Her Husband’s Lover. Madelynne Ellis
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raising one’s brow. Things became rather more desperate when you were tarnished goods. Women avoided him, afraid that his homosexual tendencies might be transferred to them and onto their husbands, as if his preferences could be equated with the pox. And men avoided him for fear of – well, because they were preposterously conceited for the most part. He had standards as well as taste.
He thought back over the nights he’d spent alone. The caress of his bed sheets against the hot tip of his cock had been unbearable. Even the satisfaction he’d wrought with his own hand hadn’t entirely seen off the seductive ghosts of his imagining. Lyle’s presence had relieved much of that tension.
How could Emma Langley possibly survive with no human contact to soothe away the pains?
Learning her secret, if it existed, was paramount. He wished he could lock himself up that tight, become immune to those around him; no longer need their voices or their nearness to simply propel him through the day.
Of course, he had to touch her, primarily to confirm the validity of Lyle’s assertion. Not that he intended to just reach out and grab her, though on one or two past occasions such actions had got him exactly where he intended to get.
Women – he watched the sway of Emma’s hips as she walked ahead of him – there was no telling where even the subtlest gesture would get you. One misconstrued tilt of the head and you were shackled for ever.
Emma’s purposeful stride came to a halt on the edge of a copse. She peered back at him from beneath the vast rim of her bonnet. Beckoned him forward. Was the bonnet too a guard against affection? Bestowing a kiss upon her would run the risk of serious injury. He eyed the end of her brown ribbons and contemplated tugging upon them so the knot unravelled and he could send the ridge of corduroy flying up into the trees. Its fortress-like confines aside, the colour drained the vitality from her face, giving her a sallow, waxy skin tone. Darleston preferred the deep chestnut of her hair.
‘I’m afraid the path is a little windy and overgrown. And I don’t suppose Father has recollected to have the briars trimmed. He never thinks of such practicalities, only of his vicious brawlers.’ As he approached she strode forth again. ‘We’ll simply have to make the best of it. I trust you don’t mind a few pricks, milord?’
Darleston snorted into his coat cuff, pleased he faced her back once again. If only she were offering something other than a stroll through the brambles then his answer could have been wholeheartedly positive. As it was, it seemed best not to grumble over the nicks in his coat when the excursion had been at his behest.
Not that he had any genuine interest in the venue, only in engaging her as a companion. He still felt uncomfortable about accepting Lyle’s affection with only Lyle’s assurance that Emma would be unperturbed by it.
‘You don’t approve of prize-fighting?’ he ventured, seeing a lead into conversation.
Emma briefly turned her head to look back at him. ‘I confess I find little to admire in such sport. Perhaps you can tell me what the appeal is in watching grown men beat the wits from one another’s heads when they possess few enough to start with?’ The path widened a fraction and he caught up so that they walked abreast.
‘I’m afraid any explanation I offer would fail to enlighten and paint me in very poor light.’
Did he see a twinkle of knowledge in her pretty blue eyes? Did she think just for a minute, as he did, that there were aesthetic reasons for watching shirtless men fight? Although most of the prize-fighters he’d known were sadly spoiled in the looks department. Too many scuffs and broken noses did that. He tended to focus his attention on the parts that were normally left unseen.
‘You’re not aroused by such a show of strength?’
Emma gave an indelicate tut. ‘Intelligence is far more valuable to me than brawn. I think I should rather watch a scholar study than see two hot sweaty men bloody one another’s noses and wrestle in the clarts like beasts.’
‘Indeed. Yes, I suppose it is faintly ludicrous for grown men to behave in such a way, but then we do love to pit ourselves against one another.’
‘We’re almost there. We take a right ahead where the path forks.’ She gave him a rather hard stare when he stood mere inches from her person. Her normally agreeable mouth formed into a tight pout that made him want to smooth a thumb over it to iron the wrinkles away.
Naturally, he held back from such an intimacy. They weren’t friends enough for that sort of action to pass without rebuke, even if she weren’t as skittish as a hare over the mere press of a fingertip.
Although, all said, he still had only Lyle’s word that that was how she’d react.
‘An amphitheatre is an atypical garden attribute,’ he observed.
Her expression brightened immediately. ‘Yes. My great-grandfather had it built as a fernery, but it fell out of favour once the Orangery was completed. He was prone to momentary passions. He owned three hundred coats when he died. Not a single one had ever been given away. His valet positively despaired.’
‘I’m surprised only one valet sufficed.’ Darleston swung his cane and knocked aside an arch of thorns. ‘Ah, but the ferns remain,’ he observed.
They had reached a sheer drop, so that they looked down into a bowl in the earth, with concentric stone-edged tiers cut into the sides. Ferns grew in patches upon the banks, long stems reaching for the sun. It was the most perfect space for all manner of indiscretions, which he suspected was its primary purpose, not the growth of ferns.
Steep steps, worn and lined with cracks, led to the various layers of the amphitheatre and down to the circular base, where sandbags and ropes already marked the extent of the prize-fighters’ ring. Darleston jogged down to the base and strolled the perimeter.
Directly opposite the steps, a tree lay fallen across the entrance to a stone tunnel. The huge trunk formed a solid bridge between several of the tiers. ‘That’s not recently come down?’
Emma shook her head. ‘It’s been there since before I was born. There are dates carved into the bark.’ She wound her way around one tier and traced her hand across what he presumed to be one of the carvings. ‘The tunnel leads through to the promenade in the walled garden, but it’s rather damp and in ill repair. It’ll be hideous if Father traipses all the spectators through that way.’
Lyle ought to have brought him here last night, where they’d truly have been shielded from the house and the chance of discovery, although it would have been a good deal colder than the Orangery. Still, personally he preferred the natural shield formed by the high banks, undergrowth and woodland to walls of transparent glass.
Emma followed him down into the basin. They stood awhile in companionable silence. He liked that quality in a woman. So many of the silly chits in town saw silence as their downfall and chattered on inanely without pause. Of course, she was older than most of the maids out seeking a husband. He guessed her to be a good ten years older than her sister.
‘What are your passions?’ he asked. When she turned and looked at him he qualified the statement: ‘As you’re not one for boxing.’ He imagined she’d list the normal rote of womanly accomplishments, but instead she simply shrugged. Only after a significant pause did she answer.
‘I pickle things.’
‘Cabbages, beetroot, that sort of thing?’
She laughed at his seriousness. ‘What else? You didn’t think me an amateur naturalist, did you?’
‘Well, I confess the thought of pickled mice did cross my mind. You’re clearly not a great lover of crowds, so something else must entertain you, and I’ve come across a few rather eccentric recluses.’
Outrage briefly flared in her eyes. ‘I’m hardly that.’
‘No. No, of course not. You’re far too pretty to be a hermit.’
Emma blushed a little, his ill-chosen words forgotten in the wake of the compliment.