Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Filled with anticipation and not much caring whether it was immodest or not, Emily thought the time would drag until she saw Barnaby again. She was astonished to discover that by the time she had bathed and changed into a simple blue gown and Kate had brushed her hair until it cascaded in near-silver curls down her back, that the hour was just a few minutes shy of eight o’clock.

  She was halfway across the candlelit room, when the door connecting her rooms with Barnaby’s opened and Barnaby sauntered into the room. At the sight of him, looking so big and virile, her heart gave that funny little thump she was beginning to expect whenever she saw him.

  Like her, he had changed and this evening wore far less formal clothes. His cravat was smaller and there was no lace fall at his neck; his dark blue coat and pale gray breeches, though expensive and expertly tailored, were of less costly materials. Eschewing the usual queue, Barnaby had left his heavy black hair loose and it fell in luxurious waves to his shoulders. With all that black silk hair framing his face, it brought attention to the broad cheekbones and intensified the darkness of his complexion, making his Indian ancestry very apparent.

  Spying Emily, Barnaby stopped as if hit with a sledgehammer and any thought of the quiet, polite dinner he’d ordered served in her sitting room, followed by a gentle seduction vanished. His eyes narrowed and fastened on her half-parted rosy mouth, the blood roaring in his head as the memory of those tempting lips crushed under his swept through him. To his damnation, he was instantly hard and ready to rip those clothes from her body and take what was his. He struggled against his most basic instincts, fighting back the urge to toss her on the bed and discover all the charms he knew lay beneath that charming blue gown.

  Emily took a half step back at the expression on his face, even as her body responded to the hungry desire she saw there. Her nipples peaked against the thin silk of her gown, her legs went weak and the anticipation of his touch, of his mouth on hers, stilled further retreat.

  Barnaby’s gaze dropped to her nipples pushing impudently against the blue fabric and he muttered something between a curse and a benediction and in two long strides was before her, dragging her into his arms. For a second, their eyes met, the fierce hunger blazing in his meeting the uncertain eagerness of hers and then with his hands tightly gripping her upper arms and holding her against him, his mouth came down hard and demanding on hers.

  That first kiss was not gentle—he couldn’t control himself, his lips and tongue plundering at will—but as the seconds passed, despite every urge to the contrary, he was able to regain some sanity. This was Emily. His wife. His bride!

  Breathing as if he’d run a race, he slowly gentled his touch, his tongue seeking and meeting hers, twining and tasting, luring her deeper into desire. His mouth seducing hers, his hands left her arms and slid to her hips, jerking her snugly against the rampant rod between his thighs.

  Emily’s arms clasped his neck and she reveled in the force of his kiss and the feel of that muscled body pressing against hers. Ardently she returned his kiss, shivering with delight when his big hands gripped her hips and brought her to that rigid length of flesh that told of his arousal.

  Kisses soon weren’t enough and, groaning, Barnaby swept her up into his arms and half stumbled to the bed. His mouth never leaving hers, he followed her down onto the bed, need and desire dictating his every move. Together they sprawled there, their mouths locked together, Barnaby’s body half covering hers, one thigh lodged between her legs.

  As driven as he, Emily kissed him back passionately, gasping when his thigh rubbed insistently against that part of her lower body that burned and ached for his touch. Her hands clutched his shoulders and she twisted beneath him, her legs tightening around that intruding thigh, holding him there where all sensation seemed centered.

  His hand moved to her breast and he shoved the material lower, baring her breasts, and those hard, masculine fingers cupped and caressed all that warm flesh he had laid bare. Trailing nipping kisses along her jaw, down her throat and across her chest, his lips traveled to her breasts and closed hungrily around her nipples. The touch of his mouth, the feel of his teeth and the laving of his tongue across those sensitive buds sent a flash of heat searing through Emily and she arched up, offering him all that he would take.

  She was fire and satin beneath him and with the small part of his brain not clouded by desire, Barnaby fought to control the clawing hunger that demanded the joining of their bodies. Trembling on the knife-edge between sanity and primitive instinct, he slid between her legs, rocking his swollen manhood against the softness at the junction of her thighs. Pleasure erupted through him when her arms tightened around him and her hips rose up to meet him. Struggling not to give in to the violent need to bury himself deep within her, he tore his lips from her breast.

  Beset by sensations and emotions that destroyed coherent thought, Emily cried out when that sweet suckling mouth left her nipple. Dazedly she stared up at the dark, fierce face above her, her eyes smoky and mysterious in the flickering light of the candles, her mouth rosy and swollen from his kisses and her cheeks flushed with desire.

  Barnaby had never seen anything lovelier . . . and she deserved better, he thought angrily, than a brutal mating with a rutting boar. Yet when he started to lever his body away from hers, Emily’s arms tightened and she breathed, “No. Don’t leave me this way. I need you.”

  Her words inflamed him, but he threw off the powerful urge to sink back and seek his own pleasure. Forcing a smile that was as tender as it was strained, he muttered, “Emily, love, if you don’t let me put some space between myself and your tempting self, I’ll not be able to control my baser instincts.” He ran a caressing finger across her mouth. “When you are in my arms, I lose my head and all I can think of is possessing you.” He swallowed. “Your first time should be gentle.”

  Her body on fire, aching, burning for him, she didn’t give a damn about gentleness. Wanting him so badly she was certain she’d die if he didn’t end this delicious agony soon, she said, “Perhaps I don’t want gentle right now . . . perhaps I just want you to do with me as you will.”

  Barnaby hovered on the edge and then his eyes dropped to her naked breasts and he lost the battle. Brushing his lips across hers, his hands fastened on her gown. “If that is your wish, madame wife,” he said huskily against her ear, “never let it be said that I disobeyed. And the first thing we need to do is get rid of these clothes.”

  He proved exceedingly adept at stripping her out of her gown, and it took him only a few seconds longer to rid himself of his own clothes. In the dancing candlelight they regarded each other, Barnaby, big and dark and muscular; Emily, pale as alabaster and despite her slimness, seductively curved. Both were mesmerized by what they saw and like a fire stoked anew, the flame between them flared higher.

  They met as one, lips and tongues desperately seeking, limbs entwining and bodies entangling. Ignoring promptings to the contrary, Barnaby lingered over the enchanting length of her, sampling again the honey of her breasts, his fingers drifting over the yielding form before him. As much to please her as himself, he managed to rein back his own desire and learned the curves and hollows of her body, those big, warm hands wandering down her back to her buttocks, squeezing the firm cheeks before slipping around to the front.

  Each new caress heightened the ache, the melting dampness between her thighs and she moved restlessly beneath his touch, wanting, wanting, wanting.... He overpowered her, his taste upon her tongue, his scent in her nostrils and his skin warm and rough under her drifting hands. His mouth sought hers again, the blunt demands of his kiss heightening the pressure building within her, and when his fingers found her and parted the damp flesh between her thighs, Emily twisted in shocked delight.

  His touch was knowing and gently, persistently, he teased her, pulling at the folds, lazily exploring before slipping one and then two fingers into her. She gasped at the new sensation, each thrust of those invading fingers sending waves of ur
gent yearning spiraling through her body. Dizzy, helpless under the onslaught of the simple, basic clamoring of her body, fevered and wild, she bit his lip, her fingers clawing at his back.

  “Please,” she moaned against his mouth. Her arms tightened around his neck and her rising hips met the thrust of his fingers. “Please!”

  His breathing ragged, his shaft swollen to the point of exploding and devoured by lust such as he had never known nearly choking him, her plea ripped through the last remnant of his restraint. Shaking with the power of his need, he knelt between her parted legs, his engorged member pressing against the nest of tight curls at the junction of her thighs. Lips and tongue explicit in their demand he found her mouth and slowly lowered himself onto her, pushing deeper and deeper into the hot sweetness of her body.

  Emily gasped at the size and heat of him as he filled her and she knew a second’s panic when he met resistance and the brief spasm of pain dimmed her pleasure. Aware of the change in her body, he stilled, but wrapping her legs even more securely around his, she murmured, “No. Please. Don’t stop—it, it didn’t hurt very much at all.”

  Half buried within her, surrounded by her satiny, slick heat, Barnaby doubted he could have stopped if she had asked it of him. Thickly, he said, “I swear to you that from this moment on, there will only be pleasure in our marriage bed.”

  Her lips slid across his. “Show me,” she breathed, her eyes drowsy with desire.

  Goaded by her words and the seductive allure of her body, he groaned and plunged fully into her. He tried to be gentle, tried to prolong the sweet agony, but his body was in the grip of a primitive emotion bordering on ecstasy that stripped him of everything except the basic impulse to lose himself within her.

  Emily was prey to those same instincts and with every heavy thrust of his body into hers, she hurtled toward the same pinnacle he sought. His fingers dug into her hips and he moved on her with increasing desperation, the friction of his body surging into hers, sending a frantic need flooding through her. She wanted, she wanted, she wanted . . . this, she thought giddily, as her body quaked and sudden, powerful pleasure swamped her and she drowned in ecstasy.

  Feeling her body convulse around him, Barnaby groaned, thrusting even more frantically into her until at last, he, too, found that sweet oblivion.

  Chapter 20

  As the days of February drifted by, prodded by the execution of Louis XVI in Paris, England and her allies declared war on France. The war cast a pall over the entire country, but as February gave way to March and a hint of spring teased the air, Emily marveled at the unexpected path her life had taken. Her marriage to Barnaby had been a monumental upheaval in her life but there had been additional changes in the neighborhood since that stormy February morning they had exchanged vows.

  When Barnaby had reluctantly left Emily’s bed that first morning after their wedding, ridding his house of all the extra guests had been on his mind. Just the sight of her flushed and drowsy-eyed as she snuggled deeper under the blankets sent a surge of lust through him, and it was all he could do not to sink back into bed beside her and awaken the passionate creature who had taken him to heaven last night. He sighed. The further discovery of his bride’s many delights would have to wait. First he had to convince Mathew and his brothers that there was no reason for them to remain at Windmere waiting for another attack on him.

  The two men met in Barnaby’s study and when Barnaby told Mathew that he and his brothers should return to Monks Abbey, of course, Mathew objected. “Have you forgotten that someone is trying to kill you?” he demanded, his jaw tight, his eyes bloodshot from a night of carousing at The Ram’s Head.

  Barnaby shook his head. “No, I haven’t, but I don’t believe that being constantly in the company of you and your brothers is going to prevent another attempt. Dash it all—I was shot with Emily riding right beside me!” Grimly, he added, “If the would-be assassin is as determined as I fear he may be, your presence will be for naught.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing,” Barnaby interrupted. “I appreciate your concerns, but you cannot remain indefinitely at Windmere waiting for someone to take another stab”—Barnaby winced—“at me.” When Mathew looked mulish, Barnaby said persuasively, “Thanks to the last attack, I know that there is someone who wants me dead and that none of these ‘accidents’ were accidental. My guard is up—I’ll not be caught napping again. Lamb and my brother will provide the extra eyes that I need.” He smiled. “And I have an even greater reason for wanting to stay alive now—Emily. I will take care to keep breathing, I assure you.”

  Mathew didn’t like it, but in the end, he reluctantly agreed that he and his brothers would leave for Monks Abbey that afternoon. Before they left Barnaby’s study, he shot him a hard look and said, “I would remind you that I am on your side in this. If you have the slightest need of me—send word.” His lips thinned. “I do not wish to inherit a title with your blood on it.” Barnaby nodded and they parted. With that problem solved, Barnaby was able to return to his bride with the happy news that their guests would be gone in a matter of hours.

  Mathew and his brothers departed as promised and Luc, who remained discreetly out of sight, allowed the newlyweds the privacy they craved, but by the first week of March, there was a new occupant at Windmere—Cornelia.

  If Emily hadn’t already been in love with Barnaby, he would have stolen her heart when before the wedding he’d made it evident that he wanted Cornelia and Anne living with them at Windmere. “God knows the place is big enough to house an army, and the addition of two women won’t make the least ripple.” Caressing her cheek, he’d added, “I know that they are very dear to you and that you would worry about them if we abandoned them to your cousin.” He paused, made a face and admitted, “I’m not saying they should move in immediately—I’d like us to have a few weeks to ourselves. But after that, I’d be most happy to have both ladies in residence—and whatever staff they wish to bring with them.”

  Pride had made Emily hesitate and Barnaby had taken her into his arms and shook her gently. “I’m a wealthy man,” he said bluntly. “You will be my wife in a matter of days. Let me do this for two members of your family—both of whom I have grown very fond.” When she’d have protested, he’d put a finger against her lips and muttered, “And I don’t want to hear one word about charity. It’s my bloody money and I’ll spend it how I see fit.” He’d grinned at her. “Better I spend it seeing to their comfort than throwing it away on the gaming tables. Take your choice.” There was no choice, as Emily had known full well the moment he’d brought up the subject.

  When the idea had been presented to her, Cornelia accepted Barnaby’s offer with brazen glee, but Anne, approached by Emily the day before the wedding, had hesitated. After a moment, her brown eyes full of anxiety, she asked, “Would you be wounded or think me ungrateful if I refused your very kind offer?” Emily shook her head, already half prepared for Anne’s reply. In a rush, Anne said, “I didn’t want to say anything until after the wedding, but dear Althea has begged me to make Parkham House my home and I think I shall do very well living there.” Quickly, Anne added, “If Cornelia was remaining here, I would never desert her but with you married to Barnaby and Cornelia moving in with you”—she blushed—“I can please myself.”

  And so by the nineteenth of March, Anne was nestled at Parkham House and Cornelia was reigning over her splendid suite of rooms at Windmere: Agatha had come with her mistress to Windmere.

  As Cornelia had been moving in, Luc had been moving out. Finding him his own place had been accomplished easily. The Dower House, situated a scant mile from Windmere, was sitting empty and, God willing, not likely to be used any time during the next thirty or forty years. Like everything else connected with the estate, the Elizabethan manor house had been kept in immaculate condition and was ready for occupancy if Luc found favor with the suggestion. Luc did. Barnaby could even supply an exceptional butler and cook for him: Walker and Mrs. Spal
ding. These days Luc was happily settled in at the Dower House, with Mrs. Spalding, aided by Alice, the scullery maid, bustling about the kitchen and Walker overseeing Tom, the footman, and Jane, Sally and another pair of housemaids taken from the staff at Windmere.

  While Luc was willing to allow Barnaby to house and care for him at the moment, it was understood to be a temporary arrangement. Barnaby was aware that once Luc was fully recovered that he would chafe at being dependent on someone else and that it would be only a matter of time before Luc would seek his own fortune.

  Having arrived in England penniless and half alive, Luc had no choice but to accept Barnaby’s generosity in providing for his care, but he balked when Barnaby mentioned settling a small fortune on him.

  His azure eyes blazing in his thin, pale face, Luc declared roundly, “I know that I am in no condition—or position—to refuse your help, but damn it, Barnaby, I am quite capable of making my own way—with no help from you . . . or anybody else! I cannot and will not turn into a parasite living off my rich relative. Keep your blasted money! I’ll make my own way.”

  Unperturbed by Luc’s outburst—he’d been expecting it—Barnaby murmured, “I know you will. Let us consider it more of a loan.” He grinned at Luc. “Admit it—you’ll need a stake and I’m willing to provide it. You can pay me back, with interest, when you have the funds—which I know will be soon enough once you reach London and the gaming tables.”