Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
E mma woke with a sunbeam in her face, an unpleasant taste in her mouth, and the memory of Samuel’s touch alive on her skin. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. What time was it, and where was—ah, there, Samuel Merriweather, the Duke of Clearford, sleeping in a window.
She swung her feet to the floor and yanked them back up again. Curses, it was cold! And she… she was entirely naked! She’d never slept without a shift before, but she’d fallen asleep to the sound of Samuel splashing in the tub with the traces of his touch still warming her skin.
Disaster. Complete disaster.
She wanted to do it again.
He looked so peaceful, mouth slightly parted, a day’s worth of scruff shadowing his cheeks and jaw, hair ruffled beyond recognition. Not at all the same man who’d exhausted her last night. She was still exhausted, and clearly so was he, slumped lifeless against the window frame. Not the bad sort of exhaustion that followed grief or worry or a day spent in endless toil. The good kind. Apparently, it existed. The kind that wrapped a body up warm and safe, rocking on gentle waves of satisfaction.
She’d learned another type of satisfaction last night, and some foundation she’d stood on had shifted, crumbled, leaving her on entirely new ground with an entirely new need pulsing through her. No wonder women were supposed to wait for marriage. It would be quite difficult to acquire last night’s floating pleasure without a husband conveniently in house.
Braving the cold, she set her toes to the floor and darted to her satchel, threw a shift over her head. Still too cold. So, she dressed completely, then pulled her hair into a loose knot at the back of her neck and tiptoed over to the sleeping duke. She touched his hand. Freezing. And no wonder, there was a chill in the morning air that seeped through the glass. She found his greatcoat and draped it over him, tucking it tight around his shoulders, trying not to wake him, though she must, eventually. Morning was seeping across the sky. They should be off once more.
When his eyes fluttered open, a smile spread across his face. “Good morning, Em.” He shrugged one shoulder of his greatcoat off and reached for her, then darted back beneath the garment. “Bloody hell, it’s cold.”
She laughed. “You should not have slept at the window.”
“I did not mean to. I’d much rather have crawled into the bed with you, held you in my arms all night. Woke with your touch.” His last words lost in a yawn.
She would have liked that, to wake in his embrace, his breath hot on her neck. How safe it would have felt, how right. She hurried away from him, busying herself packing her satchel, beating back the wanton heat coursing through her with the practical details of travel. “It’s a beautiful day for a journey, Your Grace.” Why could she not face him? How had it been easier to lay naked before him in the firelight than to stand fully dressed before him in the light of day?
“Beautiful?” he grumbled. “Looks like rain. Hm. That’s not good.” He stood and stretched and watched her.
She felt his consideration, the heat of it, the questions he did not ask. They were like bricks piled heavy across her shoulders.
“Emma.”
“Yes?”
“What can I do?”
“What can you do… for what?”
Somehow he was right beside her, tugging at the hem of her sleeve, head bent low over her, consuming her. She dared not look up into his downturned face.
“To get you to call me Samuel?”
“I…” She nodded. “Samuel.” Why was it so difficult? Was it because she wanted him so badly, with everything she was, and having him seemed so… possible? Breathing might break it, speaking his name might push him away.
He tipped her chin up, dropping a kiss to her lips that banished all doubt. “Better.” The word a growl, a promise.
They had no time for such delightful dangers.
She pulled away from him and returned to the window. Clouds had moved over the sun, and they hung low, gray, ominous over every inch of the visible sky. “It will move on. Or be a quick shower.”
He shrugged into the waistcoat from yesterday and pulled a rumpled cravat from his satchel. Soon, he was dressed well enough, though considerably less polished than usual, and he made for the door. “I’ll go see about the coach, let Michaels know we’re leaving as soon as can be.”
“I’ll speak to the innkeeper about something to break our fast.”
He nodded and disappeared into the hallway. The door closed with a boom that rattled across the sky. Not the door. Thunder. And beyond the window, the slow beginning of a steady rain.
“Curses.” But she prepared to leave, anyway. They must brave bad weather if they were to catch Felicity before she made it to Gretna Green. Yesterday’s clothes in the satchel. Samuel’s in his. Clean her teeth and hide the book—
The book. Where was it? She gazed wildly about the room, found it lying near the window, near where Samuel had slept, within easy arm’s reach. But she’d dropped it beside the tub…
Oh, no. No!
The rain fell harder, faster, pattering across the roof and on the glass panes.
She snatched the book up and stuffed it into her satchel. If the book was near the window, Samuel had picked it up. He knew she had it, knew she’d been reading it. What would he think? She knew as well as any woman, perhaps better, how even a false hint of promiscuity could ruin a lady’s reputation. Had he seen it last night, before they’d…? Was that why he’d…?
And why was she worried about a book when she’d let him touch her? Everywhere. Kiss her. Everywhere. The whispers in Edinburgh had hissed harlot . Was she?
She dropped to the edge of the bed. Breath came difficult, halting, her lungs too tight, her heart beating too quickly.
The door creaked open, and Samuel stepped in, his hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, the shoulders of his jacket soaked, too. “Emma?”
The fire had died long ago, and the gray black ashes lay lifeless in the grate, not a single spark alive and bright.
“Emma?” The mattress dipped and his warmth settled beside her. “What is wrong?”
The room had gone a bit foggy; that’s what was wrong. And the sound of rain on the roof and windows had somehow seeped inside her body, beating along with her pulse.
“Breathe, luv. What’s happened? God, you’re freezing.” He left, then returned, draping his greatcoat around her shoulders. She hunched into it, slipping her arms into the sleeves and then into the pockets, hugging the whole thing around her tightly. It smelled of him—citrus and sage.
She spoke into the coat’s collar. “I’m not… I’m not… I’m not… loose . I mean, I know last night. And the book. And—”
“What book? Oh! That book.” He chuckled.
She rushed every word inside her out at the same time. “Lady Macintosh gave it to me, and Lady Huxley suggested reading such books might help me speak with my sisters about, you know, when the time comes, and I do not wish to be ignorant, knowledge is necessary even of this sort, but I do not wish you to think particularly because of what we did last night but—”
“Emma.” Her name a laugh. “Slow down. Breathe. And please do sprinkle a little punctuation into your sentence.” He rubbed his palms slowly up and down her arms as she pulled in one deep breath after another. “There you go. Breathe. And listen. We both know I’m a nodcock, yes?”
He was not, but she nodded anyway.
“I have been entirely too eager to court you these last hours, entirely too quick to take what I want because I’m so damn tired of waiting. But I think we should talk. Because I cannot take anything. It must be given.”
He was not disgusted by her, would not excise her from his life. Relief, cool yet shocking, rushed through her. She needed nothing more than that. They must not delay for her silly little fears. “We must leave, Samuel. Before the rain worsens. We can speak in the coach.”
“No, we’ll speak now. The rain will slow them down as well, and I do not wish to leave this room with misunderstandings clouding the air between us. When I learned why you had to leave Edinburgh, I should have chained my hands to my sides and refused to touch you, let you lead, and followed a proper route to what I want.”
“What do you want?” she mumbled into the collar.
“To marry you.”
“Because we risk our reputations traveling together?”
“Because you are the other half of my soul.”
She hid in the greatcoat, delved into his warmth, letting his chuckle settle over her. The other half of his soul. Yes, that felt right. Quite perfect and peaceful to be stitched to him for life. But why did her chest constrict as much as her heart expanded?
He peeled back the greatcoat until he found her face. “Hello there. Do not hide.”
“I’m finding it difficult not to.”
He stroked her cheek, chucked her chin. “Hide then but listen.” He winced. “I rather feel like hiding with what I’m about to tell you.”
She popped her head up and out a bit. Curiosity gave courage.
He fell back onto the bed and spoke to the ceiling. “I discovered last Season that my mother collected erotic books, that she loaned them secretly to various ladies of the ton . I also discovered that, after her death, my sisters took up her… hobby. For years, they carted about books like the one you have, and I never knew. Until a man whose wife had been my mother’s friend found one of my mother’s letters. About said books. He tried to blackmail me into marrying his daughter.”
Emma gasped, falling sideways onto her palms and peering down at him. “How did you escape?”
“My sisters saved me. When I found out about the books, I was… God, I was shocked. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I don’t remember much about that day. It’s a bit of a haze. They claim I fainted.”
“No. You?”
He looked so boyish with his hair tangled, and his flushed face tipped toward the ceiling.
“I refused to believe it.” He popped up and rested on his elbows behind him. “The books are why I pursued Lady Huxley. She’s a member of their library. I wished to avoid putting another woman at risk by association with the secretly scandalous Merriweathers. It is not fair to involve someone else. But”—he rolled his weight onto one forearm and placed his other hand on top of hers—“I do not think I have the strength to be admirable any longer, to do the right thing. Would you… would you very much mind waking one morning to find your entire family’s reputation hanging in the balance? Can you bear to wear that weight to bed every night? To suffer the stares and whispers in public?”
What could she say? It was not solely her decision to make. She had three unmarried sisters, and this matchmaking she did… it relied on a pristine reputation. Yet the way he looked at her, with big stormy eyes and his… yes, that was his heart there, too, peeking out from behind gray clouds, hoping…
She sat upright, slipping her hand out from under his and dipping them back into the greatcoat pockets. But it offered no escape. His pockets were warm and soft and like being cradled by his hands. She curled her fingers into fists.
And the pocket crinkled. Was that paper?
She pulled it out and opened it up, needing something else to think about, the decision he was asking her to make too difficult. “Is this Felicity’s note?” Each word, rushing at her like an avalanche, told the truth—not Felicity’s note. “Oh God. Samuel , look!” She thrust the paper at him as he sat up.
He took it and read more quickly than she did, launching to his feet. “Bloody hell. Apologies. Language, I know. But… bloody hell!”
The rain fell faster, no patter now but a constant rush of sound.
“This must be some joke.” He paced to the window, crumpling the letter in his hand, then uncrumpling it to read it again.
She joined him, stealing the letter, saving it. Yes, it still said what she remembered it saying.
Samuel, do not be mad, but Felicity is safe at home in London. She never left. You will want to send us to the country for the rest of our lives, I’m sure, but we were desperate, you must understand. Glenna has tired of watching you and Lady Emma stare longingly across rooms at one another. And Felicity says she cannot concentrate on her own suitors when Lady Emma is so very sad all the time. And I do not like to see you sad, either, Brother. It has been over a fortnight since either of you has spoken to one another. And (here comes another reason for you to rage—brace yourself, Brother) we read your letters to one another and how you feel.
We thought you might start courting Emma after Lady Huxley rejected you, but you did not. This was the only way we could think to force you together. Briar suggested we send you out to the middle of the Thames in a boat without a paddle. And Gertrude thought locking you in a linen closet would suffice, but I convinced them this was the best route. Less likely to die than in the Thames and no servants to interfere and set you free.
I hope you discover this note in your pocket later rather than sooner, and I hope, when you arrive back home, it is together and never wishing to part.
Happy courting, Brother,
Your nefarious June Beetle
Emma tossed the letter to the window seat with a growl. “Those… those…” What word did one use? “Those schemers!”
“I cannot believe they could do this.” Angry strides took him from one side of the room to the other and back. “Do they have no common sense?”
She joined him, pacing in the opposite direction at the same time. “They lied!”
“Tricksters.”
“Connivers!”
They stopped, facing one another. “Sisters,” they said at the same time.
“Clearly, we failed somewhere along the way.” Samuel shook his head, jaw tight.
“You, perhaps. But I blame my father.”
“Do they ever think of what we sacrifice for them?” He started pacing once more.
“Not a moment, I’m convinced. They do not think how we suffer.” She paced again, too.
“Never. Think they can move us about like little toy soldiers, like characters in those books of theirs.”
“Go there.” She threw her arms out wide.
“Do that.” He stomped.
“Ruin yourself with him.”
“Marry her. They think they can order… us… to…” Samuel slowed his pacing, coming to a gradual stop. He reached out to the wall to steady himself, keep himself upright, and his gaze slammed into Emma’s. “Felicity is safe. Dear God. Felicity is not driving through rain and darkness at the side of some scoundrel to marry over an anvil. She’s safe .”
Emma’s legs gave out, her hands folding over her chest. “Thank heavens.” Relief nearly pulled her to the ground, but she threw herself at Samuel instead, hugging him, using his strength to hold herself up, and mumbling into his chest, “She’s safe,” to convince her vibrating body of the truth.
He held her tightly, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “What a nightmare.”
“But over. It’s over. She’s safe.”
He grunted. “Might not be when we return to London. Your Nefarious June Beetle . Nefarious is right. I should lock them up in the country.”
“ All of them. Well, half of them in Edinburgh, but—”
“No.” He loosened his hold on her enough to peer into her face. “Not Edinburgh. Let them remain in London and be my sisters, too. Let you be… mine.” He dropped his forehead to hers. “I know it is a gamble for you, but I will try to make it worth it. Every day I will try.”
“You want… you welcome all of us?” Her father had always considered them too many, too much, too loud, too irritating. She’d not felt wanted in a very long while, but there it was in Samuel’s eyes—welcome, wanting, an offer of a home and loving heart.
He cupped her face and dropped his forehead against hers, the corner of his lips hitching up. “I’m a man with eight sisters, what’s three more?”
“Four more. My sister Elizabeth is already married.”
“That’s a boon. Quite convenient. Four more, then, for a full dozen. You do realize you’d have twelve then, too. Your number would grow much more substantially than mine by an addition of eight.”
She sighed.
He sighed.
“A plague,” they said at the same time. Then they laughed, hard, bellyaching laughs that rocked their bodies, pinched tears from their eyes, and stole breath from their lungs.
When he had enough breath, Samuel said, “Hell. I apologize, Emma. For the language, for this farce of a chase north, for my sisters… bravado, and for the, erm, the library . I want to marry you. But I can’t marry you if you are not willing to take the risk, and I will understand if you are not. I will likely be miserable the rest of my life and think of you every moment and wish I’d been good enough for you, but… I will understand. Your sisters. Your own reputation as a matchmaker. They are all fragile. It is why I was considering marriage to Lady Huxley.”
She shouldn’t, but Emma laughed again, throwing her head back.
“What? What now?” He looked wildly confused.
“Lady Huxley has invited me to join a reading group, one that reads those sorts of books.”
“She did? Were you going to join?”
“I’d not decided yet.”
“Because whether or not you join might mean… for me… for us. Emma?”
“Yes?”
“I think you should do it. Join the book club.”
“Oh? What is your reasoning, Your Grace?”
He shrugged, putting on an air of ducal distance. “No reasoning. It’s entirely up to you. Though you did seem particularly… curious last night. With everything . And I should hate to know your every question was not being answered, your every curiosity… satisfied.”
She sighed. “It is true I found it rather difficult to satisfy my curiosity on my own.”
“I’m always available to help.” He offered a cocky half grin she could not help but return. But then he softened, took her hands. “At least consider marrying me? Please, Emma.”
But her mind remained muddled. Her sisters’ futures… could she put her own happiness above theirs?
“Do not answer yet,” he said. “When you do answer, I want to know you do so having considered every risk. But perhaps”—he turned his head and took her lips with the possessiveness and confidence of a husband kissing his wife—“we can put the question of marriage aside for now. If it is education you want, let me help you to it.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we have a small amount of time together before we return to London. And we have given so much of ourselves. Let us take something for once. An education. Pleasure. No answers until London, until you’re ready, and whatever we do in this moment, out of time, impacts it not at all.”
So tempting. No resisting the offer. No resisting him.
“It is raining harder than ever,” he said, his lips grazing across hers. “Lightning.”
“Hm. Quite dangerous.”
“I don’t think we should travel.”
“No, we should not.”
“Sometimes”—he whirled her around and sat her on the edge of the bed—“sisters know best.”
“I would hate for all their scheming to go to waste.” She reached for his face, brought him down for another kiss like a tiny explosion.
“It’s only being a good older sibling.” He set a knee on the bed, right next to her hip, and yanked at his cravat.
“We must do our duty.” She fell back onto the bed, and the man who loved her, her lover for the length of a thunderstorm, prowled after her.