Her meek voice and appealing gaze threw him off kilter. “She deserves to know when you’ve gotten into mischief. Just how the dev—” He paused and amended sternly, “How did you manage to get my safe open?”
“With the key. I heard Mama tell Great-grandpapa it was in the desk drawer.”
Like mother, like daughter. No doubt Emma had bragged to her family about her exploits as the Bond Street Burglar.
Or was Lucas mistaken? Had she been driven to thievery out of desperation? Reluctantly he remembered the rundown state of her house, the shabbiness of her clothing, the calluses on her hands. In seven years, she had taken no allowance from him, although she might have done so. The oily Bow Street Runner who’d come nosing about this morning had seemed convinced the robberies were connected to Briggs’s gaming debts. Lucas resolved to look into that.
He saw Jenny edging toward the door and stepped into her path. “You should not have come in here,” he said. “It’s wrong to poke about in someone else’s things without permission.”
The girl pushed out her lower lip. “I only wanted to find what belongs to my mama.”
“There’s nothing in here of your mother’s.” Lucas picked up the priceless jade statue of Buddha and placed it inside the repository, closing the door and locking it. He tucked the key into his inner pocket. Then he sat down on the edge of the desk and regarded Jenny. “I think you had better tell me the truth, young lady.”
“I am! I was looking for the tiger. It belongs to my mama.”
The mask.
Jolted, Lucas leaned forward. “It most certainly does not.”
Jenny leaned forward, too, her hands perched on her skinny hips. “It does so! Great-grandpapa said as much. Where have you put our pretty tiger?”
She was a miniature version of Emma, and curiously, the observation took the edge off his anger. “It’s in a secret hiding place now. And your great-grandpapa is mistaken. The tiger mask was a gift to me from the maharajah of Jaipur.”
She regarded him suspiciously. “What’s a maharajah?”
“A very rich prince from a faraway land called India.”
Jenny screwed up her face in doubt. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. He lives in a palace made of ivory and precious stones, and he eats off plates of gold. And he has a real tiger for a pet who wears a jeweled collar.” Lucas stopped, surprised at his loquaciousness.
A look of wonder smoothed out Jenny’s frown. She took a step closer. “And … is the tiger mask really magic like Great-grandpapa says?”
“Some believe so, yes.” With a wry grimace, Lucas thought of Shalimar’s fantastical prophesy of fertility. The mask had already brought him one child—this unwanted, inquisitive girl.
By law, his daughter.
“Are you going to thrash me?” Jenny asked.
Lucas realized he had balled his fingers into fists, which Jenny eyed with trepidation. She held her chin high like her mother, but he could detect a slight trembling in her shoulders. Good God. He’d never meant to scare the child. “Does your mother spank you when you get into trouble?”
Jenny shook her head, the braids swirling. “Oh, no! She makes me sit in the corner and think about what I did.”
“Go back upstairs to the nursery, then, and sit in the corner. Shouldn’t you be napping with the other children, anyway?”
“I’m not a baby. I’m nearly six and a half. I’ll be seven years old on April the second.” She held up seven fingers.
A ruthless ache seized his throat. So Emma had given birth in the spring. He’d always wondered about the exact date. She’d had no husband present to share in her joy. Or to comfort her in her suffering.
A man forced me.
Could he have been wrong about Emma? Her agonized confession haunted Lucas, had kept him awake half the night, staring into the dark and wondering. If it was true, who was the scoundrel who’d impregnated her?
Lucas scrutinized Jenny for a clue to her father’s identity. But he could see only Emma in those pixie features. He couldn’t imagine how any man could abandon his own child, even at the risk of scandal.
“Six and a half is a very great age, indeed,” he said. “No doubt you are old enough to know right from wrong.” He had the strangest urge to talk further with her. But if his mother were to walk in and see this child who had caused so much strife in the family, she would have a relapse. “Now go on with you. Find a quiet spot in the nursery and reflect upon your misdeed.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Jenny started to trudge away, then swung back, opening her mouth and pointing to a gap in her top front teeth. “I have a loose tooth. See?”
Before he could respond, she skipped out of the library, her heels kicking up the hem of her too-short brown dress.
An unexpected pang of longing tightened Lucas’s chest. How darling she was, how uncannily like the daughters he’d once hoped to have.
Glowering at the empty doorway, he disciplined the tender ache within himself. Lady Jenny Coulter meant nothing to him. She was Emma’s child, Emma’s responsibility, Emma’s to love. Eventually, the two of them would leave this house forever.
No, if he felt any yearning, it was only because he wanted children of his own. His own.
And the sooner, the better.
Huddled in her voluminous nightgown, Emma sat at the gilt writing desk in her bedroom and thumbed through a stack of invitations. Apparently the news of her reconciliation with Wortham had spread faster than a brushfire. It seemed every noble family who had not left town for the country now planned a rout or a dance party or a musicale.
Unfortunately, Lord Gerald Mannering was not among them.
Emma ruffled the invitations as if they were a hateful deck of cards. She had hoped to gain entry to Mannering’s house in a legitimate fashion, and to execute a daring theft in the midst of his party. Now she might have to resort to her usual modus operandi. And the mere thought of clambering on rooftops in the disguise of the Burglar gave her the shivers.
Closing her eyes, she placed her head in her hands. It was true; she had lost her nerve. Not only was she afraid of being shot, she feared Clive Youngblood. One wrong move and he would be waiting to arrest her. To separate her from Jenny forever.
Somehow, Emma had to obtain the funds to pay off Grandpapa’s debt. Quietly and quickly. She would not take jewels from anyone but the man who had bilked him; that was the only way she maintained her self-respect. Nor could she bring herself to beg the money from Lucas. This dilemma was not of his making—
“Pining for your husband, I trust,” spoke a deep, mocking voice.
She whirled around, almost oversetting the dainty chair. Like a demon materialized from the underworld, Lucas stood behind her. He had discarded the hunter’s-green coat and waistcoat he had worn to dinner with the family. Clad in breeches and shirt, he had removed his stiff white cravat as well, and his shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a wedge of bronzed chest.
Emma swallowed, her heart thudding in her throat. She wore a new nightrail she had obtained from the dressmaker today; the other articles of clothing would be delivered later in the week. Though the white gown covered her from high neck down to bare toes, she was acutely conscious of her nakedness beneath.
“I was just—” Flustered, she paused. “I was looking at some invitations, my lord. Perhaps you would care to see them.”
He watched her as a cat might watch a mouse. “Accept whichever ones you like. It matters little to me.”
“You surely must have some opinion.”
“Only on more important matters.” He walked to the bedside table and placed something there. It was a small earthenware jar she had not noticed him carrying. Then he returned to her side and held out his hand. “Come.”
Her pulse increased its tempo. She stared numbly at his outstretched palm. His skin was the shade of teakwood, his fingers long and blunt-tipped.
Sweet Jesus. A man’s hand. Capable of violence.
“D
on’t panic,” he said calmly. “I shan’t ravish you.”
Disbelieving, she lifted her gaze to his. With the candlelight carving shadows beneath his aristocratic cheekbones, he looked fearfully handsome. “Won’t you?”
“Not without invitation.”
Reaching out, he took her by the hand and drew her to her feet. He stood there a moment, lightly running his finger over the clean linen bandage wrapping her palm. “The mark of courage, I wonder?” he murmured. “Or of a coward fleeing her just reward?”
“I’m not a coward,” she snapped.
“I’m pleased to hear that.” His grasp was warm and firm, inspiring a tenuous trust. Emma found herself following him to the large, four-poster bed. There, to her alarm, he began to undo the small pearl buttons down the back of her nightgown.
She twisted around to face him. “You promised you wouldn’t ravish me.”
“True. Yet I made no promise about not touching you.” His expression was hard, intense. “And you will want that, Emma.”
“But—”
He put his finger over her lips, lightly yet insistently. “I make the rules. And I pledge not to consummate the act until you’re ready.”
She quivered. “Then it won’t happen. Not ever.”
A small smile revealed the dimples in his cheeks. “We shall see. Now lie down. On your stomach.”
The secret knowledge in his golden-brown eyes frightened her. What did he mean to do to her? And how could she refuse him?
No choice. No choice. No choice … .
Clasping the nightgown tightly against her breasts, Emma crawled onto the bed and lay herself down. The linens smelled like starch and sunshine. As she buried her face in the pillow, she was keenly aware of the opened buttons at her back. She felt as helpless as a sacrificial lamb.
No. She would not let him intimidate her. She would endure his vile touch with dignity. She would prove her mettle.
The mattress dipped to one side under his weight. His fingers brushed her vulnerable neck as he parted the back of her nightgown. Cool air whispered over her exposed skin, and she shivered in spite of her resolve to be brave.
Leaving her laid bare to the waist, he rose from the bed, and she heard him kick off his shoes. There was a small clinking noise, followed by the unexpected sound of him rubbing his hands together. Dear God, what torture was he planning?
She turned her head to peek just as Lucas got back onto the bed. This time, instead of perching on the edge, he straddled her, his powerful legs pinning her in place. He did not put his full weight on her, yet his groin nestled in the cradle where her buttocks and thighs met.
She clenched her teeth to contain a craven whimper. “Don’t forget your promise.”
“I never forget a promise,” he said with a trace of irony.
Her nightgown had ridden up to her knees, and she could feel the fine cloth of his breeches. At least he wasn’t naked.
His hands descended to her upper back, and she flinched. He slowly traced the knobs of her spine, his palms slick with an oily substance. She could smell the fragrance of it, potent and exotic. To her startlement, he began to knead the tight muscles of her shoulders and back.
His touch felt surprisingly good. The warmth of his body flowed into her, and the pressure he exerted was more pleasant than offensive. The ever-present fear drifted away like so much smoke. After all, hadn’t he vowed not to force her into a carnal act?
Against her better judgment, she could feel herself relaxing, sinking deeper into the bed, her limbs melting like butter. Her eyelids drifted shut. Oddly, the heat of his massage burrowed deep within herself, as if a ray of sunshine glowed in the pit of her belly, and she found herself basking in the pleasure of it.
She lost track of time. After a while, he shifted position to stroke his hands over her feet, her calves, her thighs. Just as he neared her privates and she began to tense again, he moved to her fingers, her arms, and then her neck. He rubbed soothingly, compellingly, up and down her sides, and a curious thrill unfurled in Emma. She no longer minded his hands being inside her nightdress. It was almost as if Lucas were embracing her, caressing her, loving her. She craved the gentleness of his touch, oh yes, she did. Never had she dreamed she could so trust a man … .
His fingers brushed the sides of her bare breasts. Though she lay on her stomach, he delved deeper beneath her, moving slowly, until he cupped her in his warm palms. Still caught by languor, Emma floated in a strange aura of wonder. Then he lazily stroked his thumbs over the sensitive tips.
She could feel his swollen hardness against her bottom. She gasped as a jolt of physical sensation slapped her to an awareness of his sexual intent. A surge of panic rose to glut her throat. Trapped by his body, she half twisted herself to glare at him.
“Stop it! You’ve no right to touch me so.”
“Don’t I.” It was not a question.
He removed his hands and sat back, a large and menacing presence in the candlelight. Fire gleamed in his tiger’s eyes, and through his opened shirt, his chest was muscled and bronzed against the white linen.
Her flesh still burned where he’d touched her. Panic hovered at the edge of her consciousness. She’d been a fool to lower her guard with him, a man she no longer knew. He could do with her whatever he willed. And he did have the right. She had given it to him when she’d uttered her vows of holy wedlock.
Quite unexpectedly, he lifted himself from her and leapt nimbly to the floor. He went to the bedside table, picked up the small jar, and held it out to her.
“What’s that?” she asked, cautiously sitting up.
“Scented oil.”
Ignoring the jar, she hitched the bodice of her nightgown higher over her aching breasts. “I’ve had quite enough for one night. Or are you going to force me to accept your touch?”
“No.” His mouth crooked into a half-smile, a devilish smile, and he began to unfasten his shirt. “Now it’s your turn to touch me.”
Chapter 10
He was a glutton for punishment, Lucas decided.
Wearing only his breeches, he lay prone on the bed, his cheek pressed to the pillow that bore the haunting fragrance of Emma. Beside him his wife perched like a nymph about to take flight. The feel of her hands on him was exquisite torture. He wanted to draw her down beneath him, to make violent love to her until he sated this damnable craving.
But she had been misused once, and she feared intimacy. His mission was to awaken his wife to the joys of physical love. Only then could he achieve his objective—to impregnate Emma.
Small fingers stroked tentatively over his back. The occasional brush of the linen bandage only heightened his awareness of her. She hadn’t quite mastered the technique of applying pressure, of kneading his muscles, but he didn’t care. She was touching him. That in itself was a miracle.
The massage coiled the tension inside him. Every inch of his back felt scorched. So did a certain other place she didn’t touch.
She would caress him there—eventually. He had only to exercise the patience of a saint.
But God, she was killing him softly. The memory of the lush warmth of her breasts tormented him. He could feel himself sweating. He was alone in the bedroom with his own wife, and he couldn’t have her. Not yet.
Lucas closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, making it slow and even. In and out. In and out. In and out. Instead of distracting him, the rhythm inspired another torturous fantasy.
He forced his thoughts to his estate in Northumbria. He would go there soon, ride over the rugged countryside. He would take Emma with him. She would be wild for him as he laid her down beneath an oak tree and stripped the clothes from her … .
Hell. This time, he tried turning his mind to Shalimar, and guilt sobered him. So far, the search for her kidnapped son had yielded only a cold trail. He’d spent the day tracking down yet another false clue. Tomorrow he would enlist Hajib to help trace that devil O’Hara.
It was the least Lucas coul
d do. His mistress was patient and serene, everything he wanted in a woman. Their separation was only temporary. He would devote himself to her again. After he had planted a child in his wife.
How quickly would Emma conceive once he seduced her? He might have to make love to her for many nights before his seed took root. For many long and languid nights he could indulge the throbbing of his blood, the primitive instinct to mate with his woman … .
He was throbbing now. It took all his willpower not to turn over, to reach for Emma and end his torment by sinking into her. She would be hot and slick, a tight silken glove. The thought was maddeningly erotic. He would make their pleasure last, build sensation to the very peak of arousal. Then he would bring both of them to sweet, shuddering climax.
The stroking of her hands came to a gradual stop. She drew away quietly, and the bedropes didn’t creak, so slowly did she leave his side.
Lucas lifted his head to see Emma tiptoeing toward the dressing room. “Where the devil are you going?” he growled.
She spun around with a gasp. “Lucas! I—I thought you were asleep.”
“Asleep.” He couldn’t help a disgruntled grin. “Hardly.”
She clasped her hands in front of her, an unlikely angel in her pure white nightgown, wisps of fair hair tumbling around her shoulders. “I’m terribly weary,” she said in a small, meek voice. “Please don’t take offense, but I must ask you to leave now.”
Like hell you’re tired. Seeing the wary desperation in her eyes, he bit back the retort. It was best not to push her. Best to keep chipping away at her defenses bit by bit. Best to ignore the hot pressure inside his breeches.
He rose from the bed and walked to Emma. Taking her chin between his fingers, he tilted up her face. Silvery-blond tendrils framed her perfect features, a breathtaking testimonial to a benevolent Creator.
She was his. His alone.
Cupping her face in his hands, Lucas kissed her slowly and deeply, letting his lips convey a promise of provocative pleasures to come. He felt the resistance in her, the alarm that stiffened her muscles. He thought he sensed also the agitation in her as the natural desires of her body waged war with her fears.
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