“Yes, thank you. It was delicious,” she replied, licking her fingers after popping the last bite of cake into her mouth. There was a seductiveness to the gesture that sent blood surging straight to Francis’s groin. Unwilling to wait another moment, he hastily piled everything back into the basket and set it aside.
With one fluid motion, his arm was about her waist, pulling her forward and down until she lay on top of him, giggling mildly at his rough handling. Tugging at her dress, he quickly found the hem and his hand dove beneath it to the warmth of her bare skin. A sigh of partial gratification escaped his lips—full indulgence was close at hand.
He felt her fingertips tangling in his hair as she pressed her lips against the crook of his shoulder, faint kisses boring into him. And then the palms of his hands found her buttocks, splaying across each perfectly rounded form as he squeezed her flesh to the sound of soft purring. One hand reached between the hillocks to run pliable fingers along her crevice. She trembled slightly with a heady groan as she parted her legs even further. Her back arched slightly, pushing her bottom up in the air—such a thrilling invitation that instantly found him stretched to his full length.
With tumultuous eagerness, she sidled back to make rapid work of the buttons on his trousers as he looked on with unabashed admiration. Her fingers were nimble indeed, he thought with a sly smile. He sucked in some air when he felt them surround him, pulling him free from his restraints as her eyes remained boldly riveted upon him. Yanking on her skirts, she soon had them up around her thighs and then . . . dear God, this woman was his every fantasy come to life. With a quick, fluid movement, she sheathed him, the moist warmth of her deepest cavern surrounding him so fully that he feared he would not last a moment longer.
And then they were moving to a beat as old as time, back and forth, his eyes small slits staring up at her as she rode him. On and on they went, all else forgotten as she swept him away from it all; his pain, his sorrow, and every worry that he’d ever had—all was left behind in that moment.
With bursts of dizzying light, he felt the tingles morph into delightful shivers that coursed through him until they exploded from his core with a power that forced a loud groan from his lips. No sooner had he drifted back to solid ground, than he felt her trembling above him, her scream of fulfillment bursting forth from the very depths of her being.
“Oh my,” she panted shortly thereafter. There was sauciness about her. “I never thought myself a temptress, but I must confess that I immensely enjoyed that.”
Heat still flickered behind his dark eyes as he reached out to brush a strand of loosened hair from her cheek. “And I must tell you, wife, that I found your boldness intensely arousing. You have my permission to tempt me any time with such talent as what you’ve just displayed.” Hell, if only he could spend each moment of every day with her in bed, for the rest of his life, he would indeed be the most content of all men.
Rolling off him and straightening her skirts about her, he thought he heard the familiar sound of choked laughter. Catching her eye, he found confirmation. Something had humored her to such an extent that he found her biting on her trembling lip as tears pooled at the corners of her eyes. And then she couldn’t hold back any longer and gave in to the bubbles of mirth that rose in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered, her eyes validating her amusement. “I just can’t help but think of how shocked Beatrice would be if she knew how lusty I am.”
“Is she really that prudish, do you think?” he asked, clearly skeptical at the depiction of her older sister.
Emily gave him a disbelieving glance. “Beatrice took on the role of parent when Mama and Papa passed away. It’s her job to be straitlaced.” It was said in a loving, almost protective way meant to stop Francis from pursuing it further. “Though I doubt her mind is completely closed to the notion that one might be tempted to throw caution to the wind on occasion, however. Have you seen the way she regards Jonathan?”
Francis lifted an eyebrow. If Beatrice had paid any interest in his secretary, it had entirely escaped him. He pondered the idea for a moment as his eyes drifted toward the curricle. What a pity that they ought to be on their way so soon. “I think Beatrice would be good for him,” he finally said. “He’s getting to an age where he needs to put some thought into making a family for himself.”
“He’s not even over thirty, I’ll wager.”
“He will be thirty on his next birthday, but that’s beside the point. It’s my feeling that he’s sown enough wild oats. He ought to make a serious attempt at forming a more permanent attachment.”
“You make him sound like quite the rogue,” Emily stated in surprise.
“Not a rogue, but a young man like any other. The thing is, he’s also a close friend—it would mean a lot to see him settled.”
“Well, perhaps we can help nudge things in the right direction,” Emily smiled mischievously as she started toward the carriage.
“We mustn’t meddle, Emily,” he told her sternly. “You’ll only get caught in the middle if things don’t go according to plan.”
“We’ll see.”
It was only half a promise that had him grabbing onto her wrist. “Promise me, Emily,” he implored. His tone was gentle, but his eyes betrayed the severity that loomed beneath his calm exterior.
She shivered slightly at the notion that he kept his harsh voice at bay for her sake. How she could ever refuse him, she wondered. “I promise,” she whispered, sincerity brightening her eyes as she looked up at him, stepping onto her tiptoes to press her lips against his. And she knew that it was a promise that she intended to keep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Knocking gently on the door, Emily carefully eased it open at the sound of the beckoning voice from within. As soon as they had returned home, she had gone upstairs to rearrange her hair and freshen up while Francis had withdrawn to his study. They had declined dinner, being quite satisfied from their picnic, and had suggested to Parker that he leave a couple of plates of food for them in the kitchen in case they got hungry later.
Emily now spotted Francis, seated behind his Chippendale desk at the opposite side of the room. He looked up as she slipped through the door, closing it gently behind her. “Am I disturbing?” she asked.
“Not in the least,” he replied as he looked up from the papers he’d been perusing, pen in hand. “I was going over the list of my investments.” He leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking as he adjusted himself, then propped his chin against his right hand. Waving his left, he gestured for her to sit down. “I’ve been investing in the East India Company for years and it has proved to be quite profitable. Jonathan suggests that I buy stock in The Times, and I do believe that it’s a good idea. Then of course there are a few smaller ventures, some more lucrative than others, but I’d like to find something new . . . something with a dazzling future ahead of it.” He let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t mean to bore you with business.”
Her eyes seemed to grow in size at this last statement, though she remained perfectly collected. Her voice was cool when she spoke. “Do you suppose that I’m not interested in your affairs because I’m a woman?”
He checked himself, felt his skin prickle at his blunder. Emily was different from other women. She was well read and knowledgeable in areas where he was not. She had a desire to learn, and he realized that it would be a catastrophic error to brush her aside with the assumption that she paid no heed to how he made his living. “I’m sorry,” he told her and her gaze softened. “Would you perhaps like to make a recommendation?”
Her lips twisted into a triumphant smirk. “I thought you’d never ask.” Flashing him a brilliant smile, her eyes shining with excitement, she got up and circled the desk to stand next to him. She then took time to kiss him softly on the cheek—a sign of her gratitude. Most husbands would never allow their wives to become involved in their business. Emily felt her heart overflowing for the man who sat before her, so confident in her th
at he would ask for her opinion in regards to his affairs. One day, she hoped to find the right words to express how she truly felt about him—words of love and endearment simply didn’t suffice.
“There’s a Scotsman named Henry Bell,” she said as she straightened her back and walked across to the side table. “Have you heard of him?”
“He recently built a steamboat, if I’m not mistaken,” Francis said, his brows furrowing into a contemplative frown.
“The Comet,” she said, offering the name that had escaped him.
“Ah yes, the Comet.”
“Well, it seems to have been quite successful. I read in the paper last week that it had just begun transporting passengers between Glasgow, Greenock, and Helensburgh three times a week.” She poured herself a sherry, smacking her lips together as the sweet flavor swirled around her mouth. “Anyway, I thought it might be interesting not only as an investment, but as a business opportunity. Imagine such a boat on the Thames. It could easily transport passengers from London to Slough . . . even as far as Oxford, and without the need for wind.”
Francis stared at his wife for a moment with a look of disbelief. “You certainly are a woman of vision,” he finally stated.
The compliment flattered her more than any comment about her looks ever would. She smiled brazenly. “Do you like the idea, then?” she asked nonchalantly, knowing full well what his reply would be, yet enjoying the admiration that showed upon his face.
“Like it? I love it!” he exclaimed with sudden excitement as he leapt from his chair to hug her fiercely, the air squeezed out of her. “Oh, Emily, you’ve saved the day. Remind me always to consult you on matters of importance.”
He sprang back and reached for the abandoned glass of brandy that sat upon his desk. “Hell, I need as much money as I can get if I’m to stop Charlotte from bleeding me dry.” He winced as he took a large gulp.
“That’s part of the reason why I came to see you,” Emily told him a bit skittishly. She was constantly wary of the threat any mention of Charlotte might have on their happiness.
Francis raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Oh?”
“If I’m not mistaken, you were looking for a way to permanently rid yourself of her.”
“Well, yes, but if murder is what’s on your mind,” he said, noticing the conspiratorial gleam in her eyes, “then I’m sorry to tell you that I shan’t resort to such extreme measures—not that I haven’t considered it, mind you.”
“Honestly, Francis,” she chastised. “You have far too vivid an imagination for your own good. Do I look like a murderess to you?”
He regarded her momentarily, her black hair knotted at the nape of her neck, her milky complexion, and her bright green eyes. He had no trouble at all visualizing her with a carving knife in one of those delicate hands of hers.
She didn’t miss the slight shiver that raked his spine. “Good grief!” she exclaimed, clearly exasperated that his mind would entertain such a preposterous idea. “Intelligent people don’t resort to such base actions. They come up with a plan instead, and that’s precisely what I’ve done. Are you willing to hear it?”
It was impossible for Francis to hide his surprise. It moved him that Emily had gone to the trouble to find a way in which to save him from Charlotte’s clutches. It was as if a small spark of hope came to life in the bleak recesses of his mind. “More than willing—please continue, Emily. You have my full attention.”
“Right,” she said with a determined look upon her face. “It means that we won’t be able to tell anyone that you and I are married, not even my sisters. My plan will depend entirely upon Charlotte never discovering that we’ve been wed, so I really hope that you’re right in your evaluation of your staff.” She fixed him with a quizzical stare. If he had any doubts about his employees’ ability to keep a secret, now was the time to voice it.
“I believe their loyalty lies with me and that I can trust them not to reveal anything that might jeopardize us.”
“Very well, then,” she said, emptying her glass and setting it down. “Then here’s what we must do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
They returned to London three days later, confident that they had a bulletproof plan by which to remove Charlotte from their lives forever. It was true that it depended on some degree of luck, but they hoped that Francis’s connections with the ton would serve them well.
Beatrice shoved her way past Parker as the aging butler opened the door. Without a second thought to how she must look—rushing down the steps toward Emily, skirts trailing behind her—she flung her arms around her sister’s neck in a fierce hug. “Thank God you’re safe,” she murmured against Emily’s ear. Then, with some remnant of decorum, she peeled herself away from her sister, brushing her hands over Emily’s Spencer in hopes of straightening the ruffled garment. “I’m sorry, but I was so terribly worried about you.”
“That’s quite all right,” Emily smiled, taking her sister by the arm and leading her toward the house. “I would have been quite disappointed with a lesser display of affection.”
“That’s precisely what I thought,” Beatrice grinned with a hint of smugness.
“I’m the one who ought to apologize, Bea,” Emily stated as she gave her sister a sidelong glance. “It was incredibly stupid of me to run to Edward. It was very fortunate that Francis came along when he did. I believe our dear relation had set his mind on forcing me to capitulate to his desire to wed me.”
“Come now,” Beatrice chuckled. “Surely you exaggerate.”
“I’m afraid not,” Francis told her. “Your sister’s virtue was in serious jeopardy.”
Thunderous clouds of anger filled Beatrice’s otherwise tranquil eyes. Emily flinched; she’d never before witnessed such abhorrent animosity in her sister before now. “One day, I’ll have the bastard’s head on a plate,” she fumed. “The amount of grief he’s caused this family is more than I’m willing to endure.”
“Calm yourself, Bea. I’m all right now. Come, let’s go inside and have some tea.” Emily shot a nervous glance at Francis as she urged her sister toward the door. Nothing good would come of Beatrice making a public spectacle of herself out in the street. The thought that that was precisely what might happen was greatly unsettling. Beatrice had always been so calm, a pillar of strength that her younger sisters had clung to in the wake of tragedy. But even she was threatening to unravel before Emily’s very eyes.
And then the storm had passed as quickly as it had come and Emily was left with nothing but uncertainty.
“Yes, let’s have some tea,” Beatrice was saying. “And we’ll tell you the good news.”
Emily’s eyes drifted toward Claire, who stood waiting in the doorway. “Good news?”
“Yes—very good, in fact.” It was clear that Beatrice was bursting to tell them whatever it was. Her eyes sparkled with the knowledge that she held a secret that was sure to delight everyone. Claire looked equally excited as she hopped from foot to foot, impatience clear upon her face as she waited for Emily to remove her hat and gloves.
Once seated in the parlor, Beatrice fought the urge to spill the news as she went about pouring tea for everybody. Emily eyed her sisters carefully with the odd glance in Francis’s direction. He and Jonathan looked equally unmoved—how could they appear so indifferent when it was clear that her sisters looked as though they might tell them they’d discovered a way of traveling to the moon?
“Well?” Emily asked, unwilling to contain her curiosity for a moment longer.
“Shall I tell them?” Beatrice asked Claire.
“Yes, yes, all right,” Claire replied, her voice bubbling enthusiastically.
“No, no, it wouldn’t be right; you tell them, Claire.” Beatrice sounded equally giddy.
“Oh, but I couldn’t possibly, Bea. I think you should do it.”
Emily’s eyes darted from sister to sister as though she were watching a game of tennis. The animated behavior suited Claire’s personality, but Emil
y was stunned to see her older sister acting like a young schoolgirl. “Whatever is the matter with the two of you?” she asked, suppressing the urge to laugh that rose in her own throat—the scene was simply too comical for words. “You look like snickering girls who’ve just discovered the existence of boys for the very first time. Now get a hold of yourselves.”
The fact that Francis raised an eyebrow wasn’t lost on Emily. She knew the reason behind it the minute it happened and couldn’t help but bite down on her own lip. She was the one that was usually prone to laughing at her own private jokes, yet here she was, acting like an old matron, beseeching her sisters to be serious. It must be rather an odd tableau for any spectator familiar enough with their personalities.
“All right, Claire will tell you,” Beatrice remarked, folding her hands in her lap and looking expectantly at her youngest sister.
“No, I really think that you ought to do it, Bea,” Claire replied.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Emily gasped in exasperation, her patience beginning to wear thin. “Out with it!”
“There’s no need to be so blunt with us,” Claire muttered. Emily let out a sigh that did little to hide her annoyance, then took a sip of tea to smooth away her agitation, and sank back against her chair. She would just have to wait for one of them to say whatever it was that needed saying.
A tense silence spread throughout the room. Francis and Jonathan had wisely decided not to add to the conversation. They each sat in complete silence, watching the scene before them. Claire began nervously fidgeting with her dress, twisting the fabric that covered her lap between her fingers. Beatrice finally gathered her wits and spoke up. “Lord Camden paid us a visit this morning,” she said, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He has made an offer for Claire.”
How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Page 22