Eventually, she pulled away. He reached into his coat pocket and handed her a handkerchief.
She bent over the piece of cloth while her finger slowly trailed up and down the embroidered S on the ivory muslin. In some mysterious way, he found it comforting she concentrated on something that belonged to him and not on her fears.
“I have those custom-made.” Whatever possessed him to share that fact aloud escaped him.
“It’s beautiful.” She wiped her eyes with her hands before continuing to caress the cloth. “My skills with a needle never progressed to what was expected of an accomplished lady.”
Her normal creamy skin was white, and her nose was running. With a gentle pry, he took the handkerchief from her hands and wiped her nose much like he would do for Lord Truesdale or Lady Margaret. “Are you hurt? Did someone—”
Emma shook her head. “I’m fine.”
That was unlikely if she needed a pistol to sleep. Nick kept his voice friendlier this time. “After this charming interlude of having a gun pointed at me, you owe me answers.”
“What—what are you doing here?” A stray curl begged for his touch. Gently, he tucked it behind her ear, the softness comparable to a rare ivory silk he’d recently acquired. He was selling it for a fortune, but it paled next to the silkiness of her tresses.
Her moss-green eyes liquefied into a molten pool, and the stillness of the room amplified into a profound silence between them. He couldn’t decipher what power she held over him, but it left him ready to do something—leave and never look back or take her in his arms and never let go. Shocked, he stiffened, and as if she too shared the same thought, Emma looked away.
Timid. Never a word he’d have used to describe her. But they were both out of sorts this evening. There were dozens of questions that needed answers, but he’d allow her a chance to explain.
Selfishly, the truth was he wanted time with her. Alone. He wanted to see if he could make her laugh and take away her fear. He wanted to see her smile light up the room once more. With her so close, he found his vitality, a vigor even, renewed.
This was pure madness. He should be concerned with her safety, not wanting to kiss her and make her his in every way. He cleared his throat in a poor attempt to subdue the thoughts that were more wayward than a runaway coach and four. “Who frightened you?”
“There was a little scuffle downstairs in the taproom, but nothing I couldn’t handle.” Emma hesitated. “Two men were quite rude to me and Harry, but the innkeeper made them leave.”
White-hot anger swept through him, firing a need to find the men and pulverize them for accosting her. He forced himself to regain control. To unleash his rage wouldn’t calm her fears or relieve his pulsing drive for retribution against the two rogues. He exhaled a deep breath. “There were two men outside your room when I arrived. Harry didn’t hear them.”
Her fingers covered her lips, and she inhaled sharply. “Neither did I.”
“Where did you get the pistol?”
“A serving girl.” She swept her hand in the air as if finding a weapon, a pistol even, was an everyday occurrence.
“Why?” She was either downplaying her fright, or the chit didn’t want to accept the danger she faced tonight. Either way he wasn’t letting her off that easy.
“For caution.”
Nick silenced his growl of exasperation at her reticence. “After finding two men attempting to break into your room and then you waving a pistol in the air, you owe me an explanation.”
Emma closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled a sigh.
His hand traveled up and down her back, but he slowed the movement. He shouldn’t touch her, but his need was too powerful to ignore. Each finger caressed the buttons down the back of her gown. “Are you going to tell me?”
She gazed at his face, and her lips pursed. Her pupils were large, and she took deep breaths causing her chest to rise and fall.
Caught in a gale of his own making, he fought against the undeniable magnetism that swirled between them. His body tensed, and his heartbeat thundered in his chest. He had to change the subject. “Do you know how to shoot?”
“Of course.” With a tilt of her head, a riot of blond tresses fell into a soft wave. “My father insisted both Claire and I learn how to handle a weapon.” A frown creased her brow. “Speaking of Claire, is Alex … with you?”
“No, I traveled alone.” He lowered his voice. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you home.”
She scrunched her pert nose. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m occupied the next several days. I’m meeting Mr. and Mrs. Parker tomorrow morning at the bookstore. Harry is accompanying me.” Her eyes searched his as if trying to divine some truth. “You’re welcome to join us.”
A primeval desire demanded he should shout she was his, then take her in his arms and never allow her out of his sight. “Who exactly are the Parkers?”
“The owners of the town’s bookshop. I assure you it’s perfectly safe.” Her hands fluttered to her side, and she glanced away. “I—I’d very much enjoy your company.”
There was no cause for such possessiveness, and he waited for the overwhelming upheaval of unease to subside. It wouldn’t take much for him to roar his disapproval of how she planned to spend tomorrow, particularly after he found those two thugs outside her room. Why she would even consider staying in this town after tonight was beyond him.
She would try a bloody saint, but her unusual shyness wrapped itself around his chest, and bit by bit he relaxed. She was safe, and he’d do anything to keep her that way.
The extent of his exhaustion hit him with the force of a hurricane wind. He was dead tired after riding all day, which made it hard to concentrate—a perfect reason for his erratic thoughts this evening.
Nick pushed away from the bed at the same time Emma grabbed his arm. With his balance upset, he fell, knocking them over until she lay beneath him. He studied her face before his renegade gaze rested on the stark contrast of the black velvet trim of her bodice against the creamy expanse of her chest.
He was by no means blind to her attraction—the sway of her hips, the color of her hair, the luscious swell of her chest, and the light in her green eyes—every part of her cast a spell over him. Every time she was near, it became harder not to touch her. She tempted him to throw his honor as a gentleman aside and take what he wanted.
Scorched by her heat, he pulled away. This was wrong. She was so vulnerable this evening.
His throat had thickened from his unease. It wasn’t the only thing to have thickened this close to Emma. If she looked at the outline of his cock, he’d be lost. “I’m going to sleep in the other room.”
“Wait! Somerton … Nick.” She attempted to ease his embarrassment as well as hers. “I didn’t mean … That was nothing.” She wore her humiliation with a quiet dignity. “Please, I need … I’d prefer if you were close.”
His own guilt rose from his gut and left a sour taste in his mouth. She was out of sorts. It was plainly visible and perfectly understandable. He nodded in agreement. “I’ll be in the next room.”
Harry returned in the company of a serving girl named Bess, who came to help Emma prepare for bed.
Within a few minutes, they left. Alone in the sitting room, Nick debated whether he should tell her good night or just leave her to her privacy. He knelt and prepared the fire for the night, then stood and lit a candle. The flame danced to life.
Was it his imagination, or had Emma’s rosewater scent intensified in the small space? The flicker of the candlelight brought the fragrance closer to him—stronger and more vibrant than before.
He sensed her presence before he saw her. With barely anything on, she stood less than five feet away—close enough that her allure was within striking distance. With a minimum of movement, he could sweep her in his arms.
“I sent a note to McCalpin I was on my way here. I wanted someone to know my plans.” Her eyes held a look of defeat, and her voice had softened until i
t sounded far away. She released a shuddered breath as if resigned to her fate. “I didn’t just take off and run for Portsmouth. I’ve been planning my travel for several weeks. The reason you saw me at Mr. Goodwin’s that morning? He was helping me with the arrangements.”
Finally, he was getting some answers.
She tilted her head, causing another landslide of golden curls to fall about her shoulder. Her face clouded with uncertainty. “It doesn’t feel right to withhold any of this from you.”
“What else are you planning to do while you’re here?” He knew damn well her plans, but he wanted to hear it from her.
“I’m going to visit Lord Sykeston’s home after the bookshop.” She shrugged her shoulders, but her attempt at indifference showcased how poor her acting talents were. “I’m visiting Lena’s maid. I want to convince her to come home with me. It’s my first attempt at my new business. I want to help women who are alone … teach them not to be financially dependent on a man. That’s what I want—”
“Why do you need financial freedom?” She was the Duke of Langham’s daughter. Why would she need anything?
“No, you misunderstand. It’s something I dream of doing. I want to work and find a purpose in life.” She sighed in resignation. “I’m not like other women.”
He almost howled at that statement. He’d been introduced to that truth the first time he’d met her. Defiant and proud, she’d used every argument available to convince him to let her go to a public inn and buy Bentham’s Essays.
Nick was aware of how women viewed him—a wonderful steppingstone to money and the title of Duchess of Renton. None of that mattered to Emma, and he’d been immediately enchanted. Was it any wonder he’d allowed her to kiss him? That rash act—so out of his tightly controlled nature—had baffled him for weeks. He never chased women. He’d dreamed of kissing Emma, but he’d never acted upon the impulse.
Gentile young ladies were of no interest to him, but Emma Cavensham proved him a liar. The tug of her lower lip between her teeth made him doubt his own scruples once again.
“I-I promise not to disturb you, but will you stay in the other room with me?”
If she had possessed a feather duster, one swipe would have knocked him over. A tense silence filled the room, and the fact he stared at her wasn’t helping matters. What possible answer could he give her? He’d relish holding her close until every speck of her worry dissolved, but Pembrooke would skin him alive. If he told her “no,” which any sane man would do, she’d be terrified all night.
“Please.” The softness in her voice soothed at the same time it stirred every inch of him. “Only until I fall asleep?”
She pushed the sleeve of her dressing gown up her arm. An angry black bruise that looked like a handprint encircled her delicate left wrist. In two steps, he stood before her. Not to frighten her, he slowly took her hand in his and then gently traced the swirl of greens, blues, and blacks that marked her perfect skin.
It was his undoing.
* * *
Only until I fall asleep? Begging was humiliating, but Emma didn’t want to be alone, not tonight.
The last time she endured such agony she was nine and woke from a horrid nightmare. Her parents and Claire were out of town. After pleading and cajoling her brothers at length, they’d finally agreed to stay with her in what they declared was neutral territory, the nursery. In return, she had to give her solemn promise she wouldn’t follow them when their friends visited for the school holidays.
Tonight’s confrontation with the two men downstairs was a thousand times worse than any nightmare she’d ever experienced. But when Aulton had threatened her? There was no measure to his evilness. He and his henchmen could have done anything with her, and she would have been powerless. Tied in knots, her insides quaked again after remembering the two men outside her room. When Nick arrived she’d tried to gain control of her emotions, but it was hopeless. Her fright had inflated into pure terror.
“Who did this to you?” With a tender touch, he gently soothed the injury across her wrist.
The simple caress proved almost too much as she fought the onslaught of tears. Nevertheless, she succeeded in the epic battle, but all she could manage was a swallow. Her injury was minuscule when compared to the repeated trauma Lena had suffered throughout her years with Aulton.
“Sweetheart”—his mouth drew in a straight line—“answer me.”
“You can sleep in the bed. I’ll take the chair.” She never had much talent at negotiating.
He raised an eyebrow. “Did those two men—”
“Aulton came to see me in the public dining room tonight. The two men were employed by him,” she said thickly. Her words sounded foreign, and the extent of her exhaustion felt as if she were being dragged under by a vicious river current. She’d never survive sleeping in a chair. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing the bed? I’ll take the side closest to the window, and you can have the other. One of us will sleep under the covers and the other on top.” His refusal was sure to be forthcoming if his eyes were any indication. The color had turned into a dark blue like his coat. She whispered one last pathetic plea. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? If you continue to ask me questions, I won’t sleep.”
“Whoever did this to you, I’ll thrash them. Then for good measure, I’ll kill them.” He glanced at the injury, then his gaze pierced hers. “We’re not done with this conversation. Just so you know.”
She managed a single nod.
With precision, he unbuttoned his jacket and waistcoat. With one toss, both landed on the chair. He stepped to the porcelain basin and slushed cold water over his face. When finished, he raked his hands through his hair to tame the long blond strands.
Watching him do such ordinary things revealed an intimacy much like a familiar ritual a husband would perform in front of his wife. Her face heated at the movement of his large hands and long fingers. She shifted her focus to his back. His wide shoulders flexed and the muscles contracted as he accomplished his simple ablutions. He was pure male, and she was going to bed with him. Before her lungs burst, she exhaled the breath she had been holding and made her way into the bedroom.
He followed and blew out all the candles save one. She made short work of getting into the middle of the bed and under the covers. “Thank you.”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze swept across the bed. Whatever he thought important enough to examine must have met his satisfaction. He sat on the edge and made quick work of his boots. “What happened to each of us having our own sides? You’re in the middle.”
She nodded and then inched her way across the bed.
When he settled, his weight caused the mattress to dip. The movement tumbled her back to the center, and she didn’t fight it. For whatever reason, he ignored her. With his back turned, he extinguished the lone candle. Though dark, a moonbeam stretched across the bed and lit the room with a soft blue glow. With a deep sigh, he lay on his back and draped an arm across his forehead. His other rested beside hers.
She dared to slide her hand over his, and he wove their fingers together. Her fear gradually receded little by little, like the outgoing tide. It helped to concentrate on their entwined fingers. “I don’t scare easily, but you remind me of home and how far away I am. I’ve never been on my own like this without at least one family member—”
“Emma.” The whisper of her name on his lips was as sweet as the taste of midsummer honey. He shifted and rested his weight on his side. The length of his body stretched alongside hers, and he brought her hand to his lips. “I’d never think you a coward. You’re a bright, passionate woman who has more determination and will than anyone I’ve ever met.”
Her whole body tingled at his charitable response. It was quite lovely resting next to him. The warmth of his body, the smell of leather and male, and the sound of his even breathing made her feel safe.
This close she couldn’t resist a quick study of his form. His stocking feet were at least twice as big a
s hers. In a courtesan’s memoire she’d once read, the woman had described practically every part of a male anatomy, but never a man’s toes or feet. His were rather elegant with high arches. Though ridiculous to notice, they were attractive.
Her gaze traveled up his body. Tight breeches framed his long legs. Well-developed calf and thigh muscles were a testament that he wasn’t a stranger to exercise. The bulge behind the fall front of his breeches was obvious. If she wasn’t mistaken, it started to thicken in front of her eyes. Of course, it was hard to tell in the dark, plus she’d never seen one before. What was the proper term? Penis, cock, shaft of delight, or her own personal favorite, Torch of Cupid? Or was something else more appropriate?
What was the cause of this physical response? Her attention to his body? Alert, her body tingled, and a subtle pulsing settled between her legs. Such thoughts destroyed any chance of her falling asleep.
She found no shame in her curiosity. Most of her friends probably had never heard of such a word as “cock” and would have suffered shock or disgust over such a sight. Not her. She wanted to trace its length and hold it in her hand. Discover the magnificence alluded to by poets. She should be mortified, but this was a step in her education of the male form. Really, it was a step in her own freedom, an experience she craved.
Her pulse quickened, and the throb in her lower belly increased in intensity. She wanted to nestle closer to him. See how their bodies would fit together. Like a barn cat, she wanted to rub against his whole body with abandon.
Her gaze traveled over his abdomen. Even with a lawn shirt covering his chest, it was evident he was fit everywhere with lean lines and a well-defined torso. Trim without any sign of excess—a body so different from her fleshy curves.
She continued her examination and found his riveting turquoise eyes studying her. No judgment or humor sullied his handsome face.
The Bride Who Got Lucky Page 12