Never Marry a Stranger Page 13

  He pulled her knee higher, pushing himself hard between her thighs. She groaned and clutched him.

  He lifted his head, his mouth wet. “We seem to share an intense passion for one another. Did I bed you before we wed?”

  “No!” She laughed, her shock too obviously fake. “You didn’t have to marry me for honor’s sake. Only for your own.”

  He smiled down at her, even as his eyes fiercely swept over her. His hand, which held her knee high, now slid beneath her skirt, along the bare, sensitive skin behind the knee. Their gazes were meshed together, sparking with heat, and she could only pant when his hand moved higher, sliding over the fine linen of her drawers. His palm traced the underside of her thigh, and his fingers touched and trailed the inside. Her breath came faster and faster, his hazel eyes smoldered on her, and all she could think was that he could touch her…anywhere, and she would revel in it.

  His fingertips touched the edge of the slit that parted her undergarment. A moan of need escaped her. She wanted him to touch her. When the tips of his fingers brushed the bare place at the highest point of her thigh, she trembled so hard that he was forced to hold her up. Her head fell back against the wall. He leaned over her, and she watched through half-closed eyes as his tongue traced her cleavage—while his fingers traced the warm, wet cleft of her body.

  She whimpered helplessly, her body shuddering as it was buffeted to and fro by the pleasure invoked by his mouth and fingers. His lips traced over her garments to the peak of her breast, and then he gently bit her through her bodice, even as his touch probed the private depths of her, stroking, stroking, sliding deeper. Every feeling, every emotion, surged higher within her, his teeth nibbling, his fingers exploring, circling, making her gasp and cry out and shudder and—

  Explode. That’s the only word that did justice to the shocking release of pleasure that soared outward through her body, as if to press against her very skin. She shook helplessly in his embrace, even as he continued to caress her, pushing deeper, his breath harsh against her breasts. She slumped against him, spent.

  Chapter 13

  Matthew wanted to unbutton his trousers and take her now, against the wall. His fingers were hot and wet inside her, and it felt so good. He pressed a little deeper, heard her whimper in pleasure—

  And then he lifted his head so he could see her face. In that moment when she met his gaze, looking so vulnerable, he saw the wonder before she could mask it by closing her eyes.

  Wonder. He realized that she’d never experienced her woman’s climax before. In his feelings of confusion, he found himself wishing that he’d looked into the beautiful face of such innocence and pleasure on his wedding night.

  Shocked by the strange feeling, he took his hands from the depths of her body and released her leg. He had to remember their real relationship, the game he was playing.

  “My hands have not forgotten how to pleasure you,” he said in a low voice, putting them on her shoulders now. “How did you used to pleasure me? Teach me, Emily.”

  He thought she would hesitate, but she was bold as she raised trembling hands to run them down his chest. To his surprise, she lingered at his nipples, rubbing them gently through the cloth. He sucked in a breath. And then she leaned into him, pressing her mouth to his neck in gentle kisses, before licking a path up behind his ear. Now she had him shuddering, this woman who’d never experienced pleasure.

  He wanted her with a desperation that overwhelmed him. When she pulled his shirt out of his trousers and touched his bare stomach, he groaned against her hair. He wanted to rip off his own clothes, to be inside her—

  But he leaned back against the wall and took a shuddering breath. What was he trying to prove by pleasuring her? He was only showing her that they would end up in bed—which was exactly what she wanted.

  Much as he wanted it, too, should he give her what she so obviously craved? Strangely, he felt trapped between the repressed man he’d once been and the devil-may-care soldier. A few years ago he never would have risked his family’s safety, risked scandal, for a night in such a woman’s bed—much as he might have wanted to.

  In India he’d taken such chances without a second thought, and suffered the consequences.

  But now he wasn’t the only one who would suffer if he made the wrong choice with Emily Grey.

  “I can’t, Emily,” he said slowly, moving away from her at last.

  She caught his arm. “But why? I’m your wife, and I want you.”

  Her words actually made it easier for him. “I desire you, you know that. But…” He let himself trail off as if he were confused.

  She sighed and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to push you into something you were not ready for.”

  He wanted to laugh—it was almost as if she played the man’s part in a seduction. “You weren’t. I just…don’t feel like myself yet. And I want to do what’s right for you.” He could have snorted at that. What was “right” had nothing to do with Emily and him.

  He donned his evening jacket, his fingers still trembling.

  While they had dinner that night with his family, he found himself staring at the red mark just visible on Emily’s breast, the one he’d caused with his mouth, and the way she kept trying to pull her bodice higher to cover it.

  After dinner, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Emily watched Matthew laughing over something with his friend, Lieutenant Lawton. She felt…not herself, frustrated, aching, and it wasn’t just with desire.

  For he’d satisfied her, but not himself, and it made her uneasy. Why would he deny himself pleasure with his willing wife? Was she mistaken in thinking he had no suspicions about her?

  She knew she could go mad with these fearful thoughts. He’d given her not one reason to suspect him. Surely she was just overly suspicious because of Stanwood’s threats and the tension of wondering what he would do next. She needed Matthew’s loyalty and protection, and she was using him to get it, but at least she would return the favor with pleasure to the best of her abilities.

  If he let her.

  She sat still for a moment, looking at everyone in the drawing room, these people who were so important to her. Lady Rosa and Professor Leland sat together, talking softly, even sharing the occasional smile. Rebecca and Mr. Derby were having an animated conversation, and Rebecca pulled Susanna over to join them. Rebecca could have monopolized the eligible gentleman, but she hadn’t.

  Emily’s gaze returned to Matthew and his friend, and for just a moment, Lieutenant Lawton glanced at her. It was so swift she almost didn’t see it, but something in his eyes gave her pause.

  And then things began to rearrange themselves in her mind. She had never even received a word from Stanwood until Matthew returned home—and his friends moved in for a visit. She had questioned the servants this afternoon, but perhaps she was limiting herself and should consider others as well. Stanwood might not be using a servant at all. What if Lieutenant Lawton, or Mr. Derby, were more than they seemed?

  Immediately she told herself she was being ridiculous. Matthew had served with Lieutenant Lawton and had grown up with Mr. Derby. They couldn’t be criminals like Stanwood.

  As Matthew and Lieutenant Lawton approached her, she willed herself to be calm. For the last year, she’d overcome one complicated situation after another. She told herself she would succeed here as well. She had to.

  Then she looked at Matthew, and for a moment the sense of danger receded to the back of her mind. The way his gaze held hers betrayed an intimacy that warmed her, stunned her.

  But Lieutenant Lawton was looking at her, too, and he was smiling that easy, cocky smile, as if everything amused him.

  She linked her arm to Matthew’s, as if staking her claim. “I am so sorry I’ve monopolized the captain these past few days, Lieutenant.”

  He shook his head. “There is no need for an apology, Mrs. Leland. You have not seen your husband in well over a year—and you thought him dead. Yo
u have every right to his attention. After all, he wasn’t dead to me. Sometimes I was downright tired of him.”

  She laughed along with Matthew.

  “So what have you been doing with yourself while we were in the village today?” she asked. “We didn’t see you there.”

  “I followed Matthew’s good example and wrote letters to my family, Mrs. Leland. Matthew so urgently needed to return here that I never had a chance to notify them.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “Southampton, ma’am. Matthew wonders how we never met.”

  But had Lieutenant Lawton met Arthur Stanwood there? she wondered with a sinking feeling.

  Though the lieutenant was smiling, Emily noticed that Matthew had no reaction at all to what could have been taken as a very pointed observation.

  “I was seldom in the port town itself,” she said calmly. “I am from Millbrook. Have you visited the village?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Yet while she was supposed to be married to Matthew, she’d been living in Southampton itself. Where had the lieutenant been then? Obviously not with Matthew, because he didn’t seem to know anything about Matthew’s brief first marriage. And she knew she couldn’t risk inquiring too closely.

  As Matthew and Lieutenant Lawton’s conversation turned to the extensive Madingley stables, Emily considered the fact that the lieutenant was seldom visible except at meals. And he’d been taking many long rides. Could he have somehow become reacquainted with Stanwood? Could he now consider her a criminal?

  She glanced across the room at the Leland sisters and Mr. Derby. He was another newcomer to the household, and had a completely different reason to be easily swayed about her past. It wasn’t a secret that he’d been courting her and was rejected.

  Mr. Derby saw her watching him and gave a brief bow from the waist. Then Rebecca gestured for her, and Emily excused herself from the two men and crossed the room.

  “Did Matthew tell you about the picnic we’re hosting tomorrow?” Rebecca asked with excitement.

  “No, he didn’t.” Emily prayed she wasn’t blushing as she remembered what she’d been doing with Matthew.

  “They only spent the whole afternoon together,” Susanna said, rolling her eyes.

  The two women laughed, but Emily felt uneasy as she glanced at Mr. Derby. It was not very nice to remind him that he no longer had a chance to woo a widow. Maybe it even made him angrier.

  But he was smiling at Susanna as he said, “Surely the picnic was your idea, to reintroduce the young people to your brother. You’re very thoughtful.”

  Susanna shook her head, and though her smile seemed the slightest bit strained to Emily, at least it was cordial.

  “It was all Matthew’s idea,” Rebecca gushed.

  Emily started in surprise.

  “He wants everyone to see what an incredible artist Susanna is,” Rebecca continued, elbowing her sister. “She’ll be giving art lessons so we can all paint the ruins.”

  Emily smiled warmly at Susanna, who smiled back. How thoughtful of Matthew! Though he’d been resistant to Susanna’s “inappropriate” use of her hobbies, he’d finally realized how important painting was to her.

  Emily turned and caught Matthew’s eye. She gave him a wide smile, not caring if Lieutenant Lawton or Mr. Derby or any of the servants watched and disapproved of her—or secretly plotted against her.

  When Matthew heard the dressing room doorknob turn, he lifted his book and pretended to read once again. Still wearing his shirtsleeves and trousers, he was lying on the bed in Emily’s room, pillows supporting him.

  When Emily saw him, she paused on the threshold. She was clothed in a dressing gown, her hair wrapped in a towel, her skin glistening in the candlelight. He’d just come from the dressing room, where he’d listened at the bathroom door and imagined what made each splash.

  He was a fool—a panting, lust-filled fool who was allowing his overwhelming desire for Emily Grey to make him forget that he needed to discover her secrets.

  She smiled at him and moved toward the hearth. He gave up trying to read and simply watched her, the way she drew a chair before the hot coals in the grate, removed the towel from her hair, and began to comb through the blond curls. His mouth went dry as she spread her hair wide, combing over and over again, her face in profile, her eyes focused far away. It was a dreamy moment, filled with her slow, fluid movements. His eyes ached from the strain of staring at her; his breathing sounded harsh in his ears. How could she not hear it? It reminded him of the way she panted in his arms when he’d given her the fulfillment she’d never experienced before. He wished he could show her everything about the intimacy between a man and a woman.

  Perhaps then she’d trust him.

  That’s what it came down to, he realized at last, stunned. He wanted her trust. He wanted the truth from her lips, uncoerced.

  But she hadn’t trusted his family, whom she’d known for a year. And she’d only known him for a few days.

  At last she braided her hair in one long plait and moved away from the hearth. He found himself able to breathe easier when she sat down at the desk, retrieving a notebook. She consulted one of her books—mathematics, he thought—then wrote something down. Was she studying for her own benefit? Or preparing to teach?

  He thought about her admission that she had no training as a governess. Had she desperately needed such skills after her family died? This elaborate charade, using his family and her new position, could not simply be a way to educate herself. It just didn’t make sense.

  Emily felt as if her back was on fire. Matthew was staring at her—he always stared, which pleased her. Surely he was remembering what they’d shared earlier, when she’d surrendered to his caresses, allowed him to do as he willed with her.

  She couldn’t concentrate on mathematics equations. Matthew was in her bed, clothed, but here nonetheless.

  An unusual scent suddenly drifted past her, and she lifted her head, inhaling. It was sweet and fragrant, but not the roses Maria often brought her from the greenhouse.

  She turned—and saw him watching her openly, the book set aside. In his hand, he held a flower she didn’t recognize at first, twirling it in his fingers.

  “Come here, Emily,” he said in a low, soft voice.

  Full of rising gladness, she rose from the desk and moved slowly toward him. She focused on the flower, white with a yellow center, and faint pink at the tips of the petals. “I recognize that,” she said. “It’s a lotus. They’re grown in the pond in the conservatory.”

  “Do you recognize where else it is from?”

  “India.” She was proud of the studying she’d done on the country she was supposed to have lived in for six months.

  “Sit down, Emily.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed beside him, and to her surprise he leaned forward and tucked the flower behind her ear. Its sweet, fruity scent enveloped her, and she knew he must have just picked it.

  “Did I give you flowers in India?” he asked.

  She nodded, finding it difficult to speak. Her mouth was too dry.

  “The flowers in India were like no others I’d ever seen,” he murmured.

  He continued to stroke along her ear, then lower still, through her hair. Her braid had fallen forward across her shoulder, and he removed the ribbon, then threaded his fingers through the long waves of her hair. It was far too pleasurable; his hands were so near her breasts. She wickedly wanted them there, already craved again the sensations he’d made her feel only hours before.

  “Do you tell your students about India?”

  She nodded, struggling to focus on his words, not the play of his hands. It was like he was weaving a spell about her. “I tell them about the torrents of rain in monsoon season, how I missed it by leaving the country too soon.”

  “You wanted to see the rain?” he asked, a brow arched in surprise. “It was so hot and humid my clothes were damp constantly.”

  “A wool uniform
must have been unbearable.”

  “I became accustomed to it. What is your favorite memory to tell your students?”

  “Being on the river,” she said immediately. From her studies, and the sketches in books, she could practically see it in her mind, almost as if she’d been there. “The white egrets flying low over paddy fields, the surprise of an occasional temple peeking through groves of mangoes. I tell them about the crushed seashells lining garden paths to keep out the snakes. It was all so very foreign to me—so beautiful.”

  Though she was glad she was well-prepared for her masquerade, she felt almost ugly saying such lies. Why did it seem harder to lie to him? She had to ignore that.

  “Tell me about our bed,” he murmured.

  She inhaled swiftly, giving him a teasing smile. “Surely even if you’ve forgotten me, you remember sleeping in the bungalow on your string-cot.”

  He cocked his head as he studied her, eyes narrowed but still glinting with amusement. Was he trying to picture her in his bed each night? Or sorting through his suspicions? No, she had no proof of that.

  “I imagine I will begin to remember such things soon,” he said softly, “for I plan to spend my nights in this bed from now on.”

  Hope surged through her, then confusion. After calling a halt to their lovemaking that afternoon, now he wanted to sleep with her?

  He added, “Perhaps you won’t have such terrible nightmares if you know you’re not alone.”

  That didn’t seem like enough of a reason.

  He grinned. “And this bed is much more comfortable.”

  An outright exaggeration on his part.