Emmanuel closed his eyes and breathed deep. “Very well.”
His hand reached for his breeches. He pulled them off in one fell swoop and then reached down and detached his wooden leg. He placed it aside before hopping over to the bed and sitting down. He let Isabella explore with her hands and her eyes. She laid her palm flat against his stump, over scar and skin.
Emmanuel did not have much sensation around the stump. Yet he could have sworn that Isabella’s touch penetrated him, that the heat of her hands warmed the heart pounding in Emmanuel’s breast.
“I know it is ugly.”
“You survived,” Isabella said. She rested her forehead against Emmanuel’s. “That is what matters.”
“I am like this inside, too.”
Emmanuel closed his eyes against the memories welling up in him.
“I know,” Isabella whispered. Emmanuel could feel her breath against his lips with every word. “I want to see those, too. All of them. Everything.”
Emmanuel closed the space between them, fusing his lips to hers.
* * *
Isabella clung to him, letting him squeeze and lick and suck as he would. She did as she had been longing to do for too long, and wrapped her legs around his waist. He made an inarticulate sound—of pain or pleasure, Isabella couldn’t tell—and rutted against her thigh. His hard length was a like an iron band poking at her skin and for a moment she was fearful. Sarah had said it would hurt quite badly but she was to close her eyes and bear it.
Isabella could not imagine Emmanuel hurting her.
His warm hands folded around her thighs, widening the space between and she felt something hard and hot, questing, seeking and then finding the center of her. She felt stretched, possessed, overwhelmed with the immediacy of it all. He was inside her, around her, she was surrounded by him.
A pinprick of pain had her jerking and he murmured soft apologies in her ear. She shook her head, thrusting her hips upward to urge him on. It was all the encouragement he needed to plunder her, over and over, his hot hard length filling her to capacity and beyond, the sounds emanating from his throat driving her mad. Her body was not her own anymore.
“Emmanuel!” she cried out as she arched upward, feeling his release as her own body suckled him dry, shaking and trembling, with no control of mind or body. She slumped back onto the luxuriant pillows and let herself go.
* * *
Later that night, after a cold dinner and a mutual agreement to remain scandalously naked, Isabella insisted upon demonstrating for Emmanuel one of the particular positions described in the book Sarah provided her.
As they lie breathless on the floor together, the banked fire burning low, Emmanuel put his lips to Isabella’s ear. “I have something to tell you.”
She turned to him, a smile ready to burst from her lips. “I’m listening.”
“I once told you that I would divulge to you a secret, once we were wed.”
Isabella sat up, her mouth wide open as she remembered. “You did indeed.” She hit his chest, “I had almost forgot. Thank you for reminding me.”
Emmanuel snorted. “Ah, you had forgot? I should have kept my mouth shut.”
Isabella lowered herself onto his chest. “Don’t say that. I am dying to know.”
“Oh, you are? So eager are you to know that you forgot?”
“I didn’t forget…my time was simply taken up with other things. Now please, tell me, tell me, tell me.”
Emmanuel laughed. “Very well, I shall tell you.”
He paused, huffing a breath as he stared up at the ceiling as if thinking. Isabella raised an eyebrow as she waited.
“When I was a boy, I had the awful habit of stripping to my unmentionables and taking my wooden leg off. Andrews would then throw rocks to me, which I would hit with my leg so that it flew across the water. The goal was twofold; to cause as much damage to the leg as possible and to hit the rock as far into the lake as possible. We would wait for the splash and then debate whether it was the furthest distance I’d ever hit a rock.”
“Hmm, lots of questions come to mind but pray tell, you haven’t mentioned your nickname yet.”
“Patience, young one…my nickname was…Splash.”
“What?” Isabella laughed. “But why?”
“Because we were silly boys. Because we took this game and made throwing that rock, the be all and end all of everything. All my anger, grief, sadness…it all went into my swing. And when the rock hit the water, with a splash…it all faded away.”
Isabella simply lifted a skeptical eyebrow at him.
He returned the look, his mouth twisted, “And also, because we were constantly arguing about the distance of the splash.”
Isabella smiled. “I expect both explanations are equally true.”
“Yes. One was just more obvious than the other.”
“So you took your frustrations out on your poor prosthetic leg.”
Emmanuel shrugged. “I had to make sure it was strong enough to bear me.”
Isabella squinted. “That was, I suspect, unintentionally profound.”
Emmanuel smiled. “Is there another way to be profound?”
They shared a laugh, letting the sound soak up the heavy silence that resulted from Emmanuel’s confessions. Isabella, in deference to Emmanuel’s desires, was wearing her pearl earrings and diamonds around her neck.
“You should know, darling,” Emmanuel whispered, “that I sleep very poorly.” Nightmares plagued too many of Emmanuel’s nights, especially after the return of his memories of that night.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” Isabella replied with a soft smile.
“It’s all I could ever ask for,” Emmanuel replied.
The End?
Extended Epilogue
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A Ravishing Night with the Mysterious Earl
About the Book
He is her only escape. She is his only prison.
When Jemima Livington, only daughter of the Duke of Cowden, is forced to marry a man she loathes, she runs away. Disguised as a young sailor, she boards the Evening Star to escape her horrid fate.
Simon Fitzwalles, Earl of Burhill, has the sea as his only mistress. Lonely but mysterious, his life changes unexpectedly when he saves a young, handsome sailor from assault.
But Jemima’s betrothed is an obsessive man who won’t stop until he finds her…and he is getting closer by the minute.
Soon Jemima will find out that he and the ravishing Earl share a common past. The answer to an old calamity, that, once exposed, will be either her ticket to freedom or to her eternal captivity.
Chapter 1
You cannot hide from me. I will have you for myself.
Peter Sheton, the Marquess of Beaurgant, prowled the halls of Cowden Manor, in search of the young lady who had caught his eye. It was not only her looks that had captivated him with such intensity, but the fortune that would undoubtedly come with her, should he secure his prize. She was the daughter of the Duke of Cowden—a remarkable beauty with the most exquisite, raven-black hair and dark, blue eyes that reminded him of rare sapphires. The kind worn on the pallid décolletage of far inferior ladies.
As he scoured the corridors for her, he thought how delighted he would be to purchase some such gems for her. A gift, to bring out the delightful shade of her eyes. A prominent piece, perhaps, so that everyone would know where the jewels had come from. Something around her neck, to show the ton who she belonged to.
She does not belong to me yet, but she will soon enough.
He smiled to himself as he kept on down the w
ide hallway. His eyes took in the portraits that hung from the walls, showing the Cowden dynasty in all their glory. He paused for a moment beside one of Lady Jemima—the young lady he sought. With a sigh, he brushed his fingertip across the contours of her soft jaw, feeling the ridges of the oil paint.
As he stared intently into the impression of her dark blue eyes, he wondered what it might be like to feel her real flesh beneath his fingertips. He would claw and grasp and clutch at her, desperate to make her entirely his. There would be children, no doubt, but he would make sure she kept her fine figure. Just because she would become a mother did not mean she would escape the obligations of being a dutiful wife.
“You will blossom as the Marchioness of Beaurgant,” he whispered.
Casting a shy glance along the corridor, to make sure there was nobody around to see him, he leaned into the portrait and placed a kiss upon her painted lips. The prospect of the real thing made him shiver with pleasure, imagining her smooth skin beneath his touch and the softness of her breath against his cheek.
First, however, he had to get her to agree to a dance. Thus far, she had rebuffed him, but that only spurred him on to pursue her harder. He was not the sort of gentleman who gave up on what he desired. A challenge was a thrill to him, and the wildest horses were the most satisfying to break. Lady Jemima Livington was no exception. Fortunately for her, he was an exceptional horseman, well versed in the whims of the strong-willed.
* * *
He will not find me here. Please, do not let him find me here.
Jemima Livington pressed herself back against the doorway of her father’s study, as the sound of the ball raged on below. Laughter and music drifted down the hallways, but she could not enjoy a single note. Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to catch her breath. She felt like prey within her own home. And it did not sit well with her at all.
She had spent the evening running from the lecherous advances of Lord Peter Sheton, the Marquess of Beaurgant. He seemed almost maniacal in his pursuit of her, hardly giving her a moment to herself, despite her polite rebuffing of his endless requests to dance. She was not one for social graces, but she did not think her father would look too kindly on a coarser form of rejection to this unyielding gentleman.
“Ah, there you are.” A voice called up from the bottom of the winding staircase, prompting her heart to leap into her mouth. She knew that voice. She had heard it, perpetually in her ear, for the last two hours.
Her shoulders sagged. Am I never to escape this uncouth fellow?
“Lady Jemima, did you not hear me?” Lord Beaurgant said. He had one hand on the banister, as though he intended to follow her up to the first floor of the house. That, in itself, spoke volumes. To step into private territory was tantamount to searching through someone’s personal belongings, as far as Jemima was concerned.
“I heard you, Lord Beaurgant,” she replied, eyeing the hallway ahead. If she made a run for the shadows there, he might hesitate to follow her. Then again, from what she had garnered of him in the past few hours, he would only wait until she emerged again. And her mother would never believe her, if she claimed she had taken suddenly ill with a mystery malaise, especially as she had slipped away from her chaperone in her haste. She was more likely to receive a scolding than any sympathy.
“Is something the matter, Lady Jemima?” He looked at her curiously, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. Did he know how uncomfortable he was making her? If he did, it only seemed to excite him.
“Not at all,” she replied, steeling herself. “I was simply too hot in the ballroom and needed to partake of some cooler air.”
“And how are you feeling now?”
“I am still somewhat stifled.” She hoped he understood the subtext in her words, but it did not seem as if he was listening. Either that, or he simply did not care for her feelings.
He smiled. “Perhaps, you and I may take a walk in the gardens? The air is much fresher out there.”
“I do not think so, Lord Beaurgant, though I thank you for your concern.”
“I could send for your lady’s maid to chaperone, if that is your worry?”
Jemima gritted her teeth. “It was drizzling earlier this evening, and I should hate to catch cold.” With it being the end of September, the last breath of Summer was beginning to fade from the land. Already, the emerald green of the leaves had begun to darken to an autumnal amber, the edges curling in readiness to drop to the ground below. The balmy warmth of the evenings had given way to a permeating chill, the tentative winds nipping at bare cheeks.
And I sense that having you beside me would only turn the evening colder.
She did not say so out loud, though she dearly longed to. This gentleman was treading a fine line between propriety and dishonorable intention, and she did not want to give him any opportunity to lean towards the latter. If she had only been brazen enough, she would have made a terse comment to send him on his way.
“Then, perhaps you might accompany me back to the ballroom? We do not need to dance if you are unwell, but we may converse at our leisure there.” Lord Beaurgant had a fixed smile upon his lips that unnerved Jemima. She had never known a gentleman to be so unrelenting, and she had experienced her fair share of potential suitors.
“I think I will rest awhile here, instead,” she replied.
“Come now, what is the use in standing alone, when you may sit in comfort? The orchestra is very fine. The music will do you some good, I am certain of it.”
Would you leave me be! She wanted to scream it at the top of her lungs, but her throat had tightened.
Since coming out into society a year ago, when she came of age, she had endured the advances and affections of several charming young gentlemen. She knew how to be polite and courteous, and how to decline with grace, but she had never entertained the idea of their courtship.
Ever since she was a little girl, she had dreamed of a love that could overcome anything. She felt that she would know the gentleman who would provide her with that, the moment he appeared. Thus far, he had not, and she would not settle for anything less. She had seen enough marriages of convenience within her family to persuade her that such a thing was nothing short of a lifetime entrapment.
And if this loutish gentleman thought he was somehow different, he was desperately wrong. Of all the gentlemen who had made their affections known to her, he was, by far, the most insufferable. She would rather have settled for a lackluster marriage with one of the other suitors than this vile specimen, who seemed determined to back her into a corner. He screamed ‘danger’ through his every pore.
“No, thank you,” she reiterated. “I am quite content to catch my breath here for a time. You may return to the ballroom. I will do well enough by myself.”
“If you are unwell, it would be improper of me to leave you alone. What if something were to happen to you?”
“Please, Lord Beaurgant, I assure you I will be quite well by myself.” She wanted nothing more than for him to go away. This was not the way she wished to spend her evening. Indeed, she was not particularly fond of social occasions at the best of times, but she loathed them all the more when there were ulterior motives afoot.
When the ball had been announced, she had already been dubious about the entire affair, but the Duke and Duchess had convinced her that it was to be a simple celebration, to honor their twenty-year anniversary. They promised her they would not attempt matchmaking, though her mother was eager to see her wed before she reached her twentieth year. Jemima had been foolish enough to believe them, hoping that, for once, nothing would be expected of her.
Although, she did not entirely think they had orchestrated this. Even her father would have disapproved of such outward pursuit by a gentleman. Her mother, on the other hand, would likely have thought it sweet, merely putting such intensity down to the passion of Lord Beaurgant. That was the trouble with the Duchess of Cowden—if a potential engagement was at stake, she saw the very best in everyo
ne.
“I must insist that you return to the ballroom. I believe I saw the Duke and Duchess in there, not a moment ago. It may be of benefit to you, to let them know that you are not feeling quite yourself,” Lord Beaurgant urged.
He is not going to relent, is he?
Heaving out a weary breath, Jemima realized that she only had one option before her; to do what was required of her and play up to the role of the sole daughter of the Cowden dynasty. It would keep the peace, if nothing else.
“Very well,” she said quietly, smoothing down the front of her emerald green, silk gown. The necklace around her throat felt impossibly tight, as though it might choke her at any moment. She pushed her fingers beneath the green ribbon, to try and loosen it, but she knew it was not really the necklace that bothered her. Still, it served as another stark reminder of the restraints that rested upon the young ladies of England.
An emblem of the ties that bound them to family and duty.
“You will return to the ballroom with me?” Lord Beaurgant smirked in triumph.
“If only to speak with my mother and father, yes.”
A Sinful Duke She Can't Refuse (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 29