Chapter 8 #2
If he thought for an instant that she was going to humiliate herself further—even more than the children and Andrew had done already—he was sorely mistaken. “I am quite certainly not on the shelf as of yet, sirrah. I will endure this. And quite well, if you please!”
At the mere thought of her with someone else—of another man’s lips upon hers—Lucien’s stomach clenched. He stiffened, standing a little straighter. His brow lifted. “Are you trying to tell me something, Miss Peters?”
“I am trying to tell you nothing!” she declared, sounding a little hysterically now.
Lucien didn’t think; only acted. His hand flew out, seizing her by the wrist and wrenching her to him. His heart hammered against his ribs as he pressed her more intimately against him and he lowered his mouth to hers, crushing it beneath his hungry lips.
She resisted for only an instant, but he murmured her name, and she whimpered softly and went still in his embrace. He groaned with pleasure as she allowed him to caress her mouth with his own. The taste of her was heaven. He wanted her naked and willing in his arms—wanted to love her properly.
“Emma,” he whispered feverishly. “Emma, Emma, Emma…”
Every inch of his body was alive with need of her… the feel of her… the scent of her.
He kissed her thoroughly, and then lifted his face suddenly, crushing her possessively against the length of his body, his eyes heavy lidded as he gazed at her expectantly, searching her expression for answers.
His brow furrowed when he found nothing but anguish in her expression. “Tell me again that I’m free to go,” he demanded, wanting her now to retract her words.
Her deep brown eyes looked a bit like a fox’s at the end of a hunt, cornered and wild. She shook her head. “I don’t know what you wish from me,” she said, sounding as tortured as he felt.
Lucien shook his head and then released her abruptly, disgusted with himself. “I’m sorry... God, Emma… I’m sorry... I... I don’t know myself anymore.” He hung his head, unable to face her.
Without another word, she spun about and hastened away and before Lucien could think to stop her. She lifted her skirts and began to run, obviously eager to be as far away from him as she could manage.
For a dumbfounded instant Lucien simply watched her go. The waves below crashed against the cliffside, sounding as chaotic as he felt.
“Emma!” he shouted, but it was too late. She couldn’t hear him over the pounding of the surf, and all he could think as he stood there watching her go was that he had never felt more miserable than he did at the moment.
He had little notion how long he remained at the cliffs, staring down at the tumbling surf. It rolled in violently, covering the beach below, pummeling the cliffside relentlessly.
When at last he made his way back to the manor, he cut through the rose garden on his way to the stables, thinking to rally his driver and go. To his misfortune, he found them—every last one—being led into the garden by an exhilarated Jonathon. Lucien’s heart tripped as he watched them.
He stood back, watching, hoping they wouldn’t notice him, because in that instant he couldn’t have moved to save his life.
It occurred to him after a befuddled instant that they were all staring up at the sky, and much too preoccupied to notice him.
Curiously, he peered up to see what had captured their attention, and the sight he beheld stole his breath away: The heavens were painted with violet clouds and streaks of mauve and plum.
Spearing through them in the dusky sky was the most incredible shaft of light he had ever beheld, so bright and luminous that it filled him with awe. It was spectacular…
“See, I told you!” young Jonathon was shouting. “Aunt Em! It’s Heaven’s gate! You were right! We’re all going to get wonderful presents now!”
“It must be!” Lettie agreed enthusiastically.
Emma’s laughter drifted to him suddenly, the sound wholly genuine.
If she was angry with him, it didn’t show in her mood toward the children.
She gazed up at the sky with wonder, hands outstretched and laughed in delight and then she sat upon a bench …
the same bench he recalled from the photo he’d commissioned of her father.
He’d had one created for himself as well …
a memento … and suddenly, everything seemed to make sense.
If he was wicked, she was his salvation.
If he was unwhole, she would fulfill him.
Maybe her father had realized as well?
Her love was a gift … a promise of better things to come. Regardless that he’d managed to convince himself he would be better off without her, he knew deep down it wasn’t true.
That’s why he couldn’t go.
He wanted her in his life, he realized with sudden certainty.
And feeling more joyful than he had in years, he retreated from the garden lest she spy him.
He knew exactly who to turn to for a hand in mischief and a little help to win back the woman he loved.
And if all went well, it would be a very merry Christmas, indeed.