Rapture Becomes Her (37 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Rapture Becomes Her
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After Peckham left, Emily looked around the sitting room, deciding that the butler had been right about one thing: everything at Windmere was of the highest quality. A lovely rosewood desk and a chair covered in a rose-and-ivory tapestry sat invitingly beneath one of several long windows adorned with moss silk drapes. A thick woolen rug richly woven in shades of amber, pink and pearl lay upon the floor. Satinwood tables and chairs upholstered in moss and gold-striped velvet and a pair of settees were scattered tastefully about the room; tall cabinets of fine marquetry flanked the doors that led to her bedroom. A fireplace with an ancient, intricately carved oak mantel dominated the far wall and with the storm outside, Emily was glad of the yellow and orange flames dancing on the hearth.
Sitting down on one of the settees, Emily forced herself to relax. Who would have known that getting married was so exhausting? she thought, kicking off her silk slippers and absently pulling the flowers from her hair and dropping them beside her on the settee. She looked around the room again. This was now her suite. She wasn’t here as a guest. She
lived
here—in this huge, enormous mansion—and she couldn’t help thinking of the shabby charm of her former home and everyone that she had left behind. She would never again be plain Emily Townsend of The Birches, she realized with a pang. She was now Lady Joslyn—mistress of Windmere and responsible for overseeing the army of servants, many whose names she didn’t even know, and for making certain that Windmere remained in immaculate condition.
Her lips drooped. A wave of loneliness swept over her as she pictured Anne and Cornelia returning home to the comforts of the familiar, where dear, smiling Walker would be greeting them and Mrs. Spalding would be cooking something delicious for the evening in the big, old kitchen at The Birches.
Disgusted with herself, she shook herself and stood up. Good heavens! She was married to a wealthy, exciting man—and here she was moping about as if she had been cast up helpless on some nameless shore. Barnaby’s dark, intent face leaped to her mind and thinking of the coming night, her whole body responded in a way that excited and flustered her. Her breasts tingled, heat flooded her lower body and her pulse beat madly at the thought of what would come.
Seeking escape from the lurid and undeniably arousing images in her brain, she hurried out of the sitting room and into the bedchamber and, catching sight of the moss and gold damask bed hangings that draped the massive bed, she jerked her gaze away. Picturing Barnaby naked in that big bed certainly wasn’t helping calm her galloping imagination and almost desperately, she sought distraction.
Hearing sounds of movement in the dressing room, Emily peeked around the doorway. Kate, the young maid she’d met during her previous stay, was smiling and humming to herself as she placed a pitcher of warm water upon the mahogany-and-marble washstand in the corner of the spacious room. Since Kate hadn’t been there when Peckham had shown her the rooms, Emily assumed the maid had entered via the servants’ staircase.
Catching sight of Emily out of the corner of her eye, Kate squeaked and jumped. Recognizing her mistress, she flushed and hastily curtsied. “Oh, my lady, I didn’t see you there.”
Smiling, Emily entered the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Emily wasn’t certain how she would deal with a lady’s maid all her own, but she discovered that Kate was a gem. Not only was the young maid cheerful and friendly, she was in direct contrast to Peckham’s irritating, polite behavior.
While she’d been getting married and entertaining guests today, the trunks from The Birches had arrived and Kate had unpacked and put everything away. Like a puppy accepting praise, Kate fairly quivered with pleasure as Emily complimented her on a task well done.
After asking Kate to arrange a bath, Emily wandered back into the bedroom, her gaze lingering on the tall, carved oak door on the far wall that Peckham had pointed out led to the viscount’s rooms. She swallowed. Any time he wished, Barnaby could enter her room and take her into his arms and kiss her and . . . Warmth rushed through her and she hastened into the sitting room, embarrassed by her fixation on Barnaby’s kisses and . . . other things.
Seating herself on the one of the rose damask-covered settees, she glanced around the area again thinking that four of her bedrooms at The Birches would have fit in the sitting room—with space left over. Her eyes dropped down to the ring on her finger. She was married—to Barnaby. And tonight when he took her into his arms . . . She trembled, knowing that tonight there would be no barriers between them and that when he kissed her and touched her, there would be no interruptions, no stopping him from taking what was now, by law, his. Her heart thumped and she didn’t know whether she was excited or afraid. She bit her lip. She didn’t fear Barnaby, so she must be excited, she decided, remembering other times and all those incredible sensations he aroused within her.
Filled with anticipation and not much caring whether it was immodest or not, Emily thought the time would drag until she saw Barnaby again. She was astonished to discover that by the time she had bathed and changed into a simple blue gown and Kate had brushed her hair until it cascaded in near-silver curls down her back, that the hour was just a few minutes shy of eight o’clock.
She was halfway across the candlelit room, when the door connecting her rooms with Barnaby’s opened and Barnaby sauntered into the room. At the sight of him, looking so big and virile, her heart gave that funny little thump she was beginning to expect whenever she saw him.
Like her, he had changed and this evening wore far less formal clothes. His cravat was smaller and there was no lace fall at his neck; his dark blue coat and pale gray breeches, though expensive and expertly tailored, were of less costly materials. Eschewing the usual queue, Barnaby had left his heavy black hair loose and it fell in luxurious waves to his shoulders. With all that black silk hair framing his face, it brought attention to the broad cheekbones and intensified the darkness of his complexion, making his Indian ancestry very apparent.
Spying Emily, Barnaby stopped as if hit with a sledgehammer and any thought of the quiet, polite dinner he’d ordered served in her sitting room, followed by a gentle seduction vanished. His eyes narrowed and fastened on her half-parted rosy mouth, the blood roaring in his head as the memory of those tempting lips crushed under his swept through him. To his damnation, he was instantly hard and ready to rip those clothes from her body and take what was his. He struggled against his most basic instincts, fighting back the urge to toss her on the bed and discover all the charms he knew lay beneath that charming blue gown.
Emily took a half step back at the expression on his face, even as her body responded to the hungry desire she saw there. Her nipples peaked against the thin silk of her gown, her legs went weak and the anticipation of his touch, of his mouth on hers, stilled further retreat.
Barnaby’s gaze dropped to her nipples pushing impudently against the blue fabric and he muttered something between a curse and a benediction and in two long strides was before her, dragging her into his arms. For a second, their eyes met, the fierce hunger blazing in his meeting the uncertain eagerness of hers and then with his hands tightly gripping her upper arms and holding her against him, his mouth came down hard and demanding on hers.
That first kiss was not gentle—he couldn’t control himself, his lips and tongue plundering at will—but as the seconds passed, despite every urge to the contrary, he was able to regain some sanity. This was
Emily.
His wife. His bride!
Breathing as if he’d run a race, he slowly gentled his touch, his tongue seeking and meeting hers, twining and tasting, luring her deeper into desire. His mouth seducing hers, his hands left her arms and slid to her hips, jerking her snugly against the rampant rod between his thighs.
Emily’s arms clasped his neck and she reveled in the force of his kiss and the feel of that muscled body pressing against hers. Ardently she returned his kiss, shivering with delight when his big hands gripped her hips and brought her to that rigid length of flesh that told of his arousal.
Kisses soon weren’t enough and, groaning, Barnaby swept her up into his arms and half stumbled to the bed. His mouth never leaving hers, he followed her down onto the bed, need and desire dictating his every move. Together they sprawled there, their mouths locked together, Barnaby’s body half covering hers, one thigh lodged between her legs.
As driven as he, Emily kissed him back passionately, gasping when his thigh rubbed insistently against that part of her lower body that burned and ached for his touch. Her hands clutched his shoulders and she twisted beneath him, her legs tightening around that intruding thigh, holding him there where all sensation seemed centered.
His hand moved to her breast and he shoved the material lower, baring her breasts, and those hard, masculine fingers cupped and caressed all that warm flesh he had laid bare. Trailing nipping kisses along her jaw, down her throat and across her chest, his lips traveled to her breasts and closed hungrily around her nipples. The touch of his mouth, the feel of his teeth and the laving of his tongue across those sensitive buds sent a flash of heat searing through Emily and she arched up, offering him all that he would take.
She was fire and satin beneath him and with the small part of his brain not clouded by desire, Barnaby fought to control the clawing hunger that demanded the joining of their bodies. Trembling on the knife-edge between sanity and primitive instinct, he slid between her legs, rocking his swollen manhood against the softness at the junction of her thighs. Pleasure erupted through him when her arms tightened around him and her hips rose up to meet him. Struggling not to give in to the violent need to bury himself deep within her, he tore his lips from her breast.
Beset by sensations and emotions that destroyed coherent thought, Emily cried out when that sweet suckling mouth left her nipple. Dazedly she stared up at the dark, fierce face above her, her eyes smoky and mysterious in the flickering light of the candles, her mouth rosy and swollen from his kisses and her cheeks flushed with desire.
Barnaby had never seen anything lovelier . . . and she deserved better, he thought angrily, than a brutal mating with a rutting boar. Yet when he started to lever his body away from hers, Emily’s arms tightened and she breathed, “No. Don’t leave me this way. I need you.”
Her words inflamed him, but he threw off the powerful urge to sink back and seek his own pleasure. Forcing a smile that was as tender as it was strained, he muttered, “Emily, love, if you don’t let me put some space between myself and your tempting self, I’ll not be able to control my baser instincts.” He ran a caressing finger across her mouth. “When you are in my arms, I lose my head and all I can think of is possessing you.” He swallowed. “Your first time should be gentle.”
Her body on fire, aching, burning for him, she didn’t give a damn about gentleness. Wanting him so badly she was certain she’d die if he didn’t end this delicious agony soon, she said, “Perhaps I don’t want gentle right now . . . perhaps I just want you to do with me as you will.”
Barnaby hovered on the edge and then his eyes dropped to her naked breasts and he lost the battle. Brushing his lips across hers, his hands fastened on her gown. “If that is your wish, madame wife,” he said huskily against her ear, “never let it be said that I disobeyed. And the first thing we need to do is get rid of these clothes.”
He proved exceedingly adept at stripping her out of her gown, and it took him only a few seconds longer to rid himself of his own clothes. In the dancing candlelight they regarded each other, Barnaby, big and dark and muscular; Emily, pale as alabaster and despite her slimness, seductively curved. Both were mesmerized by what they saw and like a fire stoked anew, the flame between them flared higher.
They met as one, lips and tongues desperately seeking, limbs entwining and bodies entangling. Ignoring promptings to the contrary, Barnaby lingered over the enchanting length of her, sampling again the honey of her breasts, his fingers drifting over the yielding form before him. As much to please her as himself, he managed to rein back his own desire and learned the curves and hollows of her body, those big, warm hands wandering down her back to her buttocks, squeezing the firm cheeks before slipping around to the front.
Each new caress heightened the ache, the melting dampness between her thighs and she moved restlessly beneath his touch, wanting, wanting, wanting.... He overpowered her, his taste upon her tongue, his scent in her nostrils and his skin warm and rough under her drifting hands. His mouth sought hers again, the blunt demands of his kiss heightening the pressure building within her, and when his fingers found her and parted the damp flesh between her thighs, Emily twisted in shocked delight.
His touch was knowing and gently, persistently, he teased her, pulling at the folds, lazily exploring before slipping one and then two fingers into her. She gasped at the new sensation, each thrust of those invading fingers sending waves of urgent yearning spiraling through her body. Dizzy, helpless under the onslaught of the simple, basic clamoring of her body, fevered and wild, she bit his lip, her fingers clawing at his back.
“Please,” she moaned against his mouth. Her arms tightened around his neck and her rising hips met the thrust of his fingers.
“Please!”

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