Chapter Twenty-Four #2
The flap fell open, and he dropped to his knees.
His large, broad hands framed her face, and he kissed her again with a velvety stroke of his tongue.
One of those hands moved to her ankle and smoothed up her leg.
A yearning so powerful engulfed her, swept away her furling doubts.
Longing pooled between her legs, and her hips lifted. His lips moved to her neck.
“God’s teeth, you’ll be the death of—” He cut off his own words by taking her mouth again.
Desperate. Unguarded.
This one held something else entirely. Panic. Fear. Possession.
For one heartbeat, she froze. But his hand moved to the heart of her. She was wet with need. Something she’d never experienced before. His fingers dipped inside, and she nearly squealed.
Without another word, he was above her and pushing a pulsing staff inside her.
Before he’d seated himself, an explosion of sensation soared, pushing her over an unseen cliff with no apparatus to catch her fall.
She clawed at his shoulders while the emotions roiled through her with a sting behind her eyes and her body pulsating.
She clung to him with her arms tight about his neck and her legs across his bum. This…this was nothing like Stanford.
In one, two, three pumps, Emerson’s head lifted, his neck straining. He quickly buried his mouth against her shoulder and let loose a muffled roar while that impressive staff throbbed within her.
Slowly, he lifted his head, but she kept her eyes tightly shut, terrified the tears she’d willed back would betray her.
“Did I hurt you?” The words, a soft growl, seeped into her bones.
“No,” she whispered. What the devil was she thinking?
And just like that, Adventurous Rose soared back. She moved her hands to his shoulders and attempted to shove him away, but he leaned in and feathered his lips over hers.
She closed her eyes again, hating her betraying body.
“I didn’t come here for…this…”
The words hurt. Her eyes flew open. “Don’t,” she snapped, her voice harsh and shaking. “Get off me.”
“I will not be ignored,” he said roughly, still catching his breath.
“Neither will I. Ever. Never again. I’m worth more than that!
” She shook her head as reality blasted back.
Her hands flew up. She planted them on his chest and shoved.
Of course, to no avail. The man was as stout as English oak.
“I was ready to leave. Show up at your door. To…to warn you, you pompous ass—” She stopped, stunned with her loss of temper.
Her hands squeezed into fists. Never in her life had she even uttered such a word as…as ass. Not even to that insolent coxcomb of a husband she’d been foolish enough to wed. “I…I thought you might be in danger.”
Emerson slowly pulled his body from hers, wincing, and rolled off her. “Me? In danger?”
“Yes, you fool!” she said, flustered, shoving her skirts down and sitting up.
“I had a visit from my sister and sister-in-law not twenty minutes past. My brother knows someone rifled through his desk.” Exasperation pelted her.
“They also mentioned Shufflebottom’s. It’s been concluded the search took place during the masquerade. ”
His expression shifted. “That libertine never saw our faces.” He stood and, with a few efficient moves, put his clothes to rights then strode across the room and poured two glasses of the brandy he’d sent over. She should have railed at him for taking the liberty, but she didn’t have it in her.
He was back in a thrice and held one out. “Is that all they said?”
She accepted the reprieve with great vigor because, well, she felt a little desperate for normalcy. “Just that the papers were disturbed. Touched.”
“Hell,” he muttered, then tossed back the contents of his glass.
Her own brandy burned down her throat. She inhaled through her nose then let it out through pursed lips. “Have you any luck toward locating your blackmailer?” she asked, staring into the fire to avoid his eyes.
Someone tapped at the door.
Panic spiked through her. “Blast,” she whimpered.
“It’s all right,” he said in a low voice, then leaned in, brushing her lips. “You are mistress of your own domain. You look…as beautiful as ever.”
Mistress of my domain. She may not trust him in much, but on this he was right. Adventurous Rose’s spine stiffened. She nodded and patted her hair. “Did you say…beautiful?”
He grinned, then strolled to the bookcases, appearing to browse the titles with his hands at his back. If Winston didn’t enter the room, he would never even know Mr. Whitmore was in her company. Goodness, how cowardly was she?
With a quick glance toward Emerson, Rose smoothed her hands over her skirts. “Enter.”
Winston opened the door, holding the silver tray with a card.
He entered.
Swallowing her pride, Rose straightened. “What is this?” she asked, taking the card.
“Lady Brockway and her daughters, Ladies Irene and Cecelia, to see you, madam. Lady Brockway said she was here on your invitation.”
Rose had only penned the invitation a couple of days ago. “Of course, Winston. Show the ladies in and order more tea.” With one hand, she indicated the service on the table. “This is cold. Add tarts. As I understand it, Lady Cecelia is quite fond of them.”
Winston inclined his head, picked up the used tea service, turned back for the door, and nearly stumbled. Ah. He’d seen Emerson. She would not smile. Just as quickly, he recovered and latched the door softly behind him.
“He hates me,” Rose stated.
Emerson faced her. The look in his eyes was most discerning. “Then sack him.”
She really should. “You must leave,” she hissed.
Too late. The door opened again, and Winston ushered in her guests. Lady Brockway was tall and her daughters lovely.
Emerson sauntered over as if he hadn’t heard her demand.
Lady Brockway pulled up. “Oh, I hope we’re not intruding?”
“Of course not,” Rose said. “Please sit. Winston is arranging for tea right this minute. May I present Mr. Whitmore of Whitmore’s Wholesale Warehouse?
” There was more than one way to play this scenario, she decided.
“Mr. Whitmore is a major benefactor of Hope House.” She turned a sharp smile on him that he, again, ignored.
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Brockway.” He never used that sort of charm on Rose, she fumed, resentment flaring.
“Thank you, Mr. Whitmore,” Lady Brockway said with that braying laugh that betrayed her nervousness. “These are my daughters, Irene and Cecelia.”
Irene, all grace, dipped a perfect curtsy. If memory served, Rose believed her age at ten, perhaps eleven. Cecelia’s curtsy was less refined, and Irene shot her sister an admonishing look.
“We’re here to show Lady Stanford safeguarding lessons,” Cecelia informed him. She was some three years or so younger than Irene, Rose believed.
Left speechless, Emerson blinked.
Rose grinned and took her seat. “I cannot wait to hear all about it.”
Winston entered with tea, and Rose poured for her guests. All her guests.
“This I’ve got to hear,” Emerson muttered.
“It’s quite fun,” Cecelia informed him. “You get to dress like a boy and hold your fists up.” She stood and jumped into said stance.
Irene winced. “Please excuse my sister, Lady Stanford and Mr. Whitmore. She is still very young.” Irene spoke as if she were one of the matrons of Almack’s.
Lady Brockway patted her older daughter’s hand.
“Irene tends to forget on occasion she is not Cecelia’s mother.
” Her gaze went to Emerson then back to Rose.
“The fact of the matter is, as we discussed at Ryleigh’s dinner, my husband instructs my daughters on how to defend themselves should they end up in some untenable situation.
” She shuddered, leaving Rose rather curious.
“It is my belief that Irene and Cecelia could enlighten you more fully than I on how your Hope House women could benefit.”
“I…I see,” Rose stuttered out, shocked beyond a more intelligent response.
Cecelia turned to Emerson. “I could show you!”
Emerson looked at Rose, his brows raised in challenge. “By all means, Lady Cecelia.” He rose from his chair.
“Mama, she’s wearing a dress,” Irene said in a low voice.
“That’s all right, darling. We’ve talked of this before. You don’t wear trousers to the park, do you?”
“No, Mama.”
“Proceed, Celia.”
Rose watched, fascinated.
Cecelia vibrated with anticipation as she led Emerson to the middle of the library, her blond curls bouncing with every step. “Are you ready, Mr. Whitmore?” There was truly nothing missish about the girl, but her voice was decidedly meek.
Emerson bowed. “Yes, my lady.”
“I shall now demonstrate the new escape,” she announced with the solemnity of a field commander.
Irene was too polite to groan aloud, but clearly she desired nothing more than to sink through the floor.
Cecelia’s hands clenched tightly at her sides.
Emerson looked down at her, an indulgent smile curving his lips. “New? How concerning.”
Rose braced herself, breath held. She didn’t know Lady Brockway well, though rumors were the ton’s most valuable commodity. They made and broke reputations on the flip of a shilling.
The child marched up and seized one of Emerson’s broad hands and wrapped it around her wrist. “Pretend you’re a kidnapper,” she ordered.
Rose nearly gasped at her straightforwardness but somehow swallowed it.
Emerson shot Rose a look of decided amusement. “A kidnapper,” he repeated slowly. Then nodded. “Very well. I shall try not to take offense,” he teased.
“I give you leave to tighten your hold, sir,” she instructed.
Emerson shot Rose a look—half plea, half dread, full panic. “I-I don’t wish to hurt you, my lady.”
“You won’t,” the child insisted.
Irene sighed, reminding Rose of her presence. She’d nearly forgotten her. “You may as well humor her, sir. She will only demonstrate it on your boot if you do not.”
Cecelia inhaled, then twisted her wrist sharply toward his thumb, snapping free with practiced ease,