Emma (68 page)

Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley’s, and the dinner the next day, she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain? The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin, and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible. Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma.

The event, however, was most joyful, and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so. Harriet’s parentage became known. She proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to have always wished for concealment. Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for! It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman, but what a connection had she been preparing for Mr Knightley—or for the Churchills—or even for Mr Elton! The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.

No objection was raised on the father’s side, the young man was treated liberally, it was all as it should be, and as Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet’s happiness with any good-tempered man, but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability and improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself, retired enough for safety and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable and happy, and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man, or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.

Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield, which was not to be regretted. The intimacy between her and Emma must sink, their friendship must change into a calmer sort of goodwill, and fortunately, what ought to be and must be seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner.

Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction as no remembrances, even connected with Mr Elton as he stood before them, could impair. Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on herself. Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the first to be married.

Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells. The Mr Churchills were also in town, and they were only waiting for November.

The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by Emma and Mr Knightley. They had determined that their marriage ought to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them the fortnight’s absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan. John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving it. But Mr Woodhouse—how was Mr Woodhouse to be induced to consent? He, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event.

Emma did not think either she or Mr Knightley could wait much longer. Their love seemed only to grow as they waited—tempted as they were by the knowledge of what could be in every way with them, what they knew to be their unbridled passion, yet containing it for the benefit of their building relationship and out of respect for her father. Should the wedding take much longer, no doubt Emma’s resolve would crumble beneath one of Mr Knightley’s weighted looks. Her body trembled for him, became molten with the slightest touch. Her loins dampened with each stolen kiss to the point where Emma thought she might go mad. Her consolation was that Mr Knightley did not seem to fare much better. Often it was that she found his breeches distended with his ardour for her, his looks locked on her profile and his gaze daring to travel her neckline before sinking lower to the hidden grove beneath her skirts. But still they waited until her father’s comfort could be discerned at a tolerable level.

When first sounded on the subject of marriage, he was so miserable that they were almost hopeless. A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain. He began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it—a very promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise that his daughter’s courage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself neglected, and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr Knightleys that when once the event were over his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated—she could not proceed.

In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden illumination of Mr Woodhouse’s mind or any wonderful change of his nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another way. Mrs Weston’s poultry-house was robbed one night of all her turkeys—evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered. Pilfering was
housebreaking
to Mr Woodhouse’s fears. He was very uneasy, and but for the sense of his son-in-law’s protection, would have been under wretched alarm every night of his life. The strength, resolution and presence of mind of the Mr Knightleys commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe. But Mr John Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in November.

The result of this distress was that with a much more voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day—and Mr Elton was called on within a month from the marriage of Mr and Mrs Robert Martin to join the hands of Mr Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.

The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade, and Mrs Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own. Very little white satin, very few lace veils, a most pitiful business! Selina would stare when she heard of it. But in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.

It was that evening, however, when the true fruits of their patience came to bear. Emma stood within the embrace of her husband. Finally, alone, all the guests gone and only her Mr Knightley holding her hands in his, only his arms pulling her tight to his chest to rock with her, cherish her. Emma sighed against him.

“You were wiser than I,” he told her.

Emma lifted her head to wonder at his words.

“I would have taken you body and soul each and every moment we were alone, but you had us wait. Now I hold you and I can scarce believe it is true—that we are not only for each other in our own eyes, but in the eyes of our family and friends.”

She smiled then, eager to take his praise. Mr Knightley loosened her gown and drew it down her shoulders to puddle on the floor. He had not seen her fully unclothed before, and for some unknown reason the baring of her body before her husband seemed impossibly more intimate than all the acts leading up to their wedding. His hands were gentle as he removed her undergarments and pantalets—as she helped with her stockings and slippers, the pins in her hair. He left her necklace in place, her earrings still dripped from her earlobes and he seemed to admire them all the more for enhancing her new garment of flesh and blonde curls.

“So beautiful, my precious Emma.”

She remained still before him—he completely dressed, she not at all—and would have been conscious of her nakedness more did he not look at her as though she were a work of art by the finest creator. His hands traced the curves of her body, stroking the fullness of her breasts, the narrow dip of her waist, and following her flaring hips.

As though moving in a dream, Mr Knightley removed his clothes as well. Her nerves set on edge to see each piece removed with precision, folded, laid aside before the next followed. Anticipation built low in her belly. This side of the man was so very different from their earlier moments. Before they had hurried to avoid capture or had hurried because of their own passionate urgency. He had pushed her limits to wonderful extremes, but his current tenderness, deliberation of action, seemed appropriate. Their first consummation of marriage—the virginal treatment, though that had long since been taken—seemed a building point for the return of the others and she could scarce wait to enjoy it all with him again.

Fully undressed now, Mr Knightley’s member stood upright with a slight tilt to the right which made her smile. His body seemed even larger without clothing and he came towards her, swept her in his arms and carried her to the bed. The cool comforter welcomed her weight as he settled beside her, kissing her lips with little more contact than his mouth and the movement of his single hand over her body. Emma curled her own hand around his neck, afraid to move faster than he, willing to accept whatever pace he set.

When his hand reached her mound, she parted her legs and he set a leisurely pace of rubbing her nubbin as his mouth continued to capture hers. Already her sensations rivalled the calm assault on her body. She squirmed, he remained perfectly content to proceed as he was, though she climbed and climbed without him.

Mr Knightley lifted his head to stare intently down at her, then after a few seconds he dipped low to take her nipple into his mouth where he suckled her and bit the tight bud. Emma arched off the bed. Her hips lifted to his hand, but his pace held steady, maddeningly steady.

Suddenly he rolled the nub between her legs hard and Emma shattered into a thousand pieces. George slipped between her legs and pushed hard in. She cried out, feeling as though she were again a virgin, so long it had been since she’d had him. Mr Knightley kissed her until she relaxed, though to be truthful, her body continued to flutter madly, barely over her climax before forced to adjust to his girth.

He moved within her, taking his time as he had before. He thumbed over her nipples and Emma naturally found herself clinging to him, legs wrapped about his waist, arms around his shoulders.

“George,” she whispered as she began to feel the clawing need take hold of her again.

“Emma. Darling, Emma. Come for me again.”

He moved faster then, sliding fully inside her, striking the top of her channel with a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, pulling out and rejoining. He moved a hand between their bodies, and trapped her nub beneath his thumb. Every drive into her rocked that thumb until she screamed with pleasure, her mind nearly swooning while he shouted her name over and over as he truly made her his.

Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

Office Politics

Katie Blu

Excerpt

Chapter One

Dear Henrietta,

I’m in love with my employee. Yesterday she sashayed by my office. Her swaying hips and the jiggle of her breasts set me on fire. I had to close the door and take matters into my own hands moments before a conference call with international developers. With office politics being what they are, how do I approach her for a night of dazzling sex?

Betsy Pruitt rolled her eyes at yet another entreaty for help with a one-night stand. Sure, there were benefits to be had in scorching, rough sex, but how could the person claim to be in love with the woman then ask for one night?

She tried to ignore the nagging prod in the back of her mind. The one which said she’d do anything to have one night of sexual bliss with her co-worker, now boss, Maxwell Sumner. She also ignored the spiralling tingle down her spine at the thought he’d ever write a letter like this about her.

Betsy dropped back in her cubicle chair. Its hinges squeaked with the same fatigue she felt after pushing ten hours of work. The office had emptied and the only available light was artificial despite the two full walls of windows. She glanced towards the huge corner cubicle where Max worked. His desk had been cleared with the exception of a single light that pierced the darkness with valiant effort.

She caught her lip, considering whether or not she could get away with sitting in his chair just to touch something he had, to inhale his space. Her bottom would caress the same leather his had. Her sex, unhindered by panties she hadn’t worn, would brush the same contours his sex had. Her pussy tightened. The lace in her bra teased her puckering nipples and her breath caught.

“Good night, Betsy. Pulling another all-nighter?” Her co-worker winked at her, enjoying the office joke. “You’re the last one out. I hit all the lights on the north side. Don’t forget to lock up when you leave.”

“I never do.” Betsy glanced at her monitor. She had another two letters to answer and layout before the magazine’s deadline tomorrow morning. She supposed she deserved it after volunteering to take on the advice column when Murna had retired, but she’d been hoping to catch the attention of Max’s boss. So much for that plan. She doubted Mr. Philips had even looked at her resume for the layout editor’s position once he knew Max had also been interested in the corner office spot.

She groaned, feeling every one of her overtime hours this week. She could seriously use a solid fuck. Her eyes drifted back to Max’s desk. He’d been gone on business this week, schmoozing with companies, selling advertising spots in the magazine. Being deprived of seeing his wavy brown hair and bottomless black eyes or of hearing the baritone commanding the unseen phone voice behind the walls of his office was nearly a physical pain. More a sexual pain, she chortled.