Emma: The Wild and Wanton Edition (60 page)

He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her.

“My dearest Emma,” said he, “for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma — tell me at once. Say ‘No,’ if it is to be said.” She could really say nothing. “You are silent,” he cried, with great animation;

“absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.”

Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.

“I cannot make speeches, Emma:” he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing. He reached down and grasped her hand in his own. He brought it up to his chest, and absently turned it over until her palm was facing up. He continued — “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me.” Without looking from her eyes, his fingers found the buttons of her glove. He released one. “I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it.” Another button undone, and another. “Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.” The final two buttons of her glove were released, and he began to slowly remove her glove, revealing patches of skin at her wrist, the valley of her palm, and finally the tips of her fingers as he let her glove flutter to the ground. “But you understand me. Yes, you see, you understand my feelings — and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.”

He raised her ungloved hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into the centre of her palm. She could not breathe through the sensation of his jaw against her fingers, the roughness of his stubble against her skin.

While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful velocity of thought, had been able — and yet without losing a word — to catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a delusion as any of her own — that Harriet was nothing; that she was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all received as discouragement from herself. And not only was there time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant happiness; there was time also to rejoice that Harriet’s secret had not escaped her, and to resolve that it need not, and should not. It was all the service she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the two — or even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive, because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her brain. She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her forever; but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite smooth. She spoke then, on being so entreated. What did she say? Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does. She said enough to shew there need not be despair — and to invite him to say more himself. “I do love you, sir. With every fiber of my being.”

He smiled beneath her hand, interrupting her train of thought. Suddenly, more words of love flowed from his lips. He
had
despaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope; she had begun by refusing to hear him. The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden; her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the conversation which she had just put an end to, might be a little extraordinary! She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.

Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material. Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.

He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come, in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, with no selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her. The rest had been the work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection himself; but it had been no present hope — he had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach her. The superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more enchanting. The affection, which he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already his! Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other name.

Her
change was equal. This one half-hour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust. On his side, there had been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank Churchill. He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country. The Box Hill party had decided him on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions. He had gone to learn to be indifferent. But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma — differing only in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer. He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day — till this very morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax. Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.

He had found her agitated and low. Frank Churchill was a villain.

He heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s character was not desperate. She was his own Emma, by hand and word.

He made a noise that seemed to emanate from deep within his chest, and the light kisses he had been gifting her with continued to travel up from her wrist to her inner forearm, to the hallow of her elbow at which point she completely forgot how to breathe.

He began to talk again, his breath caressing her skin as completely as his lips had seconds ago. “You have made me a very happy man, my Emma.” He punctuated the endearment with another kiss to her upper arm. “I had dared not to hope — “ a kiss to her cloth-covered shoulder “dared not to dream.”

His words trailed off as he pressed an open-mouth kiss to her collarbone. She felt the sweep of something velvety and wet, and her body jolted as she realised it was his tongue. She heard herself make a noise, and heard him echo it.

“I am forgetting myself, dearest,” he said hoarsely into the patch of damp skin. “Remind me,” he begged. “Remind me of how I should behave.”

Her Mr. Knightley, Emma thought with exultation, always so concerned with how one should behave. Emma was entirely uninterested in proper behaviour at this moment. “Not yet,” she whispered into his hair, the scent of the garden and sunshine greeting her as she rested her cheek against his head. “Please not yet.”

He groaned and his kisses moved to the hallow of her throat. “Your wish, my lady.” His hands came up to grasp each of her arms right below the shoulder, and he pulled her into the shelter of his body.

She stepped into him willingly, delighting in the feel of pressing against him from knee to chest. Her body, which had been reacting more and more severely with each of Mr. Knightley’s ardent kisses, blossomed. She felt her breasts react to being pressed against his chest, her nipples hardening with a sudden ache. Her knees failed her completely, and she gasped as she felt herself slump.

His arms flew around her, gathering her even closer. He drew back to gaze at her in alarm. “Emma?” he asked softly and not without a note of self-recrimination.

All Emma could see was the glistening curve of his upper lip. “More,” she breathed as she tilted her lips towards his.

His eyes snapped. “Oh, yes,” he said reverently before lifting her off the ground and walking two broad steps until her back met the wall of the house. He gazed carefully once more into her eyes, studying her reaction. “More,” he whispered, having decided Emma was in earnest. He looked at her lips, licking his own once more. He lowered his head.

The moment his lips touched hers, Emma knew she was going to love kissing. But only kissing her Mr. Knightley. His lips were simultaneously firm and velvety soft, and he passed them across her lips once, twice, before settling them fully on her mouth.

It was so wonderful, she found herself sighing. And it became increasingly more wonderful. As her mouth opened to sigh, Mr. Knightley groaned deep from his gut, and she felt his lips open as well. He breathed into her mouth, and Emma went light headed. And then, Mr. Knightley passed his tongue back and forth over her lower lip.

Emma moaned, and the sound seemed to shock through Mr. Knightley’s body. His arms constricted around her, and he slid his tongue into her mouth.

Oh, heavens, it was delicious. She could taste him — a mix of the crisp air and Mr. Knightley’s own individual flavour. Her breaths started to come faster and faster, and some unknown instinct had her cautiously moving her tongue against his.

She could feel his lips curl into a smile. He pulled back a hair’s breadth to whisper, “Just like that, dearest,” before kissing her again, sucking her tongue into his mouth and showing her exactly what he liked.

A few more moments of Mr. Knightley’s heady kisses, and Emma was aroused to the point of being distraught. She knew she simply
had
to touch him or something terrible would happen —

She tentatively trailed her hands down from around his neck to his shoulders. She could feel him tense, though he never paused in kissing her, the bunching of his shoulders an indication he awaited her next move. She moved her fingers to the lapels of his coat, pushing them aside so she could place her palms upon his wide, firm chest.

Mr. Knightley’s heart beat frantically beneath her hands. “Yes,” he whispered against her lips. “Touch me more, Emma.” As he moved to kiss the shell of her ear, Emma allowed her hands to move further south, discovering bands of muscle covering his ribs and stomach. Those muscles rippled as she touched them, and Emma gasped, as much from the discovery of the incredible physique hidden by Mr. Knightley’s clothes as from the way he was nibbling down her neck.

“I have wanted this for so long,” he whispered against damp skin, causing goosebumps to break out across Emma’s chest.

Emma’s hands moved around his waist to stroke his back as Mr. Knightley’s fingers trailed up her ribs. She arched into his touch, aching for his fingers to skim across her throbbing nipples, and as though she had spoken the thought, Mr. Knightley immediately obeyed, brushing the hard bud of her nipple with his forefinger before cupping her breast fully with his palm.

Emma moaned as her head fell back against the house. “Oh, please — ” she muttered, at a complete loss as to what it was she was begging for, only knowing that he must give it to her.

“Are you as beautiful here as I have imagined?” Mr. Knightley whispered so softly, Emma barely heard. His fingers tugged gently at her bodice until the breast he had been holding was exposed to the afternoon sun. He sucked in a breath, and Emma looked down to see him draw a circle around her nipple with a tanned finger. “
More
beautiful than I could have imagined.” His tone was breathless and reverent, and Emma needed him more in that moment than she would have ever thought possible. He cupped her breast again, this time skin-to-skin, and brushing his thumb back and forth across the peak, raised his eyes to hers once more.

Emma’s hands began to move again, back to his front. Her fingers skimmed across the top of his breeches, and just when she was gathering the courage required to dip below this line, the cheery whistle of one of the gardeners drifted through the air.

The passion-glazed fog vanished from Mr. Knightley’s eyes, and his now sharp gaze drifted over her face and down to where he held her bosom within his palm.

“What am I
doing
?” he asked, clearly horrified. Mr. Knightley wrenched away from her, dropping his arms to his side so suddenly, Emma almost fell into the dirt. He could not prevent his eyes from making one more tour of her exposed chest before he reached out once more, and with a smile of apology, tugged the bodice of her dress back into place. He groaned sorrowfully once she was covered once again. “Emma, we need to go inside.” Emma moaned in protest, and Mr. Knightley’s eyes crackled like fire. “Now,” he said hoarsely. “Right now. Before I completely ravage you against the side of your house.”