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Newbury Hall, London
Ten in the morning
Ahand easedup Emalyn’s leg, fingers curling into the hollow where her hip and thigh came together. She lay on her side, face snuggled low on the pillow, the thick layers of sheets wrapped around her, the sweet press of her husband’s chest against her back. Warmth enveloped her, but she finally stirred at the insistent touch, her voice hoarse with sleep. “I see you are awake.”
Philip kissed her shoulder, a tender caress with parted lips. He propped up his head on one arm. “I adore watching you sleep.”
The heat of his body added to her feeling of inertia, but his fingers continued their determined enticement, and with a resigned moan, Emalyn rolled onto her back and stretched languidly. She gazed up at her husband, relishing the intense look of desire in his eyes and the alluring musk of his own scent blended with sandalwood. “Imagining how you were going to awaken me?”
His smile turned mischievous, and he shifted to tuck her tighter under his arm. The covers fell away from her bare shoulders, and she shivered a bit in the chill air of the room. The ashes in the grate lay cold, and the light seeping through the heavy burgundy drapes of Philip’s bedchamber indicated that dawn was long since passed. Dust motes danced in narrow streaks of sunshine made brighter by the night’s snowfall. The light illuminated the scattering of their clothes across various pieces of the dark and thick-framed cherry furniture that had populated the room since they had moved into Newbury Hall ten years earlier.
They had slept late. Again. “This decision to try again has made us lazy.”
Philip’s hand moved from her hip down her inner thigh, urging her legs apart. “I would not call what we shared last night lazy.”
She yielded, opening herself to his touch. “No,” she whispered, cupping his face with one hand, a soft moan in her throat as Philip moved over her. Even after twelve years of marriage, Emalyn still craved her husband, longing for his touch, the closeness of his body, the feel of his skin against hers. His soft whispers still made her breath catch in her throat. So even though her own bedchamber waited just on the other side of the dressing room that adjoined them, for more than a decade she had spent many more nights in his bed than her own.
It was the door from the hall into Philip’s bedchamber, however, that slammed open with a force that banged it into the wall. The eruption of shouts that followed sent Emalyn and Philip scrambling to push away from each other and gather bedclothes up around both of their bare bodies.
“Papa! Papa!” Eight-year-old Robert rushed into the room, landing on the bed with a weighty bounce that made his parents draw their feet up. “It’s late! You said we could go riding today. And it’s late!” He bounced up and down with the impatience of eight-year-old boys everywhere.
Philip cleared his throat, but not before four-year-old Michael tumbled into the room, catching himself before he fell. “Horses! You said horses!” He scrambled up on Emalyn’s side, grinning at her. “Mama! I love horses!” He threw his arms around her neck, leaping against her, and only a quick grab by Philip kept the covers from being torn away.
Emalyn grinned at her husband. “You promised to take them riding inthisweather.”
“I thought it might run off some energy before the journey.”
“Not likely.” Ten-year-old Thomas sauntered into the room and leaned against one of the posts at the foot of the bed.
“Where’s Miss Thompson?” Philip growled, shifting uncomfortably on his side of the bed.
“Robert locked her in the closet!” Michael’s words held far too much glee.
Robert snapped around. “You were not supposed to tell!”
Thomas snorted. “If he had not, I would have.”
His brother snarled. “I do not see why.”
“Look at Papa’s face, Robbie. I do not wish to see her sacked. She’s kind.”
Philip’s scowl turned on Thomas. “Thenyoushould have let her out. And what about Mr. Grimes?”
Thomas shrugged, looking far too much like a rogue at ten. “His half-day.”
Emalyn’s eyebrows arched at the news of the tutor’s absence. “It’s already noon?”
Another shrug from her eldest. “No, but Robbie and I finished our lessons early. He said he wanted to run errands before we left for Ashton Park.”
Philip straightened. “All right. We will go riding—a short one!—but first you must let Miss Thompson out of the closet. We will have tea, then go. We have much to do before leaving this afternoon. We must depart just after luncheon. Now. Out. All of you!”
Thomas smiled, a light of mischief in his eyes that reminded Emalyn of his father. “So you have not even had tea?”
Emalyn narrowed her eyes. “Take charge, Tom,” she said quietly. “You are the oldest.”
He nodded with another shrug, then thumped Robert on the back of his head. “Let’s go.” He held out his hand to Michael. “Come on, Bug. I will let Miss Thompson out while you two hide.”
Emalyn watched them go, her heart bursting with joy. She adored her boys, loved watching them grow. Brothers. Close to each other but quite different at the same time. It was why she had finally suggested to Philip that they try again. Even before their marriage, Emalyn and Philip knew they wanted a large family. They had joked about having a dozen or more. But it was not to be. All of her births had been difficult, Michael especially so.
