The Education of Mrs. Brimley (31 page)

“Both the man and beast are known for their gallantry,” he continued. “Lord Byron, the horse, has certainly visited as many taverns as the revered poet.”

“Have you forgotten that Pettibone is in the opposite direction?” Emma glanced uneasily at the passing greenery. She suspected she had already broken her promise to Alice.

“I haven’t, but Lord Byron has pressing concerns.”

“Those concerns being?”

“A bag of oats, a comfortable stall, fresh hay . . .” Nicholas’s brow lifted. “Did I mention that Lord Byron and I have waited for your flight from Pettibone since you left Black Oak?”

“Even in the rain?”

His lips thinned, but his attire answered her query. All the while she had assumed he felt she was beneath his concern, he was waiting in the wind and rain to stop her flight.

“We found a bit of shelter under a tree.” The forced lightness in his voice made her suspect otherwise. Her heart expanded. No one had ever sacrificed personal comfort on her behalf.

“Is there a Keats or Marlowe in the stables waiting to take me back to the school?” She forced the question around the constriction in her throat.

He frowned down at her. “I will see you safely back, provided you promise you will stay at Pettibone and you won’t suddenly disappear over some foreign border.”

“I promise.” Twice in one evening, she had made the same promise. That two people cared so much about her to demand her oath filled her heart to overflowing. She could give her oath freely, she would never leave.

They dismounted just outside the stable. Nicholas tended to his horse while Emma admired his smooth efficient motions. She hadn’t thought of Nicholas’s capabilities beyond his artistic talents. He obviously knew his way around horseflesh as well, even with the disadvantage of a slight limp. He was a man of surprises. “I rather expected someone would tend to your horses for you.”

“Henry does, when needed. He’s not here today, though. I sent him off to tend to his wife.”

“I’m afraid the preparations for the ball took a toll on Cook,” Emma said. Thoughts of the dance brought to mind another question. She glanced up, uncertain. “You sent me the daisies, did you not?” His dimple deepened, granting an answer.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she lightly scolded. “Miss Higgins thought they were meant for one of the girls.”

“But you and I know better.” His low seductive voice slammed into her heart, tingled down her spine and set her nerve endings vibrating. Nicholas finished his tasks and closed the half door to the stall. “Come with me, Emma. I want to show you something.”

His hand grasped hers with firm determination, leading her to a back stall, the same one she had visited with Alice the night they had searched for Charlotte. A lantern hung from the rafters casting a yellow flickering light over the straw bedding.

“What is it? A new batch of kittens?” She looked around the empty stall, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “The one you gave Charlotte is causing some mischief at the school.”

He closed the door, then leaned against it, barring exit. “Ask me a question, Emma,” he commanded, low and masterful.

“What do you mean?” She stumbled backward a bit, desire flooding her senses. “What kind of question?”

His eyelids lowered. “You know what kind of question. Ask me.”

She tried to think. Dear Father in heaven, she tried. But all her thoughts riveted on the rich timbre of his voice, the building passion in his eyes, and the increasing bulge at the juncture of his thighs. Her nipples instinctively tightened to hard buds that scraped the washing silk shielding them. Moisture dampened her thighs. He stood in arm’s reach, broad, hard, and demanding. Her voice took a husky note. “What if I already know all I need for the girls?”

“You don’t.” He kissed the side of her neck just under her earlobe, sending vibrations down to her curling toes. “But if you can’t think of a question, I’ll ask one of you and you can undress me.”

Her one glimpse of his broad expanse of chest had haunted her for many sleepless nights. The little moisture remaining in her throat evaporated at the thought that she might experience such a sight again.

“What if someone sees us? You have houseguests, do you not?” The touch of his lips a bit lower on her neck pushed spasms of tingling sensation throughout her shoulder and chest. She tilted her head to give him greater access.

He smiled. “That’s two questions.” He shrugged off his coat, then his cravat, tossing all into a corner. “My houseguests can entertain themselves. I told them earlier that I’d be out for the day. No one will come out to the stables this late.”

Nicholas pulled her shawl, letting it slide smoothly across her shoulders before he rolled the wool into a ball and placed it on a bale of hay. A chill slipped down her back, though she certainly was not cold, quite the opposite.

“Ask me another,” he whispered, turning his attention to the row of buttons on her blouse.

Her mind melted to mush, liquefied by the intensity of his gaze on her chest. His fingers deftly revealed skin and bits of the ribbon and lace on her chemise and corset. Her breath quickened. “What are your intentions?”

“Right now?” His brow lifted in time with the corner of his mouth. She nodded, her throat too dry for words.

“My intentions are for you to receive a different kind of flower in the future, one that does not denote innocence.” He pulled the bottom of her blouse from her skirt, then slipped the sleeves off her shoulders, catching at her elbows. Using the pleated muslin as one might use a rope, he pulled her close till her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. “Now, I have a question for you.” His voice swirled in her ear, rich and seductive. “Which of these kisses do you enjoy the most?”

His lips descended moist and demanding. She opened wide for him, wanting him deeper, closer. Her arms slid around his waist then up his broad shoulders, holding on as her legs dissolved to jelly. All of her intended resistance, all of her supposed control, evaporated in the heat of his kiss. Their tongues mated, allowing her to enjoy the hard, firm press of him. His hardness pressed other places as well. The jut of him pushed into her fig leaf apron, moisture pooling between her thighs.

Much too soon, he pulled back, allowing a few inches of heated air between them. She struggled for breath, feeling the pinch of constricting whalebone. His gaze slipped to the top of her corset, where her chest rose and fell with her labored breathing.

“Where’s the pink?” he rasped, surprising her that he was similarly afflicted by lack of breath. Before she could answer, his fingers teased the white satin, enticing her nipples to tighten and push at the restraining lace. Other parts of her body answered his call as well, eliciting ripples of anticipation and desire. He bent down and kissed the birthmark on the rise of her breast. Two moist lips barely cooled the heated flesh beneath. She wanted more. Where once she clung to the fabric barriers between his gaze and her body, now she cursed the impediments denying her release.

“I have to choose between those two kisses?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice from shaking.

“Between these three.” He knelt, lifting her skirts to reveal the narrow band of skin between her stocking and drawers. One hand reached under the lace of the drawers, reaching to the top of her leg, while he kissed the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh. Her knees shook. His gentle tug on her hips brought her down to the yielding hay.

He extricated himself from her billowing skirts. “Well?” he asked, breathless.

“I enjoyed all three,” she said, reaching for the buttons on his trousers.

He laughed. “I thought you wanted to deprive me of my shirt. You tugged it free from the waist when we kissed.”

She hadn’t realized that, but no matter. She shook her head. “I want to see your manhood,” she said, ignoring the warning bells sounding in her head. If she were to remain at Pettibone, she must remain as a widow. Innocence was not expected of her, and at this moment, no longer desired. Her hand stroked the length of his protrusion. “I want to see flesh and blood, not a drawing or a painting.”

“Then you shall.” In short order he tugged free of his trousers and drawers. His man’s flesh rose in a slant from a nest of thick coarse black hair. Although his drawing had proved factual, his reality manifested much thicker and longer than she had anticipated. Her breath caught. It stretched toward her as if it had a mind of its own.

“May I touch it?” she asked, enthralled at the way it stretched and pulsated.

“You know the price.” His eyes smoldered with passion, daring her to take the lead.

Holding his gaze with her own, she stood before him, then unfastened her skirts, letting them fall to the stable floor at his knees. She stepped out of the pile of petticoats and fabric, then bending low so her breasts would dangle free of their satin support, she moved the clothing aside. Emma approached Nicholas with reverence, much as she imagined Artemis would have done. She knelt beside him, then carefully wrapped her hand around his shaft to measure his thickness with her thumb and forefinger. His heated flesh moved rhythmically against her hand. She stroked its length, marveling at the velvety smoothness of the reddening head.

“If you teach your girls to handle their men like that, they should have no difficulty arousing them for the purpose at hand.” His voice sounded strained, giving her a perverse form of pleasure. She tightened her grip. He gasped.

“Did I hurt you?” She let go, afraid her experiment had been too brutal.

“Only with pleasure, my sweet.” He led her hand back to his shaft. “Examine me as you will.”

She relaxed, using her other hand to explore the various textures of his skin. “What is this drop of moisture at the very tip? Is that your seed? I had thought there would be more.”

“There will be more if you keep studying me so thoroughly.” His eyes narrowed to mere slits. His breathing turned shallow.

Emma slipped the drop of moisture onto her finger and raised it to her lips.

“Oh God, Emma,” he groaned. “Who taught you to do that?”

She sucked the tip of her finger, sampling the salty taste of his seed. Did all men taste this way? Or just the extraordinarily talented ones? She smiled down at Nicholas, who writhed in apparent discomfort. “All in the pursuit of knowledge, my lord.”

“Again,” he demanded, but she shook her head.

“You’ve answered my question and deserve your forfeit.” She stood, planting her feet on either side of his knees, then released her stockings from the corset’s garters. Arching her back, she reached behind to unfasten her corset.

“Let me,” he offered, but she shook her head.

“Don’t touch,” she whispered. “I wish to do this for you.” She loosened the back lacing until she could pull both the whale and underlying chemise free overhead. She tossed them on the growing pile of clothes.

Nicholas appeared mesmerized by the sway of her bosom once freed of the constricting cloth. She bent forward to roll her stockings. Her nipples strained toward his chest.

“My God, you are beautiful,” he said, awe evident in his voice. “Is there any wonder that my best work is of you?”

His tone, his words, and his gaze exorcized her uncle’s insidious whispers. An artist could recognize beauty, and never had she felt more beautiful. Nicholas reached for her breast, and she leaned into his grasp, letting her fullness fill his palm. He paid homage to her by touch and tongue, before slowly drawing her down to the hay.

“I want you to feel my manhood inside of you,” he said with difficulty. “But only if you wish it as well. There’s no turning back, Emma.”

“Yes,” she said. Already anticipation exploded through her body. No matter what else may happen, if she were to be a spinster like Cecilia or Beatrice, she would have this moment, this knowledge, this experience to carry the rest of her life.

He removed her drawers. For the first time, she lay totally exposed to his eyes. A brief moment of apprehension melted in his smoldering gaze. He began as before, massaging her feminine core with his fingers. She wanted his words. He had always patiently explained what was happening before. However, her throat, as dry as the scattered straw around them, couldn’t utter a plea. All her body moisture gathered between her legs, proclaiming both need and desire. He guided his shaft to her waiting sheath. She stiffened.

“Relax, my dear Emma,” he whispered, easing his body down till he covered every inch of her. Never had anyone touched her so thoroughly, so intimately. She rejoiced in his nearness, accepting his weight. His lips grazed on hers, then he pressed his man’s flesh to her wetness, just as he had in her hand, once, twice, then . . .

“Oh!” His mouth captured her cry of pain, far more than the pinprick she had hoped for. Nicholas held still, waiting for her body to accommodate him, before pressing on. Her hips discovered his rhythm and parried, in effect pulling him deeper. An internal pulsing ebbed and flowed with each of his thrusts, as if some lofty goal beckoned just out of reach. Just as she strained to reach it, a great tension shattered in rippling waves of pleasure.

He pulled on her shoulders forcing his way up to her womb. A moment later, he arched, forcing a guttural sound between his lips, while Emma lay triumphant beneath, accepting all he had to give.

His body sagged heavily upon her, while a part of him remained inside. Such an astonishing sensation, as if a part of his talent, compassion, and determination all lingered inside her, mingling with her own body’s juices. Her breasts nestled in the hair of his chest, his hips pressed into hers. His heartbeat pounded fast and solid in her ear. Such an ancient posture listening to another’s life force. Never had she felt so new, so alive, so purposeful.

Purposeful? Yes, she decided. There was the purpose of need,
her
need to give of herself to this man. Their interlocking bodies felt both correct and absolutely necessary.