Chapter 9

David watched Emma sleep, that odd dart of pleasure burrowing deep under his skin and becoming a part of his body. It was more than pleasure; it was a sense of happiness mixed with a terrible craving to taste and consume everything she so wantonly yet innocently offered. He felt a strange sense of possession and longing and was more curious about it than indifferent.

He'd finished working, rushing to complete his task but being meticulous. He was not a man who rushed or did anything by half measures, but he had been pushed close. Simply because he wanted to linger in her presence, he wanted to dine with her and perhaps drink whisky afterward as they strolled across the lawn staring at the stars.

Should he wake her…or allow her peaceful slumber to continue? Would he scare her if her lashes fluttered open now and she saw him standing in her room, watching the rise and fall of her chest, those lush lips parted as she slept?

"David," she murmured, twisting atop the bedsheets.

His heart lurched. For a moment, he thought she'd come awake and seen him…but Emma dreamed of him. Another twist pushed the bedsheet down, revealing the creamy swell of her shoulders and the plump softness of her breasts. Her long hair was tousled and fell around her shoulders and over the slope of her breasts in rippling waves. Hunger surged, the ache of it so visceral he jerked backward. Gritting his teeth until his damn jaw hurt, David leaned over and tugged the sheets to her chin, smiling at how she snuggled down into the bed.

He dipped and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. David froze, uncertain what prompted the action. He hadn't thought about it beforehand. He straightened, running his fingers through his hair. She tied him up in knots, and he didn't know what to do with the feeling, for he had never been in this position before. Though he wanted her with him for dinner, David did not wish to disturb her peaceful slumber. He went to the fireplace and stirred the logs, adding a few pieces before slipping from her bedchamber.

Once downstairs, he headed to the servant quarters to check on Mrs. Gilchrist. When he'd gotten the missive from Timms that she'd fallen ill, the emotions that had clutched his heart had been unwelcome. David had dropped everything, only pausing to send Emma a letter, before heading to Hampshire. Though she had clucked at him for his overreaction, he'd summoned the physician to attend her. She'd also harrumphed at him for staying beside her and reading to her, but what had mattered was that she'd fallen asleep with a smile.

Once in the kitchen, he padded over to the table and sat. David hardly ever dined in the formal room above stairs whenever he was in residence. After his father had died, his mother hadn't the ability to offer him any sort of solace. She had been selfish in her grief, shutting him out completely. Mrs. Gilchrist had held him to her bosom as he cried his heart out for losing a man he had worshipped. It was her who had seen to it that he ate, and when he too had fallen into the sick bed with the same fever that had taken his father, it had been Mrs. Gilchrist who summoned the physician and stayed by his bed for days nursing him back to life.

David had fallen into a cold stupor of unrelenting grief when his mother died. Mrs. Gilchrist had never left him alone since, wrapping him into her life beyond what was needed. Even when the estates had been revealed to be in despair, and his staff went for years without wages, no one left his side. It was for them and his loyal and good-natured tenants David had worked with meticulous tirelessness to turn around the fortunes of the estate, and he had done so several years ago.

David turned his thoughts from the past and his earlier griefs and troubles to the gorgeous smells wafting through the kitchen. It was such a cozy and cheerful place; when he returned to his manor, this was the room he thought of as home.

A cake with lemon icing was set before him, and he bit back his smile. Mrs. Gilchrist lowered herself to the chair opposite it, her lively light blue eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Yer friend is a lady of quality, milord," she said, turning the plate to cut him a healthy slice. "Ye've never had a lady guest before. I can tell she is special. The way ye look at her."

He felt the tension creeping into his shoulders. "Special?"

"Aye," Mrs. Gilchrist said, eyeing him carefully. "Special."

"You overthink the matter."

"I saw the way you smiled at her…never knew your lips could stretch so wide, milord. Miss Emma is not what I expected from a lady of quality, not so stiff or puffed up with vanity."

"She is interesting. I like her and can tell we will be good friends."

"Only friends?" she demanded archly, a twinkle in her expressive eyes.

Yes, he silently agreed, even though he knew for the length of her stay he would be riding between those soft, supple thighs. But that was just chasing mutual pleasure, and when they had worn each other out, they would part amicably like all his other…connections before her. Something sparked inside David's chest, telling him that Emma Fairbanks was different, but he pushed it aside.

Mrs. Gilchrist harrumphed. "About time you start acting like a lordling. Ye are nine and twenty. Get yourself a wife and start eating all your meals upstairs, milord. Better yet, you'll stop wandering these lonely halls in the nighttime now that you have company."

He grunted, cutting into the cake with his fork and taking a bite. The tart yet sweet flavor exploded on his tongue. It was his favorite treat, and she made it just right. David wondered what Emma had thought to see him eating down here. He recalled the joyful way she'd bounded down the stairs and the unpretentious way she'd eaten her large bowl of stew. She fitted into this place, and instead of feeling cold and uncertain at the emerging awareness, a warmth kindled itself inside his chest. The feeling was very pleasant…more than pleasant, and he curled a mental fist around it and hoarded it inside, wanting it to stay because it chased away the cold that had lingered within him for so long.

"How are you truly feeling?" he asked, studying her. "Will you not consider hiring another cook?"

Her face softened. "If it will make ye stop worrying so, milord, I'll hire another two scullery maids and an undercook."

He took another bite of the cake. "It is time for Timms to retire. He is shuffling about slower and slower. Perhaps it is time he starts having an underbutler."

Her face crumpled a bit. "He won't be wanting to leave you, milord."

"I've provided a suitable retirement package for him. He will be comfortable."

"Suitable?" she said with a small cluck of her tongue. "We are all bleeding wealthy, milord. Mr. Timms will have his own cottage and a comfortable living for the rest of his life, but…he'll be lonely, milord. He won't want to leave you and this house."

There went that wrench inside David's chest again, and he smiled. Their contentment mattered to him a great deal. "Then I will leave it up to Timms when he leaves. The underbutler to assist him is not negotiable, however."

His cook beamed at him, and glanced up as her daughter, the frightfully efficient housekeeper, Mrs. Jane Reid, who had grown by his side, came down the stairs. Jane had only recently married his estate steward and seemed very happy with her choice. David expected that children might soon follow their union. Mrs. Gilchrist rose and went over to her daughter, and they stood in conference discussing the menu for the rest of the week. Now that he had a guest, the simple meals he would sometimes demand would simply not do. No one bothered to ask him his opinion, and hiding his smile, he stood.

David took his cake and trudged up the stairs to the rest of the palatial house that loomed empty and cold. Now that he was assured Mrs. Gilchrist was on the path to recovery, he could return to town. Yet he hesitated, glancing up the stairs, everything inside him reaching for his sleeping temptation. He had little business in town now that parliament was closed until the end of the year, and the frivolity of the season had grown…tedious.

He went outside and down to the stone bench by the lake. David placed the cake beside him on the bench and lifted his gaze to the star-studded night. He could stay in Hampshire for the next couple of weeks with Emma, or however long she had to stay, thoroughly exploring this need pushing them closer and closer together. That terrible hunger wrenched through him again, and suddenly being with her alone felt dangerous because he had never felt like this before.

Emma Fairbanks had been untouchable for so long, except in his dreams. For over a year, he had dreamed of tasting her mouth, taking her cries of pleasure inside him and only stoked it higher until she screamed her bliss. He'd wanted her but had only watched from afar because, at the heart of it, he had been suspicious of having such a need for any one woman. Such curiosity. Then those dreams transformed after each encounter. He would watch her from the upper bowers of a ball and wonder what made her tilt back her head and laugh. How did she sound…husky and bored or light and airy?

The reality of knowing it had far superseded his imagination. She had a most lovely laugh, crisp and free, yet innately sensual and confident. Now he wondered what made her angry, what did she like to eat, did she have nightmares, or were all her sleeps pleasant. Did she play the pianoforte, or did she enjoy the harp? What were her dreams…could he fulfill them?

His pulse began to pound at the mere thought.

How did he act through his promise to be the scoundrel she wanted? That meant he would debauch her most thoroughly, over and over. Then walk away. Disquiet filled his heart, and with a sense of shock, David realized he did not think he wanted to walk away from Emma Fairbanks.