by Jo Goodman
Frustrated, Emma gave her wrists a little tug, testing the slack in the scarf. The consequence was to tighten the knot just below the ball of her thumbs. Restell’s feigned sympathy was maddening.
“Have a care,” he said, “else you’ll make yourself uncomfortable.” He placed his stock over the back of the chair and shrugged out of his waistcoat, then he sat on the arm of the chair to remove his boots and stockings. He pulled on the tails of his shirt, loosening it about his waist, but did not remove it or his trousers. Returning to the bed, he regarded her a moment before he sat. “I won’t mind if you decide you’d like to get a little of your own back.” He turned, drawing his knee up on the mattress so it nudged the curve of Emma’s waist and hip. One corner of his mouth edged upward. The half-grin was meant to nudge her as well. “Forgive me. You made it clear once before that you are not so small-minded.”
Emma’s tongue was still cleaved to the roof of her dry mouth. Her effort at a rejoinder was further hindered by the warm hand Restell placed over her thigh. “It is an opinion I am prepared to revise,” she said hoarsely. His fingertips were sliding toward her inner thigh. When he turned his hand, he made a space for it between her thighs. Emma’s own fingers curled around the sheer tether that held her fast to the bed. He was watching her intently now, and she could not look away.
Restell leaned toward the bedside table and picked up Emma’s brush. A heavy lock of hair lay across her shoulder. He set the brush against it and dragged it lightly through her hair and over her skin. The path he took led to her breast. He paused, watched her chest heave slightly with a ragged breath, then passed the soft bristles across her nipple. The rosy aureole darkened and her nipple was made invitingly hard. Restell bent and took it into his mouth.
Emma’s heels pressed deeply into the bedding. The hand between her thighs held her still, frustrating her efforts to rock her hips. She moaned softly and arched her neck instead as his tongue darted across the swollen bead. He rolled it between his lips and sucked. She tugged harder on the scarf. The bed head groaned with her effort.
Restell heard the groan, raised his head, and checked the binding at her wrists. He slipped one finger between the scarf and her skin, pulling to ease the pressure. He cupped one side of her face, brushing his thumb across her cheek. She turned into the caress. Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue wet one corner. Restell kissed her and wet the rest.
The sensation of the brush sliding over her ribs was unexpected. The breath she took was Restell’s. His mouth was hot on hers, hotter still when he captured her other breast. The brush never stopped its slow descent, gliding over the flat plain of her belly. The bristles dipped in the curve created when her abdomen retracted, then lifted as they grazed her mons.
Emma’s soft protest had Restell raising his head. He studied her kiss-swollen mouth, the darkened blue-green eyes, the small vertical crease between her eyebrows, and recognized uncertainty and frustration. He waited. “Shall I stop?” he asked.
Emma closed her eyes. She was a single nerve, pulled taut by not only what he did to her, but by the very sound of his voice. She shook her head.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Please,” she whispered. “Make me…”
He smiled when she didn’t finish that thought. She didn’t have the word for what she wanted him to do to her. Then she surprised him.
Opening her eyes, she stared at him intently and said, “Make me scream.”
Now it was Restell who felt as if he’d been robbed of not only his breath, but his sense. It was her small, satisfied smile that helped him recover both. He might have tied her wrists, but in every way that was important she had bound him to her. Restell lifted his hand and showed her the brush. He gave it a toss, flipping it so that he caught the bristled end. The silver handle rose like a stem from his fist. He saw Emma’s eyebrows lift, her lips part, and the certain knowledge of what he meant to do was there in her eyes.
Emma’s fingers splayed, then closed, as Restell carefully pushed the handle of the brush inside her. It was warm from the heat of his fist and rigid as only metal could be. He moved it in and out slowly, matching the thrust to her breathing at first, then making her meet the rhythm he set. She watched him; he watched what he was doing to her.
Emma’s hips rolled. She was helpless to do otherwise. It was not possible to accept the insistent, intimate penetration without rising up to meet it. Pleasure thrummed through her; every nerve vibrating as though it had been plucked like the string of a bow. She was taut as well: her arms stretched overhead, her shoulders set, the small of her back rising off the bed. All of her was poised on the sharp edge of pleasure, but it was when Restell flung the brush aside and positioned himself between her legs that she knew the moment of crisis was upon her.
The thrust of his body was harder and hotter than what had come before. Emma tried to clutch at Restell’s shoulders. The tether thwarted her. She clutched his hips with her knees instead. The soles of her feet pressed the back of his thighs. Every part of her clenched, holding him fast. Her body’s contraction moved him to groan, then simply moved him. He ground into her. Rising. Falling.
She was undone.
Restell absorbed her shudder, then held himself still long enough to release her wrists. Turning on his back, he pulled her with him so she was seated on his groin. Now the tempo was hers, and she did get some of her own back, teasing him so artfully that he was made molten.
She pressed him to surrender, to give her his hoarse cry and all of his will, and when he did she was splendidly joyful, laughing at the turnabout in their play. She left him with no strength to deny her this small amusement.
Some minutes passed before Restell said feelingly, “Bloody hell, Emma, but I cannot move.”
Since she was lying full length on top of him, the simplest solution was to slip to one side. When she made to do so, he palmed her bottom and kept her just where she was.
“I didn’t mean that you should,” he whispered. “Not just yet.”
This raised Emma’s faint smile. She dropped her head back to his chest. “You make me fearless, Restell.”
His hands slid up her back, fingertips tracing the length of her spine. He made no reply, closing his eyes instead, hoping that when she realized she could leave him, she would choose to stay.
Chapter 13
Emma alighted from her carriage just as Marisol was arriving in hers. She waved off Whittier knowing that one of Restell’s rather unconventional footmen was already close by. She refrained from looking around for this afternoon’s guardian. It was a rare moment that she ever spied one of them. Even McCleod, with his shock of red hair and peculiarly elfin features, was able to slip out of sight, seemingly without regard for the properties of solid structures.
Emma stood at Lady Rivendale’s gate and waited for Marisol. Her cousin smiled in greeting—a trifle coolly, Emma thought. She understood the cause of it a moment later when Neven Charters climbed out of the carriage. Emma had expected Marisol would be invited to tea, but the presence of her fiancé was very much unwelcome.
“Never fear, Mrs. Gardner,” Neven said as he escorted Marisol to the gate. “I have no intention of joining the countess’s clutch.”
Emma realized that her openly wary expression had bordered on rude. She smiled politely and inclined her head. “It is simply that I had the impression it was to be ladies only.”
“And so it is,” he said. He released Marisol’s arm. “Go on, Marisol. I require but a moment of your cousin’s time.”
Marisol made a pretty pout, clearly unhappy that she was to be excluded from the conversation. “I don’t know why I cannot be privy to it. I know the particulars well enough. And she is my cousin.”
Neven remained firm, looking pointedly from her to Lady Rivendale’s front door. “I will call on you this evening, Marisol.”
Emma watched this exchange and called it a draw. Neven had held his position with Marisol, and her cousin had demonstrated rem
arkable maturity by not flouncing off. Her exit in fact was quite dignified.
When Marisol was out of hearing, Emma turned her attention to Charters. “What can be of such import that you must needs speak to me away from Marisol? She had much to say after I accompanied you to the fountain in the countess’s garden, not the least of which was blaming me for your head wound. I can scarce have a conversation with her in which that is not brought to my attention.”
“I will speak to her,” Neven said.
Emma wondered that he set such store by his influence. She waited for him to explain what he wanted, conscious all the while that somewhere someone was watching and that Restell would know of this encounter by the time she joined him for dinner.
Neven’s dark eyes searched Emma’s face. He leaned a bit on the brass-tipped walking stick at his side. “There is no easy way to relate this, and I will understand if you do not believe that it pains me to do it, but it must be said.”
“Then by all means, say it straightaway.” Emma wished Neven had not sent Marisol away. Her cousin would have blurted out the whole of it by now.
“Mr. Gardner has set up a mistress.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed. Out of patience with him, her whispered rejoinder was harsh. “I cannot countenance this. I will not hear a word spoken against my father-in-law.” She turned to go but was stopped by Neven’s firm hand on her elbow. She did not attempt to shake him off, merely regarded him coldly.
“Forgive me,” he said, pressing on. The look in his eyes was sympathetic, even a bit rueful. “It is not Sir Geoffrey. I am speaking of Mr. Gardner—your husband.”
Emma blinked. She composed herself somewhat stiffly. “My response is still the same, I do not—”
“I saw him. With her.” Neven snapped his walking stick against the side of his boot. “I did not come to you without consideration. It has been a full fortnight since I observed them together. I could not remain silent, and after I told Marisol, I knew I must tell you.”
“You should not have told either one of us. It’s not done. I know what’s expected of me. I know that I—” She stopped, reining in her tumbling thoughts. “A fortnight past, you said. You’ve known so long ago as that?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry, it is only that you deserve better than—”
She interrupted him with an impatient, dismissive wave, then raised that hand to her temple. Her head was throbbing now. She stared at Neven’s boot, at his walking stick, at the brass tip beating a tattoo against the leather, and she thought her knees might buckle.
“Emmalyn?”
His use of her name, spoken with a certain nuance of intimacy and concern, helped Emma find the last measure of her resolve. Fearless. That single word threaded itself around her jangling nerves and steadied the frantic beating of her heart. Fearless. Her mouth was too parched to say it aloud, but her lips moved around the word. She stayed upright. Before Neven could reach for her, she pivoted abruptly and hurried up the steps to Lady Rivendale’s.
The door opened before Emma knocked. Nelson had been clearly waiting for her arrival. He inquired after her before she had opportunity to compose herself. “I’m all of a piece, Nelson,” Emma said, assuring herself as much as the man watching her so closely. She tugged on the ribbons of her ice blue, silk-covered bonnet and swept it off her head. He accepted it without comment and waited for the shawl that loosely draped her shoulders and back. Emma handed it to him, then removed her short white gloves. “Am I the last to arrive?”
“Indeed.” He nodded gravely. “This way, Mrs. Gardner. They are waiting for you in the music room.”
Emma was glad it was to be the music room. She would think of Restell there, of his proposal and of her protests. That’s what she would remember when Marisol looked at her with pity in her eyes. She would keep her secret close, knowing that a fortnight ago she had been her husband’s mistress.
Lady Rivendale’s expression brightened when Emma appeared on the threshold. “Oh, do come in, dear. Thank you, Nelson, that will be all.” She held out her hand and beckoned Emma closer. “Now we are complete.”
Emma walked with more steadiness than she would have thought possible only minutes earlier. Fearless. She made a curtsy for the countess, then turned to Lady Gardner and offered the same respectful gesture.
“So much ceremony,” Lady Gardner said. She proffered her cheek and tapped it with a forefinger. “All my daughters kiss me thus. Are you not one of them now?”
Emma dutifully bussed her mother-in-law’s cheek. “I wish to be,” she said. Restell’s married sisters were standing now, and they offered hugs before they returned to their seats on either side of their mother. Emma was reminded of mismatched bookends because Wynetta Wellsley and Imogene Branson were as different as night and day, with Imogene being the dark one and Wynetta as fair as Restell. Emma’s last greeting was to Marisol. Her cousin was poised prettily on a Queen Anne chair beside the table set for tea. She offered her cheek much as Lady Gardner had. Emma bent and kissed her and was not surprised that her lips found no warmth there.
“Your gown is lovely, Marisol. I do not recall that I’ve seen it before.”
“Mrs. Wellsley was just complimenting me on the very same,” Marisol said.
Emma realized that she had interrupted that exchange and quite possibly denied Marisol her full tribute. That was never wise, and indeed, out of sight of the others Marisol darted a dark look of disapproval in her direction. Emma gave it no heed, much preferring it to the pitying concern she had anticipated. “Well, compliments are deserved. It is lovely, and you are lovelier still.”
As quickly as that, Marisol was mollified. “You are kind, Emma, to say so.”
Lady Rivendale patted the space beside her on the sofa. “Please sit, my dear, else you will give me a crick in my neck. Miss Vega? Will you be so good as to pour?”
Emma observed that Marisol was glad to be singled out for that privilege. It gave her cousin an opportunity to demonstrate graciousness and grace. For herself, Emma was equally glad she had not been asked. She hadn’t Marisol’s flair for the task on any occasion and after her encounter with Neven, she suspected her hands would have trembled.
As soon as Emma sat, the countess placed her hand firmly over Emma’s forearm as though she expected her to take flight. “It is an age since you have been here,” Lady Rivendale said. “I do not believe you have come for tea but once since your marriage. Sir Arthur keeps you too much to himself, I think. That is the observation I have shared with him.”
“I hope he told you that I enjoy his company, though that should not be interpreted that I enjoy yours”—Emma extended her glance to include her in-laws and her cousin—“or any of yours, less.”
It was Lady Gardner who gave her friend, the countess, a knowing smile. “Did I not say she excels at diplomacy?”
Wynetta looked at her mother askance. “I believe, Mama, that it was Father who made that observation. Is that not so, Imogene?”
“It is.”
Lady Gardner dismissed the chiding and confided to the others. “It amuses them to correct me on such small details as this. They cannot know, of course, that while their father might have said it in their presence, I said it first to their father.”
Emma did not miss the amused exchange between Lady Gardner’s daughters. It raised her own slight and wistful smile. The comfort they shared with each other, and with their mother, was not a point of envy, but one of yearning. She felt Lady Rivendale patting her arm lightly and realized she had given something of herself away.
“It seems of late,” Emma said, “that I have spent as much time in your company as my uncle’s. Indeed, these past few weeks I have scarcely been at home. With invitations to tea or to accompany one or another of you shopping, I don’t believe I’ve had an afternoon with my husband. Restell has been moved to remark on it.”
“Then he has noticed,” Lady Gardner said. “That is good. Sometimes I despair of that boy seeing what is in front of
his nose.”
“There is a difference, Mama,” Imogene said, “between Restell seeing what is in front of his nose and being led about by it. Restell is excellent at the former.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Wynetta chuckled. “There is no sense in baiting her, Imogene. She will not admit that she has never cut our leading strings.”
Lady Gardner admonished her daughters. “Hush, girls. You will give Emmalyn fear of me.” She accepted the cup of tea that Marisol passed to her. “Thank you, Miss Vega.” She chose a small cake from the plate and bit into it delicately. “I wonder if you will play for us later. I am given to understand that you have a fine hand at the pianoforte.”
“It will be my pleasure,” Marisol said. “If Mrs. Wellsley will turn the sheets for me.”
Wynetta agreed. “Of course. I confess, I have been eager to hear you play ever since Lady Rivendale remarked on your talent.”
“It is only a modest talent, so I hope her ladyship has not overstated her compliments. I should not like to disappoint.”
“I am confident you will not,” the countess said. She sipped her tea. “Your father says you have your mother’s skill.”
“He has told me the same,” Marisol said, “but I can’t say if it is exactly so. I have no memory of hearing her play.”
“Oh, but that is unfortunate. Still, I’m sure your father does not exaggerate. He seems to me to be very cautious in his acclamations.”
Marisol returned to her chair when everyone was served. “Would you agree, Emmalyn? Is Father cautious with praise?”
“He is deeply critical of his own work. I have always thought he holds others to a similarly high standard. I would have to agree with her ladyship, Sir Arthur is not easily moved to compliments in regard to one’s talent.”
Marisol sighed. “It is the same with Mr. Charters, I fear. Is it so with other men?”
Lady Gardner nodded. “I’m afraid so. They pay us pretty compliments for looking fine, but it is only because it reflects well on them to be seen with us. That is a sad truth, I know, but there you have it.”