The Wicked Wallflower (24 page)

“I don't know. I just don't know,” she cried so passionately he had to believe she wasn't just replying to what he'd said.

“Do you think he will try to come to your window?” Blake wondered, looking out and down at the empty garden below. “Lord knows I've made it easy for him. What with having a trellis installed.”

“I am undone by your consideration and charity,” she grumbled as she tried to lug the valise toward the door.

“Tell me, did he weep when he proposed to you at midnight at our gazebo? Did he fight off a band of armed street children to protect your honor? Did he steal into your bedroom for a passionate encounter? Will he even come to the door to help you with your suitcase?”

“It's just like the letters,” she said. She set down the suitcase.

“It's all just like the letters,” he said. “Emma, do you want to know the real reason I am here?”

“Yes, curse you,” she muttered.

“I want our story to be real,” he said softly.

“It's the competition, isn't it? Or is it the fortune?”

She was so suspicious. She did not have any confidence. She didn't know what she did to him. If he were patient, and lucky, he would be able to show her and to make her know that she was beautiful and wonderful and worthy of love. Even if she ended up running off with lover boy, at least she would know that she was an amazing woman.

“The chase certainly has my heart pounding,” he said. “But it's not the competition or the fortune.”

“If I had just thrown myself at you, fallen right at your feet gasping ‘Oh, Duke, ‘have your way with me,' you wouldn't be here,” she said plainly, and it was God's honest truth.

Every step of the way she had refused and he had persisted. So he could not fault her for the logical question that followed.

“So what happens, Blake, if I say yes?”

She peered up at him, expectant.

His heart was in his throat.

He didn't know what would happen if she said yes. Correction: He knew exactly what would happen—­they would make love, it would be exquisite—­but he didn't know what would happen after that. Not being the idiot ­people often assumed he was, he knew this was the
after
she was asking about.

“You'll just have faith, Emma, that my intentions are good and that I want you, and only you.”

“I want to, but I cannot. But Benedict—­”

She picked up her valise, gripping it hard with both hands. If she left tonight, he would be wrecked, forever. No other woman would do.

When he spoke next, it was from the heart, from his gut, from his head. It was uncensored. It was the truth.

“You are used to being overlooked,” he said, and she paused. He rushed on. “It's because we live in a world that values simpering instead of intelligence in a woman, and blondes instead of dark beauties, belles of the ball instead of the lovely wallflowers. But they are wrong, Emma, not you,” he said earnestly. “You think you aren't quite enough, but you
are
.”

She set the suitcase down.

Since she was not yet in his arms, he kept talking.

“I love your eyes,” he said. “They're pretty and all, but there is an intelligence in your gaze. You see right through me, past all the trappings and posturing. It terrifies me but I crave it all the same. I saw the way you looked at Benedict, and I'll do anything for you to look at me that way. Like you love me. Like you believe in me.”

It was the truth. She
had
to believe him.

He stepped away from the window, stepped closer to her. She did not move.

“I have known a lot of women. But I have never known a woman like you. I'm done, Emma. You are it for me. You are the one.”

He lowered himself to one knee and clasped her hands. She gave a little start and her breath hitched in her throat. This was not like the last time he proposed, when they had an audience and it was all for show.

This moment was theirs, and theirs alone.

Emma bit her lip, trying not to cry. Gad, he didn't want to make her cry. He wanted to make her happy.

“Will you marry me for real, Emma? Marry me because you love me, or because you could. Marry me because you want to. Not because of our charade . . . just because of you, and just because of me . . .” The words tumbled out inelegantly but honestly.

She squeezed his hand. He dared to hope.

“I believe in the original letter, that you wept as you proposed,” she said, but there was a catch in her voice and a smile on her lips.

“And I believe in the original letter, that you said yes.”

O
NE THING WAS
certain: She would not be eloping tonight. Emma knew it by the wave of relief that hit her when Blake—­not Benedict—­climbed in through her window. She knew by how glad she was to set down that blasted suitcase. She knew by the urge to launch herself into Blake's arms. Oh, she still was plagued with doubts and uncertainties, and his handsomeness didn't help her think clearly at all.

But the word
Yes
caught in her throat, held back by a swarm of fears. Would he be faithful to her? What would everyone say? She could hear the vicious rumors already:
We were suspicious from the start.

Did she prefer the quiet life of a wallflower or could she learn to gracefully manage the role of fabulously wealthy duchess? If tonight's ball were any indication, she was just not the right woman for that formidable role.

Would she be able to keep a man like Blake satisfied? Would he not become bored with her? She knew that he was a strong, intelligent man and that he knew his own mind and would not propose marriage lightly. The real question was: Did she believe she was interesting and loving enough? Could she, lifelong wallflower, London's Least Likely and the Buxom Bluestocking, believe in herself enough to say yes?

Quite possibly . . .

In spite of the messy fears and feelings, there was no question about her desire. Emma knew one thing truly and completely: She wanted him. Kissing him was inevitable. Everything else was inevitable, too.

She clasped his beautiful face in her palms and pressed her lips to his. In an instant a sweet kiss turned wild. Blake growled and pulled her close and together they went tumbling down to the carpet in a glorious tangle of limbs.

He ran his fingers through her hair, kissing her deeply. She tugged off his cravat and pulled at the buttons just enough so she could slip her hands under his shirt to feel his hot skin and the determined thud of his heartbeat. She lightly flicked her fingertip over his nipple and caught his sharp intake of breath.

Perhaps she could please him.

His hands skimmed up, up, up from her ankles and higher. She sighed. Blake's hands skimmed up, up, up her waist to her breasts. She moaned. Blake's fingertips began working at the blasted buttons on the back of her dress, then the lacings of her corset. Emma yanked at his coat; he shrugged it off. She swiftly unbuttoned his waistcoat.

She wanted him. She wanted this. Of that, there were no questions.

He wanted her, too. Of that there was no question. She could feel his rock hard arousal pressing against the vee of her thighs, demanding entry. Her skin now covered, barely, in her chemise, she felt the carpet rubbing roughly against her skin, never letting her forget this was real. This was happening.

“We should slow down,” he whispered, while still managing to kiss her and hold her tightly to him.

Young ladies waited until marriage.

Young ladies probably did not act indecently with known rogues on the carpet.

“I don't want to wait,” she whispered back.

“Oh God, Emma,” he rasped, before he kissed her deeply again. His tongue tangled and teased with hers. She nibbled his lower lip, he sucked upon hers. Once again he clasped her ankle, roughly caressing her, and as his hand skimmed higher until he found that magical place, stroking slowly and gently back and forth and round and round.

She felt that warmth. A spark where their lips had first met. A fire, smoldering hotter with his every touch, and threatening to burst into flame at any second. She could hardly breathe. She could scarcely keep her cries and moans quiet.

“I want to be inside you,” he whispered.

“I want you to be.”

But he just kept teasing her, tormenting her, urging that heat and fire to burn hotter and hotter. With his fingers brushing through her hair, he tightened his fist and dragged his mouth down to her breasts, where he did the most wicked things that sent her spiraling over the edge. He caught her cries with his kiss.

He held her tight against his chest as her pulse slowed and her breathing returned to something like normal. Then he untangled himself and stood.

“Where are you going?” He was not leaving her already! All those fears came roaring back to the forefront of her mind.

“The bed. Unless you prefer the floor?”

“You're not leaving?

“We're not finished yet,
Emily
,” he murmured with that wicked, heart-­melting grin of his. Then he scooped her up in his arms, as if she were a princess. Then he tossed her on the bed.

“You're right,” she said, smiling coyly and reaching for his arousal. Remembering that night in the moonlight, she took him in her mouth.

“That wasn't what I meant,” he murmured. Then he gasped and she took even more of him. He lightly threaded his fingers through her hair as she explored him with her mouth, her tongue. “But don't let me stop you,” he murmured. Emma reveled in giving him the same pleasure he had given her until he desperately urged her to stop.

She gazed up at him. Blake's own gaze was dark and questioning.

“Emma . . .” He brushed a wayward strand of her hair aside. She reached out for his hand, urging him to join her on the bed. He covered her body with his, inch after inch of hot skin and the exquisite sensation of his weight upon her.

Blake's kiss now was gentle, and she understood that for all their frantic passion, this was something to savor. It was a moment to remember. After this there would be no turning back.

She arched her back slightly, feeling his hard arousal seeking entry. Blake caressed her face, kissed her deeply, and whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

“I want you, Blake,” she whispered back. She did. There was no doubt about that. She wanted him because he
saw
her. And he didn't just see her as she saw herself, but he saw a more beautiful, clever, and daring version than she ever gave herself credit for. He made her feel all kinds of warm, wonderful things from his every touch to the way he made her feel about herself. Lovable.
Perhaps this could work . . .

The more he kissed her, sweetly, deeply, the more she got lost in the sensations, the more those thoughts went away and she indulged completely in this moment.

Blake pressed against Emma's entrance, wanting to thrust in completely and bury himself inside her. She gasped and he slowed. This was her first time. It was their first time. She arched her back, and he clasped her hand, entwining his fingers with hers and pressing it against the mattress.

His gaze locked with her dark blue eyes. He saw her fears. And her trust. And maybe something like love. Words failed him now but he wanted, needed, her to know that this meant
everything
to him. That he wouldn't disappoint her. Claiming her mouth for a kiss, he slowly eased in, inch by inch until he no longer knew where she ended and he began.

He began to thrust, slowly at first, until they found their rhythm. She was so wet for him it nearly killed him to go slow. She was so tight he forced himself to hold back.
Her first time.
But then she tightened her legs around him, dragged her fingertips down his back and kissed him hard.
But she was quite a minx.

Blake lost himself completely in feeling her, tasting her, exploring her. Her every sigh, her every moan, spurred him on. His heart was pounding like the devil. He breathed hard, feeling the tension build until he couldn't take it anymore. He wanted her so much and he wanted her to know that he loved her.

Thoughts went away after that, he could only feel. And knowing he loved her, that this
had
to be forever, made him insanely aware of every last sensation. Her fingers stroking his skin, her mouth kissing him, him breathing her in, all of her curves beneath him . . . he moved in and out and in and out in rough but perfect rhythm until he buried his face in her neck and cried out her name as he came.

 

Chapter 21

Now that Lady Grey has named Lady Emma Avery her heiress, few ­people doubt that the marriage between her and the Duke of Ashbrooke will take place. Throughout Mayfair, marriage-­minded Mamas and ambitious maidens despair.

—­“
F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE,”

T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

Ashbrooke Residence

The following morning

T
HE LETTER AR
RIVED
at breakfast. The crisp sheet of pristine ivory vellum was presented to His Grace in a silver tray polished to such a high shine that he could see his reflection in it. He looked happy. He looked, for the very first time, like a man in love. He'd left Emma just hours ago, at first light, and already he counted the minutes until he could see her again.

Blake unthinkingly picked up the letter and broke the red wax seal with no particular care. As if it were any other letter.

As if it were any other morning.

Last night he had made love to Emma. He had also successfully prevented her elopement, at least for one night. He dared to believe that he had shown her that they belonged together.

Last night, in Emma's arms, he discovered he'd been making love all wrong before—­or perhaps it hadn't been right, or
something.
It had never been that good, that great. With Emma, it had not just been a union of a man and woman. He would have sworn their souls connected. It was terrifying. Exhilarating. He wanted to do it again and again and again.

He had been lost and now found.

Thus he was
happy
when he opened the letter, which was perhaps the cruelest part of all.

Blake skimmed until he saw a name, a certain name. Then he slowed and went back to the start, reading slowly now, feeling each and every word like hot daggers piercing his vital organs.
I regret to inform you . . .
Then the words became blurry. Later, he would realize it wasn't poor handwriting, but a hot sheen of tears threatening to fall. He would not let them.

Avery House

Emma had seen Blake's carriage arrive. Then she fussed about with her hair (her perfectly lovely hair!) while waiting for a servant to knock on her door and inquire if she was at home. While waiting, she practiced a smile (a perfectly lovely smile!). She thought about pinching her cheeks, but they were already flushed pink. Her eyes were bright and her mouth . . . she touched her lips with her fingertips.

Blake.

Last night. Making love. There was no going back now, and she belonged to him body, mind, soul. She was nervous that he wouldn't return but her heart surged with joy and relief when the Ashbrooke carriage came into view—­not that she had been watching from the window. Very well, she had done just that whilst in a wickedly wonderful reverie, reliving each and every moment from last night.

She was desperate to see him and desperate to tell him YES, yes,
yes.

But then the knock on her bedchamber door didn't come, which was deuced odd. She knew, because she glanced at that clock—­which had been replaced to its perch upon the mantel—­with its ever so loud and cruel
tick tock tick tock
. How long did it take for him to hand his hat to the butler and for a servant to come upstairs and say, “The duke is here to see you”? Surely it did not take ten minutes!

He must be speaking with her parents. If he was telling them what had happened—­Oh! That would be forcing her hand, and she wanted none of that. She had a choice now, and she wanted him to know that she chose him.

No, her mother had probably dragged him off to ascertain his opinion on different colors of tea roses or eggshell satin versus a pure snowy white.

That didn't make sense either. Her mother had barely asked her opinion on any matters pertaining to the wedding. Why on earth would she ask a man? Besides,
the wedding was scheduled for tomorrow
. There was nothing left to decide—­other than if it would actually happen.

Emma looked at the clock: another four minutes had elapsed, and she now had to face a wretched possibility. Now that Blake had
won
her, was he leaving her? Dear God, he could be jilting her right now—­just when she had decided
yes.

No, she mustn't assume the worst. She ought to have faith. And confidence.

But she could tolerate the suspense no longer.

She would go downstairs. There was no reason she could not walk downstairs in her home and perhaps encounter him. Or press her ear against a closed door. Anyone would.

When she was just about at the bottom stair, Emma saw Blake emerge from her father's study. Immediately she knew something was wrong, for his expression was grave and his movements were tense. Behind him, her mother clung to her father's arm. Mother's eyes were red, as if she'd been crying, and her father just looked gray and deflated.

Emma experienced an unsettling ache in her belly. Something bad had happened; immediately she wished to go back in time just moments ago when she was fussing with her hair and eagerly awaiting a moment with Blake.

Blake looked up and his eyes met hers. He did not smile. She rather thought he
could
not smile. The dynamic, commanding man she knew was gone.

“Emma.” He said her name in a flat voice.

“Blake.” She said his name softly, tentatively, questioningly.

“If I might have a word with you,” he said. She glanced at her parents and they nodded and retreated into her father's study and closed the door, providing an unprecedented amount of privacy.

Emma felt, in equal measures, desperate to know what had happened and an utter dread of the moment when she knew.

Blake followed her into the drawing room and completely shut the door behind them. Not even an inch for the sake of propriety.

He reached for her hand. His felt so cold in hers, and she knew, just knew.

“Emma,” he said in a rough whisper, “Agatha died.”

“No,” Emma said. Or perhaps she merely moved her lips. “No.”

“I just received word this morning.”

“Blake, I am so sorry.”

“I have spoken with your parents. I thought she would have waited . . . I thought this was what she wanted, so she wouldn't . . . but we have no control over when our time is up, do we?”

She thought she was not expected to answer that.

Instead, she slid her arms around him, resting her cheek on his chest. He pulled her close and held her fiercely, burying his face in her hair. She felt a peculiar rise and fall of his chest. Breathing was hard for him. She felt his heart beating under her cheek. The rhythm was slow and irregular, as if his heart wasn't sure if it wanted to carry on or not.

“What happens now?”

“We will have to cancel the wedding,” he said flatly.

Cancel? Or did he mean reschedule for a later date? Emma opened her mouth to ask, but Blake carried on, so deep in his sorrow that he didn't seem to notice her.

“I will go to Grey Manor. A funeral will have to be arranged.”

“I will go with you,” she said impulsively.

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. “Someone will need to manage the execution of her will and oversee affairs. It is official. It is yours, Emma. All of it.”