by Lynne Barron
“In some cultures, when a man saves a woman’s life, he becomes responsible for her.” Nick lifted his hand and laid it gently on her cheek, his fingers threading though the wispy curls the wind had freed from the knot atop her head. He absorbed the heat of her skin, the silk of her hair, the way she turned oh-so-slightly into his hand.
“You are not responsible for me, Nicholas,” she said softly, almost wistfully.
“I would like to be.”
Emily closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she drew an unsteady breath.
Nick knew he would not like the words that trembled on her lips when she parted them to speak. Leaning down he captured her lips, halted the words he would not hear. He kissed her hard, in mingled anger and denial, his lips hungry on hers, his tongue driving into her mouth.
And Emily, his precious, vibrant Emily welcomed him. She welcomed him with lips and tongue and a soft hum that rose from deep in her chest. Then her hands were on him, skimming up his shoulders, locking around his neck, pulling him closer.
“Your shoulder,” he murmured as he trailed open-mouthed kisses across her cheek, down her jaw.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, tilting her head back, gifting him with the supple line of her throat.
Nick dragged his mouth down her neck, his lips and tongue worshipping her flesh, his teeth gently devouring her.
Emily moaned, the sound dark and hungry, and Nick’s control snapped. Wrapping his arms around, he pulled her tight against him as his lips found hers once more. He speared his tongue into her mouth, circled, caressed, parried with hers, drawing another low moan from her. He dragged his hands down her back, over the swell of her luscious bottom, filling his hands with her soft flesh.
Emily rose up on her toes, pressing her breasts to the wall of his chest and rubbed against him, as sinuous as a cat, and Nick imagined he felt her nipples even through the layers of their clothing. His cock jerked and pulsed as lust roared through his veins.
“Christ, Em,” he growled against her lips before lifting her off her feet.
“What?” she murmured in surprise, her arms tightening around his shoulders.
“Shh,” he soothed before nipping at her bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, stroking his tongue along the sensitive flesh. He stepped back until his legs bumped the line of hay bales. Holding her tightly to him he lowered himself to sit on the warm hay, his hands gliding down her thighs, gently parting them, until she came to rest straddling him.
“This can’t be proper,” she drawled against his mouth as she shifted about awkwardly, her skirts tangled around her legs.
“Likely not.” Sweeping his hands down her legs and back up, he pulled her skirts up to bunch around her waist and thighs before claiming her mouth once more in a long, luscious kiss that had her sighing and brushing her breasts across his chest again and again, her hands delving into his hair, her fingers tugging, her nails scouring his scalp.
Nick wrapped his arms around her, trailed his fingertips down her spine, over the dip at the small of her back and into the crease of her bottom, his palms filled with her firm round cheeks. He squeezed gently and was rewarded with a soft moan, a slight undulation of her hips that had her brushing against his straining cock.
With a groan, he tightened his grip and tugged her against him, pulled her heat against his pulsing shaft. He rocked against her, set up a tempo that matched the thrust and parry of their tongues until he thought he might go mad with wanting her. Or spend in his trousers like an untried boy.
Nick broke their kiss, smiled grimly when she whimpered her displeasure, and trailed his lips across her jaw to the hollow beneath her ear. He nipped her warm flesh, gently swirled his tongue into the indentation. Emily jerked against him, her hands tugging at his hair.
“Nicholas,” she moaned.
“Like that, do you?” he whispered against her flesh.
“Yes, oh, yes,” she purred as she rubbed against him, pressed hard against his cock.
Nick latched onto her neck, suckled and laved, his mouth open and hot, desire running rampant, threatening his control.
He wedged a hand between them, found her breast and filled his palm with the weight of her. He squeezed softly, then more firmly when she cried out in pleasure. He found her nipple, pebbled and hard beneath her gown, circled it with one finger before adding his thumb to pluck gently.
“Oh, God,” Emily groaned, her hips bucking against him, her heat dragging down the length of his shaft.
With trembling fingers he reached for the buttons at the front of her gown only to fumble with the topmost one. The buttons were tiny, miniscule little round pearls that ran from the base of her throat to her waist. And he could not even get the first one free of its mooring.
“Damn,” he muttered against her neck.
Emily used his hesitation to wrench herself from his embrace, nearly tripping over her skirts as she scrambled off his lap.
“Come back here,” he muttered, raking one hand through his hair.
“Not on your life,” she replied in a voice like rough velvet before turning to pace away from him.
Nick leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands as it dawned on him that he would have no relief from the raging erection pulsing against his breaches. Christ, he was as hard as a pike.
With his eyes closed he followed her movements about the small loft, her boot heels clicking softly on the worn wood. Around and around she paced, occasionally muttering unintelligibly under her breath. He dragged deep breaths into his lungs, concentrating on the sound of her footsteps, while he reclaimed his lost control.
When her movements stopped Nick looked up to find her standing in the wash of sunlight streaming in through the open hayloft door, her hands on her hips. “You must stop doing this.”
Nick smiled at the picture she presented, a fiery fallen angel with a bemused smile on her lush red lips and her coiffure listing to one side. “Why?”
“Why?” she repeated with a huff of amused irritation. “Because you must find a wife and you won’t find one so long as you spend all your time following me about stealing kisses.”
“I’ve found a wife,” he stated and chuckled when her eyes widened.
“I am not going to marry you, Nicholas Avery.”
“You will.”
“Oh,” she cried in exasperation as she spun to grab up her coat and march down the narrow steps, leaving Nick no choice but to follow her from the dairy barn.
Nick fell into step beside her, smiled when she tucked her hand around his arm in what was surely an unconscious gesture.
“You have a duty to your family,” she told him primly.
“I’m fully aware of my duty.”
“I would hate for you to find yourself married to the Nasty Baggage, or one such as her.”
“I’m certain I would hate it even more.”
“I’ve a mind to help you,” she said, her words slipping into the slow drawl, part Irish brogue and part southern belle, that never failed to send desire thrumming through his blood.
“Help me, will you?” he asked, copying her cadence.
“Someone must,” she replied. “Lord knows you’re likely to make a muck of it if left to your own devices.”
Nick stopped walking, threw his head back and roared with laughter. Emily was right, he’d made an absolute muck of his courtship of this complicated woman.
“I’m that sure I don’t know what has you hollering like a loon, but just stop it right this instant before someone comes along and decides it’s the bin for you,” she admonished but Nick didn’t miss the humor sparkling in her eyes.
“The bin?” he asked as he tried to gather his wits.
“The loony bin,” she answered.
“Ah that bin,” he murmured, thinking an asylum just might be exactly where he belonged for thinking he could simply woo Emily Calvert, kiss her into submission.
“Come along then,�
� she said, tugging on his arm to get him moving once more. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll help you to find a nice little heiress, perhaps not one with red hair but surely one with a store of useless knowledge.”
“I’ll not have her if she isn’t in possession of a tangle of fiery curls and emerald eyes,” he declared with a wolfish grin.
“Nonsense, I have it on good authority that Englishmen prefer golden curls and china blue eyes.”
“Not this Englishman.”
“Now then, Aunt Margaret is expecting another herd of broad mares in three days’ time,” she replied, ignoring his softly spoken words. “If I know my Aunt, and believe you me I do, this lot will be superior to the first, seeing as how she only invited them as window dressing.”
“Figured that out, did you?” he asked.
“As soon as I met them. Although I was thrown off by the inclusion of Miss Sanderson.”
“She’s here for Carmichael.”
“And a lovely match they’ll make,” she agreed. “Especially as he isn’t in need of her fortune.”
“Is that why you don’t want to marry me? Because I am in need of your fortune?”
Emily’s astonished gaze flew to his. “I’m not so naïve as to think that matches aren’t made every day with an eye to financial gain. On both sides. I only meant that Adelaide Sanderson will not have to wonder if it’s her fortune or her person Lord Carmichael wants.”
“I want both. No, that’s not right. I wish it weren’t so, but I need your fortune. You, I want.”
“It’ll pass,” she replied airily. “Once we’ve matched you with the perfect wife, I’ll become a distant memory. Years from now, if you remember me at all, it’ll be to laugh about how you kissed me in the stables thinking I was the stable master’s daughter.”
“If you say so,” he agreed amicably, knowing she was wrong. She would never be a distant memory. He was going to have her. He was going to win her and he was going to marry her.
He just had to figure out why she did not believe they would be happy and convince her otherwise.
Oddly enough it was his sister-in-law Joan who opened his eyes to the herculean task he’d set for himself.
Joan was standing on the wide porch that fronted Lady Margaret’s stately gray-stoned mansion. She watched them approach with a smile on her flushed face.
“Can you believe how cold it’s become?” she asked. “Why, just yesterday it felt like autumn and now I’d swear winter is upon us.”
“That it is,” Emily agreed as she breezed in through the door Jackson held open. “I’m for a steaming hot bath. I’ll see you both at dinner.”
Nick waited for Joan to precede him into the foyer, gave his coat to the butler and followed her into the front parlor.
“She’s a lovely lady,” Joan said as he took a seat next to her on the settee before a roaring fire.
“Yes,” Nick agreed, but his mind was not on the lady next to him. It was following the lady he intended to make his wife.
“Not outwardly, “Joan said. “Oh, that’s not to say she isn’t pretty!”
Nick looked at his sister-in-law’s blushing face and chuckled.
“That’s not what I meant at all. She really is quite arresting. Not pretty in any sort of customary way. She’s too…”
“Bright.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.
“Sultry.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she exclaimed, giving his arm a swat.
“Take my word for it.”
“She is bright. She just shines. My goodness, her hair in the sunlight is positively brilliant. And her eyes, the way she looks directly at you when she speaks. And what a beautiful sun-kissed complexion she has, although if she continues to forget her bonnet she’ll soon be covered in freckles.”
“Yes,” Nick would like to see every one of them, up close.
“But it’s more than that,” Joan continued, warming to the subject. “Did you know she speaks four languages? And has studied astronomy and anatomy? She runs her father’s horse farm for him and has for years. He’s busy with his cotton trading and railways. She knows all about local healing plants, local to the area around the Chesapeake Bay, that is. Oh, and she knows how to cook! Have you ever heard of such a thing? A lady puttering around in the kitchen?”
Nick laughed at her enthusiasm before saying, “I didn’t realize you and Miss Calvert knew one another well enough for her to enlighten you as to her many talents.”
“We don’t,” Joan admitted with a giggle. “No, Emily wouldn’t go on so about her accomplishments. If anything, she’s wont to play them down. Hiding them under a bushel, Mr. Calvert says. He said some fool put the silly notion into her head that gentlemen prefer a quiet lady, one who doesn’t show her wit.”
“Hmmm, I wonder who could have told her that.”
“I think it was Mr. Calvert himself, but don’t tell him I said so,” she replied. “Oh, and she set up a school for the servants and those slaves whose masters will allow them to attend. And she has organized a group of ladies, and I must say Mr. Calvert winked when he said ‘ladies’, who sew clothes for the poor.”
Joan was ticking off Emily’s accomplishments on her fingers. Literally.
“Are you by any chance trying to steer me in Miss Calvert’s direction?”
“Certainly not.”
“There’s no need, you know.”
Joan stilled beside him, her gray eyes fixed upon his face.
“That’s just it Nicholas, “she replied slowly. “I know you are considering her as a wife, you said as much just two nights ago. But the thing is…”
“The thing is…” he prompted when she hesitated.
“I’m not certain you truly understand just how perfect she is for you.”
“Perfect, is she?” he asked with a laugh.
“For you,” Joan stressed. “Emily is perfect for you.”
As he’d been thinking the very same thing, Nick said nothing. Joan had a point to make and sometimes it was best to let her get to it in her own way.
“I know your father and Lady Margaret are pushing you to make a decision quickly, that our current difficulties require swift action.”
“Sadly true.”
“But don’t you see? I think you may have to choose whether you will marry quickly or you will marry Emily. I do not believe you can do both.”
Nick felt as if he’d been punched in the gut as he recognized the truth in her words.
What had Emily said when he’d asked her if she truly planned to remain unmarried?
Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. But whatever I do, you can be sure I’ll be doing it on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
Emily had a life in Maryland. She had two brothers and a sister she loved. She managed a horse farm. She’d set up a school for the servants and slaves. She was afforded freedoms there that she could never have in London as the wife of a gentleman.
She would be forced to give all of that up, and more, if she chose to accept an Englishman’s offer of marriage. She would relinquish her fortune into the hands of her husband, just as she would relinquish her name, and her body for that matter.
She wouldn’t make such a sacrifice lightly nor would she make a decision quickly. Certainly not in the week and a half that remained of Lady Margaret’s house party.
Nick saw clearly that he had three choices.
He could give up on Emily Ann Calvert and find another heiress to marry.
He could invest months his family’s financial situation could not afford courting her, allowing her to come to know him, convincing her that she needn’t sacrifice all of it, and that he was worth those sacrifices that could not be avoided.
Or he could seduce her and snatch the decision away from her.
“Ah, shit,” he whispered.
“Just so,” Joan agreed, a flush stealing across her cheeks.
Chapter Fourteen
Emily awoke at d
awn the following morning to find a fine frost covering the gardens stretching out behind the house. She opened the window and sniffed appreciatively of the crisp morning air, leaning forward to look to the west at the little gray-stone dairy barn nearly hidden by the fog billowing on the breeze.
The sight of the fog rolling in reminded her of home, of winter mornings when she’d risen early to ride with Da. A wave of homesickness washed over her, bringing a sting to her eyes and a catch to her breath. She wondered if Charlie and Patsy were tucked warmly into their beds or out frolicking in the woods that dotted Emerald Isle Plantation. Perhaps Patsy was earnestly practicing her scales on the grand piano Da had brought home from Baltimore for the little girl when it became apparent that the boxy little pianoforte in the front parlor could not do justice to her musical talent. Charlie was likely in the library curled up on the floor with a book, his head resting on Samson’s back, one long gangly leg swinging in the air as he lost himself in tales of King Arthur or Odysseus.
“You’re up,” Tilly murmured as she entered baring a tray of toast and tea. “Are you meaning to ride this morning?”
“Have I missed Da?” Emily asked as she moved to take the tray from the girl.
“Went out not ten minutes ago, might be you could catch him.”
“No, I’ll have my tea and see if anyone else is up and about when I go down.”
“Mr. Nicholas is awake. Leastwise his man came up with a tray a few minutes ago,” Tilly replied with a wink.
“Oh, not you, too, Tilly,” Emily groaned as she pulled her night gown over her head.
“You could do worse, Miss,” Tilly replied before going into the dressing room to rummage through the tall armoire that housed her mistress’s clothing. “It’s bitter cold out. You’d best wear a guernsey.”
Emily eyed the navy blue wool guernsey her maid brought out to her. “A thick linen shirt under, please. That wool is terribly itchy against my skin. And my gray britches, I think. Did we bring Nate’s old frock coat?”
“I’ve already got it aired out and hanging on a peg downstairs,” Tilly answered. “But didn’t you promise your aunt you’d keep to dresses?”