He hesitated. Emma’s curiosity flickered.
“You know I would be more than happy to do anything I could for you,” she said quietly.
Was this it? The moment their relationship, for want of a better word, became formalized?
Braedon’s eyes caught hers, and Emma’s breath froze in her throat. He really was a very handsome man. Somehow, in all her desperation, she had forgotten.
“I…I am going away for a few days, back to my manor in the country,” Braedon said hesitantly. “I thought…I wondered if you would like to accompany me.”
He did not say the actual words. No man ever did. Emma had not encountered a gentleman who truly ever asked for what he wanted. No, it was always couched in clever words or puns that neglected to force them to spell it out.
He wanted her. He wanted to make love to her, and she could see that in his eyes.
For a weekend, she would be his. His mistress, at least for a short time. As Emma took in a slow breath to calm her nerves, she knew what this was. A liaison, perhaps a trial run.
It was exactly what she had been hoping for, and yet a part of her was disappointed. Until now, all their interactions had been innocent. Well, not innocent. And that kiss. Those kisses––her lips seared at the mere memory of them.
Yet, it had never gone too far. The desire they felt for each other had never tipped over into something indecorous.
This weekend, it would.
“I see.”
Emma blinked. Braedon’s gaze had dropped, and there was disappointment on his face.
“Please do not worry––I did not intend to put you on the spot––you undoubtedly have plans that you do not wish to…”
“Braedon, wait!”
“––please feel under no obligation to––”
“Fitz!”
Braedon stopped speaking. Emma could feel her cheeks pink. She had guessed at a nickname, thinking it would stop him from blabbering on.
“Fitz, if I may call you that,” Emma said quietly, her hand still in his. “I would greatly like to spend time out of town, and you have provided an excellent excuse. I accept. I would be happy to accompany you.”
Braedon’s smile was so natural, Emma could not help but match it. They crossed the road in silence, and only when they reached the other pavement did Braedon speak in a whisper.
“Are…are you sure?”
Emma examined him. Her future protector. She could do much worse.
“I am,” she said firmly. “And as these are my rooms, you now know where to meet me tomorrow morning. At any time.”
Braedon looked up at the building. It was not the best situated, Emma knew, but it was not awful. It could be much worse.
“Y-Yes, excellent. Until tomorrow, then!”
He tried to take a step away, but Emma refused to release his hand, and he was forced to stop.
“Fitz,” said Emma, loving the way the name sounded. “Would you help me inside?”
After all he had done for her today, he was due a little more than a kiss. Perhaps he would wish to––
“Oh, I think you know the way!” he said dismissively.
It was difficult not to laugh. Her dear, sweet Braedon. Such an innocent.
“Come here.”
She wanted him now. There was something so delicious about Braedon, she wanted another taste. It took but a few seconds to open the door, pull Braedon in with her, slam the door behind them, and push him up against the wall.
“I want you,” she murmured in his ear as his hands quickly moved to her waist, pulling her closer.
“Emma…”
It was more a growl than a moan, and Emma lost herself in the kiss. Braedon made her feel––he made her feel. She had not felt for such a long time, and here, now, with one of his hands in her hair and the other tightly around her waist, Emma knew she was safe, cared for, desired.
“Christ, Emma,” Braedon said as the kiss––finally––ended, her lips tingling with the loss of his pressure. “I see what you mean. Tomorrow morning?”
“Early,” said Emma, trying to catch her breath. “I want to get to––to wherever we are going––as soon as we can.”
Braedon grinned, kissed her neck, and was gone.
Emma leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath. What a gentleman. Yet, no gentleman she knew kissed like that.
If she was not careful, she was going to start having feelings for this man.
Chapter Eight
The early morning sun had barely risen, and Braedon had been awake for hours.
He could barely remember being asleep.
A street sweeper walked past him, tipping his cap. Braedon did not notice him. All he could do was focus on the door before him.
Emma’s door.
This was it. Standing here in the morning sun, he knew once he knocked on this door, there was no going back. He would have chosen a paramour, a mistress, and she accepted.
He could not have been more clear, could he?
“I want you…”
Braedon shook his head as though ridding his ears of water. No, he had been plain, and she had understood. Emma had known what he was suggesting. She had accepted.
“I see what you mean. Tomorrow morning?”
Braedon was not entirely sure how he had managed to maneuver himself into this situation. He was the gentleman more likely to make a bad joke than manage to convince a woman to kiss him.
When he had awoken that morning after a fitful night, he had stumbled down to the hallway to find Fisher overseeing the final packing.
“Good morning, your lordship,” the butler had said smoothly.
And Braedon had nodded, half-dazed, and inquired delicately whether they were to make any stops on the way to Tidgley Manor.
After blinking rapidly for a moment, Fisher had said with his nose in the air that he had been instructed by his lordship last night.
Braedon had waited for more. “And?”
“And we are stopping at the Golden Cross coaching inn to ensure we can rest the horses on our return visit, at the bootmakers to pay a bill, and,” and here the older man had hesitated, and then forced himself to continue, “to pick up a Miss Tilbury from a North Building on Gracechurch Street. As per your instructions. Last night.”
The last two words were spoken slowly as though to a child, and Braedon had nodded.
So it had not been a dream, then.
Ignoring his butler’s disapproving looks, Braedon spent every moment until the carriage was ready to leave reminding himself he had managed to secure Emma Tilbury at his country estate for the weekend.
It could surely not be the first invitation of its sort that she had received. She knew what it meant, didn’t she?
Clearing his throat loudly as though about to give a speech, Braedon took charge of his own destiny––and knocked on the door.
It opened almost immediately, and the most beautiful sight befell his eyes.
Emma. She must have been waiting on the other side of the door all this time, eager for his arrival––and what a reward she was.
She was wearing the most magnificent traveling cloak, lined with fur and embroidered with gold thread. Her bonnet was large and trimmed in matching embroidery. Her gloves were the same blue satin, and there was a broad smile on her face.
“I thought you would never get here,” she said breathlessly.
Braedon beamed. She was his for the next three days.
How was it possible that whenever he was with Emma, despite her radiant beauty and evident ease in all sorts of company––the exact person who typically intimidated Braedon into silence––he felt absolutely free?
Foolish, of course. Utterly out of control, unsure what was going to happen from one moment to the next. But free.
“Your carriage awaits,” he said. “No, let me!”
He had reached to retrieve her trunk, their fingers brushing past each other. The intensity of the touch, albeit small, was like a
brand upon his hand.
“’Tis light––very light, if you do not mind me saying so, Miss Tilbury.”
Emma smiled as she stepped out of the building. “Emma, please. I would not wish you to spend the entire weekend using that sort of formality, Fitz.”
A spark of searing heat moved from the burning on his hand and soared through his body. Braedon could hardly believe it––first name terms with the woman he had been besotted with for years?
“Besides,” she continued with a laugh and mischievous smile. “’Tis light because I have not packed very much. How many gowns does a lady need for a weekend?”
Without waiting for a reply, she stepped elegantly down to the street.
Braedon swallowed. How many gowns does a lady need for a weekend? He was not entirely sure, but it was certainly more than this small case could hold.
Damnit man, get a grip on yourself! He could not spend the entire carriage journey thinking of Miss Tilbury––Emma––without any gown at all, it simply was not right.
Not yet.
Hastening to catch up with her, Braedon managed to open the carriage door and offer his hand for Emma to hold as she climbed inside. Any excuse to touch her was one to be claimed, if possible.
Carefully placing her trunk underneath the seat, Braedon nodded to his driver and clambered into the carriage on the other side. The street was no longer empty. A few people were starting to fill the pavement, and a gentleman trotted by on a horse, he, too, leaving the city for the weekend.
“Are we ready then?”
Braedon started. Emma was smiling with a questioning look in her eyes.
“Y-Yes,” he stammered, tapping on the roof.
The carriage jerked and started to move at a steady pace.
Braedon could not look away. The curve of her neck, the distracted smile she gave the world. What was she thinking? Was she nervous about this weekend, as he was? Or was she hoping it was already over, merely accepting to soothe him?
Emma looked away from the window. “How long will it take us to arrive at…”
“Tidgley Manor,” supplied Braedon. “Well, with a good wind and happy horses? A few hours, nothing more.”
A few hours in a carriage with Emma Tilbury. Alone.
With anyone else, he would have wondered how to pass the time. He would worry about being bored, taken a book, or even feigned sleep to avoid dull conversation.
Not with Emma. That simply wasn’t possible. Braedon could not recall a moment when he had not been entertained in her presence.
What their conversation would entail, he was not sure. A part of him––and with each passing moment, that part grew––wanted to ignore conversation completely, just pull her into his arms, and kiss her senseless.
Braedon cleared his throat as he crossed his legs. He would be no gentleman if he could not restrain himself. His mind was still full of the concern he had not been clear enough in his intentions, but he did not wish to be the first to suggest a sordid agreement.
This was not something one was taught as a young boy, or at Eton, nor Cambridge. How could one politely ask whether a woman was happy to make love to him this weekend?
“You must think me strange.”
Braedon blinked. “Strange?”
Emma was examining him with a wry smile. “Accepting your invitation. Disappearing out of London with you for the weekend, when we have only known each other a few weeks.”
Braedon smiled. “You may have only been aware of my existence for the last few weeks, but it…it has been many years since I started admiring you.”
The words had slipped from his mouth before he could consider them, but instead of looking concerned, Emma looked surprised. “Many years?”
“Oh, yes, ever since my acquaintance with…ever since I entered society properly,” amended Braedon hastily. That was too damned close to Marnmouth… “I saw you at many society outings, dances, dinners. I thought you pretty then.”
Emma’s eyebrow raised. “And now?”
“Now?” Braedon did not have the sufficient words. “Beautiful.”
His reply had not been impressive, but Emma blushed nonetheless. “You flatter me, Fitz.”
“Of course, and I shall endeavor to do so all weekend,” he said with as much bravado as he could muster.
“A weekend I am very much looking forward to,” said Emma as the carriage finally left London. “Tidgley Manor is in the countryside? In the middle of nowhere?”
Braedon nodded. It had been his home from birth, and he was fond of it. “’Tis just a small house, seven bedrooms, stable yard, a bit of parkland.”
“Ah. Nothing to my own manor, then.”
The carriage turned a corner rather hastily at that moment, which gave Braedon the excuse of looking away as he reached out a hand to balance himself. Her own manor? This made no sense––why quibble over a few shillings on a bill to a haberdasher if…
Then he realized Emma was laughing. She was joking, of course––how had he not seen that?
“I am a little slow this morning,” he said weakly.
Emma was shaking her head. “No, ’tis my fault. My sense of humor is rather dry, and I have been critiqued for it before. I am very much looking forward to seeing Tidgley Manor. In truth, it has been a long time since I was in the countryside, out of London. Not since…”
Her voice trailed away, and her gaze slipped to look out of the window.
Braedon leaned forward. He wanted to know everything about her, know her entire life. How could one not, when so captivated? What had made Emma the impressive woman that sat before him?
“Not since Marnmouth?” he prompted, heart a little in his mouth.
Emma glanced at him but saw no malice. “Yes.”
The word was short––not curt, but inviting no further conversation on the topic. Her gaze returned to the window.
Braedon leaned back, trying to untangle his complicated thoughts about Marnmouth, Emma, and himself. It was damned rude of him, putting her on the spot like that––and in his carriage to boot, where she could neither escape nor retire. And yet…
“You do not have to talk about it––about him––if you do not wish to,” he said quietly.
Emma nodded, still not looking at him. “Strange. I think you’re the only person I could talk to about it. You know him, you know me, and we are about to…to share a weekend together. Perhaps it would be better if you did know.”
The way she spoke…it was as though the words were reaching him from a long way off. As though she was not simply looking out at the fields and hedgerows, but instead at the past when she had been happy.
Braedon could feel the tension in the carriage but had no way to dissipate it.
Emma took a deep breath with a sad smile on her face. It was clear she was about to share something precious—the tale of her life. What was he about to hear?
“How much do you really know about me, Fitz?”
Braedon shrugged as the carriage rattled along. “In truth, not much at all. I know that you were…you had an agreement, an arrangement with Marnmouth for several years. I know that ended two years ago, and that is all. Besides your obvious charms and beauty, of course.”
He risked a smile and was rewarded with one in return.
“So, in summary, you are aware of the highlights of my life––and I call them highlights advisedly,” Emma said quietly, “for they were the best parts of my life.”
A prickle of jealousy twinged at Braedon’s heart. It was a little irritating, in truth, to hear Marnmouth described as the best part of her life. He had treated her abominably in the last two years, and the ending of their relationship was particularly sordid––the gossip pages had been full of it!
Only then did realization hit. Did that mean…she could not possibly mean that her life before Marnmouth had been worse?
Regret seeped into his soul. Here she was, attempting to share her story, and all he could do was judge!
“P
lease, do go on,” he said gently. “I want to hear all of it.”
Emma smiled weakly. “Well, there is not much to tell. I was an orphan from a young age. My mother died giving birth, and there were…questions, shall we say, about who my father was.”
It was not that surprising. There were plenty of people in society, some of them even with titles, who had slightly murky backgrounds.
“You are not alone in that regard,” said Braedon with a wry smile. “I think there are some tales I could tell you about a few dukes in our acquaintance that would shock you.”
Emma laughed. “One day, I would like you to tell me. At least they did not find themselves forced to do what I did at seventeen. What I had known I would need to do for a few years and had put off until I had no other options.”
Braedon’s brow furrowed. What on earth could she be talking about?
“I…I sold myself,” said Emma. Her voice was low, but she did not break their gaze. “After the first time, it was easy to ignore my conscience.”
Braedon swallowed down his shock and sadness. His outrage was not what Emma needed right now. She wanted to tell him the tale, and so tell it she must.
“It was within a few weeks that I found myself in the clutches of an unprincipled madam, and I use her title advisedly,” said Emma quietly. “Within a year, I was considered her best girl.”
“And you did not wish to leave?”
Braedon cursed his tongue. Why had he spoken?
Emma shook her head. “Fitz, I do not think you understand, and I am glad for you that you do not, just how desperate one must become to reach that sort of low. In those places, there is no right nor wrong. There is only who is most powerful and their will.”
“You––you mean you were not permitted to leave?”
“I was forced to make love to any gentleman who had a little coin in his pocket.”
The way she spoke, so blandly, so coldly, as though these terrible events had happened to another woman.
Braedon’s heart was breaking, and he had no idea what to do. What should he do with his hands? His face? How could he tell her how desperately sad her story was––that he hated this had happened and raged against the world that let it happen?
Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11) Page 8