Her Husband’s Lover (14 page)

Exhausted, he collapsed into a limp and liquid heap. ‘I love you, you know that?’ he sighed into Darleston’s chest.

Darleston stroked a hand back and forth through his hair.

‘I know it. I won’t forget. I just want you to love Emma too.’

He already did, just not in the sense that Darleston meant it.

* * *

Emma overslept the next morn. Heaven knows how the scullery maid had managed to creep in without disturbing her, but for the first time ever it had happened. Field House was eerily quiet and not in the pre-dawn fashion she’d grown used to. Rather it felt empty, as though all the other inhabitants had crept away and left her behind. Normally such quiet soothed her, today it left her agitated, especially when she realised that Lyle too had been and gone. He’d left her a short note:

Taking care of Amelia. Last night was fun. Hope you were suitably entertained.

Yours affectionately, Lyle.

Emma hopped out of bed. She dressed rapidly in an old buff and lavender dimity frock. A tray of sweets and stewed tea stood awaiting her by the door. She gagged at the taste of tannin, but swallowed the tepid beverage all the same. Then gorged herself on three macaroons.

If only her taste for Lord Darleston could be diminished in such a fashion, or even explained. It wasn’t just his physical form she found attractive, there was something more, as if they’d shared an experience that had glued them together – and not one that had involved sex or Lyle.

Emma gazed around the bedchamber, almost expecting Darleston to emerge from some corner or other. Nothing stirred. She remained alone, just as he and Lyle had left her.

Emma rubbed at the tender circles beneath her eyes. Sleep had quite escaped her until well into the night. Her ears had strained for the sounds of the men together in the Winter Room and her imagination had filled in the rest. Or rather it did and it didn’t, because at some point she’d ceased thinking about Darleston and Lyle and started seeing glimpses of herself with Darleston again. Nothing solid, just fragments spliced together in a haphazard sequence – a peep of her bottom, exposed for him, followed by the swell of an uncovered breast and then most frightening of all, her hand stretched out to his, their fingers splayed and almost touching.

She shivered, remembering the acute terror and orgasm it had provoked. For her own wellbeing, she had to cast Lord Darleston from her thoughts. Last night couldn’t happen again. Seeing them like that had gained her nothing but a bellyful of despair. Nothing good could come of allowing things to continue. Forget companionship. Nothing so tepid would work with him. Best she maintain the walls that had protected her for so long and avoid further contact with Darleston altogether.

Yet the itch of arousal still remained. Emma resisted the urge to wet her fingers between her thighs again. Four, five times she’d brought herself to climax last night but her body remained unsatisfied by her efforts. Curse Darleston and Lyle both for awakening her to such need. She’d been content before. Isolated, detached, but quietly contented.

And she was the biggest liar in Christendom for thinking it. She’d wished for someone to come into her life and make it whole where it was lacking. Well, he was surely that person, and the only thing holding her back was her own fear.

Darleston would somehow free her.

Free her – as if she were some kind of slave! What sort of codswallop was she thinking? She didn’t believe in fate or coincidence. People made their own paths, some with more help than others. She was just scared of growing old and lonely, and frightened that Lyle would one day find a man he truly loved and run off, or, worse, come to her to beg for his release. She knew she would let him go. She wasn’t heartless and never wished to deprive him of the affection he needed. No, she wouldn’t damn him to an asexual marriage just to save herself from growing old alone.

‘Where is everyone?’ she asked Grafton when they crossed paths in the hall.

‘Mr Hill and the gentlemen are abroad, ma’am.’

‘And my sister?’

Grafton’s wrinkled brow smoothed into softer lines as though Amelia were some sort of cherub and the thought of her soothed his soul. ‘Miss Amelia departed with Mr Hill.’

Grafton clearly had no idea how much of a ninny Amelia could be.

‘She’s gone with them to see the fighters?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

Emma gaped at him. She must never allow herself to oversleep again. Amelia had clearly done as she’d suggested and asked their father’s permission to join his band of boxing enthusiasts. Emma had counted on being abroad to advise him against it, but that opportunity had flown while she slept. Now the silly little fool was probably fawning over Bathhouse and making cow eyes at whichever gentlemen were occupying the Cottage. Worse still, pursuing them would only draw attention to Amelia’s actions. Really, she supposed, she ought to spend some time with her younger sister discussing realistic prospective matches. Maybe this evening she’d sit her down and go over things properly.

‘Could you have a tea tray brought to the Dog Parlour?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Should I make that for two? Lord Darleston is in there.’

Emma froze to the right of the stairs. She turned to stare back at Grafton.

‘His lordship asked that the fire be lit and a toasting fork provided.’

What the devil was the man doing in there? The Dog Parlour was quite the most forgotten room in the house, unloved by anyone save her. It was the one place to which she could retreat and be certain of solitude, more assuredly than in the bedchamber she shared with Lyle. Now Darleston was there, when she needed to mull over the consequences of Amelia’s actions and how she ought to handle the situation of Lyle and his lover. Her best course was probably to turn a blind eye to their actions and, what … forget him? Because that was likely! She couldn’t get the man out of her head. She had only to set eyes upon him to be overwhelmed by the tingling need to stroke the stark lines of his face and sift the fiery strands of his hair between her fingers. She needed to know him, to understand what lay in his head and his heart.

Damnation, this would never do. She was going to have to talk to him.

The Dog Parlour stood at the rear of Field House, just below Darleston’s bedchamber. It had once been intended as a music room and decorated accordingly, but when both she and Amelia failed to show any promise or dedication in that department it had largely been abandoned.

Contrary to its name, the Dog Parlour never housed her father’s pack of dogs. Rather, it held a large portrait of a beagle, which hung over the fireplace, and had done so since the first Hills had settled here in 1655.

When Emma entered, Darleston was reclining upon the old love seat, his long nose buried in a botany book. His coat, of beautiful slate-grey damask, lay draped over the arm of another chair and his shirt sleeves were pushed almost to his elbows so that the soft gold-tinged hairs on his arms caught the glow of the firelight. Emma watched him silently for a moment, afraid to move. If he could have reached into her thoughts, plucked out a single dominant image and made it real, this was it.

Upon her entrance he really ought to have swung his feet back onto the floor and put on his coat. Instead he closed the book upon his fingers and followed her approach with his eyes.

Countless times now she’d imagined him like this, placid and pliant, stretched out for her pleasure.

It didn’t feel right him being here.

Her heart was busy hammering its way up her throat. With the fire stoked high, the room was already stifling, and now perspiration tickled as it beaded around her collar-line. ‘What are you doing here?’

His gaze swept instantly to the fire, where the toasting fork still lay propped against the grate. ‘Can I offer you some refreshment? Perhaps some of this remarkable jam.’ A pot of cook’s best quince jam stood open on the floor with the knife protruding from it. Dear Beattie would have a fit if she saw it treated like that. Then again, wasn’t it what she ought to expect from an Earl’s son? The only real surprise was that he knew how to use a toasting prong and didn’t require a footman to hold it.

Emma edged around the love seat, avoiding the armchair occupied by his coat, and perched primly on the edge of the rocking chair. Her rigidity prevented its normal swing. ‘Why did you stay behind?’

Darleston’s brows furrowed at the sharpness of her tone. She had made the question sound like an accusation. ‘To see you. I did tell you the fighting holds minimal appeal.’

‘This is my room.’

His frown smoothed and the very corners of his lips curved upwards. At the same time the grey of his eyes shimmered like moonstone. ‘Is it?’ he asked innocently.

The perfect devil of a man knew very well that it was. More than likely his presence here was deliberate. The intrusion made her skin prickle as though he were trying to caress her. There were countless other rooms in the house, all of them more comfortable and better appointed. ‘Have Lyle,’ she blurted. ‘I don’t mind.’ Her eyes stung but there were no tears. ‘You don’t have to petition me. You don’t have to involve me. It’s fine, really. I knew what he was. I know what he is. It’s never caused a problem before.’

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t play games with this man. It hurt too much. She wanted too much from him, when she didn’t want to want anything from anyone.

‘And if there’s more to it than that?’ Darleston’s voice was whisper-soft and seemed to curl around her senses as though it were intent on embracing them. ‘What if this isn’t only about Lyle? You gave me something precious last night. I don’t want our friendship to end there.’

Friendship! They were barely acquainted.

‘Shall I tell you what I’d like, Emma? Will you hear me out?’ He leaned forward and laid his book open upon the floorboards.

‘What I’d like … I don’t wish you to just accept Lyle and me. I’d like you to be part of that relationship. You’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, and I’d rather you participated in that pleasure than I feel I was stealing from you. Wouldn’t you rather join in than stand watching?’

No. No, I wouldn’t, she railed silently at him. Emma fisted her hand in the front of her hair. The discomfort soothed her a little, while her arm formed a barrier between them. She was one sorry little liar. Her rebuttal didn’t sound convincing even to herself.

Darleston settled back down again. ‘Perhaps I’m not explaining very well. What you need to understand is that I’m not entirely like Lyle. His experiences have all been with men. Mine less so. I don’t think he truly knows how to please you any more than you do yourself. Oh, I realise that he taught you to –’ He raised his index finger and wiggled the tip.

The simulation further heated Emma’s already burning cheeks. Why had she donned three petticoats when one would have sufficed? Simple – she’d put them on like armour, as though swaddling herself could somehow protect her from this man and the havoc he caused to her composure.

‘– but that’s not everything.’

She didn’t need him to point that out. She had learned last night just how fruitless solitary pleasure could be.

‘I like you, Emma. I’d like us to be closer.’

She wanted to believe that, even as the notion chilled her to the core. None of Lyle’s previous lovers had paid her the slightest attention. She didn’t exist to them. She might as well have been his housekeeper for all the respect they afforded her. Darleston hadn’t exactly apologised or asked her permission to dandy with Lyle, but at least he’d noticed her presence. No, more than that, he was suggesting she become some sort of co-conspirator.

‘Don’t you want a little pleasure for yourself?’

Troubled, Emma shook her head. She knew what he wanted. More importantly, she realised that hiding, and pretending that he simply wanted her to keep quiet, wasn’t going to work. No man had ever been interested in her in that way before. Her marriage to Lyle had been by mutual consent, but desire had never been part of it, and no other gentleman had ever courted her. They all thought her cold and aloof. But Darleston seemed to see her differently.

‘Tell me what you want, Emma. Truthfully. I know there’s more to this on your part than a simple desire to watch two men fuck.’

She squirmed in response to his language, only to find heat blooming in her cunny. It further raged as she gawped at him, seeing him as he’d been last night, on his knees, with Lyle’s cock in his mouth.

‘Was there not some part of you that longed to join in and claim some of that pleasure for yourself?

There was, but she could not say that to him. She desired to touch him, but she would not confess it to him. He wouldn’t understand. Nobody did.

Darleston swung his legs onto the floor and leaned forward. ‘Emma, what I’d really like is to be able to kiss you.’

‘Stop it!’ She screwed her eyes closed to the vision of him. She couldn’t kiss him. She couldn’t kiss anyone. What’s more, he knew it. Lyle had told him, and he’d seen first hand what she was like. ‘Just stop it. Oh, God, please. Stop.’

‘Emma, look at me.’ His words were whisper-soft, yet in her head he was stalking her like a big cat. After a moment, she peeped at him through her fingers and was relieved to find him still sitting upon the love seat. Feeling foolish, she lowered her hands.

‘There’s no rush,’ he said.

She let her heartrate settle before making a reply. ‘You’re wrong about me. We don’t want the same things. You’re mistaken.’

‘I don’t think I am,’ he replied, quietly confident. ‘You’re not the first woman who has ever looked at me with heat in her eyes. Nor the first to refuse me. I’d let it go, but the thing is, none of those other women were quite like you. Come here, Emma. Come to me. I dare you.’

Come to him and do what? He was mad. She wasn’t about to sit on his knee and let him take liberties.

‘Touch me. It doesn’t matter where, a button, my knee, a strand of hair …’

‘I can’t.’ Even if she’d been like everyone else, she’d have refused to compromise herself like that.

‘Ask me what I’ll do while you touch me, Emma.’