Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
I trust you know what you’re about.
Truthfully, Emma could not say she did, but she’d hugged Aunt Georgie and assured her otherwise right before flying out the door. When had that been? Four hours ago? Five? Six? If only she could keep the time as well as she’d kept Aunt Georgie’s parting words and her own.
We will be swift. We will be careful. We will return with Lady Felicity. And no one shall know.
How likely that outcome, though? The sky had blackened as the coach careened at full pace down the road, and they’d passed through at least two towns. Not a word said between them. Likely because Clearford was as busy as Emma, constructing various potential outcomes—the good and the bad.
But they needed to speak. They must.
She scooted to sit directly across from where he rested against the side of the coach, and she leaned forward, peering through the shadows to better see his face. His eyelashes fanned above his high cheekbones, and his usually tight lips were soft and full in sleep. Yes, sleeping. He needed his rest. The skin beneath his eyes had been too blue and shadowed the last few weeks, his cheeks too gaunt, the bones above them sharp as blades.
The coach hit a rut and bounced her backward, bounced him, too, away from and back into the glass with a thwack. She winced. He’d have a bruise there. He didn’t wake, but a lock of hair had fallen over his eye. She reached for the lock and gently, barely touching him at all, pushed it back in line with the rest of his hair. Silken and thick.
She wanted to dig her fingers deeper. In this touch, the danger of their letters writ in life.
His eyes flashed open, and his hand caught hers against his cheek, lowered it slowly to his leg but did not let go.
Caught. Smashing his head against glass didn’t wake him, but a touch—barely that—did?
“You are awake,” she said.
“Mm. What are you doing?”
“Trying to sit, but you have my hand.” Her backside hovered in the air behind as she bent in two. She’d meant to hold this posture but a moment to push that lock of hair back, but now he held her firm, and she had nowhere to go.
Sitting upright, he peered around the side of her. “I see.” Then he yanked her forward.
She tumbled toward him with a yelp and landed on the bench beside him. Beside him? Ha. Half on top of him. She scurried to put any sort of distance between his body, hard and warm, and her own, soft and… eager. Eager? No! She lunged for the other side of the coach.
But he caught her round the waist, his arm a chain. “Please sit over here. We must speak, and I do not wish to yell.”
They would not have to yell, even if they sat in opposite corners. The coach was large, but not that large. She sat next to him anyway as he loosened his hold on her, his arm falling away. He folded his hands behind his head, stretched his neck side to side with a yawn, and propped one boot on top of the bench opposite. Long and lean and so very capable. In The School of Venus , the young maid exclaims she has touched her suitor many times and felt no pleasure, and her cousin points out she’s touched only clothes, not skin. With clothes on, the Duke of Clearford was a fine, strong man indeed, and the few times they’d touched, kissed, the pleasure had been breathtaking. What would he look like without his clothes? How would touching him feel then?
Emma pressed her cheek against the cool glass of the window. Curse Aunt Georgie for giving her that book. And curse Rosalie for encouraging the reading of it. Curse Rosalie, too, for rejecting Samuel’s suit. Because a tension thrummed between them, as if a wall had been broken down, and some space, full of potential, needed filling.
She filled it with her shaky voice. “What is it we must speak of, Your Grace?”
“Accommodations. We must stop for the night. The horses will need a rest, and it is too dark to continue safely. If whomever Felicity is with cares for her half so much as I…” He cleared his throat. “He will stop tonight, too.”
“It is likely. I hope it is so.”
“The driver has instructions to stop in Huntingdon. Is that agreeable?”
“It must be.”
He leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head, dark hair falling over his face. “I am at a loss.”
She scooted closer to him. Didn’t notice until it was done. “All will be well.” No guarantee of that, but saying it seemed to make him stronger. He looked up, setting his jaw in an unbreakable line.
He glanced out the window. “We’re slowing. Almost there.” A pause, his hands limp between his knees. “You should know about Lady Huxley.”
“Oh?” Emma’s heart beat with wild wings like a bird caught in a cage. “What of her?”
“We are not to wed, and my courtship of her is over.”
“I am terribly sorry.”
“I am not.”
Emma should not be feeling so light, so happy, but there it was—a beautiful breeze lifting her.
The coach wheels creaked over gravel and dirt.
“Lady Emma,” he said, soft and low and in the tones he used while kissing her (she should not know that, not at all), “I am a failure as a brother and as a man.”
“No, Your Grace! Not at all.”
He nodded, then straightened, his gaze locking onto her. “I know my faults. But… I also know what happens between us now. Do you?”
Where were the shadows to hide her? Where was the darkness to swallow her whole? Because no matter how many hours past midnight, Samuel’s smile beamed sunlight into the coach.
“Y-Your Grace, I know you think we must—”
“Lady Emma,” he said, his voice low and hungry, “will you call me Samuel?”
“W-we should not.”
“Are we not friends?”
“Yes. Yes, of course we are.” Her ribs ached, and she inhaled deeply to control the tumult.
He sliced into the space between them like a knife between the ribs. His thigh rested so close to hers, and he twisted to face her. “When this coach stops, we must pretend a connection we do not possess. You cannot call me Clearford, and I cannot call you Lady. Do you understand?”
Brother and sister. Yes, they must pretend so. No other way to explain their traveling together. “I understand.”
“Good, then. Let me hear it. Let me hear you say my name.”
Why did it sound so important to him? Why did it feel so very difficult?
“Samuel,” she whispered.
“Louder, Emma, and with confidence. As if you are used to saying it.”
A shiver crept up her spine as his name tumbled informally from his lips. “Samuel.” Louder, but still so small.
His hand appeared out of the shadows, and his thumb traced the line of her lower lip. “Louder, Emma. As if you’ve said it in every way a woman can say a man’s name.” That roll of thunder in his throat… she’d never heard it before, and it stole a shiver through her.
She slapped his hand away. “Samuel Merriweather, if you do not behave, I will… I will…”
“What, Emma? To whom will I have to answer?”
“You will answer to me . And believe me, I will find a suitable punishment.”
He chuckled and fell against the squabs. “I trust you will.”
The coach stopped, and Emma looked out the window. Nothing much to see but the dark shapes of a coaching inn courtyard. Stairs to one side of the building, a door opening to warm candlelight in the center.
Samuel opened the coach and jumped down, held out a hand.
She took it, and as soon as her feet touched the ground, his arm wound round her waist. He pecked her temple with a firm kiss that stole her breath, then guided her inside the inn.
When she tugged, attempting to escape, he only manacled her tighter to his side.
“What in heaven’s name, Clearford?”
“Samuel,” he whispered low in her ear. “Remember that, Emma. Important for the ruse.”
Yes, a brother and sister would not be so formal.
A man approached, and Samuel greeted him. “My wife and I are traveling to Scotland and need a room for the night.”
Wife? Wife ? No, no. Brother and sister. That’s what they were to pretend. Not husband and wife. The devil! What was he about? She wriggled, trying to dislodge herself from his side.
He kissed her temple and held her tighter. “I am good friends with the owner of The Hestia Inns, and he has asked that you let us stay in his suite.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter, passed it to the older gentleman, who opened and read it swiftly.
“Of course. We’re honored to prove to Mr. Trent that we are already meeting his standards. I am Mr. Johns, and if you will follow me…” Mr. Johns scurried to a stairway at the back of the room.
Clearford pulled her along in Mr. Johns’s wake.
“What are you doing?” Emma hissed. “We were to pretend to be brother and sister!”
“I never said that.” He kissed her temple again.
Terrifying. Particularly because each time he did it, it felt better than before. Magic of some sort, incomprehensible and unescapable. “I assumed. It’s the more logical option. A husband and wife might use one another’s titles, but a brother and sister—”
“Me and my wife would not. Now shh , darling. Not so loud. And this is entirely more logical.”
“I hardly see how.”
He swept her up the steps in front of him, moving at her back so very close, his knees brushing against her skirts with each step upward, his hand settling on her shoulder, and his lips flirting at her ear. “A brother and sister would sleep separately, but I cannot allow that.”
“What?” she yelped.
He rubbed his thumb up and down her neck. “I refuse to leave you alone. At any time. While we travel together, I am responsible for your well-being.”
“Not all husbands and wives share a room.” Her throat rough as sandpaper.
“We do.”
She tripped, and as soon as she wobbled, he caught her, steadied her, kissed her temple.
“You must stop doing that.” She watched each step carefully, lest it rise up and send her flying backwards into his arms once more.
“Stop what?”
“My temple.”
“Your temple? Oh, do you mean this?” He kissed her there once more.
“Yes, that!”
“Can’t stop. Protecting you depends on it.”
She growled, and he chuckled.
“I am glad to see you are having fun,” she grumbled.
“It feels like ages since I’ve had a bit of fun. It’s energizing. Liberating. You should try it.”
At the top of the stairs, Mr. Johns ambled down a hallway, whistling. He opened a door at the very end of the hallway. “Our biggest room. Saved for Mr. and Mrs. Trent should they need it. Yours tonight.”
Samuel strode in, his arm once more hooked around Emma’s waist. How did he move so swiftly from one point on her body to another, as if he had every pathway across her skin memorized?
She ripped off her gloves, needing fresh, cool air to temper her thoughts, and Clearford—Samuel—asked for tea and a repast to be brought to their room. She’d used it without thought earlier when she’d found him in his bedchamber. Why was it so difficult now? Likely because they stood in yet another bedchamber, and this one they would share .
Their room.
Their bed.
Surely the chamber possessed other accoutrements, but Emma could not see them. She only saw the bed, big enough for two, but not big enough to avoid a second body. They’d be snug. Cozy.
Intimate .
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” she said when the door shut behind Mr. Johns.
“No, you will not.” Samuel peered out the window to the courtyard below, and when a knock sounded on the door, he opened it. A footman carried their satchels, and Samuel pointed to a corner of the room. “Put them just there. And bring up a tub and hot water.”
“I do not need a bath!” Naked in the same room as this man? She could not.
“I do.”
The footman left, and Samuel returned to the window. “I can leave the room for half an hour while you bathe. If it is modesty that makes you hesitant.”
“Not modesty. Propriety .” Just because they’d run off together did not mean all decorum should be shot. They must uphold it even more desperately now. “What has gotten into you?”
He waved her over to the window. “Look. We can see the entire yard from here.”
She joined him, peeking out from between the curtains. “Yes. And?”
“And I’m not going to sleep. There’s a chance Felicity and her suitor are here, within these very walls, and if they leave, I will be able to see them. While you bathe, I’ll have an ale in the dining room, speak with the footmen and maids. Even if they’re not here now, they may have passed through. Someone may know something.”
He was clutching for any spark of light in the darkness.
“We’ll find her,” Emma said.
He kissed her forehead, then strode for the door. “You’re damn right we will.” Before he stepped into the hallway, he faced her. “Emma, I’ve been wondering about one of my previous tenants of courtship, wondering if you could offer your expert insight on it.”
The man could shift a conversation more quickly than wind shifted a weathervane. “I will try. Which is it?”
“I used to advise young men to be as direct as possible in their suits, to let the ladies know what they wanted from them so there was no confusion in the matter. I used to think it sensible, more productive. But I have been so wrong about so much. Tell me, is the direct approach best?”
“That depends, I suppose, on the lady.”
“Hm. This is what you are teaching me—that there are no set rules but those set by each individual woman.”
She nodded. “And if a gentleman can see that, see what she needs and delight in giving it to her. And if she can do the same for him… then it is an excellent match indeed.”
“I see. So, someone like Lady Huxley, imminently practical, might prefer a direct approach. Only”—he laughed—“she did not. Not at all.”
“Yes, well,” Emma murmured, “there were other objections.” Emma bit her bottom lip, made her way toward the fire and stood staring into the blaze. Loud enough for him to hear this time, she said, “I thought you were not overly upset about Lady Huxley’s rejection.”
“I’m not. Not at all. I was noting an exception to your rule. Let us explore another example. You, for instance—”
“Oh, no, not me. Your sister, though, Felicity—she would like romance, an abundance of attention, a combination, I think, of direct and—”
“No, Emma, you . What sort of approach would work best for you? I must have a plethora of examples. For science.”
“For science.” She huffed a laugh.
“Precisely.”
“Well, I suppose”—she let the heat of the flames wash over her—“I would like a sweet, meandering sort of courtship, a man who shows me in every action what his intentions are and who knows the exact right moment to speak them clearly. Not immediately. But he would not wait too long, either. He would show me his heart first, before speaking it.” She’d like a letter with wild words about wanting and choosing and silent hearts silent no longer.
“And it would be his heart you’d want.”
“I am afraid so.”
The hinges squeaked as he opened the door. “Better tell Trent about that,” he grumbled. “He won’t abide loud doors.” It squeaked again as he closed it behind him, leaving Emma alone with the crackling fire.
Reaching behind her, she pulled a chair close, waiting for the maids and warming her hands. “What a mess.”
I trust you know what you’re about , Aunt Georgie had said.
Mislaid trust, that. Emma may have known, thought she’d known, what she was about when she’d set off from London, but with the memory of five kisses burned forever into her temple and one sitting like a star on her forehead, she no longer trusted herself.
Aunt Georgie’s fault.
That book’s fault. Reading The School of Venus had scrambled her brains and ignited her body somehow. It seemed a rejected proposal had ignited Samuel, too. Dangerous flirtation poured from him like a flood over a waterfall. And she was at the bottom of it, drowning.
And… rather enjoying her watery demise.
Because he was free now. And what if…
A knock on the door, followed by footmen with a tub and maids with buckets of steaming water. As they set up the bath, Emma opened her satchel, hunting for a spare shift. Her hand hit something hard and thick instead. What…? Emma pulled it out, and The School of Venus winked at her.
She dropped it. “Eep!”
“Something wrong, my lady?” one of the maids asked.
“Not at all!” Then she said more softly, to the book, “How did you get in there?” But she knew how. She’d not paid attention while packing, had grabbed fistfuls of things from her trunk and shoved them into her satchel without looking, and her trunk was exactly where the book had landed when she’d been interrupted reading and tossed it across the room.
“Everything’s ready, my lady,” a maid said. “Is there anything else you need before we leave?”
“No, thank you.” The door clicked closed, and Emma eyed the book as she disrobed, eyed it as she made her way behind the fire screen to step into the tub. “Oh, bother.” She snatched it up before stepping into the water and setting it carefully on the nearby chair where the linen towel lay. She soaped her arms and legs, ignoring the book. But why ignore it if she’d brought it all the way over here near the bath? Because there was no reason to read it. That book was about decadent pleasure, and this trip was about a very important task—rescuing a young girl gone rogue.
But… Emma soaped her neck and shoulders, sloshed them clean with water. But Lady Felicity might need advice of a particular nature when they found her. And Emma would need information to know how dire the situation was.
Carefully, she dried her hands on the linen. And carefully, she picked up the book. She dropped her head to the back of the tub and opened the book, holding it close to her face.
She began to read.
For knowledge. To be prepared for any eventuality.
Certainly not for the heat spilling across her limbs.
Not at all for the squirming, needy sensation pooling between her legs.
And not because she could see a certain duke’s face in every line of the book. Words in black ink and white paper, but Samuel’s eyes in storm gray and lips in kissable red. Her breasts ached, and she clutched the soap in one hand, holding the book still with her other as she soaped her breast, brushing against her nipple.
And moaned.
What in heaven’s name was this curling through her body? What was this?
Desire?
Yes, it must be because her body screamed demands, needed fingertips, and she tried to obey, palms skimming and fingers exploring. And it felt… it felt… good .
But not enough.
What a wicked thing to be doing, touching herself. Everywhere. But as the book slipped from her grasp and tumbled to the floor, she did not rightly care. She skimmed her hand along her body and thought of the man who, for now at least, called himself her husband.