The Bride Who Got Lucky

by Janna MacGregor

“Are you playing a game similar to the one at Goodwin’s?” His smoky-dark baritone contained a silken thread of warning. “Or is this like the kiss you tried to win from me while we were alone in the Langham Hall library?”

  She shrugged one shoulder in feigned indifference. Maybe it was the still night or the heat that radiated from his body, but she gathered the courage to pursue whatever was happening in the room. “You’re beautiful.”

  He grimaced at her words. “I beg to differ.”

  His seriousness should have been frightening, but it wasn’t. This perfect moment between them was something she’d remember all her life. His kindness at the discovery of her injury and his willingness to stay tonight proved he was a man worthy of her respect. Simply put, his presence soothed a restlessness that had dogged her for weeks, one she still couldn’t define.

  She leaned close. Without fear or hesitation, she brushed her lips against his. Made for kissing, his full mouth tempted her to nibble on his lips. She’d easily surrender everything for a simple smile or touch. When she drew away, he took her hand and brushed a kiss against her knuckles.

  “Are we friends?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” His low voice vibrated in a husky timbre that filled the room.

  “As friends, we’re honest with each other.” She didn’t wait for his agreement. “Will you tell me what it’s like when you’re with a woman?” It was hard to believe she was asking such bold questions, but the moon’s glow made it easy. Its gentle blue light kissed his face, and deep down, her resolve not to entrust her heart to this man weakened.

  She’d do well not to fancy the whims of a moonbeam.

  He blew out a breath. “I can’t answer your question.”

  She rubbed her thumb over his and imagined his long fingers caressing her face and trailing down her neck. “What does it feel like to want someone? Like a man wants a woman.”

  “We really shouldn’t be discussing such inappropriate matters.” He straightened his legs. “I thought you didn’t want to talk. If you’re so anxious for a conversation, let’s discuss your wrist.”

  “We agreed to have that conversation tomorrow.” She shifted her body a little closer to his. Though separated by bed linens and a quilt, his warmth encompassed her, and she felt safe. “Tonight, I want to talk about something different. Tell me from a man’s perspective.”

  He cursed under his breath. “I suppose it’s nice if both people enjoy it.”

  “There has to be more to it than ‘nice.’” She huffed a stray curl away from her eye. “Otherwise, why would ballads and sonnets wax and wane about it for centuries?”

  His tight-lipped smile held a touch of sadness she longed to take away. The way Claire had described it, he lived an isolated existence. He had few close friends and spent all his holidays with Alex and Claire. If her cousin and Pembrooke joined her family at Falmont, then Nick received an invitation and usually tagged along.

  With the room eerily quiet, his silence threatened to reveal the thunderous beat of her heart. “I want to experience it.” Her words, though whispered, sliced the distance between them. No one knew that secret, not even Claire or Daphne.

  He squeezed her hand. “Your first time should be with your husband.”

  “I won’t have one.” The shadows played along his cheekbones and enhanced the line of his jaw. “Strong and resolute” came to mind when she gazed upon his face. Poor thing, he’d met his match with her. “You and I share the same backgrounds, family, and societal expectations.”

  “Emma.” He exhaled in a way that indicated his patience was at loose ends.

  “You chose your first sexual partner.” She scooted up the bed until they were eye to eye. “You weren’t married. Shouldn’t I be able to choose my first partner and not have to be married? Why should it be different for me?”

  His blue eyes burned silver in the moonlight. He pulled her close into his embrace. “Go to sleep. While you’re with me, you’ll not suffer any harm.”

  Silence again filled the room, only this time it was peaceful—and pleasant. Outside, the wind moaned in sympathy with her plight to know more.

  They shared no other words, but he rested his head on top of hers. If she wasn’t mistaken, he touched his lips to the top of her head. His breath grew even, and the rise and fall of his chest against hers repeated in a comforting pattern. She closed her eyes. There were no judgments in his arms, just rest.

  For the first time in ages, the world righted itself, and she was certain of her course.

  Chapter Ten

  The bright sun slipped through the window, hitting Nick full in the face. He turned to escape the rays, but the sun wouldn’t retreat. Then it all came rushing back—last night holding Emma in his arms. If she’d asked him to make love to her last night, he had no idea what he would have done. He’d always prided himself on being a man of honor and proving his father’s opinion of him wrong.

  But Emma Cavensham made him forget. She’d tempted him from the first time they’d kissed in Langham Park. He inhaled deeply and caught her scent. No, she’d captivated him the night he’d found her on her way to the public inn.

  He avoided any hint of scandal, purposely steering clear of women and men who found impropriety courted them. He’d worked too hard to allow gossip to jeopardize his business ventures. Yet with Emma, he’d gladly throw his convictions out the window. Whether her allure was his salvation or damnation, he couldn’t decide, nor was he even sure it mattered. In her presence, Nick found his carefully crafted persona, not to mention his resolve, nipped away, bit by bit, like a fish teasing a baited hook.

  The worse part? It didn’t seem to matter to him.

  It was heaven to hold her, a perfect fit of two bodies. Never had anything felt so natural. This morning, he’d gladly forgo everything for one more moment with her in his arms. Before he could talk himself out of it, he damned the consequences and reached for her.

  The other side of the bed was cold, and the room stood still as if sworn to secrecy. His mind snapped fully awake. Where would she go this early in the morning?

  His momentary panic receded. She was probably downstairs in the common room eating with Harry by her side. Nick rose and gathered his shaving kit. As he sharpened the straight edge against the leather, the normally calming sound of the thwack, thwack seemed to scream fool, fool.

  What she asked last night would cause a saint to sin, and he was certainly no angel. In the wee hours of this morning, the image of possessing her had taken him hostage. Tormented by her soft body curled around his, he’d pulled her closer and caressed the curve of her hip. Instead of protesting, Emma had moaned as if in the midst of a sensual dream and nestled closer with her soft breasts pressed against his chest.

  When he woke drenched in sweat, he couldn’t dispute the truth any longer—he was fast losing his resistance to her charms.

  He raised the sharpened blade for the first pass against his neck when a note on the washstand drew his attention.

  Somerton,

  I’m breaking my fast with Harry. I’m planning on taking a walk to the bookshop this morning, then I’ll find Lena’s maid. I didn’t want to wake you as you slept so soundly. Tea and bread are on the tray by the fire. I’m not certain how handy you are with preparing a cup. Have a go. If I was successful with the endeavor, I have complete faith you’ll succeed. Harry and Bess are escorting me through town as I go to my appointments. Don’t worry.

  If you find yourself with free time on your hands, I’d welcome your company. I’ll watch for you.

  Thank you for last night. It meant the world to me.

  E.

  He let out a sharp breath. Who in holy hell had time for tea and bread? He had to find her before she found real danger. This was a naval seaport, one of the toughest, nastiest places in all of Britain. Harry would provide little protection if the two ruffians found Emma during her appointments. Everything within him stilled. What if Aulton found her again?

  Alex woul
d kill him if she was hurt. Not to mention Langham would flay him alive. He released a deep breath and counted to five to subdue his exasperation.

  If Emma’s family couldn’t control her, he would. He was through with her shenanigans.

  Who exactly was he fooling with that proclamation? If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.

  She’d woven herself through every fiber of his being. He didn’t want the constant niggling need to hear her voice. He didn’t want the ache that took up residence in his chest when she wasn’t near him. He didn’t want her—period.

  Perhaps if he repeated it enough, he’d start to believe it.

  * * *

  Customers and street venders selling their wares and goods littered the Portsmouth streets. You could purchase anything from pots to parrots. Emma’s carefully chosen brown dress and matching pelisse blended nicely with the crowd and the late autumn day. She didn’t look like a duke’s daughter nor did she feel like one today.

  Earlier, Emma had left the bed she shared with Nick, carefully untangling her limbs from his embrace. One final glance at his prone body had brought a heat to her cheeks, but his face had stolen her breath. In sleep, he looked younger. None of the usual wariness marred his fine looks. Instead, in a rare unguarded moment, he appeared at peace with the world and himself.

  Even though she’d invited him with her, he’d never accepted. In hindsight, it was perfect. Emma couldn’t risk him insisting they leave for London as she had too much to accomplish today. It was far safer to leave him to his sleep and venture out with Harry and Bess as her escorts.

  She would have never dreamed of last night’s events—Nick appearing in her room, her convincing him to stay, and then falling asleep in his arms. The thought of his embrace had consumed her this morning. Last night proved sleeping alone would forever be a desolate experience.

  She couldn’t continue to daydream as the morning slipped away. Her only stop prior to calling on Lord Sykeston’s home was the single bookstore in town. Behind her, Bess and Harry dutifully followed her into the small shop. She’d verify Mary Butler’s presence at Lord Sykeston’s, gather the coroner’s inquest findings, and then visit Mary.

  The shopkeeper greeted them with a nod before turning back to his other customer. Surprisingly, the store stocked a great many books and novels. She could lose herself in such surroundings for hours and did just that until the customer’s transaction was finished.

  “Good morning, miss. How may I help you today?” The shopkeeper, a short middle-aged man, round in the middle with a full head of long, white hair, greeted her.

  “Mr. Parker, good morning. Mr. Goodwin sent me. I’m Lady Em—”

  The shopkeeper turned his attention to a staircase and shouted, “Mrs. Parker! Lady Emma Cavensham has arrived. Hurry, my dear!”

  The boom of his voice across the small shop startled Bess. She took a step back and stumbled into Harry. Sheepishly, she apologized and moved beside Emma.

  “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Lady Emma.” The shopkeeper examined her through gold spectacles. His beaming face immediately made her feel welcome. “The missus and I have been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

  “I’m delighted to be here. I’ve been searching—”

  “Mrs. Parker! Did you hear me?”

  “I’m on my way, you old fool.” A voice from above drifted down. “Don’t keep the lady waiting. Ask her to sit.”

  His round countenance took on a quizzical expression before his warm brown eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry, my lady.” His proffered hand indicated a sturdy oak chair next to the counter. “Would you care to sit?”

  “Thank you, but no—” Before Emma could finish her answer, a woman descended the stairs.

  “My lady, welcome to Portsmouth. I’m Mrs. Parker,” she said with a respectable curtsy. Her command of the store was immediate as Mr. Parker took a step back to make way for his wife, a petite woman with gray hair and brown eyes that snapped with intelligence. “I have a lovely sitting room where we can visit.”

  Without waiting for Emma’s acceptance, Mrs. Parker proceeded to a small door behind the counter. Emma followed and crossed the threshold. Before her was a beautifully decorated sitting room perfectly sized to accommodate two chairs and a small table in front of a welcoming fireplace.

  Harry stood in the doorway and glanced around the room. “Lady Emma, I see you and Bess will be here a while. Down the street, there were meat pies for sale that made my mouth water. I’ll go and get us some. Then I’ll watch the bookshop entrance for you.”

  “Thank you, Harry,” Emma answered.

  After Harry left, Bess cautiously entered the room. “My lady, I’m not certain where I should go.”

  Mrs. Parker took the girl by the arm. “Why don’t you have a cup of tea, my dear, while I put Mr. Parker to work? There’s a lovely window overlooking the bay I think you might enjoy. I have a bright reading area that’s comfortable. You take your time.”

  Whatever Mrs. Parker had to share, she didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation, and that suited Emma perfectly. The less people who knew her business, the quicker she could gather Mary and return to London.

  “Do you read, Bess?” Emma asked the question softly so as not to embarrass the young woman.

  “Yes, my lady. The local vicar’s wife taught me.”

  “Would you like a book?” Emma offered.

  The serving girl’s face transformed into a vision of joy. “Oh, thank you, my lady.” She immediately blushed. “I don’t have any money—”

  “Please, allow me. It would give me such pleasure to purchase a book for you.” Emma leaned forward and confided in a conspiratorial whisper, “Reading gives a woman power.”

  Mrs. Parker nodded vigorously. “Lady Emma is a dashingly clever woman.” She took Bess’s hand and led her to her husband. “Mr. Parker, young Bess wants to find a new book.”

  “Miss, what are your interests?” Mr. Parker wiped his hands on his apron and escorted Bess down a row of books. “Have you read Hobbs’ Leviathan? The man was literally born in fear. I myself prefer Locke’s Two Treatises of Government. Oh, have you read Machiavelli’s The Prince? Everyone misunderstands the text.”

  As the two wandered the shelves, Mrs. Parker closed the door and sat down next to Emma. The fire popped twice, much like the snapping of fingers, an omen that they needed to conduct their business before the shop got any busier.

  “Now, my lady, let’s proceed.” Efficiently, Mrs. Parker poured two cups of tea and handed one to Emma.

  Taking a sip of the perfectly brewed cup, Emma leaned back into the chair and relaxed for the first time since she rose this morning. “What can you tell me about Mary Butler? Is she safe?”

  Neat and trim, the gray-haired woman moved with an assured confidence as she nodded. “Very much so.” Her eyes grew pensive. “However, she never leaves Lord Sykeston’s house. She’s frightened.”

  “Of Lord Aulton?” Emma asked as she set the cup down on the table between them.

  Mrs. Parker added cream to her tea. “He hasn’t dismissed her per se and has allowed her to return to Lady Aulton’s childhood home here in Portsmouth. The young woman is convinced he’ll come and take her back to his ancestral seat one day.”

  “How many servants are there in the Sykeston house?” If there were prying eyes in the household, Emma needed to be aware it. “Anyone I should take special notice of?”

  “No, my lady. It’s a skeletal staff. Only the trusted servants who’ve been in employment for years. Some are from families who have served for generations. Every one of them is extremely trustworthy.” Mrs. Parker handed a piece of paper to Emma. “Here’s what we’ve discovered.”

  Emma sucked in her stomach, preparing for the horror of what was written on the summary of the coroner’s findings.

  It was worse than she’d imagined.

  The coroner had described Lena as a twenty-five-year-old woman who had recently delivered a s
tillborn female child. For a moment, Emma’s throat threatened to close, the words too sickening to read, but she forced herself to continue. The loss of both her friend and the baby made her heart break into a million sharp pieces, and each one gouged her conscience. The first wave of nausea exploded through her gut. She swallowed to keep from retching.

  She forced herself to continue reading. The coroner listed Lena’s cause of death as a severe trauma to her body due to a fall. There was added language that the smell of spirits was distinct on the countess’s body. Not a single mention of Aulton or his responsibility for the two deaths.

  She sighed and stared at the fire. There was no hope for justice in these words—only blame against Lena for her own death and the death of her child. She tightened her fists and welcomed the pain of her fingernails cutting into her palms. Emma forced a deep breath. She wouldn’t collapse at the findings, or the lack there of—not today.

  “The countess didn’t even drink spirits. They made her ill,” she whispered. Desperate for some warmth—desperate for comfort, Emma walked to the fireplace and held out her hands.

  Mrs. Parker gently nodded in understanding.

  The fire offered little solace. Many battles loomed before her. For a moment, Emma considered shirking her promise and returning to London. It’d be so easy; she’d done it before when Lena needed her. But she wasn’t a coward anymore, so she squared her shoulders and returned to sit by Mrs. Parker. “Was there a finding for the baby?”

  Mrs. Parker shook her head. “I’m sorry, my lady, but the coroner in these parts … well, he can be influenced, you see. Whatever Lord Aulton says is law.”

  “I’m sure,” she answered. A man’s word is never challenged, particularly if they’re a peer—no matter how black the heart.

  Mrs. Parker shook her head. “The coroner is an old drunk about seventy give or take a year. But I must warn you to be careful, Lady Emma. Lord Aulton suffers from a horrid reputation, all of it deserved. He may have someone watching Lord Sykeston’s house—”

  “I don’t care who you are.” From the shop, Mr. Parker’s voice rose in warning. “You can’t barge through our private quarters.” As if the bookstore suffered a sudden invasion from enemy troops, the door blasted opened with a racket.