16

The rest of the visit passed without further event and as they took their leave, Mina pressed her hand and cordially invited Emmie to drop in and visit them at their inn, The Prizefighter, whenever she was in the locality, assuring her there was no need to stand on formality now they were family. Still, Emmie did not think she had made the greatest of first impressions on her in-laws.

Lottie took down her hair, helped her out of her gown, and put her jewelry away as Emmie tried not to dwell too much on this latest failure. Her social skills were bound to be rusty, she told herself. She had long been out of circulation. Not that she had ever been the most socially effervescent creature, even when she lived in Porchester Square.

Still, she had frequently acted as hostess for her father’s business dinners without falling flat on her face, she thought. Or had his guests merely tolerated her as her rich father’s lump of a daughter? She was starting to wonder.

Pinky, for instance, had friends she had corresponded with for years. The fact she had not seen them in an age did not impair her friendships in any way. There was Mrs. Stephenson and Miss West and old Canon Perryman and his sister and a great many more besides. Pinky was always writing to someone or else receiving long letters about beef tea and summer colds and tutting sympathetically or knitting them headscarves for Christmas.

Emmie still received the odd Christmas card from old acquaintances but even those had dwindled after so many moves in the past few years. Of course, she knew there were lots of reasons for this. Any friends who had not abruptly dropped her, she had herself created distance from. She had not wanted to embarrass them with her change in circumstance, any more than she had wanted to mortify herself.

Then, too, there had been the move away from London. Once set up in Bath, she had only ever corresponded with Humphrey, duplicitous wretch that he was, with the odd businesslike letter from Mr. Hardiman. Otherwise, she and Pinky had lived very quietly on their limited means. She had been fortunate indeed to have a friend like Hannah Pinson, she thought. Otherwise, she would have been quite alone in the world.

The sound of a door handle startled her, and she turned in her seat to see Jeremy peering through the connecting door. “It was open,” he said, looking startled. “I was just…checking it.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “I unlocked it.”

He seemed unsure how to proceed for a moment, then came through the door, shutting it carefully after him. “I’m sure you have lots of questions,” he said, walking over to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. The look in his eyes, as they met hers in the mirror, was strangely wary.

Questions? Emmie eyed him in some surprise. “You’re not dressed for bed,” she commented. He had removed his jacket but was otherwise still fully dressed.

He looked down as though surprised. “No,” he agreed, his fingers absently trailing along her shoulder to her neck. “I meant to, but then I just thought I would check the door.”

Had he been expecting it to be locked? She opened her mouth to ask, but in that same instant he said suddenly, “Nye is my illegitimate brother, you know. His mother was a barmaid.”

“Oh. Yes, I did think that was perhaps the case,” she admitted, wondering why his expression was so guarded. “Is that who Teddy meant when he said I should soon see who resembled the fourth viscount?” He nodded. “I suppose it is just one of those funny circumstances of life that he ended up married to your half sister,” she continued aloud. “There is no relation between them, of course, but all the same, it must have been a little awkward for you.”

For a moment he looked conflicted. Then he sighed and scrubbed his eyes with his hand. “Not really. I arranged the match, you see.”

“You arranged it?” Now she was startled.

Jeremy attacked his cravat, pulling it loose and casting it on the floor. “I thought, well, it’s hard to explain my particular line of thought at that time.” He met her eyes in the mirror again and winced, his gaze dropping away as he turned and walked over to her bed, sitting down on the edge.

Emmie said nothing; indeed, she was not sure what to say. Instead, she picked up a bottle of lotion and poured some into her hand.

“I was not thinking straight,” he said after a heavy pause. “I was also drinking heavily at the time,” he admitted, shrugging out of his waistcoat.

Their eyes met again in the mirror. “I noticed you no longer do that,” she said lightly. “Drink, I mean. You did not at our wedding or at any meal we have taken since.”

“No,” he agreed shortly. “Not for two years now.”

Emmie smoothed the lotion into her neck. “Is that why you stopped?” she asked.

He looked surprised. “Their marriage?” She nodded. “As a matter of fact, they’re very happy together,” he said at last, “though no thanks to me.” When she said nothing, he sighed again before continuing in a flat voice. “In truth, there were a lot of reasons. Sometimes I was not very nice to be around, but you already knew that, didn’t you, Ballentine?”

Emmie replaced the top on her lotion bottle and reached for the cold cream jar. They were on shaky ground again . Their past . She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I made the best impression on your sister,” she admitted. “She seems to have some decided views on matters of education.”

He gave a short laugh. “Yes, that sounds like Mina,” he said.

“I think she has concerns about Pinky becoming Teddy’s governess.”

He shrugged. “On about sending Teddy back to school again, was she?” he asked mildly. “She used to teach in a school herself and is a great proponent for them.”

“Yes, she told me. The Hill School in Bath.”

“Did you know it?” he asked with a flicker of interest.

She shook her head. “As you know, I had a governess. By the time I moved to Bath I was long past such things.”

“Well,” Jeremy said decidedly, “I am not sending him away just now. He deserves to have this summer at least to fully recover his health and adjust to”—he pointed his finger to his chest and then toward her—“the new status quo.”

She nodded. “Yes, that sounds perfectly reasonable. And after all, it will be the first of May tomorrow.” She bit her lip, hoping devoutly that Pinky could manage to hold things together for a few months at least.

“Are you finished with your toilette?” Replacing the lid on the jar, she nodded. “Come and lie on the bed with me,” he said, patting the mattress beside him.

Emmie stood up and crossed to the bed. She hesitated before climbing under the covers, for he was lying on top of them, but he reached over and drew the sheets back for her. She climbed in and he started unbuttoning his shirt.

“So…what did you think of them?” he asked. “My family.”

Emmie folded her hands over her stomach and contemplated the high ceiling above.

“Your sister seems a woman of character,” she said slowly. “She’s handsome, dignified, and well-educated. Her husband—”

“My brother,” he interjected. “I do acknowledge the connection. I acknowledge it more than Nye, to tell the truth.”

“So, it is widely known that you are half brothers?”

“It’s known hereabouts, though little talked of these days. At least, not to our faces.”

“I don’t know that I should dare raise the subject myself,” she reflected frankly. “Your brother is rather alarming.” He laughed. “Did your father have a presence like Nye’s or was it only in appearance that he takes after him?” she asked curiously.

Jeremy thought about this as he unbuttoned his shirt. “He had presence certainly, but Nye’s owes a good deal to the man that raised him. Jacob Nye was a formidable sort. You would not trifle with old Jacob.” He shrugged off his shirt.

“And your father?”

There was a slight pause before he answered. “You would not trifle with him either,” he acknowledged wryly. “Though my father was more of a shouter whereas Jacob Nye could freeze a man at ten paces with his glare. That always seemed more impressive somehow. You may be sure that everyone paid their bar tab in a timely fashion.”

He climbed under the sheets and closed his arms about her with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“Do you think your sister and her hus—your brother I mean—” That would take some getting used to . “Are, well, pleased to find you are remarried?” Emmie asked haltingly.

“I don’t know about pleased, but they certainly already knew the fact. It must be all over Penarth by now. Nye told me as much. That was why they came to dinner, you know, to get a good look at you. Nye has never set foot in the place before tonight.” He paused before continuing. “I’m sorry I did not prepare you, Ballentine.” His tone was apologetic. “I am fortunate that you are gracious and take things in your stride.”

Gracious? Did he really think so? She could not ask, for he was kissing her, first her lips and then along her jaw. “You looked so pretty at dinner, Emmeline,” he whispered. “I could barely take my eyes off you. I’m sure they noticed my preoccupation with my new wife.”

As he had seemed a perfect host, Emmie found this hard to believe, however she was just glad he had not thought his hostess lacking. Thankfully, she slipped her arms about him, enjoying the feel of his bunched muscles. He was not a large man but even so, his body felt so very different to her own. He was lean and muscular where she was… He pinched her waist, interrupting her thoughts. “ Jeremy! ”

“I like how soft you are here, Ballentine,” he said, his mouth very near her ear. “It affects me strangely.” His hands slid down to caress her hips and buttocks as his breath rasped against her neck. He was not lying. She could tell because he was entirely naked and aroused. She had lately learned this was not something you could really mistake.

“Like your paintings?” she asked breathlessly as he kissed the point that met her shoulder.

“Yes,” he agreed huskily. “You would make a magnificent Venus. I have always thought so.”

Always? “I don’t know about that,” she responded doubtfully, thinking of the Venus hanging in the drawing room, emerging from the sea naked and wringing out her wet hair. “I think the Romans favored small, high bosoms and, well, mine are…not like that.”

He gave a choking laugh. “Your breasts are perfection, Ballentine,” he said. “They are sublime. If I was artistically inclined, I would dedicate poems to them. I’m almost desperate to see them again. May I?”

“Yes,” she said in a muffled voice, but this time he did not reach for her buttons. Instead, his hands remained where they were, squeezing and fondling the fleshy parts of her that she had always been most self-conscious about. For a moment, she hesitated, unsure of her cue. Then she noticed his expectant air.

Oh. He was waiting for her to do it. To…to bare her bosom to him. Emmie’s face flushed even brighter. Could she do this? She remembered their wedding night, how inflamed he had been by the sight of breasts.

Reaching for her buttons with trembling fingers, she undid them one at a time, until she reached the very last one. Then, taking a deep breath, she peeled back one side of the placket and then the other. His breathing grew harsher, but still, he watched and waited.

Emmie glanced down at her exposed cleavage. Her breasts were not as revealed as they had been last time, when they had been so scandalously freed out of the confines of her bodice. Taking a deep breath, she nerved herself to scoop out first one breast and then the other.

Jeremy’s grip of her hips tightened convulsively. “Oh, fuck, Emmeline,” he said in a raspy voice, and closed his eyes for an instant. When he reopened them, they seemed a little calmer. “I almost wish I did write poetry,” he said thickly, lowering his face to kiss down first one breast before sucking the nipple into his mouth, and then repeating the process with the other.

Emmie whimpered. Before she knew it, her hand was at the back of his head, urging him closer still. He ran the tip of his tongue down the undersides of her breasts, before retracing the path to swirl his tongue around her hard nipples. She wanted his hands on them, like last time, kneading and cupping her aching breasts, but they were otherwise occupied, squeezing her backside in a firm grip.

Instead of paying more attention to her tender breasts, Jeremy shifted down, reaching for her hem and bunching up her nightgown to her waist. Once it was out of the way, he started dropping ardent kisses along her stomach, another part of her body which she had always been convinced was far from the ideal. Emmie breathed through her nose and did her best not to tense, even when he gently kissed around her belly button.

When he started enthusiastically mouthing the swell of her belly beneath it, Emmie could not hold back a murmur of protest. “You don’t like that?” he asked, lifting his head again. His eyes were a little unfocussed. Did she imagine it, or did he sound a little disappointed?

“It’s not that,” she said quickly. “It’s just…” She floundered, a strange suspicion forming. “Do you like it?” she asked impulsively.

“Your belly?” She nodded and his eyes dropped immediately to roam over it. “I bloody love it,” he answered with a groan.

“You—?” Emmie stared at him in astonishment. “You are not serious!”

“It’s beautiful,” he said so matter-of-factly that she found she could not doubt his sincerity. “I want to feel the cool, soft skin against my face. May I?”

Slowly, Emmie nodded, and he pressed his face against her there, his hands at her waist, breathing in noisily. They remained like that for several minutes, until Emmie felt herself start to relax again. Then he kissed her there again, this time gently and reverently instead of ravenously.

“You have the most gorgeous belly in all the world,” he sighed with what she could only deduce was pleasure.

“I’ve always thought that it was my worst feature,” she admitted. “It’s strange, hearing it so praised.”

He looked incredulous. “Your worst?” He stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m guessing no one has really seen it before,” he pointed out. “So, I’m not sure where you got such an idea.”

“Well, no, but it sticks out to a distressing degree when I do not wear a corset to correct it.”

“It has no need of correction,” he said firmly. “It is perfect the way it is. When your room is redone, I want you to have a chaise longue in here,” he said seemingly changing the subject.

“A chaise longue?” she repeated.

“Yes. I want you to recline on it for me, naked,” he said, shifting down her body. Emmie’s eyes widened. His hand was sliding up her leg now until it lodged between her plump thighs. Emmie shivered with anticipation.

For a moment, words appeared to hover on his lips, but then he seemed to catch himself. For a horrible instant it occurred to her that he had been about to reference the Hawfords’ ball again. But that was absurd, she told herself uneasily. In what possible context could that come up in this moment?

“Why do you suddenly look nervous, Emmeline?” he asked, stilling his hand at once. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” she blurted, “I don’t want you to stop. I was just…just wondering why you felt the need for a chaise longue,” she lied weakly.

“Ah.” He smiled. “That’s because I want to worship you on it, like the goddess you are,” he said, his fingers slipping inside her cleft to lightly trace her wet folds. “To pay homage to this divine body.”

Emmie shifted against his fingers, she could not help it, or the little cry that burst out when his fingers slid right against that spot that was so sensitive. “Like…like that lute player in your painting. The one in the library,” she asked breathily.

A sudden wicked grin lit up his face. “I’m not going sit at your feet and play you a tune, Ballentine, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, what are you going to do, then?” she huffed when his fingers refused to play the tune he had plucked so well before. Instead, this time they performed a dance that frustrated as much as it stimulated. She could only conclude it was on purpose, from how carefully he watched her face for her every reaction.

“This,” he said, lowering himself onto the bed until she could feel his breath against her patch of intimate hair. “Could you open your legs a little wider, perhaps raise your knees?” he suggested politely.

Emmie gazed down at him in mingled surprise and astonishment. What on earth…? Wordlessly, she lowered her legs, and he resettled a little closer still, gently brushing the reddish-gold curls as his thumb parted her nether lips with a familiarity that made her gasp.

“Do you know, some people call this the mound of Venus?” he asked conversationally. Before she could even think of a reply, his mouth was pressed against her so scandalously that Emmie forgot to even draw breath. It was only when his tongue started to give a slow exploratory lick that she remembered the necessity to breathe.

“My lord!” she squeaked, all dignity flying out of the window. “ Oh! ”

Before long she was panting and squirming against his mouth, so much so that he had to adjust his hold of her, gripping her firmly around her thighs to pin her in place. Lifting his head, he said “Hold still, Ballentine” in an amused voice. “You wriggle like an eel.”

Seeing his lips shiny from her wetness, she felt something inside her coil even tighter. With a faint moan, Emmie collapsed back onto her pillow, struggling to catch her breath.

“Look at me, Emmeline,” he requested silkily. Emmie struggled up onto her elbows. “Are enjoying this?” he asked solicitously, only the faintest gleam in his eye suggesting he must already know the answer to this question.

Emmie struggled with words. “Y-yes!” she managed to splutter out. Oh my God, were ladies supposed to admit to such a thing? She was not sure. It seemed her education was woefully inadequate in lots of areas, not just mythology.

His smile flashed out. “That’s alright, then,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want to think I was the only one enjoying myself here.” He sucked on his bottom lip. “You taste delicious, by the way,” he told her softly. “Any requests?” Emmie regarded him speechlessly. Requests? “No? I’ll just have to improvise, then.”

Was he still joking about playing her a tune? she wondered incredulously. Then he doubled his efforts, plying his cunning tongue in such ways that Emmie had no time for thinking. He supped and sucked and licked at her as though she was the most delicious treat, and soon she was mindless and aching with need, while he feasted so unhurriedly on her. Her legs shook, she was so wet , and then the pleasure finally took her, and she cried out as it spread throughout her limbs, leaving her limp and breathless.

As she recovered, breathing shakily, he crawled back up the bed and took her in his arms, stroking her hair and kissing her cheek. “My God, you’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever beheld,” he said thickly. “And I’m such an undeserving wretch too.” He sighed gustily and then kissed her lips lingeringly, as though it did not matter where they had just been.

“The loveliest thing?” Emmie repeated uncertainly when he drew back. “Even more than your paintings?”

“So much more,” he assured her. “Instead of canvas, you are made of flesh and blood, and such lovely flesh too.” His hands wandered downward to skim over her hips and buttocks, and he let out a groan. “I can’t really delay much longer, or I will spend against your lovely belly, Ballentine.”

“If you like it so much, I am surprised you think that would be a bad thing.”

He gave a breathless laugh. “It would not be a bad thing at all,” he admitted, “but I would rather be inside you right now, if you have no objection, of course.” He quirked an eyebrow at her.

Instead of answering, she let her legs fall open and his eyes lit up as he stared at her. “Fuck, you look so …”

“Would you like to own a painting of Venus like this?” she asked daringly.

He gazed at her, breathing heavily as though incapable of speech. “Truthfully?” he croaked. “No painting could compare to the reality of having you in my bed like this, Ballentine.” His eyes traveled over her greedily, devouring every detail. “Though, I would pay a good deal to own even a pale copy.”

“Who would you be in the painting, I wonder?” she mused, still feeling boneless and satiated.

Jeremy gave a choked laugh as he clambered over her, settling between her legs. “A lustful satyr perhaps,” he said with a grunt as the head of his manhood brushed against her tender, swollen parts. To her surprise, she felt a twinge of interest in proceedings, despite her languor.

“Are those the ones with the horns and the tails?” she asked breathlessly as he started to push into her.

“Nnnhhhhh.” He made a sound of vague agreement. “Yessss,” he hissed, though whether this was still in answer to her question she was not sure. He was far too beautiful to be a satyr, she thought, watching his expression turn blissful. He would have to be Apollo. “That feels so good, sweetheart,” he said, closing his eyes. “You’re so wet,” he whispered as he sank into her. “Taking me so well.”

When he opened them again, his blue eyes looked unfocused. “ Fuck , Ballentine,” he wheezed, concentrating on her face. “Are you ready for this?” She nodded and he shuddered, slamming his hips against hers, making her yell out as he plunged deep.

“Too hard?” he panted, trying to pull back, but Emmie wound her arms about him, dragging him closer.

“No,” she moaned. “Don’t go.”

Jeremy’s eyes flashed. “More?” he asked carefully. She nodded. “You have to say it, Ballentine.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“More,” she whimpered. “Please.”

“Please, Jeremy,” he corrected her but gave a hard buck of his hips all the same, as though he could not hold back.

“Jeremy,” she whispered, digging her nails into his shoulder before she could stop herself. He did not even seem to notice it, as he adjusted his position and drove into her again and again with increasing urgency.

“Tell me you want me, Ballentine,” he insisted, his hands sliding around to her backside and dragging her closer still. “Tell me you al—” He bit off his words. “Tell me you still want me,” he gritted out instead.

“I do,” she gasped, wanting to please him. Wanting to say the right thing. “Still,” she blurted. “I—I always did.”

His eyes flew wide, staring into her own. “Yes,” he breathed, “so did I. Always.” And just like that Jeremy Vance came apart, his eyes boring into her, his hands gripping her buttocks tight. “God, you always make me feel so good,” he groaned, and collapsed heavily on top of her.

Moments later, he rolled off her, still struggling for breath. “Want some water?” he asked, and grinned. “Your face looks a little red.”

“Yes, please.”

He sat up and sloshed some water from her etched water carafe into a glass. “I wonder why around you it is easier for me to breathe, Ballentine, and”—he paused—“I find I hate myself less.”

“Hate yourself?” she repeated, alarmed.

He waved a hand. “I’m exaggerating, of course, but you know what I mean.”

Actually, she didn’t, but he did not press the issue, merely passed her a glass of water. As she gulped it down, he traced a finger down her cheek. “How do you do it?” he asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, handing him back the empty glass.

He took it, refilled it, and drank a glass himself. “You’re even prettier post-coitally,” he sighed. “I always knew you would be, of course. From the dancing.”

“Dancing?” she repeated, feeling confused.

“Eyes bright, cheeks pink, lips parted…” he teased.

Suddenly, Emmie realized he was talking about all the dancing they had done years ago. She felt panicked that he would see fit to bring up those times at a moment like this, when her defenses were so completely down. If she was not careful, he would be bringing up that wretched conservatory business again!

Instead of receding further into the past, that fateful season seemed to draw ever closer, looming up at the oddest times to remind her of how things had once stood between them. Perhaps forbidding him to speak of it had somehow fixed those events even more firmly in their minds?

“What is it?” he asked tenderly. “Cold?” He slipped an arm about her.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, flashing him a smile. “Nothing at all.”

“Let me take care of you, Ballentine,” he said, his eyes so warm and full of tender concern. “We need to get cleaned up before you can sleep. Is that agreeable to you?”

She nodded, and he looked so sleepily happy she could not regret it. Jeremy spent the next twenty minutes assiduously tending to her as they washed and settled back into the bed together. With each passing minute she felt herself relax a little more in his company, until finally she was calm once again. He would not hurt her. She was being foolish.

Emmie was just dropping off to sleep when she suddenly remembered something. “You know, there are two purple chaise longues already in the viscountess’s sitting room,” she said drowsily.

“In your sitting room, you mean?” he replied, a frown in his voice.

“Yes.”

“Are there?” He sounded genuinely surprised by this news.

“Yes, purple ones.” He shrugged, and she reflected once again that he could not have spent much time in his wife’s rooms. “We could always move one of them into here,” she suggested.

A smile curved his lips as though he knew full well she was reflecting on his earlier words. “This room is currently blue and orange,” he reminded her. “Do you not think the color might be ill-suited?”

It was Emmie’s turn to shrug. “I am not really accustomed to whole rooms being so uniform in color and theme,” she admitted.

He turned his head to look at her. “Even in your father’s smart London townhouse?”

“Even there,” she agreed. “We had a yellow saloon but even that had chairs that were upholstered in green velvet and over time more colors crept in.”

“I see,” he yawned, and his eyes closed. “Is it alright if I fall asleep in here?” he asked without opening them. “If you would rather I cleared out and left you, I will, of course.”

“Why would I want that?” she asked in surprise, but Jeremy was already asleep. He said such strange things sometimes, she reflected, reaching out to touch his cheek. She wondered if she would ever really understand what was going on in that pretty head of his.