“I see,” he said, imbuing his voice with sarcasm. “Someone was impersonating the Bond Street Burglar.”
“Precisely.”
Her small white teeth worried her lower lip. Lips that might have been moving over his naked flesh right now if not for Emma’s penchant for trouble. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to salvage the night. They were alone, behind closed doors. And she had promised him the privileges of a husband.
I’ve dreamed of you … in my bed … making love to me.
Hot blood pumped through his veins. To hell with quarreling. He had only to settle her against him, lean down, and take what he wanted.
He did just that. He trapped Emma’s slim body in the circle of his arms and tilted her chin up. Her moist lips parted. Her eyes widened. His warm breath mingled with hers—
“Stop.” Emma pressed her hands to his chest and pushed him back. She looked annoyed, not enamored. “This is important. Aren’t you listening to me?”
“This is important, too.” He placed his hands on her soft, round bottom and rubbed his hips against hers. The keen pleasure of it throbbed through him. “And his, at least, is the truth—this passion we both feel.”
She caught her breath and closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, then squirmed free. “Lucas, please. Someone is playing the Burglar. And I know who.”
An hour later, the Wortham coach rolled to a halt in a dilapidated neighborhood near Cheapside. Stepping down to the broken pavement, Emma waited for Lucas to emerge. In the more affluent areas of town, gas lamps shone like hazy beacons, but not here. Here, the night was dark and deep. Fog had crept in on ghostly feet, and the air had a cold, clammy quality that made her shiver despite the warmth of her cloak.
Then Lucas stood beside her, a tall and domineering presence. Still smarting from his lack of faith in her, she reluctantly took the arm he offered. She told herself not to be so irritated that he had leapt to a conclusion. After all, she had lied to him often enough.
Yet it hurt to remember the carefree day they’d spent together, and her hope that he was softening toward her and Jenny. Lucas could never love her. He had defended her only to stop another scandal. He wanted a son from her, that was all.
Straining to see into the gloom, she turned her attention to the house where she and Jenny had lived only a fortnight ago. Odd, she didn’t consider it home anymore. The entryway was dark, the outside lamps unlit. Emma wondered uneasily if her grandfather was even here. He might be gambling again—or worse, endangering his life.
In response to Lucas’s knock, the door opened a crack and a woman held up a candle that illuminated her carrot-red hair. Her freckled face brightened with a smile, and she flung the door wide.
“M’leddy! You’ve come home!”
Emma caught the small, spry servant into a tight embrace. The familiar scents of coarse soap and lemon wax wafted over her. “Oh, Maggie, how wonderful to see you again. How is Grandpapa?”
Maggie motioned them inside and closed the door. “Shh. He’s in the morning room. That scoundrel Runner was here this morning, plaguing the poor man—until I ran him off with my broom. His lordship hasn’t come out since.”
Lucas handed her his cape. “Then you can’t be certain he’s still in there.”
“You dursn’t call me a fool, m’lord,” the servant retorted. “I took him in his supper but fifteen minutes ago.”
“We aren’t here to question you, Maggie,” Emma said hastily.
“On the contrary,” Lucas stated, “I should like to know if Briggs went out last evening. Around midnight.”
Maggie’s defiant look dwindled as she lowered her jutting chin. She glanced at Emma.
“It’s all right,” Emma assured her. “You can tell Lord Wortham.”
“Humph. ‘Bout ten o’clock last night, George drove your grandpa to a party, then waited down the street with the other coachmen. Didn’t see hide nor hair of his lordship again till the clock struck two.” Maggie’s work-worn fingers clutched at Emma’s. “I’m sorry, m’leddy, truly I am. George and me, we tried to keep your grandpa out of trouble. I swear it on me own dear mother’s grave.”
Emma squeezed the maid’s hands. “I know. It isn’t your fault.”
It’s my fault.
With a heavy heart, she walked over the bare wood floor and knocked on the door of the morning room. A muffled curse emanated from inside. Lucas’s hand settled on her shoulder in a brief, reassuring grip. Then she opened the door.
Her grandfather sat hunched before the old secrétaire. A single candle dripped wax onto its tin holder, shedding meager light over the sheaf of papers on the opened desk. On a nearby table sat his untouched supper tray with brown gravy congealing atop a mound of roast beef and potatoes. He was scribbling furiously, and the pen sounded like the mad scratching of a mouse.
“Grandpapa?” she said, venturing into the dim room.
He gave a start of surprise. The quill pen flew into the air and then twirled downward. He leapt up so fast the rickety chair crashed to the floor. As he spun around, the monocle fell from his eye and swung crazily from the leather ribbon attached to his lapel. “Confound it, girl! Must you send me into a heart seizure?”
“I knocked.” Too curious to be contrite, Emma walked closer: “What are you writing? It can’t be letters. You despise correspondence.”
“Hah. ’Tis never too late to teach an old dog new tricks.” He shoveled the papers inside and slammed the lid shut before she could catch more than a glimpse of his flamboyant, ink-blotted handwriting. “Now, why the deuce are you here? You striplings ought to be out dancing at a party somewhere. I would’ve been at your age.”
“Speaking of parties,” Lucas said from behind her, “we’re here in regard to the party you never attended last night.”
Lifting the monocle to his eye, her grandfather peered closely from Emma to Lucas. “Oh-ho. I see Youngblood’s been pestering you, too. Well, devil take that sly fox. And that tale-telling Miss Pomfret. Time was, a homely gel like her would have been glad to have me in her bedroom.”
“Grandpapa!” Emma’s breast ached as she closed the distance between them. He stood only an inch taller than she, and she looked him straight in the eyes. “How could you rob an innocent lady? It’s Lord Gerald Mannering who won our money, not Miss Pomfret.”
“’Tis tit for tat. Don’t forget what she stole from you.” He wagged an ink-stained finger at Emma.
“From me?” she asked in confusion.
“Aye, the little chippy insulted you. ’Tis her and other gossipmongers who filched your good name.”
“Insulted?” Lucas stepped into the small circle of candlelight. His sun-burnished features were drawn into a scowl. “Just what did this woman say to you?”
“It was nothing—” Emma began.
“’Twas at Mannering’s ball,” her grandfather put in. “The hound-faced chit thought herself too good to speak to my granddaughter. So I decided Miss Nose-in-the-air deserved a good fright in return. I sneaked into her house, found the necklace, and shook the blasted thing in her face whilst she was sleeping.” Slapping his knee-breeches, he let out a cackle of laughter. “She jumped nigh to the ceiling. And tried to hit me with her pillow.”
Emma subdued the urge to giggle hysterically. “That isn’t amusing. Grandpapa, you left your glove behind. What if Youngblood traces it back to you?”
“So what if he does? I’ll swear I was there at her invitation. And let her rich, title-hunting parents prove otherwise.”
“You’d ruin her—if you haven’t already,” Lucas said thoughtfully. He pulled up a chair and straddled it, resting his arms on the ladderback. “Of course, she deserves just that.”
He and Lord Briggs shared a long look. Glancing from one man to the other, Emma felt a prickling of alarm. “What are you two thinking?” she asked. “Surely you wouldn’t plot the ruin of a silly young girl.”
“No,” Lucas said. “I suggest we turn our attention elsewhere. Livvie told
me about Lady Jasper Putney’s ill-mannered remark to you. About how unnaturally pale you looked on our wedding day.”
His hard brown eyes held a hint of fury. Was he truly angry at Lady Jasper? Or, Emma wondered, had the old, hurtful memories surfaced again?
“What can we do to hoist the old witch by her own petard?” Lord Briggs snapped his fingers. “I have it. At the next party, I shall invite her outside, then tear open my cravat and my shirt so that everyone thinks she attacked me.”
“No one would believe it—she has ice in her veins,” Lucas said. “I should engage her husband in cards and then accuse him of cheating. The ton will shun him—and her.”
“Don’t you dare.” Emma whirled on him in horror. “He’d challenge you.”
Lucas smiled wolfishly. “Let him. I hear he’s a poor shot.”
Her grandfather chuckled. “Couldn’t even bring down the Burglar at ten paces.”
“How can you two jest about this?” She paced in front of his chair. “I won’t have you dueling, Lucas. It’s madness!”
“Would you care if I died?”
He spoke in a negligent tone, though he watched her with that taunting half-smile. She wanted to slap the smirk off his sinfully handsome face—and fall to her knees and confess her love for him, too. “Dueling is not only against the law, it’s barbaric,” she said evenly. “I forbid you to fight on my behalf.” She swung toward Lord Briggs, who observed their bickering with keen interest. “Nor will I allow you, Grandpapa, to sneak into ladies’ bedrooms and steal from them.”
“I didn’t steal,” he said, folding his arms.
“Call it whatever you like, but give the necklace to me.” She held out her hand. “I’ll make sure it’s discreetly returned.”
“Don’t have it—I tossed it ’neath her bed. The minx will find it soon enough.”
Emma lowered her arm. “You didn’t take it?”
“Of course not. As I said, I meant only to scare her.” An unholy gleam shone in her grandfather’s blue eyes. He leaned against the closed secrétaire. “I’ve a better plan for repaying Mannering. It’s quite clever, if I may say so myself.”
“What plan?”
“Can’t tell now. ’Tis a secret.”
She noted the glee on his weathered features. “Is it legal?”
“Utterly.”
“If this has anything to do with gaming—”
“No. I give you my solemn promise.” He clapped his hand to his chest.
Emma hoped she could believe him this time. She didn’t have the heart to remind him he’d already broken his vow not to gamble. He’d be wounded by her lack of faith in him. And she knew how badly mistrust could hurt.
Lucas rose from the chair and slid his arm around her. “Now that we’ve solved our little mystery, my wife and I can turn our attention to other matters.” His fingers stroked the curve of her waist, his warmth penetrating her body. “Do join us for dinner one night this week, will you, Briggs?”
“I’m rather busy, but I’ll make the time.” Her grandfather grinned. “The real question is, will you two have the time?”
Even as she puzzled over his conspiratorial wink at Lucas, Emma found herself being whisked out of the house and into the coach. She was frustrated by her inability to read the communication between the two men. Why wouldn’t Lucas have time to dine with guests?
Determined to find out, she turned toward him in the darkened coach. And found her breasts crushed against his solid chest. His warm breath plumed over her mouth, weaving a thrill through her raveled senses. “At last,” he murmured, “we can tend to those other matters.”
And then his hard and hungry lips came down on hers.
Chapter 17
Among the few kisses Emma had known, this one far outranked all others. It was both harsh and tender, terrifyingly intense and unbearably exquisite. He kissed her until she felt weak from wanting and dizzy with pleasure. When at last he dragged in a long breath and rubbed his stubble-rough cheek against hers, she clung to him, gasping for air in a sea of sensation.
His heart beat fiercely against her breasts. His eyes glittered through the darkness. “You’re mine, Emma,” he said. “I shan’t wait any longer. Tonight is the night.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes.”
She told herself to resist, for he meant to claim her firstborn son. If she’d thought him a poor prospect for a father, she might have found the strength to refuse. But she remembered the kite he had given to Jenny today, his acceptance of the little girl whom he might have scorned.
Nothing else seemed to matter when she could feel the tenderness of his touch. A gas lamp on the street cast shuddering shadows inside the dim coach, echoing the dark thrill that spun through her. Pondering the mystery of her surrender, she shaped her hand around the side of his neck and felt the throb of his lifeblood. Lucas. Her husband. Who would have thought she would come to care for him so deeply?
She wanted to be his wife in truth. Her decision had been made that very afternoon in the sunlit meadow. She wanted his hands on her body, fondling her as he had done behind the screen. But at the same time she dreaded what would follow. How could she not, when the violence of that long-ago night lurked at the edge of her consciousness? Her belly tensed at the thought of him overpowering her, sweating and grunting and pumping, revoking ecstasy for something sordid and painful.
“You’re shivering,” he said.
“Am I? I—I can’t imagine why.”
“Can’t you?” Sounding amused, he trailed his lips over her cheek, soothing the skin that tingled from the raspy growth of his whiskers. “It’s called desire, Emma. For better or for worse, our bodies respond to each other. There’ll be no more teasing, no more courting, no more games.”
His deep voice unsettled her, and she tucked her face into the crook of his shoulder. The alien musk of man scented his skin. The rhythmic clatter of wheels and hooves marked each passing moment. It brought her and Lucas closer and closer to home … to their marriage bed.
Seeking respite from her inner turmoil, she blurted, “Why did Grandpapa say you won’t have much spare time next week? You told me you were finished with your work at the docks.”
“Perhaps he suspected you and I”—Lucas bent to nuzzle the hollow of her throat—“had finally”—his mouth drifted lower—“reconciled”—he moved her cloak and kissed the scar on her bare shoulder—“our differences.”
The black shadow of his head loomed above her breasts. She could scarcely think for the warmth pulsing through her. But she wanted to think—to hope. “Do you … do you still despise me for tricking you into marriage?”
His lips paused just above her bosom. His torrid breath bathed her tender skin. “Forget the past. It doesn’t matter tonight.”
How deftly he sidestepped her question. Perhaps the barriers between them would never be scaled, for she could not tell him her greatest secret: that the man who had dishonored her was his own brother.
Even as bitterness tightened like tentacles around her emotions, Lucas distracted her. He loosened the buttons down her back, gave a pull and the layers of silk fell away, exposing her ghostly-white chemise in the darkness. To her amazement, she felt a moist tugging sensation on her breast. She gasped, flooded by a deep melting warmth. He was kissing her through the chemise, suckling her like a babe. Without thinking, she slid her fingers through the coarse silk of his hair.
“Oh, Lucas,” she breathed. “Lucas.”
“So,” he said on a hiss of satisfaction, “you like that.”
He exposed her breasts and kissed them again, this time using his teeth and tongue, alternately nipping and then soothing her. The exquisite sensation lured a moan from her throat. Passion leapt inside her, creating a hunger inspired by his feast.
Abruptly, the coach turned a sharp corner and she collapsed against him. He held her close as the vehicle slowed to a stop. Peeking past the tasseled curtain, Emma spied the torchlit entrance to Wortham House. And
here she sat like a hussy, the cool night air wafting against her bare, dampened breasts.
She yanked at her gown but the layers of silk caught beneath her legs. “Do up my buttons. Quickly. We’ll create a scandal.”
“We always do,” Lucas said dryly. “But never mind, the cloak will cover you.”
He wrapped the garment around her, tying it at her throat. His movements were easy and matter-of-fact, as if saving a lady from disgrace were nothing new to him.
Emma clutched at her bodice just as the coach door swung open and she was forced to step out into view of the footman. Beneath the enveloping cloak, her unfastened gown slipped lower and lower. She clamped her arms across her bosom to catch the slippery fabric before it puddled around her feet.
“Allow me,” Lucas murmured.
His lips quirked into a smile that was half amusement, half impatience. He looped his muscled arm around her waist and urged her up the steps to the porch, where a liveried footman opened the front door. Lucas’s heavy tread harmonized with the light tapping of her own slippers as he guided her inexorably across the marble floor and up the grand staircase.
A sense of inevitability inundated Emma. It was going to happen now. Lucas intended to bed her. There would be no more reprieves. Her insides churned with a mixture of dread and delight. She felt as if she were astride a stallion, galloping headlong into a dense mist, never knowing if the ride would end in death … or new life.
A tomblike silence permeated the upstairs. They passed no one in the shadowy corridor. Somehow she’d known they wouldn’t. The time had come to fulfill her promise to Lucas. To open herself to him. To take his seed into her womb. Her legs wobbled and she would have fallen had he not gripped her arm so firmly.
Upon reaching her bedchamber, he escorted her inside and dismissed her wide-eyed maid. He kicked the door shut, unfastened Emma’s cloak, and pressed her against the wall with his chest and thighs. His face was stark with passion. “So,” he said in a gruff voice. “We’ll finally have the night we should have had seven years ago.”
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