“Heir?” Hudson asked, his gaze lingered on her.
“Yes.” She struggled to keep her tone light. “My father named him in his will, along with several stipulations.”
“I...stipulations?”
“Yes, well it seems that...”
“I get to marry her off,” Owen broke in. “Shall I put you down in the books then? Or would you rather continue to pretend that you aren't interested?”
“Pardon?” Lord Wright asked, clearly caught off guard.
“Ahh, pretending it is.” Owen nodded. “Fair choice. Well, her dance card is currently empty, perhaps you'd like to...”
Emily felt her cheeks go rose. Suddenly the room was far too hot and her ears felt as if they were burning. “Mister Harding, Lord Wright, if you will excuse me, I find that I am in need of air.”
“Yes,” Emily heard Lord Wright say. “Of course.”
She jerked her arm away from Owen's and whirled out of the room. She could hear the murmurers following in her wake. Her throat closed as she struggled to keep what little grace was left to her and dashed out of the gala.
The garden was far cooler and only a few guests were making use of its solitude. Emily found an empty path and took it. She didn't care where it took her, so long as it was away.
How could he say such things? And to Hudson of all people!
Hudson was an old friend. He had attended college with her cousin and spent a summer at the estate. Her cousin had spent a good deal of the time chasing parlor maids, but Hudson had spent many an afternoon with Emily. They had, she thought, grown quite fond enough of one another. It was no wild passion, but he was wealthy and intelligent and kind of heart. He knew of her nature, and had never made her feel poor for it.
“Emily?” Owen's voice called after her. “Emily, there you are.”
She said nothing as he walked up behind her. He placed her fan in her hand. She couldn't remember having dropped it.
“Thank you,” she bobbed a quick curtsy in his direction. “Please, go away. I would like to be alone.”
He didn't. She wasn't sure that she truly expected him to. His most tedious quality was that of being tenacious.
“Good Lord, woman, are you going to be polite to me even now?” He looked shocked.
She drew herself up to her full height and fixed him with a level glare. “What would you have me do?”
“Well, you could have slapped me for one. I certainly deserved it.”
She blinked. “I...pardon?”
“Or told me to go stuff myself, that would have been understandable, too.” He stepped past her and leaned casually against a stature of a satyr. The irony was not totally lost on her.
“You knew you were being rude?” She barely kept her jaw from hanging open.
“Well of course. I was being rude.” He spread his hands wide open, as if to show him both weaponless and defenseless. She didn't believe any of that.
“Then why-”
“That 'lord' is a boring ponce,” he interrupted. “And completely wrong for you.”
“He is not. You haven't got the first idea what is right for yourself, much less for me. You...you...you say that you danced with me to gain the interest of others, and then you scare off the first man who shows anything akin to interest!” She flicked out her recently returned fan and waved it in frustration.
“He is wrong for you,” Owen argued lazily, running a hand through his hair. “I know tiresome when I see it, and he was certainly it. You don't want to marry him; you'd be bored within a week.”
“Well, he certainly won't now.”
“Oh he will, the fault was all mine you see. He'll find a way to talk to you on your own, maybe when you go for a drink or wandering through the library or some other such thing. He'll make some lighthearted joke about the entire ordeal and then graciously ask you to dance. You'll be in his debt and feel obliged to allow him, whether you want to or not.”
She blinked. Emily didn't want to believe him, but he may have been right about the dancing. “I...how do you know what he'll do?”
“Because he's just like every other dandy-boy in there, Miss Crawford. They all do the exact same things. It's just one big dance of polite words and responses. It's enough to drive a person mad.”
“Is that what you are? Mad?”
He shrugged his shoulders and looked over the garden. His eyes took on a strange and sudden sadness. She resisted the urge to ask him what was wrong. His lips curled into a smile that had no humor in it. “Maybe I am, Miss Crawford, maybe I am.”
“If you are mad, then what do you care if I dance with Lord Wright? Or if he is an acceptable husband for me?”
He didn't answer at first. Instead he levered his body away from the statue with that graceful nature he had. His long legs made quick work of the space between them. His hand lifted, and she felt the sudden warmth of his palm cupped against her cheek.
For a wild moment she thought that he would kiss her. He bent his head, just enough that his dark hair fell across his brow. No, she thought, he wasn't a satyr, he was an angel fallen from heaven, sinful and dangerous to look upon.
She tilted her chin, shocking herself by realizing that she wondered what his kiss would feel like. Interest unfurled inside of her belly. Her eyes started to close, and then he spoke.
“Because, Miss Crawford, I believe underneath all of that propriety you've wrapped around yourself, you are a little mad too.”
When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
*****
“Ah! Miss Crawford, welcome! Oh, Welcome! Come in, dear.”
Lady Amelia Wright was a massive woman of magnanimous nature and a booming voice. Her rosy cheeks were bright as spring apples as she guided Emily into her drawing room. The matron's skirts were a cheerful yellow that swished with every step. Lady Wright shared her son's warm coloring, though not his quiet nature.
“Thank you for inviting me to tea, ma'am,” Emily answered, letting herself be placed into a comfortable chair. It did little to soothe the tightness in her chest. “It was very kind of you.”
Emily was still surprised at the invitation. While she had known Hudson for some time, she was neither friendly nor familiar with his mother. It was a welcome request, as Owen would not have to accompany her to the home of an esteemed lady of society, while no other gentlemen were present. Things had not been wholly comfortable between the two of them since the night of the opening gala.
“Well, I would have invited you sooner, dear, but I thought it might be more couth of me to wait a few weeks.”
Coming from someone else it might have sounded like Emily was being probed for her emotional status, but Lady Wright was far more understanding than that. She patted Emily's hand and then took her own chair. Her skirts made a pretty lemon yellow fan around her legs.
“Now, let us chat.”
And chat they did. For the first part of the tea (which was served with the most delicious scones, marmalades, and dainty finger sized treats) they did nothing but talk of mutual acquaintances, the weather, and the quality of the roads between the city and the country. Lady Wright was a cheerful and practiced social companion and Emily found herself quite relaxed. It was not until they got to the latter half that Emily fully understood the reason for Lady Wright's invitation.
“My dear, it has come to my attention that my son has taken quite an attachment to you. I believe it started during his summer visit?”
It was a blunt statement, but Lady Wright has always been known for her direct nature.
“We never said so,” Emily blushed deeply. “But I always found his conversations the epitome of intellect and wit. And he has been most accommodating of my own...self.”
“Hudson has a very good soul, I've always said. However, it has been said that you have been often seen in the presence of Owen Harding.” Her eyes narrowed at her. Emily felt herself squirm under the gaze. For all her light and companionable nature, there was a matronly power to that gaze.
“I
have.” While polite society demanded that Emily demurred and offered some vague explanation to this, Emily felt that honesty would be preferred. “My father stipulated such in his will. Mister Harding is to receive all of the businesses, and the estate under the stipulation that he chaperones me during this season, and helps me to find a suitable husband.”
“I see,” Lady Wright set aside her tea cup and took a moment to dab a napkin to her lips. “I wonder why he did not choose someone of a more...suitable nature.”
Emily did not have to hide her feelings when she said, “Oh, I have wondered much the same thing.”
Lady Wright offered a companionable smile, but it disappeared as quickly as it had formed. “I also wonder why, if it is Mister Harding's interest to see you well wed, why he has not been more accommodating of suitors.”
Emily did not have to ask what the woman was referring to. Several people had heard Owen's comments to Hudson at the opening gala, and it had become a tidbit of gossip for society to mull over. She detested being the center of gossip.
“Mister Harding has his own way of dealing with things, and a unique perspective on relationships in general.” Emily pursed her lips in the memory of frustration. “He believes that your son would...be too polite for me.”
“Well, what do you think, my dear?”
Emily blushed again, “While I know your son to be a kind and generous person, I would like to know Lord Wright better, before I decide upon anything.”
“An admirable thought, Miss Crawford. Of course I commend you.”
Emily could hear the addendum coming from a mile away.
“I commend you,” Lady Wright repeated, “though I wonder, should you decide that my son is a good match for you, will you need the permission of your chaperone to accept anything that might come of that?”
Emily didn't know, and she wasn't looking forward to asking.
*****
“Hudson?” Owen asked, not bothering to look up from his novel. The sun was coming in the window, illuminating his dark hair. He looked remarkably comfortable with his long legs stretched out along her favorite chaise. “Wasn't he the ponce?”
“Yes.” Emily shook her head. “I mean, no. I mean-”
“Well, Miss Crawford, which is it?” He finally glanced over the top of the book. His eyes were twinkling merrily at her. He looked strangely at home in her father's study. It irked her, partially because for all intents and purposes this was his home now. “You have me completely befuddled now.”
She frowned. He knew very well what she meant, but he had trapped her with her own words. Yet another skill of his.
“Why do you find so much pleasure in being tedious?” she demanded.
“I'm tedious by nature, learning to enjoy it was a gift.”
“A gift for whom, exactly?” she shot back.
“Me, of course.” He slapped the book shut and set it on a table. “Who else?”
“You aren't the only person in the universe, you know.”
“Miss Crawford you are bordering very close on the subject of philosophy. That's most unladylike of you. I approve.”
Emily wasn't sure what came over her. Without thinking she grabbed a small embroidered pillow and hurled it across the room at Owen. It slapped him against the head, and rumpled his hair. He looked rumpled. His lips formed a lopsided grin, it was boyishly charming. How he managed to be attractive, even with everything all askew, was beyond her.
“That,” he said plucking the pillow off the ground with a careless gesture, “was even more unladylike.”
Emily threw her hands up into the air. “You are the most insufferable man.”
“Well I hardly think I'm the most insufferable, but I probably rank rather high on a short list.”
“Mister Harding...what is it that you want from me? What must I do for you to give me the leave to accept this invitation?”
He looked her over, that mischievous look entered into his eyes again. She felt a distinct tickling sensation in her belly.
“Kiss me.”
Emily wasn't sure any answer could have surprised her more. Every time she thought she understood this man, he did something that seemed out of the character she had assumed him to be.
“What?” she croaked.
“No need to look so shocked, Miss Crawford. I am sure that you've figured out by now that I am fascinated by you. I would hardly put such an effort into annoying you if I didn't.”
“You...what?” She was sure she had misunderstood.
He took a step forward, and her heart began to pound. She could hear it in her ears, and she wondered if he could too. His hands slid over her arms with ribald familiarity. She should have stepped back from him, propriety dictated that she should, but her legs would not carry her that far.
“Mister Harding...”
“Call me Owen.”
Arms, strong and sure, wrapped around her back, hauling her against the hard length of his body. Emily felt her head go light. His lips crashed against hers. The tickling in her belly blossomed into a thrill. His mouth was so warm.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No!” She cried out, her gloved hands wrapped around the back of his head and she pulled him back to her mouth.
His tongue pressed over her lips, delving into her mouth until all she could do was taste him. She was trembling again, but it had nothing to do with her nerves. It had everything to do with the fact that his hands were sliding over the back of her bodice and towards her buttocks. She wanted him to do it. She wanted him to touch her, to take her.
She must have made some move, or some sound that he understood. He palmed her backside and lifted her bodily up with more ease that she would have expected of his sleek form. He walked three steps and deposited her on the desk. She squirmed until she disrupted the papers, leaving her an empty spot to sit.
His mouth descended down her neck. His lips left a trail of fire in their wake. She had never felt desire like this.
“This is wrong,” she groaned. Her eyes rolling back as his lips graced her neckline. His kisses were no less demanding on the tops of her breasts.
“Do you wish for me to stop?”
She should, she knew she should, but her mouth betrayed her propriety. “No!”
His fingers danced over her laces, spreading the fabric until it gaped at her chest. Her breasts filled the space with their natural wealth. She was suddenly aware of how tight her nipples felt beneath the small slip of cotton that still separated them.
“I want to hear my name on your lips.”
“Mister Harding?” she asked, knowing fully what he had meant.
His chuckle was divine. “Foul minx...say it for me.”
His hands gripped the roundness of her hips and she squirmed again. “Owen...”
“God, Emily you are glorious.” He swept his tongue over his lips. They glittered with new wetness.
Glorious? She thought almost groggily. Her? Certainly not. Yet she felt glorious when his hand dipped inside of her chemise and lifted her breast from the confines of the fabric. His mouth descended on her aching nipple and a flood of pleasure swarmed over her as his tongue flicked over the taut peak.
“Owen!” she cried. “Please...I...”
She wasn't sure if she was asking for more, or for him to give her respite. Maybe both. His hand gripped her skirts and shoved them up to her hips. He fitted his body between her thighs and she felt a shock as the heat of his shaft beneath his breeches pushed against the crux of her femininity.
His mouth stayed on her breast as he began to rock. The silken press of her undergarments swept over her cleft with every motion of his body, creating a delicious friction. Twin pulses of pleasure began where he tended to her. Every breath, every thrust of his hips, every movement of his tongue fed them.
Her hands griped his shoulders. She was going to fall apart, or fly apart. A wild feeling was building inside of her body that threatened to overtake her. She glanced down and saw hi
s dark head bent to her breast and she was undone.
“Owen!”
His thrusts became wild, driving her soaked silk against her body. It was too much; too much and not enough all at once. The pulses of pleasure met inside her body and she split apart. She was falling, crashing into ecstasy. She wrapped her legs around him, holding him against her body. Her hips jerked in instinct as her peak overwhelmed her.
“Emily, God!” He pumped himself hard against her. His head was thrown back, and his eyes rolled with his own high. She thought he had never looked so intoxicating.
When she came back into herself, he slumped forward. His cheek cradled to her naked breast.
“Oh, Owen,” she whispered. “What have we done?”
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered. “I'm not entirely sure that I am.”
“Well, I continue to appreciate your honesty.” His hand cupped her cheek.
He sat up, leaving a wash of cold air in his wake. She shivered and pulled her dress around her. Emily tucked her breast awkwardly back into place. Her hands trembled too much to handle the laces.
“May I?”
She glanced at him. The low light of the study was not quite enough to hide the wetness in his breeches. Her cheeks flamed.
“I...I don't know.”
“Please, it is the least that I can do.”
Wordlessly she nodded.
Emily was acutely aware of his fingers as the gently tugged her laces back together. Her dress settling into its proper place. When she was again presentable, she turned about and his arms slid affectionately around her.
“I still don't understand.” She let him pull her against his chest. She heard his heart, whose rhythm was as wild as her own, and closed her eyes. “I thought you detested me.”
“No, Emily, not you...just the society you want to impress.”
“I don't know what to do.”
He stepped back, but kept her inside the circle of his arms, and looked down into her face. “What do you want?”
“I haven't the faintest idea.”
Anger knit his brows. Red crawled up his neck. The arms that were around her back went rigid. “Well, you seemed fairly certain of your needs not too long ago.”
THE HEALING HEART: Military and Pregnancy Romance Page 41