The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances

by Cerise DeLand

  ****

  The young vicar was a tiny rabbit of a man. Shorter than Emma by four or more inches with long ears, huge eyes and a nervous tick to his pointed nose. The little man paused so often to twitch that he interrupted the flow of the service. Emma suppressed the urge to giggle like a girl.

  But, ahem, she straightened herself up time and again while she watched Jack do the same. He took to tugging at her hand to keep her in line while each of them recited their vows.

  As the vicar approached the end of the ceremony, Emma pushed back the temptation to swoon with delight. To be married was one thing. To be married and out of her nemesis’s clutches was much more. But suddenly to find herself amused and enthralled by the man she had chosen, the most unlikely man, a rake of the first order, was astonishingly good luck. Jack Stanhope. She must pinch herself when she had the chance. But then, she had other ideas in store for what to do after this tedious ritual was complete. In Jack’s bedroom in Durham Manor, she would revel in what she thought never possible for her. Physical union. Intercourse. Hmmm. Sexual congress. Bliss. And to do it in the arms of a man whom she had only met days ago, but whom she enjoyed and even trusted thrilled her with expectation.

  “The ring, milord?” the little rabbit asked Jack. “Have you one?”

  “Of course, I do.” He dug in his coat pocket.

  She opened her mouth to ask Jack how he had acquired such a thing, but snapped it shut. She’d keep the vicar guessing about the length of their relationship. The little man had drilled them with questions when Jack and she appeared at his parsonage door. Though Jack had sent a note round to him that they were coming this afternoon to wed, the vicar, Jack told her, had sent a missive back asking for the license. Jack had told the man that he’d acquire one when next he was in London, but for now, this ceremony would be done, duly witnessed by him and recorded in the parsonage records.

  “Jack!” She was agog at the sight of the jewelry he produced. A gold band encrusted with tiny emeralds and rubies, the ring was a sizable bauble sure to cover her entire knuckle. “This is lovely. And huge.”

  “From the family collection, dear Emma. This was my mother’s wedding ring and now, it is appropriate that it becomes yours. I am told by my father that my mother loved the ring for its inscription, a phrase from the thirteen–hundreds. ‘You and No Other.’” Jack held her hand out and slid the ring upon her finger.

  It was much too big.

  “No matter,” he told her, “I will have it sized down. Wear it for today.”

  Tears came to her eyes at the sentiment and Jack’s thoughtfulness. “I am grateful.”

  He laughed and caught her up against his chest. “Again?”

  She nodded quickly. “Most definitely.”

  He glanced at the vicar. “Are we done?”

  “Yes, my lord. You are now man and wife. Kiss her, kiss her, if you must.”

  “I certainly must.” Jack went still, but his expression spoke volumes. Emma could barely breathe as he admired her hair, her lips, her eyes. “My wife,” he murmured as he buried the fingers of one hand in her curls and swooped down to claim her. He lingered, brushing his lips over hers and retreating, his eyes wide, his mouth parted.

  He broke away, his arms still around her.

  She clung to him for support.

  With both his hands, he removed her arms from around his neck and tugged her toward the front of the tiny chapel. At the door, he halted and turned to hail the parson. “Thank you, Vicar Boyle. I send to you tomorrow the fees for the new pews.”

  “You paid him to marry us quickly by buying him new pews?” she asked, choking on mirth as Jack handed her up into their carriage.

  “One always gives a gratuity to the minister, darling Emma,” he told her as he sat next to her, a smile wreathing his face.

  She stared at him, marvelling at his words. “Funny to hear you say that.”

  “Say what?” he asked as he spread a carriage blanket over her lap.

  “I am no longer Emma Darling.”

  Jack looped his arm around her and brought her close. “No. You are Emma Stanhope.” He lifted her chin and examined her with a reverence in his gaze she’d never seen from any man. “Now you shall be my darling, if you still wish it. Do you, Emma?”

  And am I your darling? Might I be, please? If only for one magical night?

  Chapter Four

  She held tightly to his hand all the way home to Durham Manor. A short ride of ten minutes, the journey seemed to take ten years. But snuggled against Jack’s chest, Emma listened to his heartbeat and the pace resounded with her own yearning. To make love to him, to be loved by him for just one night seemed so impossible days ago that she had feared to make this last request in her offer. But he had agreed and now he seemed as eager as she.

  Do not delude yourself, Emma. Men love rarely. Her mother’s voice, her mother’s warning rang in her mind.

  Emma struggled with the reality of her situation. She fought back the dour words, so daunting to her fortitude. But I do not wish for love from him. Only the deflowering.

  She squirmed in her seat. Be honest, Emma, declare you want more. Tell him. Why not?

  “You are sad. Why?” Jack lifted her chin and searched her gaze. “If you have second thoughts on this marriage or the consummation, I can—”

  “No.” She threw him a weak smile. “I was thinking of people who have nothing to do with us.”

  Jack’s silver eyes seemed to look straight through her. “Who?”

  “My mother.”

  “She has to do with you. So tell me.” He took her hand in his and brushed her fingers through the leather of their gloves.

  “She has a jaded view of men. Thinks none worthy of her. Thinks few can honor a woman’s affections.”

  He pursed his lips and considered their clasped hands. “Do you believe her?”

  Emma licked her lips and saw no reason not to be frank with him about this as in all else. “I always thought her a little…extreme.”

  He winced. “Parents often appear that way.”

  “They do. After a while, it becomes imperative to rid yourself of their notions.”

  He hooted. “How true, my dear. I’ll tell you about my father sometime. His notions are notoriously odd.”

  “I have heard.”

  “Really? I wonder that they did not deter you from approaching me,” he said with flaring nostrils and apparent distaste for the subject.

  Ah. More honesty was required here. She frowned, but caught his gaze. “They were, I am ashamed to say, the very reasons that I did,” she admitted, her cheeks burning with the admission. To her credit, she did not flinch when Jack examined her. “I think of you differently now.”

  He cupped her cheek. “Do you, darling? How encouraging,” he whispered as he bent and kissed her slowly, his mouth blessing hers time and time again. In the pit of her stomach, his kisses stirred yearnings to be free of her clothes and feel his hands upon her skin. He broke away, his breath short. “Come inside.”

  His coachman rolled this carriage to a stop—and Emma was grateful for the chance to catch her breath.

  Jack inhaled, collected himself as he stepped out, offered his hand to her and led her up the broad stone steps of Durham Manor. The servants had assembled in the foyer in a line. She had met the butler, the housekeeper and later, one maid last night when they arrived late. Now, here all of them stood, a dizzying array.

  “They are here to congratulate you and to receive the new mistress of the house,” Jack affirmed her suspicion as to their purpose here.

  She clutched his arm, tingling at his nearness and his endearments, honored that he had told them they were marrying this morning.

  “You arranged this, Jack. How wonderful.” She accepted each of the staff’s good wishes. The housekeeper who curtsied to her. The head butler who bowed. The cook who dipped low. The maid who had waited on her last night in her bedchamber after they had arrived at Durham Manor. The coachman
who had ferried them around today. Followed by three more maids, two footmen and a gardener. “I thank each of you for this,” she told them wondering how they would feel when they learned in a few months’ time she was not to be their mistress forever.

  “Simmons,” Jack bid his butler, “bring the Viscountess and me two brandies in the drawing room. And we will take a cold luncheon in an hour or so in the dining room.”

  Emma shivered with anticipation. Her gaze on her husband, she began to undress him in her mind’s eye. His silver grey frock coat, his high starched cravat, his spotless shirt. My god, Emma. Are you so eager for him? She fought with her better nature to finally look upon the horsey-faced butler.

  “Of course, my lord.” The servant inclined his head as two of the maids shot each other sideways glances.

  Emma wanted to jump out of her skin with excitement. “I’ve never had so much brandy in my life,” she confessed to Jack as he looped her arm in his and led her toward the drawing room.

  “Good for the constitution.”

  “Good for the body in this clime!” She tried for levity to mask her nerves.

  He opened the double doors to the drawing room.

  “Oh, this is beautiful,” she twirled about gazing at the splendor of the ivory walls, the red velvet upholstery and the sapphire oriental rug. Last night, she had seen little of the house because they had arrived so late. Built in the grand Palladian style, the white stone manse was a huge two-story monolith approached by a circular drive and surrounded by gardens and stables. The inside was luxuriously appointed in Turkish rugs and French tapestries, Italian silk settees and Chinoiserie draperies at every window. “The statuary?” she asked about the Carrara marble nudes dotting the perimeter.

  “From my father’s Grand Tour.” Jack strolled toward a portrait on the far wall. The man there resembled Jack so much that were it not for the powdered wig and lace jabot, Emma might have thought it a study of her new husband. “He brings home beauty whenever he finds it.”

  “You say that with sarcasm.” She walked toward the painting to note the silver eyes, the midnight hair, the killing handsomeness of Jack’s sire. “Because he has had so many wives?”

  “Because he had so many lovers. In quick succession.”

  Children, too, from what she’d heard. On both sides of the blanket. But not wishing to pry too much, she demurred and nodded. “I see.”

  “The ton, I know, declares it is a centuries old family trait,” Jack said with some wry amusement.

  Though Emma wished not to think more of it, she could not help what was whispered about Jack himself. They say you carry on the tradition with a new mistress each season.

  A knock at the door had Jack calling to his butler who entered with the brandies.

  “You may leave us,” Jack told him after he set the tray on a deal table.

  “Your luncheon is also ready, my lord. Laid out as you require.”

  “Thank you, Simmons. You may tell the staff not to disturb us for the remainder of the day. You may leave us now.”

  The man nodded and retreated, a resounding click to the two doors as he closed them.

  Jack pressed a snifter into her hands. “To you, Emma. Your happiness.”

  “And to yours.” Not to ours. Not to the future. Only mine. How fitting for the limits of my offer to you. So be it. She took a draught, threw it back and found herself choking on the sentiment.

  “Hold on!” Jack laughed as he took her glass and patted her back.

  “That is quite wonderful,” she got out with a cough as she eyed the crystal decanter. “I’d like another.”

  “You would, eh?” Jack frowned. “For courage?”

  “I am not foxed, if that’s your worry. But courage is not a bad reason.” She put out her empty glass to him. “You know me well.”

  “I daresay,” he said as he took up the decanter and splashed out more brandy for her, “not well enough to do as we are about to do.”

  A flash of excitement dashed up her spine. She took another sip, more slowly this time, and pondered his words. “How well have you known the women you have taken to bed?”

  “Ah, well, a gentleman does not tell.”

  “I don’t want names.” Though if I knew, I’d hunt them down and scratch their eyes out. “I want details.” She took another sip, feeling quite deliciously warm now, head to toe.

  He looked her over and arched a long black brow. “Attraction is not based on knowledge.”

  No. “But instead on what?”

  “An allure.” He took a long drink of his own spirits and swirled the remainder in the glass. “A connection of the mind that feeds on an appreciation of the other’s figure and speech.”

  “Camaraderie.”

  He emptied his glass and filled it up again. “True. Like ours.”

  “We have a friendship?” She downed her own glass and raised it for a refill.

  He dribbled some in. “We do.”

  “You’re being stingy.”

  “And you’ll be drunk!”

  “Pour, my lord.” When he did, she asked, “And so you mean to say you find me alluring?”

  “I do.” He shot her a look filled with mirth. “As you do me.”

  “I am astonished at that, you realize.” My god, what was she telling him? She needed to entice him not repel him. She needed to be in his arms and his bed and quickly, too, before her courage failed.

  “I am certain you are no more surprised than I am that we get on so well.”

  “Will we get on well after this?” she asked, her voice quivering with desire to be out of the dashed sweltering drawing room and into his bedroom. And his bed.

  “I will ensure it,” he whispered. He put his glass down and beckoned her with one hand. “Give me this,” he said as she stood before him and he removed her snifter from her fingers. “These are the rules.”

  “Rules? I don’t—”

  “Darling Emma, I know you do not obey anyone’s rules save your own. But these are necessary to your happiness afterward. Hear me out.” He cupped her elbows and drew her flush to his body. Had she ever noticed that he was a head taller than she? That his eyes were deep pewter with desire? That his voice was so deliciously low and sent waves of delight to her bones and her breasts and her belly? “We will climb the stairs to my suite and I will kiss you. Here.” He touched her cheek. “And here.” He thumbed her lower lip. “And here.” He traced the line of her throat to her shoulder. “At each kiss, you will tell me if I may proceed.” He stroked the hollow of her throat, then let his eyes drift suggestively lower and back to hers. “Or not.”

  “I like to kiss you.” She confessed, bold with the brandy.

  “I thought so.” He smiled consolingly. “But there is more to love than kisses.”

  Of course there was. And it was high time she stopped being a ninny and learned about it. She put her hand in his and said, “May we please cease all this talk and go before I melt here at your feet in a puddle?”

  He leaned back and chuckled. Before she knew what had happened, he had upended her world, caught her up in his arms and headed for the door. In minutes, he had them up the curving staircase, down the hall and into the dark mahogany shadows of his suite. With a shoulder to the door, he closed it and set her to her feet. His hands went to her shoulders.

  And hers went to his.

  “Stop,” she warned with the brightest of intents.

  He looked like the house had fallen on him. His disappointment was so ripe it rendered Emma even more in his thrall. “You’ve changed your mind? Well, hell. I might have known you would not want—”

  “But I do,” she affirmed and beamed at him. “I must be the one to lead or I will never have the patience to bear you going slowly, you see, and so I—”

  He cursed roundly. “Then hurry! My patience is thin. Very thin.” He spread his arms out like a scarecrow. “Undress me?”

  “Not a bad idea,” she replied. “But not just yet.”
/>   His arms flapped to his sides. “What would you like me to do to seduce you then?”

  “Follow.”

  “Follow?”

  She winked at him. “My lead.”

  “Tormentor. Get to it, will you?” He stretched his arms wide once more, his fingers waggling in urgency.

  His good humor for her madness tickled her. So with more determination than she’d felt in years, she knew now what she must do. She reached up to circle her arms around his very sturdy shoulders and beseeched him in a whisper. “Do kiss me again as you did after we were wed.”

  His pewter eyes deepened to shades of darkest metal. “I must embrace you to do that. Are you certain this is what you wish?”

  “I do,” she murmured, already placing her lips against his moist ones. “I very much do.”

  What he did, how he enfolded her with such care and such fierce restraint was an act she told herself to never forget. But the meeting of his lips on hers, the matching of his desire to her own had her gasping for air as he took her mouth, broke away and then came back for more. He possessed her with arms so strong they felt as if they might hold up the world and keep her here and his for small eternities. She cried out, in joy or triumph or plain need. All a jumble, her emotions had her hugging him closer to her and wishing for more.

  Everything.

  “Can we sit?” she asked him, breathless.

  In a thrice, he had her up in his arms, just as he had carried her before, and took three steps to a massive settee. He sat against the far arm and drew her over his body. Against her thigh, she felt his cock. She moaned into his seeking mouth. How huge was he? She was no cloistered nun, had seen animals mate and knew the way men and women joined.

  “Shall I kiss you more?” he asked with a husk to his bass voice, pushing her disheveled hair back from her brow and cheeks.

  “Yes, do.” She worked at his cravat.

  “And shall I help you with that?” he asked when she fumbled and plucked to no avail.

  “I’m a failure as a forward woman,” she offered in pique.

  One corner of his mouth tipped up in a laugh. “You are perfect as a forward woman.”