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Aunt Beatrice scanned Emma’s body with new knowledge. Her lips pinched, fire spat from her eyes, and fury tautened her frame. “How could you so wantonly ruin your prospects with Lord Coventry? Why would you go there, of all places?”
Emma rubbed her temple. “You still have not informed me why you are in my chambers.”
Aunt Beatrice advanced, her strides militant. “Did anyone recognize, you? Dear God, was your limp evident? I demand to know why you were at such a sordid affair and with whom?”
The scathing question had Emma’s stomach churning. Pain seared her heart, and long held insecurities tried to swamp her.
The night had been perfect for her, and anger surged that she’d allowed her aunt to rouse her fears so easily, and with such few words. Emma did not need this. Nothing was going according to plan. Her one night was supposed to be her treasured secret. “I will not discuss this with you, Aunt Beatrice. Not now. In fact, not ever. I am five and twenty, and what I do in my private life is just that. Private.”
“My goodness, how can you be so uncontrite? Lord Coventry —”
“Please stop, Aunt Beatrice.” Emma tugged the wig from her hair, unpinned her hair, and raked her hand through her tumbled mess of hair, painfully conscious of the tender burn between her legs. The mask on her face was also starting to itch. “I am exhausted, and I need a bath if you would excuse me.”
She ignored the scandalized look her Aunt sent her way.
“Please see yourself out of my chambers.”
“I will not leave until I receive an explanation from you, young lady,” Aunt Beatrice charged.
Her heart clamored, but she forced the words past her lips. “I owe you no explanation of my actions.”
“Your life is not your own. How dare you think so?”
Rage, hot and wicked, flared inside of Emma. She had never heard her put it so bluntly. Her life was not her own? “It isn’t, is it?” She briefly closed her eyes. “I doubt you will be able to understand this, Aunt Beatrice, but I implore you to try. It was, for this reason, I went to Lady Waverly’s ball. I wanted something for me. I have done everything you, Anthony, mamma, and papa have encouraged me to do, from ever since I can remember. So, allow me this one night without making a hash out of it, please. There was no ruin or scandal or anything terrible that will be revealed.”
She stood and brushed past her aunt, who stood frozen in some sort of stunned silence and rang the bell pull for a maid to attend her. Emma hurt so damn much.
Her aunt quietly departed, and Emma closed her eyes tightly for a few seconds fighting back the tears. She was glad Aunt Beatrice had not decided to stay and fight. Her eyes had been huge pools of shock and betrayal. But Emma could not help that. She’d not expected anyone to discover her wild night. Now Anthony and her aunt knew, and Emma did not delude herself for one moment that her father and mother would not soon be the recipient of her aunt’s lurid imagination. They would travel from Bath with all haste, and try to stifle her with their love and fears.
Emma would never apologize for an experience that was so intensely personal and wonderful. She had her one night. No more dancing too close to the fire. But her mother wouldn’t be able to understand that.
A maid bustled in, and Emma ordered a bath to be delivered to her chamber. She slowly undressed, peeling the stockings from her legs, observing how red and chafed her skin appeared. There were deep scars that ran from her shin, up to her thighs, hideous gouges in her flesh. Her bone had been broken and re-cast three times in those early months, and the fight to stave off infection had been brutal. She hated recalling to her mind the feel of the wind on her face as the curricle had raced across the lanes, Anthony’s frantic pull on the reins of the horses, and her brother’s hoarse cry of fear as they’d tumbled over. Closing her eyes against the memories, she reclined on the bed as the servants bustled in with pails of hot water, filling the copper tub behind the screen.
“Miss Emma, the bath is ready for you.”
With a soft sigh, she pushed from the bed, and removed the last of her clothes with the maid’s assistance, noting the maid’s careful manner in not looking at her mangled legs. Emma stepped into the bath, and slowly sat in the large tub, the water sloshing gently over the side. The hot lavender scented water washed over her, relaxing her muscles. She lathered her face with her special blend of soap and gently scrubbed the paint away.
Elliot had been so wonderful. So, everything. He’d been the perfect mixture of domination and tenderness. Hours later she still retained the sensation of him making love with her, still could feel the hard imprint of his body against her back, the phantom caress of his manhood shuttling in and out of her. It had been erotic just to watch the pleasure she’d given him. And he had not known it was her. The sob was dredged from the pit of her soul, and the tears came freely. She knew it was best he did not know it was her, but it hurt terribly.
She’d wanted him forever. Emma had never really understood the nature of romantic attachments until she started dreaming of him being her first in everything. He had been there for her for years. Comforting her aches, the ones Anthony hadn’t been able to soothe, and featuring in all her girlish fantasies of knights and honorable heroes. He’d been the one to teach her how to make a proper fist, how to swim, and how to fish. All unladylike endeavors and he hadn’t berated her for having the desires. He’d been her first and only kiss. And he’d not recognized anything about me?
Emma stiffened as knowledge teased her subconscious. He’d called me princess. How had she not noticed? Rinsing her hair and body quickly, she stepped from the bath, deep panic winding through her heart. Elliot had referred to her as princess several times. As he had always referred to her. Her guard had been so lowered by the sheer enormity of her ruse she hadn’t noticed.
Emma felt breathless and slightly ill.
Drawing on her robe, uncaring her skin was still wet, she thought at a rapid pace. Perhaps I am overreacting. The duke could possibly call every woman princess. Surely if he had known it was her, he would have turned her away.
Wouldn’t he?
Chapter 9
E
mma was gone.
Elliot had felt her slipping from the bed and had ruthlessly prevented himself from halting her. She’d only wanted one night of scandalous passion. He tried to leave it at that. God, he wanted to leave it at that. But he couldn’t. He’d desired her for far too long. He had always dreamed of her, and it had scared the hell out of him. He’d woken from blistering hot dreams, which had changed to sweet and endearing. He didn’t just want her body, he wanted everything. Her smiles, laugher, pain, love. Everything.
Elliot had let her go then. She had been too young, and he had been too damn uncertain, hesitant of denting her surety of not wanting to marry. He was tired of hiding what he felt for her, just plain tired of being alone, tired of being so damned unresolved where she was concerned.
