoil the feeling by allowing herself to think about where it was going to lead.
“The green crepe gown, Tilda,” she said. “The one with the white half-slip.” She rose dripping from the bath and took the towel Tilda handed her. She could smell the faint fragrance of the soap on her skin, and she could still feel Alasdair’s body against her own. She’d noticed in the past how her skin and muscles seemed to have memories of their own.
“I think the paisley shawl, Lady Emma,” Tilda said positively as she rubbed pomade into her mistress’s side curls until they shone a rich, burnished tawny gold. “The green and gold will complement the gown.”
Emma acceded to this with a nod. She slipped her silk-stockinged feet into green kid slippers and fastened three strings of matchless pearls at her throat. They had been a twenty-first birthday present from Ned. The matching pearl drops that she clipped to her ears had been Alasdair’s present.
There was a knock at the bedchamber door, and Tilda went to answer it. “Oh, such a pretty posy, madam,” she said, taking it from the footman outside. “White roses. They’ll go beautifully with your gown. We should pin them to your glove at the wrist.”
She brought the posy to Emma. Three perfect white roses bound with silver ribbon. Tasteful and delicate. But what else would one expect from Alasdair? Emma thought with a smile, removing the little engraved card.
Ma belle, wear these for me and make me the happiest man. Your most devoted servant, Paul.
“Oh,” Emma said, her nose wrinkling unconsciously. The posy was delicate, the message presumptuous. Surely she hadn’t given the man that much encouragement? But honesty obliged her to acknowledge that he could have read enough into her flirtatious manner to justify encouragement. She had, after all, intended to encourage him. And now she’d have to withdraw—depress his pretensions. A most unpleasant business that would make her appear to be a flirtatious tease, unless she could think of a gracious way to handle the situation.
“No, I won’t wear them, Tilda,” she said as the maid was about to pin the posy to her long silk gloves.
“Oh, but Lady Emma!” Tilda protested.
“They’re pretty enough,” Emma responded. “But I’m going to wear the gold bracelets that belonged to my mother.” She opened her jewel case.
Tilda looked curious, but she set the posy down on the dresser and fetched the paisley shawl. She draped it over Emma’s elbows and stood back to judge the effect. “Very modish, Lady Emma,” she pronounced with satisfaction, adjusting the tasseled cord that confined the gown beneath the bosom.
Emma’s own smile was a trifle distracted. The rich patina of the evening had worn a little thin at the prospect of disillusioning Paul Denis, particularly under Alasdair’s eye. Alasdair had said he would be at Almack’s, and she was going to find it very difficult to be in the company of both men without thinking of the brass nymph.
It was probable that the story of the attack on the émigré was all over town by now. Paul would surely have mentioned the assault to the duke of Devizes, since it had occurred in his house. And then she remembered that when she’d produced her own fabrication that morning, pretending she hadn’t returned to the conservatory, he had said only that he had waited for her, “for an eternity.” Why hadn’t he told her then of the attack? It would have been natural enough.
Pride perhaps? He couldn’t bear to admit such an ignominious assault. It seemed the only answer, and it seemed a likely one. Paul Denis would not willingly expose himself to the sniggers of society. And he would be the target of malicious jokes … anyone would have been. Society loved to poke fun at any scandal-brewing misfortune.
Thoughtfully she went downstairs. Maria fluttered around her, anxious that she shouldn’t have suffered from her exposure to the elements. “Are you sure, my dear, that you shouldn’t take one of Dr. Bennet’s powders … just to ward off a quinsy? I do so dread a quinsy, my love. A putrid sore throat is the worst thing.”
“Smallpox and typhoid I could do without as well,” Emma teased.
“Oh, yes, to be sure … but you know what I mean.”
“You’re a mother hen,” Emma said with an affectionate smile. “Come, let’s go into dinner. I’m famished.” The picnic in the Greek temple seemed a long time ago, and the brandy punch that Alasdair had made before they left the Green Goose had done little to appease hunger, although it had given her a pleasant glow on the cold drive home.
Maria’s anxieties were somewhat allayed by this. A hearty appetite bespoke good health.
They were about to sit down to table when Emma heard a voice in the hall. She stood still, her hand resting on her chairback.
“Why, it’s Alasdair,” Maria said in surprise. “Has he come for dinner, I wonder?”
“If he’s invited,” Alasdair said cheerfully from the door. “I’ve just delivered Swallow to her stable. Sam seems to think a bran mash will take care of any possible ill effects of the rain. I thought you’d like to know, Emma.”
He smiled with the complacent air of one who knows he has done noble service, and ran an eye over the table. “If those are Aylesbury ducklings, I am definitely staying for dinner. And after I will escort you both to King Street.”
He was dressed in the regulation attire for Almack’s. Emma had always considered that the black satin knee britches, white waistcoat, striped stockings, and waisted coat with long tails were particularly suited to his slender frame. And she didn’t revise that opinion now. He looked like a particularly elegant, supple panther, she thought. Understated and yet emanating a certain restrained power.
“I’ll lay a cover, sir.” Harris snapped his fingers at a footman, who hurried to set another place at the table.
Alasdair moved behind Emma’s chair, holding it for her. His hands brushed her shoulders as he pushed it in beneath her. He felt the little quiver run over her skin and lightly clasped the back of her neck for a second before moving around the table to take his place.
He raised his eyebrows at the wine bottle on the sideboard. “Claret, Emma? With dinner?”
“Should I bring up the burgundy, sir?” Harris inquired.
“Do you have an
y of the ’99 left? The consignment that was given to Lord Edward for his coming-of-age?” Alasdair asked.
“There are six bottles, sir. I will fetch one up from the cellar.” Harris moved to the door.
Emma frowned. This was her household, and Harris should have deferred to her. But old memories stuck fast and the butler had obviously slipped back into the old habit of regarding Alasdair as one of the family, on a footing with Ned.
Alasdair glanced across the table and caught her expression. “Oh,” he said with a rueful grin. “Did I just overstep myself?”
“Gentlemen know much more about wine than ladies,” Maria said comfortably. “Emma wouldn’t object in the slightest to your giving order about the wine.”
“Maria, that is such nonsense,” Emma protested. “You have such antiquated notions. I know as much about wine as Alasdair does.”
“So you should,” Alasdair said promptly. “Since everything you know Ned and I taught you. Although you seem to have forgotten one or two of the essentials,” he added, shaking his head in reproof.
Before Emma could protest this injustice, Maria spoke. “Well, to be sure, Emma, you’re rather out of the common way of young ladies,” she conceded. “But in general, I find it best to leave such matters in the capable hands of the gentlemen. Alasdair, do take some of the duckling. And I think you’ll find the broiled mushrooms to your liking.”
Alasdair helped himself. Harris reappeared with two crusted bottles of Ned’s burgundy and solemnly began to pour.
“Oh, just a very little for me, I thank you,” Maria said. “I find burgundy a trifle heavy.”
“Pour Mrs. Witherspoon a glass of claret, Harris,” Emma instructed, shooting Alasdair a pointed look. “Mrs. Witherspoon is liable to get the headache with burgundy.”
“Ah, so that explains such a solecism,” Alasdair said, sounding relieved. “I was afraid, Emma, that you’d lost your palate. Claret is all very well for drinking before dinner, but not with food.” He smiled benignly at her over the rim of his glass.