Page 31 of Truly, Madly, Daring

“Emmeline,” he said, suddenly breathless.

“We have unfinished business, you and I,” she said firmly, no longer appearing the least bit fragile.

“B-But you’re sick,” he said, because he was damned if he would compound his ill treatment of her by taking advantage.

“I’m feeling rather better now.”

“You don’t have to—” he began, only to have the words cut off as she pressed her mouth to his. He groaned, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, desire sweeping through his blood like a spark hitting gunpowder. He kissed her deeper, harder, gratified by her willingness, that she remembered the way of it, and responded eagerly.

He broke the kiss, feeling dazed and overwhelmed with need and hope.

“I won’t let your father annul our marriage, Wrexham,” she said, sounding very sure of herself. “You’re my husband, and I like being Lady Wrexham. We’re in this together now, you and I, and I won’t let them beat us.”

Hope fizzled out as he realised what she was saying, because of course it was her position she needed to secure, that was what she wanted. Not him. He was a title, a means to an end, not a man. But he had known that, he told himself. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t expected more, and it was foolish to expect it. Cruel, even, when he remembered the fate that awaited him. She was a kind-hearted creature, and it would be hard enough on her to watch a friend deteriorate into lunacy. He told himself he was selfish to wish she might love him, for that would be wicked of him, to wish for her to mourn the loss of him, but the protest seemed hollow and unconvincing. He shook the feeling off. He could please her, at least, he knew that now, and it wasn’t like she didn’t enjoy his touch. She’d come for him eagerly enough this morning, so… so they may as well enjoy each other for as long as they may.

Perhaps she would not allow him the liberty of touching her again. It was what they’d agreed, but for now, in this moment, she was his and he wanted her. He wanted her badly.

Emmeline stared up at her husband, her heart beating in her ears. She still could not believe she had done such a shameless thing. Only he had looked so defeated, so angry, yet so lost, and she could not bear it. She had mis-stepped before, allowing him to hear the aching sadness in her voice, which he would naturally interpret as pity. Emmeline did not pity him. She was in awe of him, she longed for his touch and was desperate to know every single thing about him. Her feelings for him seemed increasingly complex and tangled, ranging from physical need and protectiveness, to love and frustration, admiration and fascination, with the occasional powerful desire to shake him for being an absolute idiot.

“I won’t let your father annul our marriage, Wrexham. You’re my husband, and I like being Lady Wrexham. We’re in this together now, you and I, and I won’t let them beat us,” she said, praying he could hear the truth behind her words, and all the things she was not quite brave enough to say out loud.

She still did not know this man who was her husband, and whilst she trusted him with her body, and felt instinctively that he was good and kind and honourable, there was a part of her that remained cautious. He had never promised her fidelity, after all. Indeed, he had never expected to bed her at all. She presumed he had a mistress, or perhaps a string of mistresses, and if there was to be anything real between them, she would ask him to put an end to that. She did not want to share him. If that was not what he wanted, however….

As ever, the difficulty of her situation came home to her with unpleasant clarity, but she was here now. She was his wife, in his arms, and when he kissed her, nothing else mattered.

He tugged at her nightgown, raising it up over her head and Emmeline moved, lifting her arms so he could pull it free. She stood, shivering, her earlier fatigue and the foggy sensation she endured after a migraine, chased away by nerves and anticipation.

“I wish I could see you,” he said, his voice low, almost angry.

“You’ve an imagination have you not, my lord?” she asked him, wondering when she had become so very bold as she moved closer, pressing against him and sucking in a breath at the cold touch of his waistcoat buttons against her skin.

“Yes,” he said, the word little more than a rasp of breath against her cheek as he buried his face against her neck. He breathed in deeply, and she had the sense that he was revelling in the scent of her as much as the feel of her beneath his hands as they roamed over her, making her shiver harder still. “God, Emmeline, your skin is so soft, so fine.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he stole the words with a kiss, demanding entry this time and only taking more when she gave what he asked for. His obvious desire for her was like adding fuel to a blaze and her blood heated, making its own demands. Her fingers went to his damp coat, and she pushed it from his shoulders, uncaring when it fell in an untidy heap on the floor. They were rumpled enough from such an unceasing journey, so what did it matter? She began next on his waistcoat buttons, clumsy in her haste to strip him. He laughed softly and removed his cravat as she undid the last buttons and then he shrugged off the waistcoat.

Emmeline watched with her heart thudding as he tugged his shirt free of his trousers and pulled it over his head, dropping it carelessly to the floor. She dared to press her hands to his chest, stunned anew by the feel of him, smooth skin and hard muscle, the glint of gold in the wiry hair that trailed down his abdomen.

“You are quite magnificent, my lord,” she whispered, feeling his body react to the words, a new thrill of tension tightening his muscles.

“You think so?” he asked, a thread of uncertainty audible though he smiled at her words, and her heart wept for this man who had been so confident, so young and brash and powerful before fate had stepped in.

“False modesty doesn’t become you,” she scolded him, though she knew it was nothing of the sort. “You know very well how fine you are, else you would not have enjoyed such a successful career as a libertine.”

“Ancient history,” he murmured, his expression one of concentration as he moved his hands over her, cupping her breasts and squeezing gently.

Emmeline gasped, finding it hard to keep her mind on the conversation.

“I don’t see why,” she remarked, her gaze falling to the hard shape visible behind the placket of his trousers. “Everything seems to be in correct working order. Not that I’m complaining. I want you to myself.”

There was a brief, stunned silence and then he gave a sharp bark of laughter. “You confound me. Do you know that, Miss Milly?”

“You can’t call me that any longer. We’re married.”

“Ah, pet, you’ll always be Miss Milly to me,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck and trailing kisses to the sensitive place beneath her ear. “You want me to yourself, then?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I’ve never been terribly good at sharing. It comes of being the youngest,” she added breathlessly, gasping as his hand slid between her legs, caressing.

“If you want me to yourself, it’s only fair I ask the same in return,” he said, and he sounded amused, yet Emmeline had become sensitive to his moods, to the inflection in his voice, and more than anything his expression.