More than that was his discovery of how insightful and well read she was. He was slightly ashamed at how surprised he had been to find that she had been capable of conversing on topics other than women’s fashion plates, or other such nonsense. As children, their focus had been more on play than on serious dialogue, and so it had never been an issue. But he was immeasurably pleased to find how knowledgeable and well educated she’d become. In short, he was exceedingly proud of her, but more than that, he admired her tremendously.
His thoughts went to the kiss they had shared. He shouldn’t have done it—he knew it had been wrong—but he couldn’t help himself. And then, it had felt so right, so perfect, and she had kissed him back. His heart soared at the thought of it. Emily Rutherford had not pushed him away by any means. She had clung to him, run her fingers through his hair, and shared in the passion of the moment as his equal. And when he’d grazed her br**sts with his lips, she’d sighed and moaned—a sound so pleasing to his ears that his blood had caught on fire.
There was no turning his back on it. Whatever problems he had with Charlotte, nothing was going to snuff this light that had been rekindled in his soul. He wanted Emily and he would be damned if anyone was going to stand in his way.
It was late afternoon when he returned to Dunhurst Park, leaving puddles in his wake as he darted up the front steps. The rain had subsided, allowing for rays of sunshine to break through from between the clouds. An eager pair of robins emerged from their nest and took flight, darting across the sky.
In his room, Francis quickly removed his wet clothes, managing quite nicely without his valet, whom he had left behind in London. He then pulled on a fresh pair of beige leather breeches, a crisp white linen shirt—the neck of which he wrapped in a cravat—and a pair of light brown hessian boots. Donning a white waistcoat, he threw on his black coat, picked up his kidskin gloves, and headed out the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was nearly midnight by the time Francis arrived at his home in Berkeley Square. Stepping inside, he was faintly surprised by the dim glow of light coming from his study down the hall. Perhaps Jonathan was working late, or merely enjoying a quiet glass of port before returning home. He wouldn’t mind a glass himself, he thought, as he pulled off his gloves, laid them inside his hat, and placed the hat on a side table for Parker to tend to later. Unbuttoning his coat as he went, he made his way toward his study, managing to unfasten the last button as he reached the open doorway.
With a deep breath, he wandered inside, relieved to be back in the warm evening glow of his favorite room in the house. Looking about, he immediately caught his breath as he regarded the slight figure neatly curled up in one of the leather chairs.
There, fast asleep, her lips slightly parted in slumber, lay Emily. She had been right about the chair being too big for her, he thought with a smile as he watched her nestled on the seat, her feet tucked up beneath her. At the foot of the chair lay a book. Francis picked it up to find that he was holding a brand new copy of Sense and Sensibility by a certain Jane Austen. Curious of its content, he scanned the back of the dust jacket, only to conclude that it must belong to Emily. Ever the romantic, he thought musingly, as he laid the book carefully on the table next to her chair.
He stood for another moment, watching her rest, his eyes drawn hypnotically toward the rise and fall of her br**sts as they strained against her bodice, swelling lusciously at the neckline. His stomach tightened as a wave of heat rushed over him, settling deep within his loins. His urge to reach out and touch her was overwhelming, yet somehow he managed to avert his gaze. One touch would never sate his appetite—of that he was certain. Instead, he proceeded to turn off the lights. Then, with a conscious effort to think of anything other than Emily’s warm and pliable body, he stooped to gather her up in his arms.
Fresh quivers ran down his spine as her scent, a soft fragrance of roses in bloom, enveloped him. He cursed beneath his breath at his apparent lack of self-control. What was he thinking, getting this close to her? She shifted slightly in her sleep, her head tilting backward in a pose that beckoned for him to brush his lips against the delicate curve of her neck. With an inward groan, he tightened his hold on her for fear that he might otherwise drop her right there on the stairs. Taking a deep breath, he tried to focus on each of the steps he took as he approached her bedroom.
Fumbling with the door handle as he juggled her in his arms, he finally managed to open the door and enter the room, kicking the door shut with the heel of his foot. He then crossed the room to her bed and gently settled her on top of the golden brocade bedspread.
Turning on the light next to her bed, he straightened himself to look at her, wondering if he ought to cover her with something. His own body came to mind, but he quickly trashed that thought with a mounting degree of annoyance. He was, after all, a gentleman—he tried to remind himself.
Clenching his fists, he turned away from temptation, intent on fleeing the room before he happened to change his mind.
“Francis?” Her voice was music to his hears. Oh how he’d missed it for the past few days. He ought to ignore it, to pretend he hadn’t heard her and just leave, but his feet were somehow glued to the floor.
“You fell asleep in the study, Emily,” he told her in a soft whisper as he turned his head to look at her. She had turned onto her side, partly risen as she rested on one of her elbows, her eyes still drowsy from slumber. His eyes roamed over her. Her hair was tousled, her bodice askew, yet he’d never thought she looked more beautiful.
As she moved slightly on the bed, he watched in silent disbelief as one of her br**sts rose over the neckline, showing off a pink nipple, so ripe that Francis’s mouth went dry and his pulse quickened to a deadly pace. “I should go,” he told her in a hoarse voice, wishing he had the power to look away from her inviting body. She wasn’t even aware of what she’d just displayed for him as she lay there, the hint of a pleasant dream still upon her face.
“I was hoping perhaps we could talk,” she told him as she got up and came toward him.
“Emily,” he murmured as he put up his hands to stop her from coming any closer. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
She paused in mid-stride, a pensive look upon her face as she licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. Francis felt the all-too-familiar throbbing as his manhood strained against the seam of his breaches. Never in his life had he been so aroused from just looking at a woman. . . . Hell, she wasn’t even nak*d!
“Francis? Are you all right?” she asked. “You look unwell or as if you’re somehow in pain.” She looked genuinely troubled. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”
Francis groaned. Her questions were so innocent. If only she knew that she was the cause of his torment. Yes, he thought, there is something you can do for me—throw yourself on your back and let me explore you; let me ravish you with kisses and taste every inch of your divine body.
Instead he just stood there, not knowing what to say or what to do. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew what to do, what he ought to do, but he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to leave, to turn around and walk away. He wanted Emily and he wanted her to tell him that she wanted him too.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she told him suddenly, without warning.
“Oh?” His voice was curious, his eyes dark and searching.
She thought she detected that same simmering heat that she’d seen the other day in the study when he’d kissed her, but she wasn’t sure. She’d been thinking about nothing but that kiss ever since he’d gone away. How she longed to be kissed like that again, somewhere where they would not be so easily interrupted. Somewhere like right here, right now.
She knew that she ought to be ashamed to think such things; it just wasn’t proper for a lady to have such impure thoughts. And her thoughts about Francis were very impure. What made it feel less indecent, however, was that she was becoming increasingly certain that he’d been having the same impure thoughts about her—and nothing excited her more.
But how would she broach such a delicate subject? Perhaps if she didn’t look at him, talking about it would be easier. She turned away from him, her hand resting against the foot of the bed. “I was wondering why you went away,” she said.
Silence filled the room and for a moment she thought he might not tell her, but then he did. “There was a personal matter that I needed to attend to. It’s a rather delicate situation, really. I’d prefer it if we didn’t discuss it right now—perhaps tomorrow, or the day after that. In fact, there’s a lot that I need to tell you, Emily. I’ve kept it all inside for years, and I believe it’s time that I spoke to somebody about it. And truth be told, there’s nobody I’d rather share it with than you.”
On his ride back to town, he had realized that the only person to whom he wished to divulge his secrets was Emily. Emily, the one person who had always urged him to tell her what was on his mind—at least in the beginning, before she grew tired of being constantly rebuffed. But there was a time and a place for everything, and this was most definitely not the time or the place for him to bare his heart to her.
“So it had nothing to do with the kiss?” Her voice was so low that he had to strain to hear her.
“Of course not,” he heard himself saying. “Why would you think that?”
“Why indeed?” she sighed, the hint of mockery barely present in her voice. “Because you left the very next morning, without any explanation or even a goodbye. What was I to think?”
“Like I said, I left because there was a personal matter that needed my attention. It had nothing to do with you, or the kiss.”
“Did you like it then?” She gasped as soon as the question left her lips, horrified at her own candor.
“If you’re referring to the kiss, then yes, I did, Emily. I liked the kiss a great deal.” He paused, watching her with great intensity. He could almost feel the heat that was flushing her face, for it was surely the same as what filled his own.
And then she turned to face him and he looked into her eyes, the hunger there mirroring his own. “Would you like to kiss me again?” she murmured.
God, yes! With those words, he knew that all was lost. He simply did not have the will power to say no. Not when she was standing right there in front of him—so tempting, so seductive—asking him to kiss her.
He closed the distance between them in three paces. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he told her as he wrapped his arms around her and lowered his lips to hers.
His lips were soft and tender as they pressed against her. Tightening his grip about her waist, he pulled her closer as he nibbled on her lower lip, reveling in the moistness of it. A small sigh escaped her lips as he glided his tongue across them. She trembled, like a leaf rustling in the wind, as sparks ignited from her head down to her toes.
Her need was as desperate as his own, he realized with great satisfaction as he slipped his tongue inside the warmth of her mouth. And as their tongues tangled rapturously together, his hand came up to rest upon her breast. With skillful mastery, he kneaded that soft, round, pliable mound, then pushed it up to free it from the restraints of her bodice.