The Wild Wellingham Brothers. Sophia James
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am a lady and I was a virgin. You should not have bedded me.’
She thought she heard humour in his reply. ‘Hard to determine experience with your robe pooled around your feet and the look of one well used to the art of lovemaking in your eyes.’
Reverting to character, she turned away and dabbed at her cheeks.
‘I was an innocent…’
‘To whom I offered marriage.’
‘Because you felt guilty?’ His silence confirmed all her fears and she was glad that he was not looking straight at her as she continued. ‘I would rather not marry out of guilt, your Grace.’
‘You think that is what my marriage proposal is?’ There was an edge of irritation in his voice.
‘Indeed I do. But do not worry yourself on my behalf—I shall be leaving for Jamaica soon to see to some property and I am not certain when it is I might return.’
‘So you saved your virginity for some quick and meaningless affair? You expect me to believe that?”
When he came forward she meant to deny him, meant to hold up her head and plead the wrongness of it, but she couldn’t. Instead her fingers fitted into his and she laid her head against his chest, feeling the careful touch of his thumb on her bare skin as it traced a line around the wings of her butterfly.
‘Did it hurt?’
‘No.’ She smiled at the ridiculousness of the question in the whole face of what was between them.
‘I want you, Emma. Now. Here. Tonight.’ A breathless entreaty that set off an aching throb inside and took away denials.
‘Just tonight, Asher. After this—’ His finger rubbed across her lips and stopped the lies that were forming. And then she forgot everything that she had meant to say as the heat of his body seared into the answering warmth of her own.
She could barely look at him in the morning in the face of what they had shared until the dawn. Lord, even the thought of it drew a blush with the wetness of his seed on her thighs.
His seed. His lips against her and the promise of more in his eyes.
I love you.
She had said it again when her fingers had threaded through his hair and the clenching throb of her sex had made her arch away from the unfamiliar softness of the mattress, and again when he had held her afterwards. Neither of them had slept even as the dawn broke against the windows and flooded the room with the light of day.
A perfect, balanced if-only love to remember when she was old and grey. The one moment to make every other subsequent second bearable.
When he left, she was glad that he went without giving her words that could bind them, badly, into a future.
Asher parried with his sword, quickly, against the thrust of Jack’s blade and brought the buttoned point to an unprotected throat.
‘Touché.’
Even his voice sounded stronger and with the sun on his face and the image of Emma entwined around him he felt…unassailable, invulnerable, absolute, all feelings he had not known since…when? It was Emma Seaton’s lack of need, her strength of purpose and an underlying will that bent to no one that made him like this.
‘More practice, I think, Jack, if an ill man can beat you…’
‘Hardly ill. You look better than I’ve seen you look in a long time.’
Asher turned away as guilt sliced into him. There were days now when he barely remembered the past, days when what had happened was blurrier, less real. All that seemed true now was centred about Emma and her laughing turquoise eyes.
‘I’m going back to Falder tomorrow.’ He gestured to his arm, freed now from its bandage.
‘Because you think they could try again?’
‘If they do, I’ll be ready this time—no one could surprise me there.’ He slashed his blade through the air as if to underline intent.
‘I’ll see to my affairs and come up and join you before the end of the week.’
‘I am not certain as to the safety of it.’
‘You think it’s that dangerous?’
‘I do.’
‘It’s Emma Seaton, isn’t it? All this has happened since she came. And now she’s here under your wing? And her aunt, too, I’ve heard. Take care, Asher, for there are whispers.’ A question lay in the air between them.
‘Whispers?’
‘Some say she is a fortune-hunter who targeted the largest fortune in London with her well-timed faint.’
‘And what do you say, Jack?’
‘I’d say, if she makes you happy who gives a damn about anyone else; besides, I like her too. She’s different.’
After Jack had gone he stood in the gardens at the back of the house and lit a cheroot, pulling on it gratefully after the afternoon of exercise.
He had bedded Emma every night since shortly after the attack, and every night she had told him that she loved him.
My God. Loved him. If he had any guts he would have given her the words back. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he knew exactly who she was.
He screwed the sapphire ring on his finger around and around and made himself think.
She loved him, but she would not marry him. Why? When they arrived back at Falder, he would get the truth from her for London and the smaller house here hemmed them into properness.
Apart from the night time!
Grinding out the burning end of the cheroot beneath his feet, he wished he could go to her now and smiled as he looked at his timepiece. Four o’clock in the afternoon. For years he had dreaded the dark and now he welcomed it. Just another change she had fashioned in him. Another way she had made him different.
They lay on the covers, the fire in the grate sending flickering shadows across the walls and tingeing Asher’s body with the soft glow of orange. His back was to her and her fingers traced the marks that stood up in knotted pearly welts.
She noticed how the skin on his forearm tightened at the contact and chanced a question.
‘I saw marks like these once in Jamaica?’
She felt his interest.
‘The man who sported them had seemingly lost his mind in a pirates’ colony on Turks Island off the Silver Bank Passage. The law never took his ramblings seriously and so nothing was done, but I heard a few years later that the ship of an English lord had levelled the place clean away, blown it from the face of this earth with every last person standing in it, as revenge for what he had suffered there.’
‘A fine tale,’ he replied evenly.
‘Your tale?’ she questioned just as smoothly.
‘I am a duke of the realm, Emma.’
‘You are a man who keeps a blade hidden in the folds of his sleeve. I saw it at the Bishop’s party and wondered why you should have a need of it here?’
‘I had thought it well concealed.’ His voice held the hint of respect. ‘And besides…’ His finger brushed over the puckered skin on her thigh. ‘There are times when the childhood that you profess to does not quite add up. The mark of a sword and an indigo tattoo, flame-scarred hands and an excellence in the Chinese art of acupuncture. Truth be known, your secrets are probably every bit as heady as my own.’
She