Emma closed her eyes and returned his kiss, giving herself fully to Rathburn. No—to
Oliver
. He was hers now, and she could claim him as her own.
“Oliver,” she whispered, winding her arms around his neck and arching against him. Her breasts strained against her chemise, aching as she crushed them into his chest. The taut peaks of her nipples shot ribbons of fiery tingles deep inside her body where he filled her.
He growled, breaking from the kiss and burying his face against the side of her neck. His mouth opened over her flesh. The warm, rough texture of his tongue stroked her frenzied pulse, sending another shock of tingles through her. He moved again, rolling his hips and surging forward until their bodies were flush. Her head tilted back on a moan and his name followed by a plea for him to do that again.
He did. Over and over again, until the room grew suddenly dark and the rumble of distant thunder was the only sound to drown out her cries. Wind blew in from the open windows, cooling the perspiration from her body and making the heat between them more intense. The storm was within her, quaking and threatening to unleash a torrent. She felt it keenly, building without expectation. Only promise.
When he lifted his head and took her mouth again, the storm broke free. Oliver swallowed her cry as the deluge rolled on and on.
Above her, holding her fiercely, he stilled. She opened her eyes and their gazes locked. His intensity struck her hard, filling her with awe. Deep inside, perhaps even into her soul, she felt his release.
Without a doubt, nothing would ever be the same again. She only hoped he could forgive her.
R
athburn reluctantly lifted away from Emma and walked to the washbasin at the far corner of the room. The afternoon light had dimmed with the approach of a storm, yet he could still make out the bloodstain on the fall of his breeches. His valet would be furious . . . at first. Then Woodson would likely make a comment on his wooing prowess, or lack thereof.
He’d behaved like a beast with his new bride. Hell, he hadn’t taken the time to undress either of them. Yet, as much as he attempted to give himself a stern lecture, he couldn’t stop the utter joy and exhilaration he felt.
Emma Danvers—
correction
—Goswick, Viscountess of Rathburn, was truly his.
Without bothering to hide his triumphant grin, he strode back to the bed with a damp cloth. His bride had pulled down her chemise, and the apples of her cheeks were suffused in a very becoming blush.
“Has my buttoned-up Emmaline returned?” he teased, noticing how she kept her head turned to the side and pulled on the corner of her mouth with her teeth. He bent down to kiss her. “I’m afraid it’s far too late for modesty, my darling. Your cad of a husband made sure of that.”
She shook her head, the motion bringing her lips to his. “You’re not a cad.”
He put it more plainly. “There’ll be no annulment now. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“Are you . . . disappointed?”
He knew she wasn’t asking if he was satisfied with their lovemaking. The evidence was clear in his undoubtedly sappy grin and primitive gleam in his eyes. She was asking if he was disappointed in his choice of bride. “If you’ll recall, I’m the one who proposed to you.”
“You proposed a mock courtship, Oliver. Not this.”
At first, but at the church he’d made his intentions perfectly clear and now everything was absolutely perfect. All he needed was Emma . . . and perhaps hearing her admit her true feelings.
Because he loved the sound of his name on her lips, he kissed her again. And lingered.
Her luscious mouth will be the death of me
, he thought, imagining that he’d sooner starve than stop kissing her. His body stirred.
Now, he wasn’t familiar with the protocol of deflowering virgins, but it was a time-honored belief that they were fragile creatures. Most likely, it was too soon to seduce her again before nightfall.
Reluctantly, he broke the kiss and kneeled on the bed beside her. “This will be cool,” he said as he lowered the cloth to the apex of her thighs—a place of rapture more divine than he’d ever experienced before.
She gasped and sat up part way, taking hold of his wrist as he administered loving strokes across her sensitive flesh. “Surely, I should do this.”
“And deny me the pleasure?” To make his point, he made a slow circle with the pad of his middle finger.
“Oliver.”
Instinctively, she closed her thighs. Her lashes lowered, but not before he saw her eyes darken with desire. His body responded elementally to that knowledge.
Yet, before passion ran rampant again, he eased his hand away. Standing, he walked back across the room to put the cloth back in the basin. “There is one part of our altered bargain that we haven’t discussed,” he said casually as he returned and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her onto his lap.
“Surely, you shouldn’t—” She put up a meager protest for modesty’s sake, then settled her hands on his shoulder and chest. Her brows lifted in curiosity, yet her gaze lingered on his mouth. “Have we altered our bargain?”
His mouth twisted in a wry grin and lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. “Everything has changed now, Emma.”
The moment he saw her expression change to uncertainty, eclipsing the passion from an instant ago, he leaned down and kissed her, drawing on her lips until he felt her body relax into his. Since he didn’t want her to ask a follow up question, he distracted her by deepening the kiss.
Settling his hands at her waist, he turned her so that she would straddle him. However, the distraction worked to his disadvantage. Feeling the welcoming heat of her body made him hard and ready to take her again. Her soft purrs were driving him mad. It was too soon for her, surely.
He broke away from her tempting lips to her cheek, peppering kisses along her jaw and down her throat. At the hollow between her collarbone and shoulder, he paused and asked his question. “Do you like children?”
She drew in a quick breath, tenderness and wonder in her expression. “I think so,” she said quietly, searching his face.
Rathburn lifted his hands to her hair and began to remove the pins he’d thoughtlessly left in before. “I think so, too. A little girl with your brown eyes would be lovely.”
She smiled. “Or a boy with mossy green eyes flecked with gold,” she said, apparently without realizing how much she’d revealed. It was obvious to him that this wasn’t the first time she’d thought about their child . . . their
children
. If she’d thought about that, then clearly she’d imagined a life with him. A true marriage.
He continued removing the pins, letting them fall on the floor beside the bed. “You bring up a valid argument. We’ll have to have one of each to be sure.” He drew the long locks of her hair forward. He’d imagined her just like this—unbound and uninhibited—dozens of times. How could it be that in so short a time she’d come to mean everything to him? It didn’t seem possible, and yet his heart told him it was the truth. “I always wanted a brother. So, we should probably have at least two boys.”
She grinned back at him. “And I always wanted a sister.”
“Of course.” He nodded sagely. “Then two boys and two girls . . . to start.”
She giggled, a sound he was sure he’d never heard from her before. It hit him like the blast of cupid’s arrow. A superfluous shot, since his entire heart was already hers. He knew she was adept at hiding her feelings from him, but this gave him hope that it wouldn’t always be the case. Already she was freer and happier than he’d seen her before.
“I’m not certain it will be that easy,” she said, naively presenting him with a challenge.
“No. It won’t.” He twisted a heavy lock around his finger. Releasing the mahogany curl slowly and drawing it down until his knuckles grazed the dusky pink tip of her breast, still veiled beneath the chemise. Her sweet breath came out in a long exhale as she looked down to his hand, and to the way the bud strained against the insubstantial fabric. “We’ll have to work tirelessly to achieve our goal. Slaving away for hours each day until the weeks draw into months and then years.”
Emma licked her lips, her fingers straying to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Who’ll manage the house?”
He sighed, pretending it was for dramatic effect, but in truth, he was nearly undone by her boldness. This was a side to Emma he’d never expected to live outside of his fantasies. The reality was much sweeter. “It will fall into disrepair.”
“After all the work you’ve done, it would be a shame.” Her hand slipped into the gap she’d exposed and swept over his nipple. She smiled when he hissed between his teeth.
Realizing that she was learning by mimicking his actions sent another rush of blood to his already engorged erection. If this went on much longer, neither of them would be undressed for the second time they made love either.
Rathburn needed to slow things down. He didn’t want to risk hurting her by letting his animalistic appetite rule him again. No, this time he was going to keep the fall of his breeches buttoned and worship her with his mouth.
“Perhaps.” He started by pressing his lips to her throat. Distracted from her lesson, her hands moved to his shoulders. She arched her neck to allow him better access. “But we would have four children, in the very least, to play in the rubble with us.”
She went still. “Then you don’t mind . . . about . . . the way our plan changed?”
He met her gaze, disturbed by the uncertainty he saw. Could she still doubt him, or was there something more? Trying not to let doubt cloud this moment, he brushed his lips over hers. “I rather enjoyed the reason.”
“Mmm,” she murmured, shifting closer in a way that made him abandon thought. “It was very nice.”
“Nice?”
His prowess took a hit. She didn’t know how such a bland word could wound a man. Well, he was going to have to show her just how nice he could be.
Slipping his hands beneath the hem of her chemise, he lifted it over her head and tossed it to the floor. Not allowing her a moment to gasp, he covered her mouth with his and eased her back onto the bed.
“N
ot married five days and we already have a routine,” Rathburn said from behind her, his footfalls echoing in the empty ballroom.
Emma turned from the windows in time to catch his grin. Her heart filled with fireflies at the sight of him and gave a tremulous flutter as he neared. This seemed easy for him, the wedding, the alterations in their plans . . . everything. He was much the same as always. Teasing and shamelessly flirting while she was constantly worried that she’d selfishly squandered her chance to free him from their arrangement before it was too late. Well, not
constantly
. When they made love, she allowed herself to let go.
He cupped her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Slowly, his hands descended down the length of her arms before he threaded his fingers through hers. “First, we breakfast in bed—which, just this morning you deemed
suitable
for a newly married couple.” He grinned, looking pleased by this.
“Though, I’m certain, when we are in our dotage, sitting in chairs will be a requirement for our health.”
“I look forward to testing that theory. Yet, you may be right.” He made a show of placing a hand to his lower back and pulled a frown. “After our lengthy . . .” He paused to waggle his eyebrows at her. “. . .
repast
this morning, I am in need of a stiff backed chair.”
Would he ever cease making her blush? “The morning room hosts many comfortable chairs,” which was where she adjourned each morning when he went to his study. And each morning, she wished he would join her. “It’s a lovely room.”
“Perhaps,” he mused. “Although, it would be a truly lovely room if it were not such a distance from the study.”
She was surely making calf eyes at him, but there was no help for it. “You are welcome to write your correspondence alongside me, if you so desire.”
He grinned and lifted a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Then the estate would surely fall into ruin, because I would accomplish nothing other than a thorough study of my bride’s elegant scrawl upon each page, and the way the light caresses her hair, her cheek . . .”
Her eyes closed as she nestled her cheek into the palm of his hand. “My, you are easily distracted.”
“Not always, as you well know,” he said in a low whisper across her lips, before he pulled back. “Now, where was I in my account of our daily life . . . Ah yes. With your letters in hand, you slip quietly downstairs and place them on the salver in the foyer next to mine. Then, while I meet with Harrison in my study, you meet with Mrs. Stillson in the drawing room to discuss the day’s tasks.”
“She was good enough to inform me of your fondness for lamb stew. I’ve arranged that for dinner, among other things, including brandied pears for dessert.”
“Mmm . . . I haven’t had those since”—he gave her a look—“I last dined at your parents’ home.”
“You said they were your favorite,” she admitted.
He stared at her as if waiting for her to continue, as if anticipating more. Then, after a moment, he gave her what seemed to be a patient smile before turning her in his arms so that they were both facing the windows.
“I have heard it from Mrs. Stillson that you are perfect in every way. I’m inclined to agree. The only flaw I can find is that you are too much of a distraction.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I find myself thinking about where you are each minute of the day. And, just now, I found comfort in knowing I would find you here, gazing out at the garden.”
She leaned back against him, placing her arms over his. “I’d expected the new buds to have bloomed by now, but they seem stilted. I wonder what they are waiting for.”
“Perhaps, the fragile blossoms dare not open up in such a deluge.” He nuzzled into her hair and drew in a breath. “Don’t worry. Soon our garden will be full of color and life.”