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Dearest Emily,
I yearn for the warmth of your touch. It has been six weeks since my division last marched on the enemy. Yet we die daily as we fight another war—a war with winter. The cold steals our sanity and our lives. We battle daily with the rain, snow, mud fields, and waterlogged trenches. My men draw strength from me, and I am weak to admit that I draw strength from you. In these dark times only memories of home, memories of family, and you are enough to make me fight, to plan and to strategize more. Your letters are creased, cracked, and caked with dirt. I thank you for them, my love. I read them to my men who have no one to reach out to them. Your words are joy, comfort, sunshine in our bleakest moments.
Your love, Maxwell Wynwood
Emily held the letter, fighting the tears that filled her eyes. She gently folded it and placed it on the stack, carefully retying the ribbon. Marcellus had been true to his promise. He had taken her long and hard for the entire night, devastating her senses with pleasure, and marking her soul. Even now her body ached with tormenting desire, but instead of filling her with joy, she felt as if she’d betrayed Maxwell. Oh God, Marcellus had been so thorough. He had taken her until she pleaded for rest. He had spoken to her in the most scandalous fashion. Telling her how sweet her pussy tasted while cupping her vagina, so she knew without a doubt what he referred to. His drawls had been explicit and soul destroying as her body had reacted to each promise of how he would fuck her with increased wildness. She had hurt as he promised, but it had been such a sweet, delightful hurt.
“Are these packaged right, milady?” Mrs. Bough, the head housekeeper, queried.
Emily strolled over to the table that was laden with parcels in the drawing room.
“Yes, they are, Mrs. Bough. Thank you.” Emily had been very specific in her instruction on the type of paper the gifts should be wrapped in. She wanted bright, vibrant colors. “Did Homer get everything on the other list?”
“He tried his
best, milady, but most of the local shops are still struggling. He had to send to Charlbury for several of the items.”
Emily nodded, filled with bleak despair. She was not the only one that had lost in this war. She empathized with the many women in the village who had lost sons, husbands, and fathers. She had been grateful when Marcellus whisked her away from Grosvenor Square to his family estate in West Oxfordshire. Grief had almost drowned her in London, but here she had found purpose. Her father and mother, the Earl and Countess of Langford, had been scandalized she would remain unmarried under the duke’s house for so long. Emily had been amazed that in such wartimes they were concerned with propriety.
“Carry on, then; we will deliver these to the hospitals. I have several presents for our tenant families. And then we will take the rest to the women and children in Brompton and Langford.”
Sighing softly, she collected her fur-lined winter coat, muff, and cloche hat, then headed for the door. Mary, the head housemaid, and three footmen bustled with several packages, following her. Emily’s stomach tightened with bundles of nerves. Marcellus always took her on her Wednesday outings to the infirmary. She served as an aid nurse three times per week, but it was only once per week that she visited the tenant farmers affected the most by the war. Tension coiled in her belly, and she wondered if he would be waiting. She had ordered the chauffeur to be available in the event that he was not present. Oh God, she was not sure how to face him.
After their waves of loving he had held her as she slept. Their night had been more than what she’d expected, and very confusing. He was Maxwell’s twin brother. Pain slammed into her, and she stumbled. He was not Maxwell. She doubted Marcellus could ever be like Maxwell; they were too different.
She did not understand the emotions she felt for Marcellus, but she knew it was not love. She fought the tightening in her chest and the tingle between her legs. He made her lust, cry, beg to be possessed by him, and he made her behave completely unrestrained. Emily had pleaded for him to fuck her, to lick her cunt; she’d repeated all the naughty phrases he had commanded her to use. He had stripped her barriers and revealed the wanton in her. But he had also been her rock since Maxwell went off to war. Then Marcellus had become her sanity in the past three months when she’d learned she lost her beloved. Her feelings for Marcellus were like nothing she had ever known, yet the emotions he roused in her were not the soul-shattering love she felt for Maxwell. Confusion bubbled in her, and her throat burned, and moisture filled her eyes.
“Milady, is all well?” Mary asked tentatively.
Emily cleared her throat and forced a smile to her lips for Mary. “I am well, Mary,” she reassured with a smile.
“Lady Emily?”
She turned at the sound of Alfred, the butler, calling.
“Her grace requires your presence in the green parlor.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” she murmured, walking through the foyer. She continued down the winding hall, past the library. She refused to look at the library door, wondering how she would ever read in its cozy atmosphere without blushing from all that Marcellus had done to her on the desk, the sofa, and the floor. She flung open the door to the parlor and ground to a halt.
She blinked wearily, wondering if she saw what she thought she had seen. It could not be. It must have been her imagination that the duchess had been in an intimate embrace with Lord Grayson Wynwood, her husband’s brother.
“Please come in, my dear.” The duchess’s smile was lopsided, and as Emily went farther into the room, she realized her eyes were red rimmed. The Duchess had been crying.
“Lord Grayson,” Emily greeted, looking into steely blue eyes.
He was handsome, tall with broad shoulders and black hair that was peppered with only the smallest amount of gray. He and the duke were dashing, and it was evident where Marcellus and Maxwell got their sinful looks. The only features they seemed to possess from their mother were her eyes. The duchess was incredibly lovely, with her light blonde hair, smoky gray eyes, fine bones and porcelain skin.
Lord Grayson came over to briefly kiss Emily’s cheek in greeting and then exited. Emily did not miss the warm glance he sent Her grace. Emily’s heart clamored. What if they were having an affair? She banished the thought from her mind instantly. Lord Grayson and the duke were twins. They were close, and when she reflected on the grief-filled months, they had always been there comforting the duchess. Emily was sure she misunderstood.
“Please sit down, my dear. Some tea?”
“No, thank you, Your Grace. I had a hearty breakfast,” she murmured, sitting on the chaise opposite the duchess.
The duchess gave her an inquiring glance, and she blushed. Emily could hardly tell her that after the night of excess with Marcellus, she had been ravenous. His presence had not been needed to coax her to eat.
“I will get right into it then. I know the timing is a bit rushed, but I have been so numbed I only now thought of it. I would love your help to arrange a festive ball for our tenant farmers. We are only three weeks away from Christmas. But together with the household, we can pull it off.”
“A festive ball?”
