The Education of Mrs. Brimley (22 page)

Chambers pulled back, grinning at her over her drawers. “That is the kind of pleasure that can exist between a man and a woman.”

“I . . . I had no idea,” she gasped, struggling for control over her vocal chords. She slipped her hands over her midriff. “I fear something exploded deep inside.”

“That is what I wished you to experience.” His lips pressed against the thin linen covering her thigh. A tremor rippled through her, reminding her of the series of tremors she had just experienced.

“You are whole,” he assured her. “Nothing has ruptured.”

“Are you quite certain?” Whole? How could she ever be whole again? The experience had fractured her innocence beyond repair. She pushed herself up to her elbows so she could see his face, to see if he was appalled by her wantonness. “It felt so . . . powerful.”

His eyes crinkled, his grin broadened. He appeared quite pleased with himself, and by extension, her.

“I assure you, everything is as it should be. You have no cause for alarm.” He drew back, allowing her to close her legs.

Of course she had cause for alarm! Was this not the very thing that led to her mother’s demise? Still, as the tingling faded from her extremities, she was grateful she had experienced this incredible sense of intimacy at least once in her life. She drew in a deep breath and glanced to Nicholas. If she was indeed destined to be ruined like her mother, at least Nicholas had been the one.

“Is that how it felt to you,” she asked, curious if men and women were similar in this regard. “Like a captured burst of thunder?”

“Not this time.” He smiled. “But I enjoyed bringing pleasure to you.” He held out a hand to help her rise to a seated position.

Pity, she thought, feeling far superior and immensely pleased to be a woman. With Nicholas’s assistance, she pulled herself upright, then glanced to her lap. “Why isn’t there blood? I told the girls there would be blood their first time.”

His eyes widened a moment before he sat beside her. “Emma, I didn’t penetrate you in that way.” He took her hand in his and stroked it softly. “You are still a virgin, although a very knowledgeable one.”

The shame of her ignorance heated her cheeks. “You mean, this was not the coupling for which I’m preparing my girls?”

He shook his head. A rueful smile shaped his lips.

“And I am not ruined?” she asked, adjusting her glasses.

Compassion drained from his face. He averted her direct gaze and stood, suddenly searching for some unnamed object. “I . . . I wouldn’t discuss this incident with anyone else, Emma. They might misconstrue what has transpired. Another man would not appreciate that you had been pleasured—”

“Another man?” She asked, feeling shame wash over her. He assumed she would allow another man the same liberties she shared with Nicholas? Earlier she had thought her innocence had shattered in a loud tumultuous explosion. She knew better now. Life-altering events cannot be measured by the noise they make. Her heart had just been crushed with barely a sound.

She rose and walked swiftly to the corner Japonaise screen in order to dress.

“Emma, don’t be angry with me. I’ve done nothing to harm you,” he pleaded beyond the screen.

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Her constricted throat made it impossible.

“I gave you pleasure. I took nothing away from you.”

“Just my heart,” she whispered, doubting that her voice carried beyond the screen. She could hear the tap of his walking stick accompanying what she assumed was his pacing. With practiced efficiency, she pulled her black bombazine skirt over her head so it could settle on flounced petticoats. However, her trembling fingers couldn’t manage the tiny fastenings needed to secure the garment. She covered her face with her hands, choking back the sob that burned her throat.

What had she done? Chambers had suggested that he had changed nothing about her, that she was still innocent. Yet if that were true, why did her private regions still tingle and throb as if awakened after a long slumber? Why did her chest feel empty and hollow and devoid of the happiness and excitement that had inhabited it that very morning. Chambers said he had changed nothing about her, but in fact he had changed everything.

The tapping stopped. He was near. Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the necessary hooks on her skirt before slipping her arms through the bodice.

“The painting isn’t finished, Emma. We’re not finished.”

She looked toward the ceiling, trying to draw a deep breath. Heavenly Father! How could Chambers expect her to continue after suggesting other men would enjoy the very liberties she had permitted him?
You’re just like your mother,
her uncle’s voice said. Emma retrieved her mother’s handkerchief, holding it to her mouth to hide the sound of ragged breathing. Was this how her mother felt? Used by a man and then tossed aside for the next man to enjoy? A half-garbled cry rose from her throat.

“Emma? Emma, are you all right? Speak to me.”

She could not, her throat too constricted for words. Instead she drew in breath as best she could and proceeded to button the front of the bodice. If in truth he had left no tangible evidence of the day’s activities, perhaps she should be grateful as he suggested. Her heart may always belong to Nicholas, but from this day forth she would never allow herself to be alone in his company. His compassionate eyes might tempt her, his voice might lull her, but now that she knew his true nature, she was steeled against his seductive ways. She drew a calming breath and stepped out from the screen.

The sight of Nicholas leaning heavily on his stick twisted her heart as if it were broken anew. Her breath caught. Recognizing that she would never be completely able to resist him, she lowered her gaze and hurried for the door, ignoring his outstretched arm.

“Emma, wait. You don’t understand. Emma!” He called after her.

She paused long enough to look back over her shoulder. She sniffed. “My name is Mrs. Brimley.”

 
THE MOMENT THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND HER, HE ground his stick into the floor. She left. He couldn’t believe it. After the experience they had just shared, she still walked out the door.

The ungrateful wench! Hadn’t she tempted him with skin so soft and delicate that the sable brush proved harsh in comparison? She teased him with breasts that begged to be initiated to a man’s touch. Hadn’t she implored him with her own words,
touch me
?

A groan slipped from his lips as he remembered the moment. His manhood had throbbed to bury itself deep in her lush body. She laid open to him, his for the taking. Yet he restrained himself. He sacrificed his own pleasure for her maidenhood. He gave her everything, everything!

He turned abruptly and stalked up to his painting of Artemis.

He raised his stick, planning to destroy the canvas, but the sight of Emma’s sweet innocent smile slashed through his rage-induced haze. Her compassionate iridescent gaze, so reminiscent of the sea with all its mysteries, stilled his hand. Her eyes had held that same guileless expression when she asked,
Am I ruined?
His hasty response had turned those compassionate orbs to emerald hardness. What was his reply? He had been so caught in her web of inexperience, in furthering her education, that he hadn’t been thinking . . .

Bloody hell! He was no better than that miserable maggot of an uncle. Did he really suggest that she would enjoy intimacy with another man? As if she were a bit of a light-skirt offering her charms for pleasure? What a bloody fool he’d been, a blithering idiot better suited for an asylum than the company of gently bred women.

“Emma, wait!” He hobbled after her, as fast as a man with a cane could run. But he was too late; she was gone into the downpour outside.

 
THE NEXT DAY, A PACKAGE ARRIVED AT PETTIBONE FROM Lord’s in London. Inside, lay ten pairs of white silk gloves in various sizes, as well as a pair in black silk and another of black lace.

Cecilia ruffled through the box. “Who ordered these gloves?” She scowled. “Beatrice can mend the old ones.”

Finding neither a card nor a bill, she sent an inquiry to Lord’s only to learn by return post that an anonymous donor had extended the gift.

Frowning, she fanned the card in front of her face. “Curious,” she commented to no one in particular. “Most curious, indeed.”

NICHOLAS WORKED FURIOUSLY ON HIS PAINTING. Easter came and went with little fanfare at Black Oak. The Chambers’s carriage returned empty time and again from the scheduled pickup at Pettibone. According to Henry, a rash of coughs brought on by “forgetting winter stays out the welcome” kept Emma at the school. But Nicholas suspected his own improprieties kept Emma at bay. She was avoiding him.

The thought twisted in his gut. If he ran into her in the village today, as he had earlier, would she still speak to him? Or would she hurry by with a vinegar expression, offering not even a silent nod in acknowledgment? The unanswered question nagged at him in a way that only working on
Artemis’s Revenge
could alleviate. In painting he found her acceptance and so devoted every waking moment to his art.

His sketches from earlier sessions allowed him to continue to work without a live model. He could easily paint Emma from memory, and frequently did. He couldn’t pen a letter to a colleague without a study of Emma’s seductive eyes or the long sweep of her neck drawn in the margin. As much as he longed to witness Emma transform into the goddess in the privacy of his studio, the deadline for entering the exhibition loomed near. Chambers bent all his energies to finishing
Artemis’s Revenge
.

A dour wet spell proved particularly productive. By the time the weather broke, Nicholas determined he needed a break as well. With a thought that Emma might be of a similar mind, he sent a note inviting Emma on a painting expedition. Her acceptance brought with it relief, gratitude, and great anticipation.

“Henry has been dispatched to Pettibone to pick up Mrs. Brimley, sir,” Thomas announced.

“Excellent, excellent.” Nicholas smiled, surprised at how invigorating that simple news could be. He pranced about his studio like an expectant father. “Is everything ready?”

“I have a hamper packed with food, drink, a cloth for sitting, and a bit of libation, should the need arise,” Thomas answered in dry humor.

“Very good.” Nicholas smiled again, imagining the cloth appropriate for other means of repose beyond mere sitting.

He busied himself gathering painting supplies, his large primed canvas, and a smaller one for Emma. He had just draped
Artemis’s Revenge
when Thomas advised that the carriage had returned. After tucking an easel under one arm and grasping a canvas with the other, Nicholas hurried to the front door, anxious to greet Emma after a long absence.

Although Henry was to collect Emma from Pettibone in the carriage, just as he had for modeling sessions, Nicholas had planned to use a more intimate conveyance to transport just the two of them to a favored painting spot.

Instead, Henry stood by the open carriage door. A quick glance at the colorful array inside the carriage meant either Emma had declared the end to her period of mourning in no uncertain terms, or she was not alone. As much as he would have preferred the former, he suspected the latter.

“Mrs. Brimley, I see I have visitors,” he said, irritated. Not only did guests mean Emma would remain buried in that ridiculous, ill-fashioned black garment, but the woman dared to test his carefully constructed reputation for avoiding society. Under the circumstances, he should be the one dressed in mourning.

“Not visitors exactly, fellow artists,” Emma announced with great enthusiasm. “I’ve brought some of the girls along so they might benefit from your talent. You remember Miss Alice Darlington and Miss Charlotte Hawkins.”

He bowed slightly as each was reintroduced. “Of course, I remember.”
Well played, Emma.
One had to admire her ingenuity. With the girls in attendance, he would have to forgo his other planned pleasurable pursuits.

“I hope you forgive my liberty in extending your invitation to these talented ladies.” Her smile conveyed her purposefulness.
Well done, indeed.

Nicholas handed the easel and canvas over to Henry for proper stowing. “Allow me to collect a few more supplies for my unexpected guests, and I shall immediately return.”

Nicholas returned to his studio for some drawing pads and charcoal. She may have won this round, but an afternoon with Emma would be far superior to an afternoon without.

 
“YOU’RE VERY GOOD, YOU KNOW,” EMMA SAID, SITTING on the hillside, collecting daisies. “Your paintings capture more than the shapes and the colors. They capture the feeling of the countryside.”

He quirked a brow her way, pleased at her compliment. “I thought you said you weren’t a critic.”

“I’m not, but I have eyes, do I not?”