by Stacy Reid
With firm but gentle hands, he turned her, so she lay on her stomach. She was acutely aware of his gaze on the hollow of her spine, the curve of her buttocks.
He came over her like a warm, sensual blanket, coasting his hand over her buttocks and down to her sex. His finger probed, he grunted his approval, and she blushed.
She was already shamelessly wet for him.
He slid his hands around her hips to her derriere, then lifted her up onto her knees. Soft but firm kisses were pressed on her shoulders and down the curve of her spine.
Her body was wet, soft, and yielding, accepting the hard length that surged deep inside, but even so, her muscles quivered to accommodate his thickness. She needed to breathe, to scream out in pleasure, but she could only whimper into the sheets at the soul searing bliss. How long he made love to her, she couldn’t possibly have known. He never stopped moving, never stopped touching her. It seemed like forever. If only she wasn’t damaged, this could indeed be forever.
What felt like hours later, Emma lay onto her side, the sheets covering her body, feeling exhausted but wonderful. Sounds of Elliot’s feet padding away reached her ear, then the sounds of servants filling the bath from behind the screen. Seconds later, the bed dipped, and strong arms curved under her back and knees, lifting her. It felt wholly natural to rest her head against his chest and snuggled into him.
“Are you well?” His voice was soft, concerned. “I fear I may have been too enthusiastic.”
And now she was delightfully tender, and she blushed at the awareness. “Are you well?”
She felt his smile against her hair.
“You were better than anything I could have imagined.”
Tears burned beneath her lids, and she wanted to scream. She had hungered for years to hear such words from him, and now he said them not knowing it was her. He entered the bathroom and lowered her gently to her feet. She blushed as he took a warm wash cloth and cleaned between her tender folds and around to her bottom. With such care, she felt no discomfort, only a sense of awe.
Was he this way with all his lovers?
She pushed the thought of him pleasing other women from her mind. Tonight, was for her, she would not let her insecurities intrude. He placed the washcloth on the basin’s surface and drew her to him. He cupped her cheeks and teased at the eye mask. Questions formed in his golden gaze, ones she was afraid to hear. “I will not remove it,” she said softly before he could ask.
His eyes dipped to her stockings and garter.
“Nor them,” she said softly.
“They will get wet.”
“It does not signify.” She could not bear for him to see the scars on her legs. Not only would he know her identity right away, he had never seen that ugly mess of tissue before. What if he were to react with disgust? Or pity? Either would rip through her heart.
A cynical smile shaped his lips, and she fought the urge to rip the mask off her face and scrub the paint away. Pulling from their embrace, he tested the water, then stepped in. He held out his hand to her, and Emma did not hesitate. They sank into the depth of the tub, and she moaned in delight as the hot water seeped into her muscles, soothing places she had not realized were sore.
“Thought you would like it.” He pressed a kiss to her nape.
She relaxed fully into his sculpted chest, thankful he was not broaching the topic of her need for anonymity. “Tonight has been incredible, I will treasure the memory.”
He buried his face in her hair, and her heart jolted.
“You speak as if the night is over. Is it your habit to forget promises?”
I’ll keep my cock buried in you all night long, and I will not hold back with you.
Not over as she’d thought.
Just the beginning.
Emma awoke silently. The heat of the body curved behind her made her realize the graphic images blaring through her mind had not been a dream. She had made love with Elliot, over and over before sliding into an exhausted slumber. She listened to the rise and fall of his chest and determined by his steady breathing that he slept. She twisted gently to face him, bracing herself for the impact. It rose in a sweet, gentle swell, sensations she hardly knew what to do with. She smiled, unsure of what she expected. He seemed so fierce and raw when awake…now he looked at peace. Her smile grew wider. She had given him that. Peace, and without a doubt, mind blowing pleasure. Heat crawled up her face as she remembered the praises he had whispered to her, hot explicit praises and promises as he took her for the night.
This is goodbye, Elliot. A few weeks from now she would be on a ship to America.
Raw, visceral emotions tore through her, grief scalded the back of her throat, and her senses reeled. She burned to wake him and kiss him, just once more, though she suspected no matter what she experienced with Elliot, it would never be enough. She gingerly eased from the bed, wincing at how her body ached. Emma gathered her clothes and went behind the dressing frame. Her legs ached, and she desperately wanted a warm compress. She took a steadying breath and dressed without the aid of a maid. Perhaps she could ring for assistance, but that would certainly wake Elliot.
From time to time she paused to peek around the frame to ensure his breathing remained steady. She wondered what to do. Did she leave him a note thanking him for the incredible night? What would he do when he woke and found her gone? Would he wonder who she was and want to see her again? Emma shook the fancy away. Not once for the long night had he mentioned anything that suggested he would want to know more about her. Clearly, he was used to liaisons such as these, and it was foolish for her throat to burn so. But she could not help feeling a little deflated that he had not known it was her. That he had been so wild, raw, and intimate with a stranger.
She slipped out of the bedroom and down the empty hallway silently. She had left explicit instructions for the carriage to be ready by five this morning. Thankfully she hadn’t overslept. The sound of light revelry reached her ears, and she paused. The ball was not yet over. Moving gingerly, she started to descend the stairs, ensuring she used the railings for assistance. She swiped at her tears. She was terribly foolish for crying. But it felt like her soul hurt. Being with Elliot was probably a bloody mistake. She grimaced. It felt good to curse. It was breaking her heart to walk away. It physically hurt. To know that she could only have this one night. It would have been better if she’d never known what it could be like in his arms.
A dark shadow climbed the stairs, and it was as the person faltered, she glanced up. Emma froze. Anthony. Oh, God.
Perhaps he would not recognize her in her wig and dress. But perhaps she should not risk passing him so closely. She turned around and started to make her way back up the stairs. Where she would go, she had no notion, for the chamber with the sleeping duke was not an option. Her brother was clearly a guest and would have a chamber. She would wait until he entered his assigned room and then turn back. Perhaps she moved too fast, for her leg knotted, and she slapped her hand over her mouth to muffle the cry of pain. She bent, and knead the muscles of her calf, deeply, working out that tight knot of anguish. The pain eased, and she breathed a soft sigh. Profound relief swept through her that it hadn’t turned into an episode.
“Emma?”
His shocked tone arrested her retreat. Dear God, how had he recognized me?
She straightened and slowly turned.
“What are you doing here?”
She could think of no possible reply. Her brother wiped his hand over his face slowly, shook his head, and stared at her unblinking. Dark blue eyes so like hers shifted up to the hallway behind her, and his gaze remained there for long, silent moments. Why was he at Lady Waverly’s country manor. She and Maryann had asked him on separate occasions, and he had said he would be in town. Her heart pounded as she watched Anthony’s face while he processed the fact that his sister had obviously just come from one of those chambers, and it did not require a genius to deduce which one. This man was her older brother, one of her onl
y safe anchors in her world, and she hated the pain that chased across his features. Even if it was unwarranted.
“Anthony, I—”
He slashed his hands, and her words tapered off. His gaze swung back to her, no doubt taking in her tear-stained face, her mussed hair, her swollen lips, the love bites trailing from the globe of her breasts toward her neck, and her scandalous red dress. Something vicious moved across his face, and she flinched.
“Did you tell him no?” he asked gently even though she could see the dark anger in his eyes.
She jerked. Was he asking her if Elliot took advantage? “I beg your pardon?”
“Did you try to tell him no, Emma? Did he seduce you?” Anthony demanded with lethal softness. Save the furious working of his jaw, he was still as he stared at her.
Her throat tightened. “What are you asking me, Anthony? Elliot is your friend, are you really asking me if he forced his attentions on me?” She could hardly credit her brother was wondering such a ghastly thing.
Something violent moved in his gaze. “Answer the bloody question, Emma.”
She stepped down a few steps, angrier than she’d ever been toward him. “I will not just answer your bloody question,” she snarled.
He raised his brow at her curse words, but she powered ahead. “How dare you insinuate Elliot would do something so disgusting?”
“I did not mean it like that,” he growled.
“Then what did you mean it as?” she demanded, incensed.
“Devil take it, I know his reputation is not rumors. We’re friends.”
“Then act like his friend. Elliot has honor.”
Anthony’s broad shoulders relaxed, barely. “Then why the hell are you crying? Why do you look so…wrecked?”
He hurried to her side, took her hand and assisted her down the final steps. “Emma?”
She gave him a withering look. “You do not get to ask me that after what you implied about Elliot,” she said, her voice breaking as more tears gushed forth.
Anthony had the grace to look discomfited. He raked his hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m sorry. I lost my head for a few seconds when I saw you. Your lips were swollen. And your eyes, Emma…they were…” he grimaced. “I have never seen you dressed in such a fashion. You shocked me.”
She nodded. “Apology accepted.”
They made their way down the hallway, and she noted her brother looking around to ensure they were alone.
“Why are you crying?”
He was so tenacious. She couldn’t prevent the blush that heated her entire body and met his eyes. “Because I am in love with him, and I know nothing will come of feeling the way I do.” She knew these were not things one admitted to your brother, but they had always been close, and he was prying. And she was no longer a child.
He predictably stiffened. “Damn it, Emma. We will talk about this at home. But you seem to have mistaken the matter.”
“There is nothing to talk about, Anthony. I chose to attend this masquerade ball for my own purposes, I was not coerced or ruthlessly seduced by some libertine as you no doubt imagine. I suspect you’ve always known how I feel about Elliot, so please don’t make a fuss out of me being here. You are the one who is mistaken in the matter.”
“He will marry you,” he said softly.
She closed her eyes, trying to breathe evenly. “No, he will not.”
“I will make him. I do not care if he is the goddamned duke of Hartford and that he is reputed—”
“I’ll not have him,” she whispered furiously. She knew she could not have him. Any pity or remonstrances from Elliot would wound her soul. “This was not some elaborate plan to compromise Elliot into marriage, and you will not make it be about that. I’ll be leaving soon, and I’ll not be forced to stay.”
Her brother said something rather obscene and unflattering under his breath. Her coat was collected, and she deftly slipped it on with his help. “You were never supposed to discover I had been here. No one else knows, and we will keep it that way.”
At his silence she gripped his hand, rushing to speak as the butler opened the door and they spilled out into the chilling dawn. “Elliot doesn’t even know it’s me.” She pointed to her painted face that had not even washed away with how she’d sweated.
“What you have done is beyond disastrous, Emma.”
She sighed. “You are just trying to scare me when there is no need.”
Her carriage was waiting as expected and they moved toward it. Emma walked at a brisk pace, conscious of the pain in her leg, grateful the place seemed so isolated.
Anthony expelled a frustrated breath, keeping pace beside her. “There will be dire consequences, and it is my duty and honor to protect you,” he said firmly with an admirable show of brotherly concern.
“There is nothing to protect me from. I was not taken advantage of. And most importantly, His Grace has no notion…no notion it was me in his chambers.”
He didn’t seem to appreciate the reminder that she had been so wildly improper from the snarl that curled his lips.
Before he could snap, she hurried on, “And it is my wish for my identity to be hidden from the duke, and I will have your loyalty, Anthony,” she insisted once again, pointing to the painted mask.
He grunted and gave her a look of incredulous disbelief. “He knew it was you, Emma. Elliot knew it was you.”
Apprehension jolted through her. “No, he did not. Elliot hasn’t called upon me in a very long time. He was only a fleeting presence at the manor last week. The only reason you recognized me was that you saw me yesterday and because I had a slight episode. Please leave it be, Anthony. Promise me you won’t say anything. I don’t want anyone involved in my private affairs least of all you.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.
Anthony held her gaze. “This was only one night?”
“Yes, I promise.”
They reached the carriage, and he assisted her in. He entered and sat opposite her, leaning against the squab. His gaze raked her figure several times, and the shock that had flared in his blue depths each time made her blush.
“At least you had the presence of mind to disguise yourself and the carriage.”
“There is no need to escort me, you may continue as you will.”
“I am taking you to Bellview manor.” His hard tone brooked no arguments. She nodded in acquiescence, knowing the need roiling inside of him demanded that he saw her safely home.
The carriage pulled away, and with a sigh, she relaxed her shoulders. A few minutes passed in silence before profound irritation snapped through her. “You are staring, Anthony!”
His gaze narrowed. “You don’t understand how it unsettles me to think of you alone with the duke for even an hour.”
Fire licked her body at his blunt statement. She had been with Elliot for hours, and she shifted her eyes from his, lest he read the knowledge there. She didn’t think she’d been fast enough.
“The Goddamned bastard.”
“Please refrain from being crude,” she snapped.
“Emma, I know the duke’s exploits and conquests, if he had not known it was you he would have had no reason to be protective of your delicacy. I doubt you can speak to me right now about being crude. And we will stop talking about this before I break my promise and challenge him for taking your honor.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she nodded in quick agreement, fighting the mortification and fear that tried to engulf her. She prayed she had not caused a rift in their friendship. “Please do not speak so lightly of dueling, Anthony. Elliot has been your friend for years.”
“Then you shouldn’t have acted with such recklessness,” her brother snarled.
Unable to speak anymore, so intense were the emotions tearing through her, Emma closed her eyes, hating that the tears spilled over.
Her brother sighed and said her name with soft regret, but she ignored him, closed her eyes, and remarkably a smile tipped her lips.
She had been brave and free and improper. And for now, that was all that mattered.
Chapter 8
Emma turned her iron key into the lock and slipped quietly into the manor, thankful the household still slept. She’d convinced Anthony he needn’t escort her inside. He’d still shimmered with fury, but it had lessened on the drive over. The control he’d exerted over his emotions had been visible, and commendable. She had long accepted that even when she was sixty, Anthony would see her as his to protect. But she would have no further discussion on her one night of passion.
She’d encouraged him to return to the house party, after securing his promise he would not betray her confidence. Hurrying up the stairs, she made her way to her chamber and opened the door. Calm stole over her the minute she stepped into her bedchamber. Warm and inviting, designed in shades of light green, her room reflected what she liked, and not what was fashionable amongst the elites. The most wonderful thing about her room was that one side was lined with long, rectangular windows which were edged with brightly colored stained-glass. There she would sit for days and overlook the beauty of the land, whether it be bedecked with flowers in bloom or the haunting snowy white of winter. If she looked away from the windows, she could imagine it was spring or a glorious summer day, and she was in a lush garden surrounded by dense verdure. She could picture herself in foreign lands with jungles closing in on her. The sounds of exotic birds and the chatter of agile monkey had filled her daydreams. There would be no jungles in America, no mischievous monkeys, but there would be an adventure. She would experience new things and meet new people. From that window, she watched the garden parties her mother hosted, the picnics with neighbors, and there she sat and painted, and dreamed, and often remember all the glorious times with Elliot. There would be no Elliot in America, she thought before her reverie was broken.
“Where have you been?”
She faltered at the sharp question. Her gaze swung to the figure seated in the dark on the blue chaise against the left wall near her windows “Upon my word, Aunt Beatrice, what are you doing here?”