Her Husband’s Lover (10 page)

‘You won’t say that once you’ve seen him.’ Neddy’s jovial exuberance almost convinced him to make it a date, but really he had far more interesting plans for the morrow. He waited as his brother returned to the coracle and watched as they pushed out into the river again. We’ll see, he thought. We’ll see what tidings Lyle brings.

* * *

She could pleasure herself.

She could pleasure herself.

Emma lay on her back in the freshly made bed in the room she shared with Lyle, her arms positioned rigidly by her sides. Her nightshift covered her body from her neck to her ankles. The lace around her neck tickled her every time she exhaled. The question really was: did she dare? Also, while Lyle had said it was possible, he’d failed to dictate the exact method of accomplishing such a task.

Who was she trying to fool?

She didn’t need a map to know which bits of her body were sensitive and which were not. If she hadn’t before today, she certainly did now, following Darleston’s attempt to kiss her and Lyle’s performance, not to mention having watched the two men fuck.

Oh, dear Lord, had she really started to think in such crude language?
Her family would be horrified to hear what went on in her head. She guessed that was another reason to avoid physical contact. People always seemed to read one another better when they were touching.

Darleston remained firmly lodged in her thoughts. The moments leading to the touch and all that followed kept replaying themselves. Even as she’d crept towards them through the bushes with no knowledge of lovemaking as such, on a gut level she’d understood what the sounds were. She’d arrived expecting to find Lyle on the receiving end, and had been doubly surprised and overheated when she’d seen that it was Darleston instead.

He’d had his eyes closed when she approached. His jaw was locked tight too, making her think that there was a measure of strain involved in the pursuit of pleasure. As she’d watched, his expression had slowly changed, a sort of rapture seeming to soften his hard features. Yet her attention had not remained upon his face, rather it had been repeatedly drawn to that point where the two men’s bodies were linked.

She had been too far away to really see the details of Lyle’s prick penetrating Darleston’s pale buttocks, but she’d been close enough to see Darleston’s prick standing erect, and to get an illicit thrill from it.

Emma’s breasts grew heavy again when she pictured the two men moving together as one. She had never witnessed anything quite so earthy or beautiful. Her nipples tingled and a thread of fire seemed to link the two points to a third, far more sensitive place between her thighs. Lyle would no doubt tell her to explore a little in any of those places. Yet it seemed wrong to do so. Darleston, she suspected, would offer to do it for her, and a not insignificant part of her worried that her response would not be the definite negative it ought to be.

Emma huffed a sigh against the edge of the bed sheet. After his performance Lyle had gone, having expressly told her where to find him. It hurt a little to think of him curled up in Darleston’s bed. More specifically it made her shivery and transformed the dark above her into something isolating and oppressive rather than comforting.

She didn’t like to have him sleep by her. The soft whisper of his breathing kept her awake all night.

Her only consolation was that Lyle had promised to speak to Darleston about arranging another tryst that she could watch. If she’d imagined such a thing possible even twelve hours ago, she’d have thought herself crazy. In all likelihood she was exactly that.

Emma gnawed her bottom lip. Thinking of how Darleston’s long fingers had curled beneath her chin set her pulse racing and restarted the deep-seated ache in her womb. Tentatively, she pinched one taut nipple. Lightning shot down from her breast to the nub between her thighs.

Dear Lord!
One might be driven crazy by sensation such as that. Which naturally prompted her to do it again.

Emma rarely luxuriated in the feel of anything against her skin. The clinging cage of her stays and gowns she tolerated. She didn’t linger when she bathed, preferring to make it a short-lived exercise in cleanliness rather than an indulgence. She hated anything too cold against her body and always warmed her clothes accordingly.

Lord damn it!
She couldn’t do this in the bed. There were too many memories associated with lying in this position. Emma hopped out from beneath the sheets and scuttled over to the fireplace, tugging the top cover with her. She lay before the grate on her side, so the flames gently warmed her face, and snuggled the bedspread around her shoulders.

The glow of the fire painted her skin in shades of bronze and orange. Emma slipped a hand between her legs and pressed it tight to the juncture. It’d be better without her cotton shroud in the way. Feeling braver now she was away from the bed, she bunched up her shift around her waist and laid a palm over the fleece of curls covering her mons. Despite her fingers being cold, the touch brought more heat to her flesh.
More
, her body seemed to plead. She gave it, pressing two fingers into the hot slit of her quim.

That press … damned if it wasn’t both shocking and wonderful. Naturally she had to repeat the motion, and repeat it again and again, until the press became more of a slide and her fingers were slippery with fluid.

Pictures of Lord Darleston filled the dark void inside her eyelids. He lay impossibly still upon the library chaise longue. Emma stood by him listening to the soft whisper of his breaths and observing the gentle rise and fall of his chest. For a long while she simply watched him sleep, which seemed invasion enough, but the more she watched, the more she longed to trace the contours of his noble face, slide a fingertip along the bridge of his sharp nose. To begin with, her gaze remained fastened upon his head; it really wasn’t right to stare at a gentleman below the waistline– not that it had stopped her doing so earlier that day.

Emma held her palm over his chest. Even at a distance of several inches heat radiated up from his body to warm her skin. With her knuckles she brushed the deep-red pile of his coat. When he made no reaction to the contact, her bravery increased. This was how she always wanted him – passive and still. She slipped open buttons, peeled away his elaborate finery to reveal the skin beneath. She’d be like a ghost to him. Any awareness of her presence would be only on the very periphery of his senses. Yet he would still be responsive to her touch.

Soft murmurs of enjoyment passed his lips as she explored the ridges of his chest and abdomen. She ran rings around his neatly steepled nipples, traced the contours of the curious brand she’d spied on the right side of his stomach. Slowly his sighs became more abrasive as she unfastened his breeches and pulled aside the fabric to expose his loins.

Emma’s fingers curled around the imaginary staff of his erection. Supple heat filled her palm. She stroked up and down as she’d seen Lyle do. The noises Darleston made changed from sighs to mewls. Gradually his hips began to roll with the movement of her hand, but he never once opened his eyes.

If she really could make him stay as somnolent as this, then touching him would become simple. Perhaps she would go further than just using her hands. She’d lower her mouth until her lips caressed the fiery tip of his cock, and then take him fully into her mouth as Lyle had professed to have done. As long as he didn’t try and return the touch, everything was fine. Maybe she would go even further. For a moment she pictured it: straddling his lap and tentatively lowering herself over his upright prick.

The nub between her thighs grew as taut as her nipples. Threads of panic jolted through her chest as she imagined the brush of his glans against the lips of her puss. But she couldn’t seem to tear her hand away, couldn’t stop herself rubbing – couldn’t stop impaling herself.

Her whole body froze, every muscle pulled tight – so tight that they ached – then all at once she relaxed.

Emma soared. She floated in her daydream above Darleston’s body, joined to him as his prick gave up its seed. Even then his eyes remained closed, maintaining the distance between them. She licked her fingers. Lay basking in the warm languor of the afterglow, soothed and contented. Perhaps not all touch was bad, at least not her own. She’d given herself a lot of pleasure, and only the tiniest part of her regretted that the fantasy wasn’t real.

She’d never dare to touch Darleston in such a way.

Nor would the opportunity ever arise. Men like Darleston did not lie passively upon a chaise while married women caressed them until they climaxed.

Although, for all she knew of life in the capital, perhaps they did exactly that.

To Emma’s consternation, nothing good occurred the next day. She walked with Amelia, and then rode in the afternoon, hopelessly aware of the saddle rubbing against her sensitive flesh the whole time. Amelia’s tattle about the varying qualities of the menfolk didn’t help either. Suddenly, the word ‘man’ only prompted visions of Lyle and Darleston naked.

Lyle she saw at breakfast. Darleston she glimpsed once or twice around the grounds, but he never seemed to be still long enough for her to appreciate the moment. Towards evening she found herself wandering the ground-floor rooms seeking him out. The fact was, she missed his presence, even though the thought of his touch terrified her. However, if she could stay with him in the same room as the other guests, then he wouldn’t be able to do anything without raising suspicions and frowns. She eventually tracked him down to the library, where he was taking an early aperitif with Bathhouse, Connelly and Phelps. Phelps had her father’s recent litter of spaniels bounding about his feet. He and Bathhouse tossed an apple between them that the dogs kept trying to catch.

They all stood when she entered. ‘Good evening, Mrs Langley,’ they chorused, making her feel like an elderly governess. Darleston returned to his chair first. Emma walked past him to the window bay. She took a book from a shelf and sat looking out of the mullioned lacework panes at the lawn. Only a minute or two passed before his shadow fell across her lap, although it felt like nine or ten.

‘Have you had a pleasant day?’ he asked.

‘Passable. And you, milord?’

‘Darleston, I beg you. I don’t think we need to stand on such formality.’ She could almost hear the thought echoing through his head: she’d seen him fornicate and what could be more intimate than that? Well, engaging in coitus with him, the very notion of which left her trembling.

‘Darleston,’ she repeated, noting that he hadn’t invited her to call him Robert as Lyle did. ‘How did you like the boxers?’

The light from the candelabrum above caught the red of his hair as he shook his head, turning the strands a brilliant copper hue. Shadows masked the glint she expected to see in his dove-grey eyes. ‘I haven’t been there yet. You’d have to ask one of the others about their merits.’

‘Oh – I thought since I hadn’t seen you about the house today that you’d accompanied my father.’

Darleston smiled and shook his head. ‘Other plans.’ The way he grinned dared her to ask him what. He’d been with Lyle, of course. They’d been together. It didn’t take any imagination to figure out how they’d been engaged.

Suddenly bereft and bitter, she said the most ridiculous thing imaginable: ‘Are you my husband’s lover?’ As if she genuinely needed him to confirm it, considering what she’d seen.

It was a good thing that the spaniels were yapping so much over chasing apples and kerchiefs, otherwise the question might have raised a lot more than his eyebrows.

‘I think you know the answer to that only too well. Are you going to tell me that you object? I shan’t believe you, considering the questions I’ve been asked.’

Emma’s nostrils flared as she pursed her lips in vexation. The taste of bile lingered on her tongue. Yes, she knew they were lovers. And no, as a matter of fact, she didn’t like it. She didn’t like that she was being left out.

‘If it’s true, then why did you do that yesterday?’

He cocked his head. A frown creased his brow.

‘In the amphitheatre,’ she explained, still too cross to realise that she wasn’t being precise enough in her questions. ‘If you’re engaged with Lyle, why did you try and kiss me?’

Darleston continued to stare blankly at her a moment, making her think that she’d read it all wrong and that he hadn’t meant to kiss her at all. Then his expression transformed and a devilish smile spread across his lips and ran straight into the depths of his eyes. ‘Because when a lady studies a man like that, a kiss is generally what’s on her mind.’

Emma’s breath sat heavy in her chest. It took her a moment to realise she was holding it.

‘I’m sorry I so misread you,’ he apologised. ‘Clearly you were only vexed over my acquaintance with your husband, and you were staring daggers not flames.’

Heat suffused Emma’s chest. The prickle of embarrassment ran up her throat and into her cheeks. She knew he didn’t believe that, not considering the way his eyes lingered on her mouth, and his lips parted invitingly. Fiend, she wanted to brand him. He had to have been sent by the devil to torment her, as if she hadn’t experienced torment enough already.

Darleston angled his body a little closer, so that he stood inclined towards her. Emma curled her fingers into the upholstery of the window seat. Being close to him was dangerous. He knew she didn’t want to be touched. Lyle would have told him how she was. Yet to escape she’d have to brush against him.

He knowingly had her pinned.

‘I understand you wish for some entertainment tonight.’

Emma lifted her head. Surely he couldn’t mean … Why, yes – yes, he did. He’d been with Lyle all day; it made sense that they’d have discussed the matter. She just couldn’t believe he would bring it up in a room full of people. ‘Some entertainment would be pleasant, but I don’t wish to put you out.’

Darleston cocked his head again, so that a strand of coppery hair fell across his face. His lips parted slowly, but his words were lost as Amelia’s voice ran out over the dogs and conversations. ‘Entertainment,’ she squealed, having hearing as sharp as a hare’s. ‘What do you propose, Lord Darleston? Do you play the pianoforte, or should we partner up to play whist?’ Her oval face lit with glee at the hope of music and games after dinner.