Her Husband’s Lover (6 page)

‘Mrs Langley.’

Emma squeaked in alarm and clutched the banister. She leapt up the bottom few stairs before turning her head to see who called, although she already knew. His voice sent a dart of energy right through her midriff. Lord Darleston stood in the lobby. Emma remained stock still, fingers locked tight around the wooden rail, while her heart thumped against her ribcage.

‘Mrs Langley. The others are heading off to see Mr Johnstone. As I’m not so eager for that pleasure, I wondered if you’d show me the amphitheatre that is to be the stage for the bouts instead. I understand it’s located amongst the woodland.’

‘The amphitheatre?’ she gasped. She sounded choked even to herself.

‘Only if it wouldn’t cause you any trouble. I imagine I can find it myself if I’m pointed in the right direction. I realise it’s an imposition, it still being rather wet.’

Had the rain even properly stopped? More than likely this was a mere break in the clouds.

‘No, that’s fine. That’s not a problem. I’ll just fetch a shawl.’

Why should a little rain keep them indoors?

Why was she so excited over the prospect of wading through wet woodland with him?

‘Maybe you could see if that vagabond of a husband of yours has risen and would care to join us,’ Darleston hollered after her, affection evident in his voice.

‘Of course. I expect he’s …’ She gave a nod. What was better – to find Lyle still asleep and endure Darleston’s closeness all alone, or to find Lyle dressed and eager to accompany them? She didn’t wish to stroll along behind or between them in full awareness of what they’d done. Nor did she know any method of extracting such images from her head.

Lyle’s valet slipped away the moment she entered the room. She’d never understood Lyle’s need to have someone fasten his buttons for him. How she hated the stares, the tugging and pulling sensation of hands upon her skin. Surely he could manage to find the armholes of his own coat.

Ignoring Lyle’s inquisitive glance, she hurriedly donned her spencer.

‘And where are you off to?’

‘Out for a stroll.’ She did intend to pass on Darleston’s invitation, but something stopped her speaking the words. Why should she invite Lyle? There’d be no fun in watching the two men walk shoulder to shoulder while she waddled along behind like a lost puppy. She couldn’t do it. The whole time she’d know what they’d done together the previous night. She’d know she was apart from them, locked out, surplus to requirements. She’d rather have Darleston to herself, even if all they exchanged was a companionable silence. She wanted a friend.

All right, mayhap a bit more than that.

It wouldn’t do to have Lyle present if her gaze kept straying as it had done this morning. He read her too well. He’d realise something was afoot, and God forbid that he recognise the true depths of her fascination with Darleston. It would serve them all equally ill if he thought she had real designs on the man. Jealousy was bound to rear her ugly head and, worse still, he might finally insist on his matrimonial rights.

And yet in a purely theoretical sense she did have designs upon Lord Darleston. Practically speaking, it was a hopeless and irrational dream, but then, practicality had rarely served her interests.

Also, deep down she didn’t believe Lyle would ever want her as a woman.

‘Do you know where my wrap is?’

Lyle crossed the room holding it. He waited for her to turn, so that he might drape it around her shoulders, but Emma stiffened her spine and refused to turn. Recently he’d used such opportunities as a means of getting close to her. Then, all the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, leaving her feeling doubly wretched.

‘What I said earlier, I wasn’t trying to needle you, only to be forthright about things. I don’t like that we live a constant lie. If there was another way –’

‘It’s fine,’ she cut him off. ‘There’s no need to go over this. I perfectly understand that you have needs and that Lord Darleston is helping you fulfil them.’

‘Yes, however –’

‘Don’t, Lyle. You’ve already told me what you’ve done with him. There’s no need to say any more.’ She snatched the wrap from his hands, taking care not to make contact with his person. ‘Take your pleasure in whatever fashion you please. It makes no difference to me.’

While fibbing to Lyle as a defensive measure came incredibly easily to Emma, she couldn’t lie in the same way to herself. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks as she fled the bedchamber. It did matter how Lyle took his pleasure. It mattered very much, because in this instance his pleasure was Lord Darleston.

Ninnyhammer! Fool. You’ve spurred Lyle towards him now, when that was the last thing that you wanted.

Though really, wasn’t that for the best? Daydreaming was one matter, but reality quite another. Nothing romantic would ever happen between her and Darleston. They’d never share a touch, while Lyle would find hours of satisfaction in kissing and holding the man. And what she needed was to keep her husband satisfied. That way he wasn’t in her bed making demands.

A deep tremble rolled through her body as she imagined being crushed beneath Lyle’s weight and of being pressed tight to Lyle’s pale skin. No – she corrected – not simply pressed together. He’d be right inside her, so there’d be absolutely no retreat or escape. They’d be completely bound. He’d be under her skin, not just beside it.

The notion froze her in mid-step. Emma clutched the top of the banister and sucked down several steadying breaths. No one else ever seemed to have such a problem with the idea of contact. They were all forever exchanging handshakes, kisses and embraces. The last person to cuddle her had been her nanny, right after she broke the news of Emma’s mother’s death. The embrace had made her skin crawl as though all the bugs and beetles of the graveyard were clambering over her. She’d avoided such clinches before that point, but that hideous show of false and vile affection had made her determined not to endure further embraces.

She’d grieved by the graveside, alone, invulnerable and aloof.

‘Still abed, is he?’ Darleston called up to her. He stood awaiting her return in the hall below, his hat already perched upon his head of fiery hair and his cane swinging gaily in his hand.

Since she didn’t want to admit that she hadn’t extended the invitation to Lyle, Emma remained silent. She mopped her tears, and then continued straight past Darleston out into the fine spray of mist that hung in the air at shoulder level. She fastened her bonnet as she went.

* * *

Darleston strode after Mrs Langley trying not to show his bemusement at her conduct. Although he had no hard evidence for his supposition, he’d lay money on Lyle being dressed and a more than willing companion on their walk. So naturally he had to conclude that Mrs Langley had deliberately excluded her husband from their jaunt. He couldn’t help speculating over the reason.

Had Lyle told her of the passion they’d shared the night before? He hadn’t hinted at making such intimate confessions to his wife, but Darleston had known couples who reported the details of every extramarital tryst to one another. However, if Emma possessed such knowledge and hated the arrangement, why then had she agreed to accompany him out? Had he set himself up for a scolding? He wasn’t sure he could face that. Not after months of rebukes and a night during which recollections of Lyle’s welcoming mouth had left him largely deprived of sleep.

The pale sun still seemed a little too bright this morning.

Darleston lowered the brim of his hat. In truth, tired as he was, his body still ached for more robust loving. To hell with what he’d initially said to Lyle, the chance of pleasure, however fleeting, was too rare a thing to casually dismiss.

It was fine to dismiss the need for love, when love surrounded one in abundance and affection could be bought by merely raising one’s brow. Things became rather more desperate when you were tarnished goods. Women avoided him, afraid that his homosexual tendencies might be transferred to them and onto their husbands, as if his preferences could be equated with the pox. And men avoided him for fear of – well, because they were preposterously conceited for the most part. He had standards as well as taste.

He thought back over the nights he’d spent alone. The caress of his bed sheets against the hot tip of his cock had been unbearable. Even the satisfaction he’d wrought with his own hand hadn’t entirely seen off the seductive ghosts of his imagining. Lyle’s presence had relieved much of that tension.

How could Emma Langley possibly survive with no human contact to soothe away the pains?

Learning her secret, if it existed, was paramount. He wished he could lock himself up that tight, become immune to those around him; no longer need their voices or their nearness to simply propel him through the day.

Of course, he had to touch her, primarily to confirm the validity of Lyle’s assertion. Not that he intended to just reach out and grab her, though on one or two past occasions such actions had got him exactly where he intended to get.

Women – he watched the sway of Emma’s hips as she walked ahead of him – there was no telling where even the subtlest gesture would get you. One misconstrued tilt of the head and you were shackled for ever.

Emma’s purposeful stride came to a halt on the edge of a copse. She peered back at him from beneath the vast rim of her bonnet. Beckoned him forward. Was the bonnet too a guard against affection? Bestowing a kiss upon her would run the risk of serious injury. He eyed the end of her brown ribbons and contemplated tugging upon them so the knot unravelled and he could send the ridge of corduroy flying up into the trees. Its fortress-like confines aside, the colour drained the vitality from her face, giving her a sallow, waxy skin tone. Darleston preferred the deep chestnut of her hair.

‘I’m afraid the path is a little windy and overgrown. And I don’t suppose Father has recollected to have the briars trimmed. He never thinks of such practicalities, only of his vicious brawlers.’ As he approached she strode forth again. ‘We’ll simply have to make the best of it. I trust you don’t mind a few pricks, milord?’

Darleston snorted into his coat cuff, pleased he faced her back once again. If only she were offering something other than a stroll through the brambles then his answer could have been wholeheartedly positive. As it was, it seemed best not to grumble over the nicks in his coat when the excursion had been at his behest.

Not that he had any genuine interest in the venue, only in engaging her as a companion. He still felt uncomfortable about accepting Lyle’s affection with only Lyle’s assurance that Emma would be unperturbed by it.

‘You don’t approve of prize-fighting?’ he ventured, seeing a lead into conversation.

Emma briefly turned her head to look back at him. ‘I confess I find little to admire in such sport. Perhaps you can tell me what the appeal is in watching grown men beat the wits from one another’s heads when they possess few enough to start with?’ The path widened a fraction and he caught up so that they walked abreast.

‘I’m afraid any explanation I offer would fail to enlighten and paint me in very poor light.’

Did he see a twinkle of knowledge in her pretty blue eyes? Did she think just for a minute, as he did, that there were aesthetic reasons for watching shirtless men fight? Although most of the prize-fighters he’d known were sadly spoiled in the looks department. Too many scuffs and broken noses did that. He tended to focus his attention on the parts that were normally left unseen.

‘You’re not aroused by such a show of strength?’

Emma gave an indelicate tut. ‘Intelligence is far more valuable to me than brawn. I think I should rather watch a scholar study than see two hot sweaty men bloody one another’s noses and wrestle in the clarts like beasts.’

‘Indeed. Yes, I suppose it is faintly ludicrous for grown men to behave in such a way, but then we do love to pit ourselves against one another.’

‘We’re almost there. We take a right ahead where the path forks.’ She gave him a rather hard stare when he stood mere inches from her person. Her normally agreeable mouth formed into a tight pout that made him want to smooth a thumb over it to iron the wrinkles away.

Naturally, he held back from such an intimacy. They weren’t friends enough for that sort of action to pass without rebuke, even if she weren’t as skittish as a hare over the mere press of a fingertip.

Although, all said, he still had only Lyle’s word that that was how she’d react.

‘An amphitheatre is an atypical garden attribute,’ he observed.

Her expression brightened immediately. ‘Yes. My great-grandfather had it built as a fernery, but it fell out of favour once the Orangery was completed. He was prone to momentary passions. He owned three hundred coats when he died. Not a single one had ever been given away. His valet positively despaired.’

‘I’m surprised only one valet sufficed.’ Darleston swung his cane and knocked aside an arch of thorns. ‘Ah, but the ferns remain,’ he observed.

They had reached a sheer drop, so that they looked down into a bowl in the earth, with concentric stone-edged tiers cut into the sides. Ferns grew in patches upon the banks, long stems reaching for the sun. It was the most perfect space for all manner of indiscretions, which he suspected was its primary purpose, not the growth of ferns.

Steep steps, worn and lined with cracks, led to the various layers of the amphitheatre and down to the circular base, where sandbags and ropes already marked the extent of the prize-fighters’ ring. Darleston jogged down to the base and strolled the perimeter.

Directly opposite the steps, a tree lay fallen across the entrance to a stone tunnel. The huge trunk formed a solid bridge between several of the tiers. ‘That’s not recently come down?’

Emma shook her head. ‘It’s been there since before I was born. There are dates carved into the bark.’ She wound her way around one tier and traced her hand across what he presumed to be one of the carvings. ‘The tunnel leads through to the promenade in the walled garden, but it’s rather damp and in ill repair. It’ll be hideous if Father traipses all the spectators through that way.’