Chapter Thirteen
Her husband was an exceptionally handsome man.
Emmy was always aware of Alex’s good looks, but as she laid in bed watching him sleep, his dark hair rumpled, his expression boyishly peaceful as the early morning sun warmed his naked shoulders…well, the evidence was more than clear.
Yes, he was an exceptionally handsome man.
Exceptionally considerate, too , she thought, as memories flashed, images and sensations from last night flooding her mind and body.
She could not have asked for a better consummation. Alex had treated her with such care and patience that consummation seemed too cold a word to describe it. There had been nothing cold about what had happened between them last night.
She reached a hand out, wanting to touch him, to stroke his hair, but something held her back. She stilled, lowering her arm.
Her husband might be a handsome man and a considerate lover, but she could not let it go to her head. There was no room for tenderness in their marriage.
Consideration, yes. Passion, certainly. But tenderness? No. Tender feelings would lead nowhere good.
This was a marriage of convenience and that was what it would stay. That she had enjoyed their sexual congress as much as she had was a welcome surprise, and one she would not take for granted, but she could not allow herself to lose her head.
Developing tender feelings for her husband would only complicate their perfectly simple arrangement, and potentially threaten her plans for the future, and the freedoms that awaited her there. She could not—would not—do anything to jeopardize that.
Slowly and as silently as possible, Emmy began sidling toward the edge of the bed, attempting not to wake Alex, when an arm snaked around her waist and startled a squeak from her throat.
“And just where are you sneaking off to, my lady?” Alex asked, his voice low and rough, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
“I must dress,” she said, clutching the bedsheet to her bare breasts. “I have a busy day ahead of me.”
He propped himself up on one arm, the other still draped loosely around her waist. “Do you? Doing what?”
His naked torso was far too distracting for conversation, so she turned her gaze up to the ceiling, and said, “I must familiarize myself with my new home and all my new responsibilities as the lady of the house.”
“I think a new bride’s responsibilities might wait a day or two.” His voice held a smile.
“Perhaps so,” she said with a shrug, still gripping the sheet. “But I see no reason to put it off.”
“Do you not?” He tugged her to him and began nuzzling her neck. “I can think of at least one.”
Emmy squirmed as his teeth grazed her earlobe, the press of his warm, naked body against her own an exquisite enticement.
“Alex…” The word emerged more plea than protestation, though whether she wanted him to stop or stay even she did not know. Perhaps it was both.
“You are a siren, Emmy—a goddess,” he murmured, his lips brushing her collarbone. “I could indulge in your body for days and still it would not be enough.”
He gave the bedsheet a soft tug, but she held on, clinging to her last defense against him and his potent words and hypnotic hands.
Boundaries . There must be boundaries.
“Let me up, Alex, please,” she said, her tone crisp. Well, mostly crisp, but with a dash of breathlessness. “I must ring for my maid and get dressed.”
He fell back against his pillow with a sigh as Emmy scrambled out of bed and drew on her wrapper.
“As you wish,” he murmured, watching her as she gave the bell pull a tug, his eyes a mix of good humor and exasperation.
“Don’t you think you should return to your own bedchamber?” she asked, trying not to gawp at him as he reclined on the bed like a figure from a Michelangelo painting. “My maid will be here soon, and you are…not clothed.”
A smile teased his lips. “As you wish,” he repeated, tossing back the bedsheet. He climbed out of bed and crossed the room to retrieve his dressing gown from the escritoire, displaying not a hint of shyness.
Emmy could do nothing but stare, catching a regretfully brief glimpse of his naked bottom before he slipped on his dressing gown and knotted the sash.
“I would like to give you a tour of the house later today,” he said, running his hands through his messy head of hair. “If you can fit me in between your new responsibilities, of course.”
“Oh.” Emmy crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, you see, Tess asked me last night if she could give me a tour of the house today, and I told her she could.”
“Ah.” His smile didn’t dim, but his eyes definitely did.
“You may come with us if you like,” Emmy offered.
He shook his head. “No. That isn’t—”
His words were cut off by a soft scratch at the door and a moment later Flossie entered the room and bobbed a curtsy.
“Well,” Alex said, “I shall leave you to it then. Enjoy your tour with Tess and I will…see you later.”
Emmy gave him a smile and an awkward little wave, guilt niggling at her nape as she watched him go. A part of her wanted to call him back and tell him she had changed her mind, but she ignored the urge and instead turned to Flossie, determined to focus on the day ahead and not her handsome husband.
Boundaries.
Boundaries must be set in a marriage, and they must be set early and staunchly maintained, no matter how difficult or unpleasant it might be.
Alex stood in the corridor outside Emmy’s bedchamber for several seconds, frowning at the closed door.
What the devil had just happened?
One minute he was snuggling his new bride in bed, and the next she was shuffling him off as if she couldn’t wait to be rid of him.
Tightening the sash at his waist, he turned and padded the few steps to his own chamber door and let himself inside.
He was by no means an expert on women, but he was certain Emmy had enjoyed their lovemaking last night. He sure as hell had. And he’d been rather keen to do it again this morning.
It was a humbling experience, discovering his wife did not feel the same and, in fact, would rather spend the day reviewing the accounts with his housekeeper than in bed with him.
He lowered himself on the armchair by the fire and leaned back into the soft leather with a deep sigh.
He’d only known Emmy for a short time, but he’d realized early on that she was the sort who liked to be doing things and felt compelled to tackle problems and responsibilities without prevarication.
Still, he’d hoped they would spend some time together today.
He’d hoped she would want to spend time with him. They were newly wed, after all, and still coming to know one another. Why hadn’t it occurred to her that he would want to be the one to give her a tour of Bristlewood?
Why hadn’t she wanted him to?
He blew out another sigh, frustrated with himself. He had no right to be hurt. This marriage was not a love match; it was an arrangement, and Emmy was upholding her end of the bargain. He must remember to do the same.
Determined not to dwell on his wife’s perplexing behavior—or his own—he rang for his valet and swiftly dressed for the day. After a quick breakfast of coffee and toast, he headed for the library in search of Gracie and Prescott. The two hounds always cheered him up, and he could use the fresh air and exercise that a long walk would afford.
His father was sitting in his usual chair by the hearth, wearing his favorite oversized wool jacket and reading from the book laying open on his lap, while Gracie and Prescott reclined at his feet. The two deerhounds rose in tandem the moment Alex entered the room, their tails wagging as they ambled up to greet him.
“Good morning, you rascals,” he murmured, bending down to scratch Gracie’s ears, which earned him a lick on his cheek. Prescott, the sillier and simpler of the two, demanded his turn next, his tongue lolling to one side in abject ecstasy as Alex gave his head a good rub.
Gracie eyed her brother askance, apparently disgusted by the undignified display.
Chuckling, Alex rose and crossed the room, giving the listless fire a quick stoking before he sat in the matching chair beside his father.
“They’re happy you’re home,” Mr. Whitcomb said as he removed his spectacles and set them down on his book.
“So am I,” Alex replied. “I missed our daily walks.”
He watched with affection as Prescott flopped onto the rug before the fire and huffed out a fur-ruffling sigh. Gracie sat down at Alex’s knee and leaned her shaggy body against his leg, asking for pets.
“So, tell me,” Alex began, absent-mindedly stroking Gracie’s fur, “what do you think of my new bride?”
He flicked a glance at his father’s face, genuinely curious to hear his answer. He hadn’t had a chance to discuss Emmy with him yet, and while it was too late to seek his approval, he still wanted his opinion.
“She is an amusing dinner companion, to be sure,” Mr. Whitcomb said, and Alex smiled as he thought back to last night, and the laughter that filled the dining room as Emmy regaled them with tales of the ton’s worst-behaved residents.
“Your sister adores her.”
Alex nodded. “She does.”
“And so do you, I think.”
His hand stilled on Gracie’s scruff, and he looked up, meeting his father’s thoughtful gaze.
Did he?
For a long moment, he sat there in silence, simply probing and analyzing each and every feeling he experienced whenever Emmy was near.
Finally, he nodded. “Yes. I do.”
He enjoyed being with Emmy, of course, and he’d known for a while that he cared about her, but now…
He swallowed. Now his feelings went well beyond caring. He was smitten with her. Beguiled by her.
Infatuated.
Thunderstruck.
Bescuttered.
His aunt’s ridiculous, made-up word emerged from the depths of his brain, though it did not seem as ridiculous now as it had before.
How soon before he was in love with his wife? Strange how the thought brought him no fear.
“And what of her feelings, Alex?” his father asked, his voice low. “Does she return your regard?”
Alex crossed one leg over the other as Gracie nudged his hand with her nose, asking for more pets.
“She regards me highly,” he replied, avoiding his father’s gaze as he patted Gracie’s snout.
“Hm.”
He sighed, fairly certain he knew what that noise meant. “It is not a love match, Father. I explained our arrangement in the letter I sent to you from London.”
The words emerged sharper than they should have, and Alex winced, embarrassed by the show of temper.
“I know you did. And if I thought her feelings were the same as yours, I would not be concerned. But I know the agony of loving someone who cannot love you. The pain of it, the wreckage it leaves behind—” His voice faltered, a grimace overtaking his face.
Alex rose and went to him, kneeling on the floor so he could take his trembling hands in his.
“Please don’t distress yourself, Father. I went into this marriage with both eyes open, and Emmy is not my mother. She is a kind and caring woman. I trust her.”
Mr. Whitcomb nodded and smiled, but the shadow of worry remained in his faded brown eyes.
The temperature in the room seemed to increase tenfold and Alex felt a sudden need to escape it, and the oppressive worry his father’s own past had created.
“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have that walk now,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Of course, my boy.”
With a forced smile, Alex bid his father farewell then whistled for the dogs and quit the room.
He inhaled deeply as he stepped out into the crisp Berkshire air, his boots sinking into the plush cushion of lawn in a familiar and soothing way. Gracie and Prescott ran ahead, and he let them set the course, happy to follow while his thoughts rolled about in his head.
His father was afraid for him, he knew. Afraid that Emmy would do what Alex’s mother had done—slip away into the night and leave a broken-hearted family behind her.
He understood why his father was worried. Emmy did not love him, just as his mother had not loved his father, and this meant—to his father, at least—that Emmy could leave them, just as his mother had done.
Considering all the man had been through, it was not an unreasonable worry.
Alex, however, did not share his father’s concerns. He knew, deep in his gut, that Emmy would never do what his mother had done.
First of all, his wife was not a romantic woman, so the likelihood of her falling into a passionate affair with one of their servants then absconding with him in the night was rather low.
Secondly, he had seen ample evidence of her giving nature, her loyalty, and her sense of responsibility to family. She would not abandon him, for she was simply too decent, too good , to cause him that pain. Even if she never grew to love him.
Slipping his hands in his pockets, he gazed out at the grassy field ahead and watched while Gracie and Prescott explored before turning his gaze on the vista stretching wide, though he was too pensive to appreciate its beauty.
He sighed. He knew in his heart that his father’s worry was unfounded, but that did not mean he was without his own concerns about his marriage.
Emmy might never grow to love him—indeed, it seemed unlikely that she would—but he was fairly certain he was already halfway to loving her.
In all honesty, it had probably been inevitable from the start. She was an extraordinary person, after all, and he adored her. Had from almost the very beginning.
But it wasn’t loving her that worried him.
He was not afraid of love, not even the one-sided kind. He would be glad to give his heart to her, to support her, and raise children with her. He did not need her to love him in return.
It would please him if she did, of course, but it wasn’t a necessity. He would not love her more if she loved him, and neither would he love her any less if she did not. That was not the way love worked. Not for him, anyway.
No, he wasn’t worried about loving her. He was worried he wouldn’t be able to hide it.
Drawing in a deep breath, he blew it out slowly, as if emptying his lungs would expel the tension from his body. He bent down, collecting a stick from the ground, and then he threw it as far as he could and watched as Prescott and Gracie raced across the field after it.
Truth be told, it did not come naturally to him to hide his feelings. He could be taciturn and reserved with people he did not know, but with his family, the people he cared about, he gave his affection freely.
He believed that love should be shown—but only to those who welcomed it.
And he was fairly certain Emmy would not welcome his love.
She hadn’t even wanted a husband. Yes, she had proposed to him, but if she’d had her choice, she would still be in London, unwed and unencumbered. Their marriage was transactional, a legally binding business arrangement based on trust and understanding. It was not based on love, and he had no reason—no right—to expect that would change.
He could not make demands of Emmy that he had no right to make, so if he did come to love her— when he came to love her—he would do all he could to keep it to himself. Emmy need never know.