What a Lady Requires Page 6

  Whether or not her statement was the complete truth, it had the desired effect. Uriana’s cheeks went purple, and with a squeak, she scuttled off. Never one to let pass an opportunity, Aunt Augusta had sidled up to Sparks, and she not-so-subtly grabbed her daughter’s arm in passing.

  “What do you make of that?”

  Emma stifled a gasp. Her husband of all of two hours had managed to steal up on her. And his proximity—he stood close enough that she fancied she could feel heat emanating from his body. His body that would make its demands of her known all too soon.

  When she replied, she strove for a breezy tone. “My aunt would never pass up a chance to see her daughter a countess.”

  “But she must know the conditions under which we married.”

  Emma kept her gaze pinned on the scene across the room. Thank goodness her aunt had overlooked the sin of leaving her spectacles on for the wedding ceremony. Said aunt now waved a hand to emphasize whatever point she was making. Sparks’s expression remained immutable in that mild smile he always wore. If an artist were to paint a portrait and entitle it “Benign,” he’d choose Sparks as his subject. “She does, but she won’t let such a trifle stop her. Not as long as she thinks she can change your brother’s mind.”

  “She simply does not know him.” Battencliffe let out a low chuckle. The vibration somehow burrowed deep into her bones, awakening an answering hum in her belly. The sensation was at once pleasant and unsettling. It made her want to shift her weight from one foot to the other and press her hand to the spot. “It takes him so long to make up his mind, there’s no changing it. But what about you?”

  The abrupt shift in the conversational direction nearly tore her gaze away from her aunt. “What about me?”

  “What does it take to make you change your mind?”

  She drew in a lungful of sandalwood-scented air. Him. Her husband. She was taking him into herself. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “You’ve practically set up housekeeping in the corner—just as you did the first time I met you.”

  She snapped her attention to him. “Have I? I hadn’t noticed.” The truth, that. But his remark was singularly keen. “I suppose I prefer to observe. People give away clues about themselves when they don’t realize they’re being watched.”

  “That they do. Take your aunt as an example.” He nodded toward the woman, and the movement brought him into even closer proximity. “Her expression reminds me of a dog eyeing a meaty bone, but your cousin looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

  “Aunt Augusta is making a valiant attempt at a sale, but the goods are rather reluctant. As for your brother, I cannot gauge his level of interest. His expression hasn’t changed the entire time.”

  “Yes, he’s good at that. He hides behind that mask of his, and people think him slow. I wouldn’t want to sit at the card table with him, though. But come.” He laid his fingertips at the back of her arm, the gesture at once casual and proprietary. How could such a light touch leave her with the impression she’d find four oval burn marks on her skin tonight? “The others are nearly ready to take their leave.”

  That statement rushed through her like a sudden icy downpour. “So soon?”

  He reached for her forgotten wineglass, and his fingers brushed hers. Long fingers with neatly trimmed nails. Fingers that would have every right to map all the regions of her skin the moment everyone left. “Pity you didn’t try the champagne. It was lovely.”

  Before she could respond, he plucked the glass from her hand. For a moment, she expected him to down the measure, but he set it on a side table and offered his elbow.

  She stared at it, as the full significance of the pose struck her full in the gut. They were a pair now. Host and hostess in their own home. Social obligation required them to make a round of the room and bid their guests farewell. Not family anymore. Guests. Even her own papa was relegated to that status.

  Battencliffe cut her a sharp look. “You needn’t fear me.”

  “I don’t.” Not even a lie made out of bravado. He didn’t generate fear so much as a sense of unease—a feeling that all wasn’t quite as it should be—yet the effect wasn’t completely unpleasant. Just strangely disturbing. But when he turned his perfectly chiseled face toward her and commanded her attention, she could not tear herself away.

  That was the problem. That was what was amiss. He shouldn’t hold such power over her. Nor should he raise so many questions in her mind. Not when the nature of those inquiries revolved around the texture of his skin, the taste of his lips, or how the solidity of his chest might feel pressed against her.

  Later. Later, she would have a chance to discover that for herself, as long as she was bold enough.

  —

  Rowan held back as Emma bid a final goodbye to her father. Jennings bent and kissed her cheek before turning and touching his forehead in a form of salute. The movement appeared friendly enough, but the man’s eyes held a warning: Take care of my daughter.

  Even if he was entering this marriage out of strict financial necessity, Rowan intended to take care of his bride. And that started with giving her a proper wedding night. It was the least he could do, after the poor first impression he’d made. That he was looking forward to unwrapping the delectable little package she presented in her wedding attire didn’t hurt. Delicate dotted fabric in ivory skimmed her generous curves, hinting at a body made for a man’s pleasure.

  As long as Rowan could set aside his memories of other events in this house, he might manage to get this marriage off to a proper start. He reckoned he could keep her happy in the bedroom, if nowhere else. Provided he could fend off the ghosts of his sins.

  But bitter experience had taught him purposes counted for bloody little. At one time and with the best of intentions, he’d entered this very house and royally buggered his life. Destroyed a friendship, destroyed a marriage, all but destroyed himself in the process.

  With Emma, he had another chance to do it up properly. At the very least, he could calm her nerves. She might be attempting to put a brave face on things, but the chalky pallor to her complexion gave her away. That and her expression. She looked torn between darting out the door after her father and sagging against the oak plank in hopes of keeping her aunt at bay.

  With an attempt at a smile, he stepped toward the brandy decanter. Jennings might be removing to his lodgings over his shop, but at least he’d left the spirits behind. “Can I assume we won’t be entertaining your aunt and cousin on a regular basis?”

  With her eyes, she followed the movement of his hands as he poured himself a drink. “Not if I can help it.”

  He held up his tumbler. “Would you like something? Perhaps not brandy, but we might ring for sherry.”

  “I don’t plan on drinking our entire housing budget, and I don’t advise you to do so, either.”

  So that was the start she’d make to their married life—frosty and safe and stiff. “Do you think we might leave the finances out of it until tomorrow? It is our wedding day, and I hardly think I can drink my way through a quarter’s profits in a single evening.”

  She looked away. “That all depends on how much profit you’re pulling in.”

  “In that case, cheers!” He raised his glass to her and downed its contents. “Please sit,” he added after several moments. Good Lord, but he’d never met a more tightly wound female. “I’m not going to attack you.”

  In fact, if she didn’t thaw at least a little, he couldn’t imagine conducting a proper seduction. And wouldn’t that be a horrible joke? He was used to ladies who approached him with knowing smiles and easy laughter. Through their loose posture and ready touches, they let him know they were ripe for the picking, if he should so choose. The appreciative manner in which they took in his frame signaled his acceptance in their beds.

  Married, to the last. He refused to have any part in their faithlessness. At least his wife came from a different social class. From all appearances, her dealings with p
olite society hadn’t corrupted her in the slightest. How ironic that duty now required him to attract the least enthusiastic woman he’d ever encountered.

  Without a word, Emma obeyed, settling herself on a straight-backed chair and arranging her silk skirts about her. For all her talk of respecting a budget, her gown looked costly enough. He recognized the expert workmanship that allowed the expensive fabric to drape over her impressive bosom and show it to its best advantage. She’d spared herself no expense, so she could damned well allow him a luxury or two.

  He cleared his throat and put those thoughts aside. If he wished to get anywhere with her, he needed to set her at ease. “I thought it might be worth getting to know each other better.”

  She turned her head to the side, studying him from the corner of her eye. Sizing him up. Gauging his interest. Looking for the snag in the deal he was about to offer. “How do you propose we do that?”

  He eased himself into the settee opposite her, stretching his legs until his position was as relaxed as hers was stiff. “The same way anybody does it. We talk. Tell me about yourself. What do you enjoy doing to pass the time?”

  “I…I…” Was that a blush? Good Lord, was she about to surprise him with some secret confession?

  “Be honest now. I can’t imagine you concern yourself with the typical feminine frivolities. You can tell me you enjoy riding down matrons in a phaeton and I will not judge you.”

  “I do the books.”

  Good Lord. His disappointment with that statement made him regret finishing his drink so quickly. He could have used the burn of brandy to warm himself up. “I see, but what do you do for pleasure?”

  He deliberately drew out the last word. Any society lady would have taken up the flirtation.

  Not Emma. She merely blinked. “I just told you. I do the books.”

  “And you take pleasure in that?”

  She leaned forward, and her expression lightened. “There is nothing better than creating order from chaos, than taking columns of disparate figures and making sense of them, of working at the numbers until they balance and everything is neat and tidy, arranged all in rows.”

  Good God, she was serious. Her spectacles magnified her eyes, emphasizing their purplish spark. He studied the line of her neck, elongated like the very column of figures she was waxing poetic over. She wore her chestnut tresses high and twisted into a tight plaited knot minus the loose curls most women left at the sides to soften the effect. Neat and tidy, indeed. Not a single hair out of alignment.

  Even so, he searched for the pins that secured her coiffure, his fingers itching to pull a few. And what would she do if he taught her how passion could undo a woman? Leave her stripped bare, in a tangle of sheets, gasping and begging for more. Yes, physical love was a very messy thing, indeed.

  The thought stretched his lips into a grin, one he’d used in the past to win ladies’ affections. He’d been told it held the perfect hint of wickedness. “Do you mean to imply you’d never allow yourself to become disheveled? We must work on that. It would be a pity to neglect that aspect of your education.”

  If he didn’t miss his guess, she thawed somewhat at that. A spark flashed through her eyes, gone the next moment. It could be nothing but intrigue. Oh, yes, the project might take some determination on his part, but he’d have her soft and responding under him yet. Never let it be said he backed away from a challenge.

  Before Emma could reply, a footman padded in. “This was just delivered for you, miss—er, ma’am.”

  “Oh?” She looked awfully surprised to receive what could only be a note of felicitations.

  She took the paper from the salver and unfolded it. As her eyes scanned the message, any color Rowan had managed to put in her cheeks drained away.

  Was it more than a polite note on the occasion of her marriage? Her damnable aunt had approached him just before the ceremony and suggested he ought to keep an eye on his wife. The warning had contained enough cryptic hints that he’d written it off as maliciousness. If the woman had explicit evidence against her niece, surely she would have come out with the bald facts. But now he was no longer sure.

  “Watch her correspondence,” the harridan had said.

  Well, here was a bit of correspondence, and the news wasn’t good, seemingly.

  “What is it, darling?”

  Emma didn’t even flinch at the endearment. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  But as she tucked the paper into her bodice, her fingers were trembling.

  Chapter Seven

  Emma drew a brush through her hair, hardly noting any discomfort when the bristles caught on a snarl. Clad in nothing but a night rail and dressing gown, she’d long since dismissed her maid. At any moment, Battencliffe might come through the door that connected their bedchambers, but her mind was elsewhere.

  Ever since she’d received that dratted message, Mr. Hendricks had occupied her thoughts. Through a tedious supper, and while her maid had undressed her, and now, still, a man whose identity she didn’t even know had taken the place of her husband. It wasn’t right, but there was nothing she could do to rectify the situation.

  Under her husband’s scrutiny, she’d reformulated her reply a hundred times, but she still couldn’t get it right. Not after the note had rattled her so.

  Mr. Hendricks’s most recent missive mocked her from its place on her dressing table. A few lines of terse scrawl, but they’d changed whatever she’d come to expect of the relationship. For the hundred and first time, she wondered if she should confess the acquaintance, such as it was. Bundle the entire story up in as pretty a package as she could invent and hand the entire thing to her husband. Let him handle it.

  The only problem was, none of this had anything to do with Mr. Battencliffe. If Mr. Hendricks had just lost a significant sum, the blame lay on her shoulders. It would be wrong to shift that responsibility to another. She’d got the man into a fix—however unintentionally—so it was only fitting she get him out.

  She simply needed to give her excuses in the proper terms.

  Naturally, he’d begun to make demands in the face of her silence—the blame for which she could lay entirely at her aunt’s doorstep. Her father’s and Mr. Battencliffe’s, as well. This hasty wedding had so occupied her, she’d neglected to complete her second letter, let alone send it. Of course, Mr. Hendricks would worry that his source of investment advice might suddenly dry up. Perfectly understandable.

  In the face of his loss, he had every right to be upset, but she didn’t care for his tone, nor the way he’d reminded her, several times, that she owed him. He could reveal their correspondence and make her look bad to the entire level of society she’d just joined. He could ensure she’d never fit in. Part of her didn’t wish to tolerate such outrage. A firm reply with a few final words of advice would end things. Just one more letter and she’d be rid of the man.

  The snap of the door latch made her jump in her chair. In the nick of time, she stashed the message between the pages of Lydia Lindenhurst’s journal and placed the book out of sight in a pigeonhole. Her pulse throbbed in her neck as heavy but quiet footfalls thudded across the bare floor. Even, slow, and steady. Above all, assured. Closer and closer until they halted just behind her.

  She’d never imagined feeling another presence the way she felt Battencliffe’s. It commanded, as it had the first day. Look at me.

  She obeyed.

  Turning, she caught her breath. Like her, he was dressed for bed. A blood-red banyan knotted at the waist, veed open to reveal a white swath of linen shirt. His cravat hung about his neck, exposing a tantalizing wedge of bronze skin. Good heavens. Her earlier whim—the one where she touched her fingertips to his living flesh, where she met his lips and tasted his salt—eclipsed all other thought.

  But then her gaze lit on the wineglass in one hand, the bottle in the other, and her eyes narrowed. “Only one glass?”

  “I brought this for you.”

  “Were you planning on drinking
straight from the bottle?” Petty of her, perhaps, but she could not forget his intoxicated state the first time she met him.

  “I won’t need any.” The confidence in his voice filled her with a glow as much as a glass of full-bodied red would. “I thought a little tonic to calm your nerves would be just the thing.”

  “What makes you think I’m nervous?”

  “An educated guess.” He tipped the bottle and filled the glass. “Not to mention you’ve been holding yourself stiff since your family left. Any number of boards would be jealous.”

  “Oh.” She forced her shoulders down.

  He looked her over from head to foot, his gaze lingering but not necessarily in the expected locations. Oh, he paused over her bosom, but she also felt the heat of his glance trace her shoulders, the length of her arms, her face, almost like a touch. “I must say I like this.”

  “You like what?”

  “Your hair loose. It softens you. And this.” He plucked the spectacles from the bridge of her nose. “Much better.”

  “You think it better that I cannot see properly?” Somehow, the blur that settled over their surroundings brought him into sharper focus. Objects across the room became foggy, but she could still see Battencliffe clearly enough to detect the fullness of his lower lip, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that were even now deepening into crinkles.

  “Your spectacles won’t be a help to you once your eyes are closed,” he murmured. “Now perhaps if you didn’t hold yourself so rigid.” He proffered the glass.

  She wrapped her fingers about the stem quickly to hide their trembling and took a sip. The finest hermitage, rich, robust, and earthy. Corsé, as the French would term it, from Côte du Rhône. Hints of blackberry coated her tongue, and a chocolaty finish washed down her throat, trailing warmth to her belly. A glance at the label confirmed her suspicions. He’d been into the back of the wine cellar.