by Reid, Stacy
“Why are you in masquerade?”
Impatience bit her. “Aunt Beatrice, why are you here?”
“Why will you not answer my question? Which ball did you attend and why was I not informed of this?”
She steeled her spine, ignoring the shaft of pain that arrowed through her legs. “It isn’t important why I’m dressed how I am, or where I’ve been. That is my concern only.” She tried to sound firm but feared the defensive posture of her hands clasping her middle gave her away.
Her Aunt blanched. “I must summon your parents from Bath at once.”
The pounding behind her temple worsened, and she stepped past her Aunt and lowered herself onto the edge of her bed. A soft groan of relief escaped her. She would need a hot bath immediately to sooth the tension insidiously working through her muscles, and then she would need to rest for the remainder of the day.
“Were you in town? Which ball are you coming from?”
Her aunt would harangue Emma until she got an answer that confirmed her worst suspicions. “I was at Lady Waverly’s masquerade ball.” There. She admitted it.
Aunt Beatrice scanned Emma’s body with new knowledge. Her lips pinched, fire spat from her eyes, and fury tautened her frame. “How could you so wantonly ruin your prospects with Lord Coventry? Why would you go there, of all places?”
Emma rubbed her temple. “You still have not informed me why you are in my chambers.”
Aunt Beatrice advanced, her strides militant. “Did anyone recognize, you? Dear God, was your limp evident? I demand to know why you were at such a sordid affair and with whom?”
The scathing question had Emma’s stomach churning. Pain seared her heart, and long held insecurities tried to swamp her.
The night had been perfect for her, and anger surged that she’d allowed her aunt to rouse her fears so easily, and with such few words. Emma did not need this. Nothing was going according to plan. Her one night was supposed to be her treasured secret. “I will not discuss this with you, Aunt Beatrice. Not now. In fact, not ever. I am five and twenty, and what I do in my private life is just that. Private.”
“My goodness, how can you be so uncontrite? Lord Coventry —”
“Please stop, Aunt Beatrice.” Emma tugged the wig from her hair, unpinned her hair, and raked her hand through her tumbled mess of hair, painfully conscious of the tender burn between her legs. The mask on her face was also starting to itch. “I am exhausted, and I need a bath if you would excuse me.”
She ignored the scandalized look her Aunt sent her way.
“Please see yourself out of my chambers.”
“I will not leave until I receive an explanation from you, young lady,” Aunt Beatrice charged.
Her heart clamored, but she forced the words past her lips. “I owe you no explanation of my actions.”
“Your life is not your own. How dare you think so?”
Rage, hot and wicked, flared inside of Emma. She had never heard her put it so bluntly. Her life was not her own? “It isn’t, is it?” She briefly closed her eyes. “I doubt you will be able to understand this, Aunt Beatrice, but I implore you to try. It was, for this reason, I went to Lady Waverly’s ball. I wanted something for me. I have done everything you, Anthony, mamma, and papa have encouraged me to do, from ever since I can remember. So, allow me this one night without making a hash out of it, please. There was no ruin or scandal or anything terrible that will be revealed.”
She stood and brushed past her aunt, who stood frozen in some sort of stunned silence and rang the bell pull for a maid to attend her. Emma hurt so damn much.
Her aunt quietly departed, and Emma closed her eyes tightly for a few seconds fighting back the tears. She was glad Aunt Beatrice had not decided to stay and fight. Her eyes had been huge pools of shock and betrayal. But Emma could not help that. She’d not expected anyone to discover her wild night. Now Anthony and her aunt knew, and Emma did not delude herself for one moment that her father and mother would not soon be the recipient of her aunt’s lurid imagination. They would travel from Bath with all haste, and try to stifle her with their love and fears.
Emma would never apologize for an experience that was so intensely personal and wonderful. She had her one night. No more dancing too close to the fire. But her mother wouldn’t be able to understand that.
A maid bustled in, and Emma ordered a bath to be delivered to her chamber. She slowly undressed, peeling the stockings from her legs, observing how red and chafed her skin appeared. There were deep scars that ran from her shin, up to her thighs, hideous gouges in her flesh. Her bone had been broken and re-cast three times in those early months, and the fight to stave off infection had been brutal. She hated recalling to her mind the feel of the wind on her face as the curricle had raced across the lanes, Anthony’s frantic pull on the reins of the horses, and her brother’s hoarse cry of fear as they’d tumbled over. Closing her eyes against the memories, she reclined on the bed as the servants bustled in with pails of hot water, filling the copper tub behind the screen.
“Miss Emma, the bath is ready for you.”
With a soft sigh, she pushed from the bed, and removed the last of her clothes with the maid’s assistance, noting the maid’s careful manner in not looking at her mangled legs. Emma stepped into the bath, and slowly sat in the large tub, the water sloshing gently over the side. The hot lavender scented water washed over her, relaxing her muscles. She lathered her face with her special blend of soap and gently scrubbed the paint away.
Elliot had been so wonderful. So, everything. He’d been the perfect mixture of domination and tenderness. Hours later she still retained the sensation of him making love with her, still could feel the hard imprint of his body against her back, the phantom caress of his manhood shuttling in and out of her. It had been erotic just to watch the pleasure she’d given him. And he had not known it was her. The sob was dredged from the pit of her soul, and the tears came freely. She knew it was best he did not know it was her, but it hurt terribly.
She’d wanted him forever. Emma had never really understood the nature of romantic attachments until she started dreaming of him being her first in everything. He had been there for her for years. Comforting her aches, the ones Anthony hadn’t been able to soothe, and featuring in all her girlish fantasies of knights and honorable heroes. He’d been the one to teach her how to make a proper fist, how to swim, and how to fish. All unladylike endeavors and he hadn’t berated her for having the desires. He’d been her first and only kiss. And he’d not recognized anything about me?
Emma stiffened as knowledge teased her subconscious. He’d called me princess. How had she not noticed? Rinsing her hair and body quickly, she stepped from the bath, deep panic winding through her heart. Elliot had referred to her as princess several times. As he had always referred to her. Her guard had been so lowered by the sheer enormity of her ruse she hadn’t noticed.
Emma felt breathless and slightly ill.
Drawing on her robe, uncaring her skin was still wet, she thought at a rapid pace. Perhaps I am overreacting. The duke could possibly call every woman princess. Surely if he had known it was her, he would have turned her away.
Wouldn’t he?
Chapter 9
Emma was gone.
Elliot had felt her slipping from the bed and had ruthlessly prevented himself from halting her. She’d only wanted one night of scandalous passion. He tried to leave it at that. God, he wanted to leave it at that. But he couldn’t. He’d desired her for far too long. He had always dreamed of her, and it had scared the hell out of him. He’d woken from blistering hot dreams, which had changed to sweet and endearing. He didn’t just want her body, he wanted everything. Her smiles, laugher, pain, love. Everything.
Elliot had let her go then. She had been too young, and he had been too damn uncertain, hesitant of denting her surety of not wanting to marry. He was tired of hiding what he felt for her, just plain tired of being alone, tired of being so damned unresolved where sh
e was concerned.
He did not know what precipitated her actions last night, but she’d finally come to him. Emma was a woman that craved a life she did not know how to embrace. A life she would only indulge in behind a mask. And Elliot was going to peel back the layers for her. Strip her bare and reveal the woman of passion and boldness he had met last night.
How she had taken him for the night. With hot sweet hunger. Definitely not a girl anymore, but a woman of daring passions. He’d seen the loneliness in her eyes when she talked about wanting more. He could hardly tolerate the people he mingled with daily for business or even those in the ton, but at least when he went to his country seat, he had deep soul peace. Emma didn’t have that. When the chips had been stacked against her, the walls pressing in on her, she’d turned to him. That meant something, and he wanted to explore that. Elliot was sure her family would welcome his courting of Emma, but he wasn’t sure if she would.
He pushed from the bed and with practice ease, he dressed. For so long he had done without a valet, on most days he was still able to present a respectable picture without aid. Several minutes later, Elliot was riding his horse along the lanes of the countryside heading to his home in Kent. It made no sense to stay for the remainder of the house party, it had lost its allure. Now he needed to plan his campaign of how he would seduce Emma. She might even now be with child. Sweet Mercy. The pleasure that tore through him at the very image of her swollen with child. A rider approached, riding as if the devil were on his heels. Elliot frowned and slowed his mount as he recognized Anthony. What was he doing heading towards the countess’s property? Had something happened to Emma?
Anthony came to a shuddering halt and swept off his steed. Elliot dismounted his gut tightening. “Is it Emma? Is she well?”
“You dishonored my sister.”
He jerked to a stop at the words that barreled from Anthony’s mouth. Elliot stiffened. Anthony’s face was blank, his face carefully neutral, except for his eyes. They blazed with anger and knowledge. Too much anger. And it gutted Elliot to see it. Eight years ago had been the last time Anthony had warned him away, and he was still doing it. Except then he hadn’t been a Duke, but he was still not good enough in his best friend’s eyes. Elliot never thought it would hurt. But the feelings twisting in his gut was more than disappointment. “You don’t know what happened between us, Anthony.”
“Really? Emma looked thoroughly ravished to me,” he snarled, fisting his hands at his side. “You couldn’t have said no? She swished her scantily dressed body in front of you, and you lost your fucking mind?”
Elliot slammed his fist into Anthony’s mouth without hesitation, dropping him on his ass. Anthony was calm as he swiped the small speck of blood from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. The man was like a brother to Elliot, but the raw violence that shimmered in his eyes, which were just like Emma’s, lacked brotherly affections.
Elliot held out his hand, and Anthony clasped his forearm as Elliot helped him to his feet. This was not how Elliot wanted the revelation of his and Emma’s relationship to come to light. Anthony was not a man to be trifled with. But it was more than that. Elliot did not want to hurt him. “Call me all the names you want. I will give you the fight you want, and we can pound the hell out of each here, at my home, or even at Gentleman Jackson. But don’t you ever speak ill of Emma,” he said sounding far calmer than he felt. “I promise I will hurt you if you do, friendship or not.”
“I deserved that,” Anthony admitted, then a cold smile curved his lips. “Let’s go now.”
He shook off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging out of it, and tossing his clothes on the grass, and Elliot cursed mentally.
Elliot smiled, accepting the cold burn of anger that pulsed through him. They hadn’t fought down and dirty in years. It had always been with correct form and perfect execution when they sparred. Elliot chuckled as he heard the cracking of knuckles behind him. It was about to get messy. And there was no way around it. He accepted that. There had always been an unstated code between them, sisters were off limits to ravishment. It would be Anthony’s right to issue a challenge or thrash him within an inch of his life.
Elliot shrugged from his superfine jacket and faced Anthony. The man was muscled, definitely more so than Elliot. But he knew he was faster, more vicious, and dirtier. Not that he wanted to fight to win, but Anthony would fight even harder if he thought Elliot was taking it easy.
He rolled back his shoulders, meeting the icy calm in Anthony’s gaze.
“You should have turned her away,” he said. “I know you recognized her.”
“I did.”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “I demand satisfaction, and you will marry her, or by God, I will call you out.”
Elliot needed to own his intention. The only person he would really worry about rebelling against his claim would be Emma. But he knew with everything in him she was strong enough, and she only needed to recognize it herself. She had an inner core of strength that she hid from the world. He had spied it over the years, and last night she had burned him with that wild, strong, beautiful vixen inside of her. She did not shy from his dominant nature, and he needed a duchess, a wife, a friend, who would never be afraid to defy him, to push back when needed. And that woman was Emma, and only her, she was a dove but also a lioness. Damn if he would hide it anymore. “I’m going to marry her.”
“You should have married her, and then, and only then, take what she must have foolishly offered. For honor and friendship sake, you should have found the willpower.”
Anthony’s fist snapped out, and Elliot’s head slammed back from the force of the blow. Bloody hell. He rolled with it, and when Anthony came under his flank, Elliot was prepared. They dipped and weaved, grappled with each other, and more than once got down hard and rough in the grass. Elliot was not sure how long they fought. But he lost himself in the moment, in the sheer beauty of fighting; trading blows that damn well hurt.
“Are we done?” he snarled to Anthony, gingerly feeling along his ribcage. It would be tender for at least twenty-four hours.
Anthony wiped at the blood that trickled from his nose, eyes narrowed and chest heaving. Elliot saw the knowledge in Anthony’s eyes that they were evenly matched. They had both been taking it easy with each other. Friendship and all. Though Elliot could feel the bonds of that friendship straining and trembling, and he prayed it did not break.
“She will not marry you, despite her being ruined. I would be a poor friend to allow you to hope in vain.” Anthony sounded truly sincere.
“I mean to persuade her,” replied Elliot. And it was an unpleasant thought, offering up his heart once more to a lady who truly did not seem interested in it. He realized that the dart of apprehension which was arrowing through him was decidedly unpleasant. But he would not run from it, the chance to be with her forever would be worth it.
Anthony scrubbed a hand over his face. “To do something this stupid and reckless proves how much she wants you. However, you will not succeed in persuading her heart to marriage. We’ve thrown four suitors at her overs the years, all of good family, with wealth and connections. She’s rejected them all. Now she is of age with her own money, I truly fear she means to travel to America and away from father’s constant pressure to use her to elevate our family further.”
Elliot stumbled toward the large oak tree and leaned against its massive trunk, hating to remember her certainty of one night.
“What will you do?”
Elliot schooled his face and glanced at his friend. He felt gutted, but Anthony didn’t need to see it. “I will approach your father and make an offer.”
Emma belonged to him. And he would prove it. Not to Anthony or her father, but he would prove it to her. “But I will speak with her first.”
“I wish you every success.”
“Does this mean you now approve of me?”
Questions formed in Anthony’s eyes. “I never disapproved of you, E
lliot, you are my best friend. I love you like a brother.”
“Yet you did warn me away from her.”
Anthony flushed. “Emma was an idealistic seventeen -year-old girl. You were different and had not been reared with the same gentility as us. Elliot, you would have terrified her. And then the accident happened…” his words trailed away, guilt and pain darkening his eyes. “It is my pain to bear for the rest of my life that my sister was horrifyingly hurt. I just wanted what was best for her.”
“And I wasn’t a duke then,” he murmured, a peculiar weight in his heart.
“You cannot fault me, us, for wanting better for her. You had no wealth or status to keep her as she deserved.”
“How unpleasant to know my worth as a husband for your sister was only measured by my purse and status and not my character, and not that I would have loved her beyond this life and the next,” he said mildly.
Anthony frowned. “Emma never felt like that.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I asked her to marry me about six months after I became the duke of Hartford. She said a duke deserved better,” he said gruffly. “But then she had been bound to a wheel chair.”
“You never mentioned it,” Anthony said. “Was it her rejections why you’ve hardly visited? You should have approached father. He would have formed a contract.”
“Without her consent.”
“Well yes, but—”
“I did not want her by force.”
“I love you like a brother, and I do not give a damn about your past as you’ve insinuated before, but I care about Emma’s future. I picture for her a doting husband, and children.”
His mouth went dry at the very idea of her growing big with his child. “If that is what Emma wants, I can give it to her.” The ache that filled him was crippling, it was a damn good thing his ass was already on the ground, or he would have fallen. “I’ve desired her for years,” Elliot said without a hint of apology, “and I will crave her for a lifetime more.”