Naughty Bits 2 (32 page)

“Beautiful, Emmy,” he whispered shakily. Taking her hand, he pressed a length of linen in her palm and gently wiped away the stickiness. “I did not mean for it to come so quickly. Give
me a moment and I will be hard and ready to pleasure you. When I'm buried deep inside you, you'll have so much pleasure. I swear it. I'll fill you deep with my cock, and I'll penetrate your beautiful bottom with my finger and give you an orgasm you will never forget.”

“I can't…I
must not
do this. I cannot be the woman you need,” she said, struggling to lower her skirts and push her breasts back into her corset. Reality had settled in, chasing away the passion that had run with abandon inside her.

“You are the woman I want, Emmy.”

“You don't understand. I'm not—please believe me, it can never be.” She reached for her veil atop her bonnet. Pulling it forward, she covered her face.

“I never believed in fate until I met you, Emmy. Not until that first moment when our gazes met and locked—then, I believed. I knew you were my fate. I will find you, you know, should you ever decide to run from me. I will grant you your anonymity. I will not ask you for answers or anything you cannot give me. I only ask that you do not end this—not yet—not when it's only just begun.”

How could she say no when he was looking at her like that? How could she deny what her heart was crying out for?

“Next Tuesday I shall bring my carriage. I will draw the shades. I will make it black as night, if only you will agree to meet me here.”

Raising her veil over her mouth, she rose up on tiptoes and kissed him tenderly. He reached out to touch her, but she evaded him and ran to the entrance of the alcove. Before she stepped out into the soft drizzle she stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder.

“Promise me, Emmy, that you will come.”

“I promise,” she said, then ran out into the rain, and home.

AMELIA'S HEART CONTINUED ITS UNSTEADY
, rapid beating, making her warm and breathless long after she had arrived back home. Whenever she thought of Adrian and what they had shared that morning, an unbecoming flush marred her cheeks. It was a flush she was certain would not go unnoticed. But how could she conceal it, that blazing heat the memories of him produced?

“Your color is very high.”

Beneath her lashes Amelia saw that Lady Sophie was closely observing her from her spot by the window. She was always watching Amelia, as if waiting for the opportunity to pounce upon her for doing something wrong. Lady Sophie had the eyes of a hawk, and Amelia feared that she was the lady's current prey.

“Are you ill? Your cheeks are the same color as your hair.”

Automatically, Amelia slid her hand along the strands that were pulled tight into a severe bun and secured with numerous pins.
Not a strand out of place
. She was relieved at that. No need to have her outward appearance disassembling for all to see. It was bad enough she had quite come unglued inside.

Why had she ever thought it possible to carry out this charade? Why had she allowed herself to travel down a path
that would only cause her heartache? Nothing could come of this with Adrian.

She, more than anyone, knew it to be impossible.

“Well, are you ill? Speak up!”

“No, madam,” Amelia croaked nervously. “I am feeling rather fit.”

“You're wearing an awfully high chemisette beneath your gown. And it is positively stifling in this room, what with the fire so high,” Lady Sophie observed, her shrewd eyes narrowing sharply.

Amelia's hand flew to her throat. She had worn the lace collar to cover Adrian's mark. She hoped the lace kerchief would go unnoticed, but Lady Sophie was highly observant. Nothing, not even the smallest detail, escaped her eye.

“And your boots have dirt on the toe. Where have you been,
hmm
, to soil your boots with mud?”

“I ran an errand this morning. I must have missed a spot when I cleaned them off on the boot scraper.”

“Obviously,” she sniffed. “Ah, here is the tea, at last,” Lady Sophie announced as the housekeeper carried in a silver tray laden with a fine china teapot and matching cups and saucers.

“Is that my brother I hear in the next room?” Lady Sophie asked as she craned her neck to the right where the connecting door was ajar. “What is he doing?”

Amelia's gaze shifted to the left, to the partially opened door. One lone figure stood by the window. The figure was as achingly familiar to her as the sunlight lit the contours of his shoulders and glinted off his dark hair. For long seconds she stood transfixed by him, by his masculine beauty and the memories of having those beautiful hands caressing her.

“Well, is it him?” Lady Sophie asked impatiently.

“Indeed it is.”

An image of her hands clinging to him drifted in her mind, and she shook her head to clear it, but it refused to leave.
“Take
what you need.”
She heard the quiet of his words in her thoughts and trembled at the memory of them. Closing her eyes, she struggled to escape the hold of those memories, but they held on, fearing to be let go.

“Inform him that I wish him to take tea with me.”

Don't make me speak to him. Don't make me draw any attention to myself
, she wanted to cry, even as she took a step toward the door. But God saved her the task, when his lordship stepped forward and walked toward her. Gasping, Amelia jumped back and busied herself with the tea things, trying to become invisible behind the tall silver teapot.

“Is that you, dear sister, that I hear commanding everyone about?”

The sound of his voice made Amelia melt like sugar in hot tea. She remembered how that voice had sounded in her ear when it was full of passion. She could not look at him. Could not stand to meet those hypnotizing eyes.

“Ah, Wallace, there you are. Come and join me,” Lady Sophie commanded. “The tea has just arrived.”

He did not look in Amelia's direction, but instead breezed past her as he crossed the Turkish carpet to where his sister was seated on the settee wearing a breathtakingly beautiful pink gown, a gown that Amelia knew Lady Sophie didn't think was half as lovely as Amelia did.

“Good afternoon, Soph,” he murmured, bending down to kiss his sister's rose-colored cheek. “You look lovely, as always.”

“Good day, Wallace. I didn't see you at breakfast.”

Amelia could no longer think of him as Lord Wallace. In her mind, he was not an earl. He was simply Adrian.

“I had an engagement, I am afraid.” He turned then, his gaze landing full upon Amelia's face. What did he see? Did he know? Suspect? She saw nothing in his eyes that resembled recognition, and her breast felt as though it was being squeezed by a vice.

Amelia could not say she was relieved by the fact he did not
recognize her, and yet she should be. The truth was, what she was feeling was a good deal more complicated than any emotion she had ever felt before. It was a strange blend of disappointment and resignation. Of pain, peppered with a philosophical understanding that it was perfectly normal for him to look upon her without really seeing her.

“You may begin pouring,” he announced.

Nodding, Amelia lifted the delicate pot from its silver stand and carefully poured the tea into the cups. Steam vapors fogged the lenses of her spectacles, and glancing up, away from the steaming tendrils, she caught her reflection shining in the mirror above the sideboard.

What was it she saw shining back at her? An image of his lover? A woman of mystery and beauty? A woman capable of carrying out a clandestine affair?

In those seconds as her lenses cleared of the fog, her appearance sharpened into focus. Amelia allowed her gaze to rove over her reflection, taking in the plain black dress and white lace pinafore and the starched white cap that was set atop her flaming red hair. And it was then that she knew what he truly saw.

A servant.

For it was the truth. She, Amelia Cartwright, was nothing but a maid. A servant who had the misfortune of finding herself well on the way to being in love with her employer.

 

He watched her through lowered lashes as she poured the tea. She had served him tea hundreds of times in the past two years. But today was different. Today he could smell her, the scent of her sex clinging to his fingers. He could taste her; the sweet remnants of her passion lingered in his mouth, the feel of her—silky and warm—gliding on his tongue as she came for him.

Miss Amelia Cartwright, he mused, watching her holding out the saucer and cup to him. He raised his gaze from her hand,
the one that had tossed him off so completely that morning, only to look straight up into her lovely eyes, the sparkling in the blue iris partially concealed behind her spectacles. Reaching for the tea, he allowed his finger to brush against hers, sliding suggestively along the length of the delicate bone and over her nail, letting the touch linger. He heard her breath catch, felt her gaze fix on his face, but he feigned ignorance while his gaze slipped to the three little freckles on her hand. What would she, his maid, think if she discovered what wicked thoughts were running through her employer's head at this very moment?

“Thank you,” he said, purposely lowering his voice as he searched her face. Her expression gave nothing away, not even when he broke protocol and thanked her in front of his sister. No, her iron composure stayed true, and with perfect obedience, she bowed before him, angering him.

To look at her, one would never guess she'd been half-naked in his arms, her sex pressed to his mouth that very morning. Not even the faintest flush of pink marred her cheeks when it should have. After all, he had not been the one to conceal his identity from her. She knew perfectly well that it had been
his
fingers buried deep within her,
his
mouth that had made her shudder and cry out.

Sprawling in the chair, he watched her surreptitiously as she finished serving the tea. Miss Amelia Cartwright. His exemplary employee. His secret obsession.

For two years he'd desired her, watching her when she was not aware. For two years, he'd been bound by his desires and the strictures that dictated that a man of wealth and means—a titled earl—did not fall for the hired help.

But he'd been smitten with the woman who had come to apply for the post of maid. There was something intriguing about her severe appearance coupled with her lush figure and sauntering walk. The artist in him had seen the passion and intelligence in her straightaway. The earl, on the other hand,
had ruthlessly squelched those thoughts. And when the artist stared at her and began wondering what all that auburn hair of hers would look like unbound and spilling over his chest, the earl had smothered those thoughts by reminding himself that she was beneath him. She was a servant. Servants were not seen. Not heard. They certainly were not talked to, and while there had been many men of his rank who had diddled the domestic help,
no one
had ever dared to lose their heart.

And while the earl had tried very hard to distance himself from her, the artist in him continually sought her out. The woman he wanted
was
his servant, and God help him, he needed her—emotionally, spiritually, carnally. She was the woman who could satisfy him both in and out of bed. She was intelligent and well-spoken, despite what he assumed must be a very humble upbringing. She appreciated art and literature and the beauty of nature. She also appreciated the beauty of passion. She could feed his artist soul while loving the lonely earl. He had found no other woman like her in his circle, and as a consequence he'd become reclusive, spending all his time at home, wanting to be close to her.

So many nights he stood outside her door, praying none of the other servants would venture out of their rooms and see him standing in the hall of the servants' wing. So many nights he wanted to grab her out of her bed and carry her down the stairs to his room where they would roll around in his bed, indulging in whatever wicked pleasure they fancied. After, they would talk and laugh and he would feed her every delight that was denied her by her station in life. And he would paint her, lounging in his bed while she picked through a box of French chocolates, wearing nothing more than an expensive piece of jewelery he had handpicked for her.

He wanted to spoil her. Wanted to lavish attention and gifts upon her. Wanted her to see him for the man he was—not the Earl of Wallace or the artist.
Not
, he glowered,
her fucking employer
.

The longer he watched her at the tea table, the blacker his mood grew. She carried on, blithely ignoring him. He had the mad urge to ask her if she had enjoyed her morning off, just to see if she would blush or betray any hint of emotion. Had she enjoyed his mouth on her? Did she regret her hasty departure? Did she wish she had stayed for the fucking? Because God above, he wanted that—still. His mind was awash with images of her yielding her body to him, begging him for pleasure.

With an oath, he placed the saucer down hard on the table. Tea sloshed onto the polished surface. He ignored it and instead pressed his eyes shut, willing his anger and the image of him taking Emmy up against a wall to subside.

He needed to talk to her, to feel her against him. But employers did not talk to their staff. Employers were not even supposed to notice that their servants were living and breathing, with thoughts and desires—dreams—of their own.

But Christ, every nerve in his body was painfully aware of Amelia Cartwright.
Emmy…

“You may leave us now,” his sister announced. With a negligent wave of her bejeweled hand, she waved Amelia out of the salon as if she were an irritating bug that kept flying into her tea. Adrian felt his lips harden. His expression, he knew, was mulish. He did not want Amelia talked to in such a fashion. Yet, to say anything, to reprimand his sister in front of a servant would draw undue attention to Amelia and to the true extent of his feelings. So he kept quiet and watched Amelia bow and leave the room.

“You cannot be serious, brother,” Sophie hissed when the door closed behind Amelia.

“What are you going on about now, Sophie?”

“That servant!”

“She has a name,” he growled.

“The fact you know that is evidence enough of the danger
you're in. Adrian,” Sophie murmured, her voice growing low and secretive, “I've been watching you, you know—all winter long, as a matter of fact. It is quite apparent you want her.”

“I will not hear a word about this from you,” he thundered, jumping up from his chair and knocking it over. “Not when you of all people know that money and position does not bring happiness. You lived through that hell we called childhood. You saw firsthand how empty a marriage based solely on profit is.”

“Adrian—”

“Don't!” he demanded. “Don't tell me how wrong this is. Don't say a damned word when you don't know the first thing about love.”

She gasped as if he'd struck her. When he looked back over his shoulder, his sister's beautiful face was white and stricken. Her lips trembled and she raised her hand to her mouth to hide the fact from him. “You must put an end to this…this liaison, Adrian. You must learn to live with the fact that she can never be yours.”

“Do you think I haven't thought about it? I can't sleep at nights for thinking. I know what I ought to do, Sophie, but I…I can't stop,” he said, his voice choking. “I can't look away. I can't stop thinking, wishing…hoping. There is nothing else—” He stopped and turned to face her. “I
have
nothing else, Sophie, if I cannot hope.”

His sister's eyes grew sad and perhaps a bit wet as she looked at him. “Your reputation can weather this storm, Adrian. If it were to come out that you were intimate with your maid, it would be considered nothing but an amusing little peccadillo in your past. But think of hers…think of…”