One didn’t get to be thirty and be a marquess, without some experience in kissing.
In fact, Hugh would have proclaimed himself an expert. He was certain various women had declared him an expert. He’d moved past the noisy pecks that was the domain of children and doting aunts, and he’d entered the more refined game of French kissing.
He’d tasted thin lips and full lips, pink lips and red lips. He’d trailed his fingers through blonde hair that matched Emma’s own brunette locks. He knew the silky gloss unique to straight hair and the springy wonders of curly hair. He’d bedded shy women and brazen women. He knew just how a woman liked to be held, and he’d run his hands over their bodies, watching them moan and writhe and explode.
He’d been an expert.
And yet tonight, he might as well be eighteen, back in Cambridge, and about to experience his first night of bliss with an aggressive widow, because he’d never touched someone quite as wonderful as Emma.
Her figure seemed perfectly proportioned to fit against his. She didn’t lack for curves, but she did not possess as many to make wearing a fichu an absolute necessity, and to make wearing empire gowns an experience to be avoided. She was not too tall and not too short. No poet, not even the ones who most embraced fanciful metaphor, would compare her to a Viking or a doll.
She was perfect.
And he intended to make her his.
He crushed his lips against hers. She was not going to go anywhere. She was not going to continue to laud the virtues of other women, commenting on their demeanor, their intelligence, their beauty.
They could be descended from Helen of Troy herself, and he wouldn’t care. His heart belonged to Emma.
Perhaps it had from the very time he’d set eyes upon her.
He refused to be constrained by his suddenly quivering heart, and he brushed his lips against hers. Any remaining sleepiness vanished. He was awake.
The fire that had burned through him all day had in no manner diminished. It didn’t matter that everyone else was sleeping, or that they both should have been asleep long ago.
Energy pulsed through him. Her arms were about him, and he savored her impossibly soft touch.
Droplets clung to her skin, and she shone underneath the candlelight.
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Her cheeks pinkened delightfully.
“The only thing I regret is that I should have canceled the party immediately once I saw you.”
“Saw me?” she asked.
He nodded. “It was earlier, in the garden. I saw you arrive, and I knew then.”
Her lips trembled. “Kiss me.”
He did so.
He wanted to kiss her over and over again.
Her hands were on him. She seemed to clutch him, as if worried he might disappear, even though the thought was an impossibility.
She moved her hands through his hair. The gesture was clumsy, as if she was not practiced.
“We needn’t...”
“We do,” Emma said sharply, and then there was no more speaking.
There was only kissing.
Long, deep kissing.
Kissing that seemed intent to pull him to a new world.
He halted their kiss. “We can do this after we marry.”
“Marry?” she asked, her voice squeaking.
“Yes, dearest,” he said. “Marry.”
Something in her gaze shifted, but then she steeled her chin.
“I can’t marry you,” she said, and anguish filled her face.
He blinked. “But I pick you. I choose you.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly?”
He grinned. “Truly. Stay here with me tonight.”
She assessed him, but then nodded. “Very well.”
Hugh had imagined ravishing Emma before, and for a moment, he hesitated.
There were a variety of positions, all of them splendid.
He swept her into his arms and carried her to the leather sofa.
He flung another cashmere blanket on it to protect Emma from the surface. The tufts were aesthetically attractive, but right now he wanted her to feel splendid. No button, no matter how unobtrusive normally, should hamper her experience.
“There’s something you need to know,” she said.
“I’m certain it’s not important,” he said soothingly.
“It is! I’m not–” She swallowed hard. “I’m not good.”
He smiled and kissed her. “You are absolutely perfect.”
“N-no.” She shook her head rapidly. “I’m not.”
“And neither am I,” he said. “Neither is anyone.”
“But I’m rather less perfect.”
“I doubt it.”
“I never intended to marry you,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows and then scrambled up. “You were hired by Miss Carberry to help her win.”
“How did you guess?” she sputtered.
He grinned. “Thank you for confirming it, sweetheart.”
Emma’s cheeks flamed.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You did give several hints before this.”
She drew herself up. “Not intentionally.”
“Certainly not,” he said in a soothing tone.
“When did you become suspicious?”
“When you so clearly fed information about me to Miss Carberry. I could see you whispering to her.”
“So you knew all this time?” she asked in a miserable tone.
“I wasn’t certain,” he admitted. “Though I did think it quite curious you were so determined to practice horseback riding after Jasper had threatened that I would eliminate more people.”
“So your brother arranged for you to—er—assist Miss Carberry.”
She nodded. “And it wasn’t Miss Carberry’s idea. Or her parents. Miss Carberry truly is a sweet woman.”
“I’m certain she is,” Hugh said.
But Miss Carberry hadn’t explored London with him.
Miss Carberry hadn’t broken into his dressing room to search for clues on the house party.
Miss Carberry hadn’t attempted to teach herself horseback riding in one morning.
No, there were many reasons why Miss Carberry was not Emma’s equal.
“So, your family requires money,” he said.
“Precisely,” Emma said, seeming relieved. “My family is not–er–respectable.”
He shrugged. Few families were as respectable as a marquess’s. Besides, Jasper had arranged for him to meet the families of certain guests, but he doubted there was anything that could sway him from his desire to marry Emma.
“Hush,” he said. “You need not worry.”
“But you should,” she exclaimed. “You shouldn’t want anything to do with me. I infiltrated your house party. You were so determined to find the perfect bride, and I—harmed that process. Perhaps if you don’t care for Miss Carberry you should be spending time with Miss Priscilla Dunham. Or one of her sisters! Or your neighbor, Lady Henrietta. Or even Lady Letitia. She is the daughter of a duke, and I’m—” She halted abruptly.
“Who are you?” he prompted her.
EMMA WAS SILENT, AND her heart beat rapidly.
She’d never told anyone who she was.
No one knew.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Hugh promised.
“You’ll despise me.” She swallowed hard. “Still, you should know.” She hesitated. “But can you promise you won’t do anything with the information?”
He shot her a quizzical glance.
“I mean, you’ll probably abhor me. That would be the logical thing to do. In fact, people wholly not prone to logic would detest me if they were you, and of course you’re a logical person anyway.”
“Emma.” He squeezed her hand. “You can tell me. I love you.”
She stared at him. “You love me?”
The word soared through her mind. “But I just told you that you shou
ld despise me.”
“Yet nevertheless, I love you.” He hesitated. “I understand you might not feel the same way. But I’m willing to wait. Perhaps one day I can convince you that I am worthy of your love.”
She blinked. “Oh you think—? I mean—”
He tilted his head.
Words normally came to her more easily, but now the only thing going through her mind was an emotion: bliss.
“I love you too.” Her voice sounded too high-pitched. Speaking and feeling such wonderful things were difficult to do at once.
“I love you,” she said again, this time at a more normal note.
“I love you too,” he said, and for a moment everything was wonderful.
But then Emma remembered.
She remembered her brother and all the reasons she could never marry the marquess, all the reasons why the marquess might tell her he loved her now, but why he could never, would never, propose.
She shifted away from him. “I need to tell you about my brother. I just don’t want you to harm him. He has taken care of me for so many years, and I couldn’t stand it if something dreadful were to happen to him. If he were hauled off to prison—”
“Prison!” Hugh exclaimed.
“See you don’t like it,” she said.
“Did he murder someone?” he asked. “I won’t let you deal with that by yourself. I want to support you. I want a future—”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “He didn’t kill anyone.”
“That is very good,” he said, nibbling on her ear.
Pleasure shot through her, and she resisted the temptation to succumb to his kisses.
“He’s not a baron,” she said abruptly.
“What?” He halted his kisses and turned to stare at her.
“He’s been pretending all this time. Introducing himself to so many people. And I—went along with it. I couldn’t very well tell people he wasn’t actually a baron. I’m certain he would get in trouble for pretending to be an aristocrat.”
He nodded. “Yes, he would.”
She swallowed hard.
She’d known Hugh would hate her after she’d told him. She’d even told him that. But somehow, perhaps, for some maddening reason, she’d allowed herself to hope that wouldn’t be the case with him after all. She’d let herself hope that he wouldn’t stop loving her.
He stroked her cheek. “Nothing has changed, sweetheart. I still love you.”
“Despite my brother?”
“Indeed. Nothing could sway me from loving you. When you fell into the Thames, I thought I’d lost you.” He kissed her again. “I am glad you are here beside me, and I am so glad that you love me too. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE NIGHT NEEDED TO last forever.
Emma met Hugh’s lips with her own. Now was not a time for shyness. That would be for another day, but now she wanted every memory.
Emma had been cold when she’d finally stepped from the bath, but now a strange new heat pooled at her core. She moved closer to Hugh, wrapping her arms more tightly about him, and inhaling his scent. Cedar and citrus merged together in something delightfully masculine, something she hadn’t known she craved.
But she craved it now.
He feathered kisses over her face, moving to her neck. She’d always assumed her neck to be relatively dependable in not requiring more than an occasional scarf to be content.
And yet, when the marquess kissed her there, joy coursed through her. The sensation was delightful.
Every touch was forbidden. Women weren’t supposed to bed men when they were not married to them.
Everyone knew it.
Emma had always wondered how some women managed to resist this simple rule.
But there was no room for logic when Hugh kissed her. There was only the desperate need to brandish this memory to her mind.
Life was much nicer when Hugh was lying on top of her. Though in theory she might have thought the experience would be uncomfortable, given their difference in size, the only sensation she felt was bliss.
Lord Metcalfe’s firm chest pressed against hers, and his firm legs were tangled with hers.
Something else that was firm pressed against her belly.
She wasn’t going to think about that now.
Instead, she focused on kissing him. Emma had always found dancing pleasurable, but she’d never thought it was something her tongue could do.
The kisses grew more intense, and the ache in her core grew, and she wrapped her legs about his, rocking herself gently.
“Emma,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I want to...”
“Yes?”
“I want to be inside you,” he said finally. “I want to know you. I want–”
“Then do it,” she said.
He continued to kiss her, running his hand over her bosom. Even though she wore a robe, and even though thick fabric separated his hand from her breasts, her nerves tingled as pleasure shot through her.
“Please,” she said, moving her bosom closer to him. “I want...more.”
He smiled and then opened her robe.
She felt a moment of embarrassment. No one had looked at her nude body before. Even when a maid helped her dress, she was never entirely unclothed.
Now she was.
Hugh’s eyes flared. “Rose is a lovely color.”
She blinked, uncertain why he was stating his color preferences at this moment.
He must have understood, for he smiled and traced the peak of her breast in his hands. It pebbled beneath his touch.
“This is rose. And this is beautiful. You are so beautiful.” He punctuated each word with a kiss, even though the sentence would have sent butterflies to her heart anyway. “So beautiful.”
In the next moment he lowered his mouth onto her bosom. The sudden wetness sent a jolt of pleasure to her core, and she arched her center toward him.
“Yes, my dear,” he said, speaking before he moved his attention to her other breast.
How odd she’d never known life could possess such utter joy before. Her shyness dissipated under Hugh’s ardent admiration.
Hugh continued to caress her breasts, and she moaned.
He then removed his mouth, and she instantly yearned for him to continue.
“Please,” she begged, this time knowing exactly what she desired.
His eyes gleamed. “I have another idea.”
“But–”
“You will find it pleasurable. I promise.” And then he moved his lips to her belly, sucking on her skin. His lips moved lower and lower and lower.
Her core tightened.
Surely, he didn’t mean to kiss...there?
He continued to kiss her and then moved to her inner thigh.
She relaxed.
Of course, he wouldn’t kiss her...there.
Most likely, nobody kissed one there.
But his eyes still glimmered, and this time he pressed a kiss toward her center. Her heart ratcheted again, as he sucked and nibbled on her bare flesh.
And then he kissed her.
There.
Pleasure shot through her, and ripples soared through her body.
And then Hugh lifted his torso, so she could once again see his wonderful face.
She grasped for his member, cognizant she should return some of the pleasure, though not entirely certain how.
She moved her fingers over his hard length, which somehow managed to have a silky exterior.
“Emma,” he gasped. “Sweetheart. I must–”
She nodded. “Please.”
He placed his member between her legs.
“It might hurt,” he warned. “We can halt this...”
“No,” she said quickly. “I-I want...everything.”
He nodded and in the next moment he slid inside her.
He stopped halfway. “Tell me if you would like to rest.”
She merely clutched him more tightl
y. There was some pain, but it was lessened by the knowledge that he was here. The fullness was pleasurable, and in the next moment, when he’d slid in further, and when he moved inside of her, it became exquisite.
He continued to kiss her as he thrusted inside her, and he continued to glide his hands over her, sending joy dancing through her.
Then his movements became less controlled, less calculated. His thrusts quickened, and then he moved out abruptly, sending his seed splattering over her belly.
“That was–” He swallowed hard. “It was–”
“Lovely?” she suggested.
He smiled. “Utterly.”
He kissed her again and then wrapped her in his arms. They lay there for a long time, until they heard noises downstairs, and Hugh and she returned to their rooms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE BOAT GLIDED IN the water. Some of the guests murmured in the distance, but Emma didn’t join their conversation. She was content to sit and stare at the Thames. Miss Carberry was reading a book beside her. Though Emma normally enjoyed reading, thinking brought a distinct pleasure.
Mrs. Carberry joined them and settled in a chair beside her daughter. “One would think your lips would tire of smiling, Miss Braunschweig.”
Emma didn’t stiffen, even though Mrs. Carberry’s voice was stern, and even though Mrs. Carberry was unlikely to continue the conversation with compliments. Her stomach didn’t sour, and her heart didn’t beat faster.
Well, perhaps it did beat faster.
It had seemed to be soaring all day today, but that was because of Hugh, and not because of Mrs. Carberry.
He loves me.
Emma turned to Mrs. Carberry. The Scottish woman was frowning. It wasn’t an entirely unusual state for her. Mrs. Carberry seemed to delight in expressing negativity.
“I’m simply enjoying the journey,” Emma said.
This was true, though it wasn’t only the calm river she enjoyed. It wasn’t the vibrant wildflowers smattered over the riverbank, it wasn’t the sunshine that imbued warmth, and it wasn’t the birds that glided above, flapping their wings and squawking to one another, that caused her to smile.
At least, not solely.
It was memories of Hugh.
He’d told her he loved her. And then, he’d told her that her past didn’t sway him from loving her. He’d told her he planned to propose.
A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble Book 5) Page 17