The sun was shining when she had awakened alone to see the swarthy, smiling face of his manservant, Hajib. She blushed to recall his glee at finding the marchioness tangled in the sheets of the master’s bed. Lord Wortham had left in his carriage some time ago, he said, but to a destination his humble valet knew not. And Emma had spent the morning in a state of restless anticipation, wondering when Lucas would return and imagining how he would sweep her into his arms—
“The gentleman’s card, m’lady.” Stafford’s voice startled her. The bewigged footman pointedly held forth a silver tray in his white-gloved hands.
“Thank you,” Emma said, amused at her own woolgathering. This sudden propensity for daydreaming had her behaving like a starry-eyed miss when in fact she felt as if she’d just been initiated into a secret sorority of womanhood.
Setting down the little elephant god, she picked up the card. The name printed on the white pasteboard jolted her like a thunderclap. Dear God, how could she have forgotten—? Composing herself with a deep breath, she said, “Send him in at once, please.”
“Yes, madam.” The footman bowed and left.
With trembling hands, Emma smoothed her peach gown and then hastened to the wall mirror to tidy her hair. She paused, struck by the change in herself. Her skin had a rosy tint from Lucas rubbing his cheek against hers. There was a softness about her that had been absent a day ago. A sweet, heavy ache warmed her womb.
Her hands strayed to her midsection. Perhaps she had already conceived. The thought filled her with dread—and an undeniable yearning. God forgive her, she wanted to bear Lucas’s child. She wanted it with all her heart. She wouldn’t let herself think beyond that.
If only she and Lucas could shut out the rest of the world. If only they could make up for all those lost years. She wanted Lucas, holding her. Lucas, kissing her. Lucas, moving inside her … .
The tread of footsteps sounded in the corridor. Sir Woodrow Hickey came through the doorway and walked toward her, his shoulders held in a stiff military bearing. He was dressed with customary elegance, his cravat perfectly tied, his buff breeches and blue coat tastefully matched, his shoes shined to a glossy sheen.
He bowed over her hand. “Madam.”
“Sir Woodrow.” One breath of his familiar sandalwood scent banished her sense of well-being. “Please accept my apologies,” she said quickly. “I promised to bring Jenny to Hyde Park yesterday morning, but I was unavoidably detained. I hope you didn’t wait long.”
“Three hours, but that is of little consequence,” he said, his lips unnaturally taut.
Guilt wrenched her stomach. Words seemed inadequate, but she said them anyway. “I’m terribly sorry. Truly, I am.”
He walked back and forth in front of her. “My dear Emma, what matters is that I was concerned about you. I was afraid you and Jenny might have been found out and forbidden to contact me.” He lowered his voice and sent her a piercing look. “Forbidden by your husband.”
“Lucas?” She could feel herself blushing as his name evoked thoughts of dark delights. “No. No, he did nothing of the sort.”
“Perhaps you should enlighten me, then.”
Emma swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat. How could she admit why she’d been so preoccupied? She and Lucas and Jenny had spent a wonderful day at Hampstead Heath; they had laughed and played as a family. Then later—much later—Lucas had swept her away on a private journey of joy beyond her wildest dreams.
Sir Woodrow lifted his sandy eyebrows. “Well? Your husband’s disapproval is the only reason I can think of to explain why you never sent me a note. It isn’t like you to be so thoughtless.”
And it wasn’t like Woodrow to express his annoyance so plainly. He was a mild-mannered gentleman who seldom spoke a sharp word. When other men had regarded her as a fallen woman, he had treated her with unfailing kindness and respect.
“I … was gone all day,” she said. “Lucas required Jenny and me to accompany him out of the city.”
Woodrow’s eyes widened. “Jenny, too? What would he want with her?”
“He thought we needed an outing, that’s all. In the rush to depart, I forgot to send word to you.” She bit back another apology. She refused to grovel.
“I see.”
Could he? Could Woodrow perceive the shattering emotions she was only just realizing, that she loved no man but Lucas?
She turned, walking swiftly to one of the leaded windows that overlooked the small garden, golden with autumn leaves. The warmth of the sun could not match the radiance inside her. She had been resisting the truth for days, ever since Olivia had pointed it out. Every time you look at him, your whole face lights up.
The insight threw her long-held plans into chaos. She knew with searing certainty that she wanted to stay with Lucas, to win back his love. No longer did she desire a divorce—and marriage to Woodrow. And therein lay her dilemma. She dreaded the thought of hurting the man who had stood so loyally by her through scarcity and scandal.
Woodrow’s gloved hand came to rest on her shoulder. “My dear, don’t take my chastisement to heart. It is only that I care very much for you and Jenny.”
“It isn’t that,” she whispered. “I deserved your reprimand.”
“Then tell me what has put the frown on your pretty face. If Wortham has been mistreating you—”
“No!” She whirled to face him. His sober gray eyes shone with loving concern. Why had she never desired Woodrow? Why did he not rouse the fire of yearning in her?
Considering the upheaval in her emotions, she couldn’t—she mustn’t—let him go on hoping. “I don’t quite know how to say this. I’m not sure anymore that you should wait for me. What I mean is, I cannot hold you bound to a promise of marriage. Heaven knows when—or if—my husband will ever agree to a divorce.”
Sir Woodrow stood stock-still. His ruddy cheeks turned ashen. “You’re casting me off? After all our years of friendship?”
“We can remain friends,” Emma hastened to assure him. “I treasure your company and so does Jenny. Our relationship need not change so very much.”
“Not change,” he repeated woodenly. “This changes everything. Everything!” Abruptly he grasped her hands, his expression almost panicked. “Emma, please reconsider. You cannot throw away our seven fine years together for a man with whom you’ve lived for less than a fortnight. He could discard you both at any moment, and you’d have no one. Jenny has come to think of me as a father. I am more than happy to wait for you, however long it takes. If my hasty words have given you cause to think otherwise …”
She shook her head with aching regret. “Dear Woodrow. There are so many other ladies who could give you the love and honor you deserve.”
“Pray, do not diminish my heart by implying it is so shallow. You are the lady of my choice. You and no other.”
The anguish in his eyes touched her deeply. Was it possible he loved her desperately and she had never known? “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t mean to hurt you. I only wish to honor my vows to Lucas. Our marriage has never had the chance to thrive. But now … perhaps …” His nostrils flared. His eyes became cold storm clouds. “So. Wortham has finally enticed you to his bed.”
She gazed mutely at Woodrow, unable to deny it and unwilling to speak of something so precious and intimate.
“Be forewarned,” he said, clutching at her hands when she would have pulled free, “men like him make promises in the dark they never intend to keep. He wants only a son from you. Then he will cast you and Jenny out on the street.”
Was it true? Could Lucas be so heartless? He could, for that was the bargain they had struck. He had left her this morning without a word of farewell. And he had made her no promises last night. It was she who had changed, she who had discovered a dazzling new world that roused a high hope for the future. And now, Woodrow’s warning wormed into her heart. Had Lucas experienced the same soul-deep connection? Or had their lovemaking been a mere physical interlude for hi
m, a passing pleasure?
The door slammed. “Take your hands off my wife.”
Lucas stalked toward them. He looked heartbreakingly handsome in the stark refinement of a charcoal suit and casually tied neckcloth. A lock of windblown hair lay upon his brow, the only softness about his thunderous expression. In the crook of his arm, he carried the tiger mask. Its stripes of brown jasper and yellow diamonds glinted in the sunlight.
Woodrow released Emma’s hands and stepped back. “Wortham.”
“Hickey. I trust you were saying good-bye.” Lucas strolled to Emma and kissed her on the cheek. “Sleep well, darling?”
Emma nodded as her heart swelled with gladness. Colors suddenly seemed brighter, sounds more resonant, smells richer. Then doubts struck. Did he truly mean the display of husbandly affection? Or was he merely staking his claim for the sake of her visitor?
Woodrow made no move to depart. The two men regarded each other like a pair of snarling dogs.
Irked by her inability to read her husband’s heart, Emma stepped between them. “Lucas, how charmingly you welcome our guest.” Before he could do more than raise an eyebrow, she spun toward the other man. “Sir Woodrow, would you care for some refreshment? I’ll be happy to ring for tea.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we spoke another time.” He bowed jerkily to her. “If it wouldn’t be too much to ask, madam, may I stop and visit Jenny on my way out?”
“Yes—”
“No,” Lucas stated pleasantly. He placed the tiger mask on the desk, then settled himself on the mahogany edge, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. “Lady Jenny is in the company of my mother—her grandmother, in the eyes of the world. So shut the door on the way out, if it isn’t too much to ask.”
Sir Woodrow clenched his jaw and glowered.
“Another time,” Emma murmured to him.
He cast a guarded look at her, then nodded crisply and left the library.
The moment the door clicked shut, Emma wheeled on Lucas. “Must you be so rude?” she chided. “He has every right to visit my daughter.”
“And I have every right to monitor the company my wife keeps.”
“When pigs fly, darling.”
“You seem a trifle peevish this morning.” A small smile flirted with the comers of his mouth. Cocking his head to the side, he lazily looked her up and down. “M’lady must not have gotten sufficient sleep last night, after all.”
She blushed. The scorching heat rushed up her throat and into her cheeks. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Really, it was ridiculous to let him disconcert her. She, who had once ruled society with her wit and beauty.
“I’m perfectly rested, thank you.” With studied sophistication, she walked around the desk, intending to pick up pen and paper, anything to give her fingers something to do. The tiger’s head caught her attention. “By the way, where did you go with the mask—oh!”
She found herself caught by Lucas, his hands firm around her waist and her bosom crushed to his waistcoat. Nestled between his legs, she could feel a distinct swelling in his breeches. Her own legs had all the substance of jelly, and Emma was certain if he weren’t holding her, she would melt in an inglorious puddle of longing.
“I had a meeting this morning at Montague House,” he said in a husky tone. “There’s to be a new wing constructed to display the objects I’ve collected.” His finger lightly followed the line of her jaw. “Funded by Lord Wortham … and his lady.”
“By me?” To her chagrin, her voice sounded breathy and girlish. “I haven’t the means to build a doghouse.”
“Then let’s pretend that whatever is mine is also yours.” His hands cupped her bottom and snuggled her closer to him. “To do with whatever you like.”
There was no mistaking the twinkle in those dark eyes. Or the keen ache where their bodies touched. Deliberately misunderstanding him, she walked her fingers up the front of his starched linen shirt. “And if I were to ask you for a thousand pounds?”
“You won’t.”
“Hah. How can you be so sure?”
“Because”—he leaned closer—“at the moment”—his hot breath gusted against her ear—“you’re not thinking about money.”
Something light and damp traced the whorls of her ear. A shivery warmth waltzed downward, dancing to the drumbeat in her belly. She closed her eyes and savored the sweetness of passion. She and Lucas were perfect partners. Her body responded to his, only his. Surely it was only a matter of time before he realized that, too.
He kissed a path over her cheek and his mouth met hers, softly at first, then with deepening arousal. She opened herself to him, giving back as much as she received, letting instinct be her guide as Lucas had taught her.
She felt herself melting, melting in his arms until her back met a hard bed and she realized he had lowered her to the desk. He tugged at her skirt. “Lift up,” he said hoarsely.
“Here?”
“Now.”
“The door—”
“Is closed. The servants have strict orders not to disturb us.”
“You told them—?” The half-formed thought slipped away as he worked the skirt to her waist and then caressed her masterfully, first with his hand and then with his mouth. Emma groaned in shocked denial as his tongue sought her most sensitive secrets. Then the searing pleasure of it overcame her scruples, and she gave herself up to the alluring sensations. Within moments he lifted himself over her and made them one, taking her on a swift ascent to the sun and the radiance of release.
As the sounds of their pleasure subsided, Emma basked in an incomparable awe. “I didn’t know it could happen so … fast.”
“Tallyho,” he said.
She laughed—she couldn’t help it—even though shyness swept over her. The desk pressed against her back, and sunlight spilled its golden glory onto them. Above her, Lucas braced himself on his arms, taking most of his weight and making her more aware of the one place they were joined. His eyes were a deep, dense brown, shaded by thick dark lashes. Though he wasn’t smiling, she could see the indentations in his cheeks. From the depths of her heart surged a rushing river of love, a tender tide of hope. She swallowed against the thickening in her throat. “We’d better get up,” she whispered.
“Perhaps so.” The dimples deepened with the curving of his mouth. “But I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be right now.”
Did he care for her, just a little? Or was his lovemaking only a means to an end? “I expect you say that to all your women.”
His smile waned. “I’ve had only two women in my life, Emma.”
Two women. Herself. And his foreign mistress. A strange, sharp emotion cut into Emma’s breast. Until now he had been faithful to his concubine, as faithful as a husband. How many years had they taken their pleasure together? How many times had he visited her here in London?
Strangled by resentment, she turned her head to the side. And found herself staring into the glowing, emerald-rimmed eyes of a tiger. “Oh!”
“It seems alive, doesn’t it?” Lucas murmured. “It’s reputed to have magical powers.”
An eerie energy emanated from the mask, as if it were possessed of a seductive sorcery. Resisting a shiver, Emma looked curiously at Lucas, aware of how many things she didn’t know about him, how many things she wanted to learn. “Are you superstitious, then? You’d trust an object to bring you good luck?”
“Luck? No.” He smiled wolfishly. “The tiger is a fertility god. I have it on the best authority. The mask bestows great potency on its owner.”
His cocky conceit took a moment to register. Then the source of it hit her with an unwelcome jolt. Fertility.
Her hands thrust hard against his chest. “Get away from me. You and your plaguey mask.” Sitting up, she grabbed the heavy tiger’s head, preparing to hurl it at him.
“Have a care,” he said, taking it from her and placing it back down. “It’s a priceless objet d’art.”
“And y
ou brought it into the library on purpose.” She stabbed her finger at him. “You planned this little tête-à-tête.”
He elevated an eyebrow. “I’d have to believe in magic, then.”
“Are you saying you don’t?”
“Are you saying you do?”
“No!” She didn’t quite understand why she felt so distraught. “I’m merely pointing out that you deliberately put your fertility charm beside us. To help you conceive a child.”
He made an exaggerated grimace. “You wound me. Surely my own virility suffices to the task.”
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She almost asked him what he did dream of, but caught herself in time. He regarded her with insufferable interest as she struggled to adjust the gown twisted around her waist. He produced a folded handkerchief and made a move toward her.
She snatched it from him. “I can manage.”
Presenting her back to Lucas, she tidied herself with shaking fingers, though the silk skirt was hopelessly wrinkled. The knot in her throat returned with a vengeance. She was scandalized at how easily she’d lost control. Anyone might have walked in—a servant … the dowager … Jenny.
Out of the periphery of her vision, Emma saw Lucas straighten his own clothing. How could he be so casual about making love to her on a desk in the middle of the day? Because for him, the experience was only a pleasurable means to an end. He wanted to get his heir and then divorce her. And return to his precious mistress.
With the suddenness of a thunderclap, Emma realized she was foolish enough to hope for more. Foolish enough to dream of love. Foolish enough to want to stay with him forever.
His hand brushed over her back. “Emma. Don’t be angry.”
His voice held a trace of tenderness, and she immediately took offense. “I’ll be angry if I like,” she said, spinning around to face him. She slapped the handkerchief into the palm of his hand. “You cannot dictate my feelings.”
Once Upon a Scandal Page 24