The chilly purpose she sensed in him belied the heat of his body. His mouth came down on hers again, and he tugged at her dress until only her shift and his breeches separated their lower bodies. His ardor alarmed her, even as his kiss fed the fire of longing in her, the yearning to relinquish herself into his keeping. He caressed her breasts again, his thumbs rubbing the tips, until rapturous sensation crowded out coherent thought. She arched against him, savoring the pressure of firm muscles and hot skin.
His hands roamed downward, measuring her waist and hips and bottom, exploring her curves until she wanted to cry out in frustration. If only he would lift her chemise and touch her. If only he would stroke her to wanton ecstasy. If only he would show her joy first, she could endure the pain later. Instead, he grasped her wrist and dragged her hand down to the front of his breeches and held it there.
Through the superfine cloth, her fingers absorbed the unmistakable shape of him. He was stiff. Thick. Long. A sword of steel burning for her tender sheath.
He pushed himself against her hand. “God help me,” he muttered, his voice so like his brother’s it sent an eerie prickling over her skin. What had seemed so marvelous in a sunlit meadow took on a sinister aspect in this shadowy bedroom.
His feral groan sent her spinning down, down, down into the dark well of memory. “God help me” … and he thrust hard … again and again … ripping into her … grunting like a beast …
Panic shattered her passion. “Stop it!” she cried. “Stop!”
She pushed Lucas away, and he staggered backward into a table. A black basaltware vase tipped over, flinging hothouse roses and water onto the carpet.
His breath came harsh and fast. A muscle worked in his jaw. “What the hell—? We have a bargain.”
“I know. But I’m not ready. I—” Emma could say no more. She trembled uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered, and she clasped her hands over her bosom, hugging herself.
Lucas straightened to his full height, his cheekbones taut and hard. As if struggling against himself, he gripped his hands into fists. Where desire had warmed his eyes, a curious blankness now shuttered his thoughts. “Have it your way, then. Come to me when you’re ready.”
Leaning weakly against the back of a chair, Emma watched him walk away. Her fingers tingled; she could still feel his male part as if he had branded her. He was so large. Too large for a small woman like herself.
Yet despite her revulsion, she ached to call him back. What had she done?
He wrenched open the connecting door and entered his bedchamber. The click of the latch resounded through the room. She was left with only the drip-drip of water from the spilled vase.
Lucas strode across his bedroom, flinging off his coat, then his waistcoat, dropping the garments in a trail across the floor. His nerves smoldered on the verge of an explosion. Damn. Damn. Damn! How could he be so lack-witted? He had overwhelmed Emma. He had completely disregarded her need for gentleness and patience. He had been so caught up in his own hard, driving lust that he had ignored her fears.
Curse the scoundrel who had raped her. If it took a lifetime, he’d find the craven wretch and make him pay!
Lucas yanked off his cravat and hurled it away. And damn himself, too. He had never lacked control. The greater the discipline, the higher the ecstasy. But with Emma, he had lost mastery over himself. He had destroyed the patient seduction of nearly a fortnight.
Self-loathing lay like a stone inside him. There was something else, too, a truth he couldn’t deny. Deep down, he wanted to remain aloof. He wanted to know he had the power to hurt Emma. Because then she could not hurt him.
“Hell-bent fool!” Blindly he lashed out with his fist and struck the bedpost. The wood groaned as if to mock him. White-hot pain speared through his knuckles and up his arm. The bronze-colored bedhangings swayed madly.
Hajib appeared in the doorway of the dressing room. “Master,” he said, hurrying forward. “Have you hurt yourself?”
Feeling like a chastised boy, Lucas tucked his smarting hand behind his back. “No.”
“Praise be to Allah.” Hajib bowed low. “How may I serve you?”
“By leaving me alone.”
Oblivious to his black mood, the servant knelt before him. “Permit me to assist you.”
Lucas grudgingly let the valet tug off his knee-high boots and stockings. Then he stalked barefoot to a decanter of brandy on the fireside table. “That’s all. I shan’t require anything more tonight.”
Hajib rose lithely, his gray robe whispering as he moved around the room, picking up the clothing Lucas had discarded. “Your English wife displeases you. Will you soon return to Shalimar’s bed?”
“It’s none of your concern,” Lucas snarled. The notion of seeking relief with his mistress left him cold. Glass in hand, he scowled at the servant, who stood with his palms pressed together and his gaze faintly accusatory. Lucas drew a ragged breath. He had been neglecting Shalimar. “She’s happy with Sanjeev back, isn’t she? Has she given you cause to think otherwise?”
“Her happiness is not for me to judge.”
“For God’s sake, don’t be coy. Is she anxious to return to Kashmir?”
“My lord, she is pleased to do whatsoever you wish. You have her undying gratitude for the return of her son yesterday.”
He sounded too much like Shalimar, humble and submissive. At one time, Lucas would have accepted the difference in cultures, even appreciated it, but now he experienced a flash of intense irritation. How much more satisfying was a battle of equals. How much more stimulating the company of a bold, outspoken Englishwoman.
He gulped down the brandy, and his guilt seared deeper. “I want you to go to Shalimar. Make certain her needs are fulfilled. Furnish her household with trinkets from Kashmir. The expense is of no consequence.”
Hajib’s eyes were dark and inscrutable. “And the tiger’s head? Might I take her that, then?”
“The mask?” Lucas started in surprise. “No, the mask is too costly to serve as decoration for someone’s home. It shall be part of a museum exhibit as soon as the new wing is built.”
Hajib lowered his gaze. “Yes, master.”
“Tell Shalimar that I’ll take her and Sanjeev back to India eventually, but not yet. Not for a year at least.” Lucas glowered at the remaining amber liquor in his glass. “My business here may take longer than I expected.”
“It shall be as you wish.” The turbaned servant bowed and left the room.
Lucas stared at the closed door with its gilt trim gleaming dully against the white paint. Business. He had business, all right. He intended to remain in England long enough to bed Emma and to see her give birth. He needed—he wanted—a son. By God, he deserved a son.
He wanted what Emma had already—a child to brighten the darkness of his life. A son or a daughter like Jenny. Emma had robbed him of a normal family, and now he would demand his due. It was as simple as that.
Or was it? Aware of a rigidity in his muscles, he very carefully set down his empty glass. The truth was, he wanted Emma to desire him. He craved her surrender on a deeper level than physical passion. He wanted to own her soul. As she had owned his for far too many years.
His hands shook with unmanly emotion. He braced them against the mantelpiece. It might take weeks of seduction to coax her into trusting him again. Weeks of denial before he finally sated the raging hunger inside himself. But he would woo her gently if it killed him. He would have her willing—or not at all.
The faint rattling of the doorknob broke the silence. Cool air whisked against him. In no mood for company, especially not Hajib again, Lucas wheeled around. “I thought I told you—”
He froze. In the connecting doorway stood his wife.
His mouth went dry. His palms dampened with sweat. His inner turmoil exploded into renewed desire.
Emma’s unbound hair shimmered like a mass of moonbeams around her shoulders and down to her waist. The sheer fabric of her nightgown embraced her breasts
, then cascaded to the floor. Beneath the scalloped hem, her feet were small and bare.
Her gaze skittered to the huge bedstead; then those big, blue eyes focused on him. “I’m sorry for panicking, Lucas. It was just … an unexpected memory. I—I hope you can forgive me.”
Words failed him. His groin tightened unbearably, swelling against his breeches. He could think only that she was naked beneath the gown. The shadow of her sex showed faintly against the virginal white cloth. Why did she continue to torture him?
She ventured a few steps into the room. Her fingers pleated the sides of her nightdress. “You told me to come to you when I was ready,” she went on. “Well, I am ready. I made you a promise, and I fully intend to keep it. Tonight.”
“I won’t force an unwilling woman.” Each word felt dragged from him.
“I know that now.” She held out her hand. “That’s why I want to be your wife. Will you show me how to please you?”
Lucas could scarcely believe she was giving him a second chance. A chance to rectify his clumsy mistakes. A chance to show her she had nothing to fear from him. And a chance to prove to himself he had nothing to fear from her, either.
He took her hand. It felt as sweet and dainty as a bride’s. “It would please me to bring you joy. A man likes to know he’s given as well as received.”
“Not all men.”
Her eyes went cloudy with memories. Interwined with his fury at her attacker was a thread of powerful tenderness. He settled her against him, one hand at the base of her spine, the other tipping her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “I’m not like that bastard. Just remember that.”
“Of course,” she said, too quickly.
“I mean it, Emma. If you tell me to stop, I will.” He twisted his mouth into a wry grimace. “No matter how difficult it is.”
“I know. You’ve proven that to me.”
“And I can promise you pleasure. The same pleasure you felt a few nights ago. You only have to trust me.”
She bit her lip and nodded slowly. “I do.”
“Good.”
Scorched by the heat of his stare, Emma felt a thrill of trepidation. Lucas looked so fierce, so wild. He had stripped down to a white shirt opened to the waist and the dark breeches he had worn on their picnic. His chest was a beautiful burnished tan, and now the black thatch of hair pressed against her breasts. There was nothing between them but a few scraps of cloth. She was aware of his body heat, his male scent. And the deep, disturbing pulse that throbbed within her.
He wanted to kiss her; she could see it in his eyes. The knowledge made her glow. Unwilling to lose the feeling, Emma urged him toward the bed. “Come, Lucas,” she said in a husky murmur. “Come with me.”
He smiled then, a secretive smile that deepened the dimples in his cheeks and made him look extraordinarily handsome. “Ladies first.”
She sensed a hidden meaning to his words, but before she could puzzle it out, his arms caught her up and she found herself sprawled atop him on the bed. The heavy bronze silk hangings enclosed them in shadow. Lucas reclined beneath her, large and dark against the snowy linens. Her heartbeat surged into a maddened rhythm. She lay very still, absorbing the strangeness of his hard, masculine body under hers.
“Shouldn’t we … switch positions?” she asked.
“You said you wanted to pleasure me.” He glided the flats of his palms down the back of her nightdress. “And I like it this way.”
“I just thought … this doesn’t seem …”
“Proper?” His big hands cupped the curve of her bottom. “There can be nothing improper between a husband and wife, Emma. Surely you know that by now.”
He was referring to their other intimate encounters—when he had massaged her, when he had plied her with the peacock feather, when he had transported her to heaven with his clever fingers. And then she realized what was different this time. She was no longer under his subjugation. He was giving control over to her. “But what shall I do?” she whispered.
“Whatever feels good.”
He lay back, waiting, a devilish smile on his lips. Lucas wanted her to take the lead. He wanted her to seduce him. This was not how she had envisioned the consummation of their marriage.
The rise and fall of his chest tickled her breasts. The nightgown had ridden up past her knees and their legs were tangled together. His hands felt warm and possessive, his thumbs rubbing lazily against the fabric covering her bottom. She knew a flash of frustration, the shocking desire to feel his touch on her naked flesh.
Without daring to think, Emma sat up, lifted the nightgown over her head, and flung the garment to the floor. Stark naked, she scrambled back into place over Lucas. His hands spanned her slender waist. The texture of his shirt and breeches rasped delightfully against her skin. Only then did she risk looking at his face.
The smile was gone. His eyes burned with intensity again, an intensity that sent a compelling quiver down to her secret core, where she could feel herself growing damp and soft and ardent. His lips were parted invitingly. Dear heaven. Dear sweet heaven.
Feeling decidedly wicked, she scooted herself closer to those lips and rested her hands on his strong shoulders. How heady was the power he had given to her. It banished the fear that had long ruled her. “Lucas,” she whispered, wishing she could put into words the tumultuous feelings tumbling inside herself. “May I kiss you?”
“You don’t need my permission.”
Their warm breath intermingled. His eyelids were lowered halfway as he waited patiently. She touched her lips to his and savored the surprising suppleness of him. She tasted brandy on him, licked the essence and followed the flavor into his mouth. Like a delicious elixir, it spread through her body, warming and strengthening, stoking the blaze within her.
Lucas returned the kiss with equal fervor. His hands found her breasts and adorned them with lavish caresses. Somehow he seemed to know exactly what she wanted. And yet there were other wants inside her, enticements she did not wholly understand.
Whatever feels good.
She could not keep herself still, especially her lower body. She gave in to the urge to rub herself against him, and the pleasure of it quaked through her. Lucas’s chest expanded with a harsh breath. His fingers convulsed around her arms, but he made no move to overpower her. Emboldened, she pressed herself to him again, and yet again. Each time felt more compelling than the last. Each time multiplied her aching need for relief. Each time satisfied her less.
She reached down blindly between them, fumbling with the buttons on either side of his breeches. His hand circled her wrist. “Emma?”
She couldn’t bear to stop and think. She trusted him, and that was enough. “Please,” she begged.
His fingers tightened a moment; then he brushed her hand aside and unfastened the front placket. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and lowered herself against him, though not inviting him inside yet. He was thick and hard, a potent contrast to her feminine softness. Giddiness swept over her, a harbinger of panic. What was she doing?
Whatever feels good.
Obeying instinct, she slid herself along the length of his shaft. Lucas groaned. His mouth was hot against her breasts, his breath shuddering in and out, in and out. Yet still he did not wrest control from her. She gave herself up to the sweet friction that tantalized her with the glimpse of paradise. If only she could reach the shattering glory first, perhaps it would ease the agony of his entry. If only …
Grasping her hips, he muttered something she didn’t quite catch … and then his lower body gave a sudden upward thrust, filling her with a pressure so extraordinary she tensed and went still.
He held her close and rubbed his cheek against her hair. “Emma. Sweet Emma. Forgive me—” He exhaled in a strange sort of groaning laugh. “Hell, don’t forgive me. Just let me stay.”
She heard him through a haze of amazement. “We’re joined.”
“Yes.” He took her face in his palms and rained kisses over her. “
And for God’s sake … don’t tell me to stop.”
“Why would I? Oh, Lucas. This feels so …” Words failed her. She felt no pain, no revulsion, only a boundless pleasure that expanded far beyond the physical. She laid her cheek against his sweat-slickened chest and heard the strong beating of his heart. The musky perfume of passion enveloped her. She cherished their unique closeness, the precious delight that pulsed through her as she rocked her hips experimentally, accepting him deeper into herself.
“Oh, my. Oh, my.” It was the most awesome feeling to be one with him. As if she had stepped off a ledge and found herself soaring instead of falling. She kissed his corded throat, taut with the strain of holding himself back. “Lucas … my husband … I’m yours now. Your bride. Your lover.”
“Yes,” he grated. “Yes.”
Never taking his dark gaze from hers, he rolled Emma onto her back, laced his fingers through hers, and pressed their entwined arms onto the pillows. He almost withdrew, then moved slowly into her again, initiating a rhythm somehow recognized by her untutored body. The absence of fear created an infinite capacity for joy, for the splendor of rising with him, faster and higher, their hearts beating as one, their bodies bonded in perfect rapport, their souls ascending to the summit of ecstasy and then floating in the sweet aftermath of release.
Chapter 18
“Pardon me, m’lady,” Stafford said. “There is a visitor to see you.”
Standing in a pool of late morning light that poured through the library windows, Emma looked up from the small elephant-god statue in her hands. She resisted the urge to grin foolishly at the footman. He couldn’t know her mind had been occupied by far more earthly thoughts than Hindu deities. She had been remembering the rapture of the previous night.
All those years of fear and loathing had been cast aside. Today, a languid peace flowed through her body, and yet at the same time she felt revitalized, tingling with the marvels of life. In one tumultuous encounter, she had risen from the darkness of hell into the brilliance of heaven. Even more wondrous, Lucas had clasped her close as if he too could not bear for the night to end. He had said little, and she had been happy to set aside their differences for the moment. Later, they had made love again, and afterward, drowsy and replete, she had fallen asleep in his arms.
Once Upon a Scandal Page 23