Chapter 16

Adam had fully intended to leave Emmeline to her own devices as the ball progressed. But every time Rickard approached her to ask her to dance, he found himself intervening to ensure she didn't dance with him.

His jealousy made no sense—he knew that. Logically, he was very aware that as Emmeline was his wife, he had the prior claim, and he wasn't even concerned that she might develop feelings for Rickard, no matter how charming the man might be.

The fact remained, however, that he couldn't bear to see her dancing and smiling up at him, so desirable, so enticing. And Rickard, not seeming to understand his less-than-subtle warnings, kept approaching her, kept attempting to dance with her.

Hiswife.

There was only so much of it that Adam could take, and eventually, he cornered Rickard against a plant pot. The other man swallowed visibly, and Adam felt a wave of frustration that not only had he been brought here but they were accompanied by a man who was masquerading in their house as his brother's friend when there was no proof of that.

Perhaps he was acting on his jealousy, but enough was enough, and he had reached the very end of his tether.

"Rickard," he growled.

"Adam," Rickard said, his gaze darting to his face and away again. "Is everything all right?"

"It will be soon. Let's speak outside." Adam nodded at the open doors of the patio. "I'm a trifle warm."

Rickard looked very much as though he wanted to argue against it, but Adam left him no choice, herding him out of the room as though he was a misbehaving child he very much wanted to discipline.

Once and for all, they were going to get to the bottom of this mess.

The moment they were both outside, free of the gently blowing silk curtains, Adam rounded on Rickard.

"So," he said voice low and dangerous. "Why don't you tell me the real reason you've come to stay with us?"

Rickard looked like a rabbit trapped in the lamplight, his eyes wide and a little fearful. "I don't quite understand your meaning." He gave a shadow of his usually charming smile. "I've already told you."

"No. You told me a version of events I'm not sure I fully believe." Adam stepped closer to him. "My brother never knew you. You were not friends and never have been. So, let's be truthful now. Are you my wife's lover?"

Rickard blanched. "Of course not."

"Do you aspire to be? I see the way you look at her."

Rickard glanced at the door as though trying to judge whether he could escape through it. "I have no interest in seducing your wife," he said. "She is a charming, elegant woman, naturally, but she is your wife. Of course, I have no aspirations in that direction."

"Is that so? Then explain to me how you convinced her to invite you to stay? Explain to me why she insists on defending you, when no part of your story adds up."

"For that, Your Grace, you will have to ask her."

"She believes your story, but we both know it isn't true." Adam leaned closer, taking in the man's blue eyes, the way they were the same shade as his own. "So, I'll ask again. Who are you, and what are you doing with my family?"

"I've told you the truth—my name is Rickard, and?—"

Adam took Rickard by the lapels and turned so the man was pressed against the wall, standing on his tiptoes. Past the fluttering curtains, they were almost invisible, and Rickard was silent except for his quick, panicked breathing.

Good.

Emmeline would no doubt disapprove, but Adam was determined to get answers once and for all.

"Tell me," he growled, "what you are doing at my house."

Rickard's throat worked, fear wide on his face. "We are brothers," he blurted out as Adam pressed him more firmly against the wall. "You and I. William and I. I was never his friend but his brother, and yours, too."

Brother.

The word ripped through Adam like ice, dousing his anger in frost. He released Rickard, stepping back and reassessing. Hansen—that was his family name, but he had never given any true weight to it. There were numerous Hansens littering the countryside, and few were related, if any.

But this man…

Surely it could not be.

"What do you mean, you are my brother?" Adam asked, his voice hoarse. "I have no recollection of you."

"No, you would not." Rickard touched his throat and gave the ghost of a smile. "It's true that no one knows me in London and that you have no recollection of me. I should be plain—we are half-brothers."

Adam felt as though the world was falling out from underneath his feet. "Half-brothers," he repeated. "But you are my junior."

"By approximately four years, from what I can gather," Rickard said apologetically. "I am seven-and-twenty."

Yes, in that case, there were only four years between them.

"How can this be?"

"I only discovered it recently myself, and I was searching for…" Rickard trailed off. "It is a long story. Perhaps?—"

"Tell it."

"Very well." Rickard cleared his throat. "My mother was born in Edinburgh, and that was where she remained after her coming out. She never traveled to London for the Season, so she never became acquainted with the English ton, but she did meet my father—our father—during a trip he took to Scotland one year. They were married not three months later."

Married.

"When was this?" Adam demanded, his voice rough.

"Approximately twenty-eight years ago." Rickard looked at him unblinkingly, a little of his courage restored now that the truth had come out. "After you and your brother were born."

Adam swallowed back his retort and his instinctive wave of fury. His father had been an unfaithful bastard, everyone knew that, but this was of a different magnitude.

"He married your mother," he said flatly. "Without disclosing he was already married."

Rickard's smile was sad. "She knew, in the end. There was no chance that she couldn't. But by then, he had passed away, and there was little she could do but protect me from the knowledge that I am a bastard in the eyes of the law."

"But you found out?"

"When she eventually passed, I found some correspondence between them to that effect. He confessed an element of what he had done, and she accused him of the rest. He was living in England at the time."

Adam rubbed a hand down his face, staggering back until his back hit the wall. His father had often left for weeks at a time, claiming business. No man ever took his wife on business trips, so his mother had never objected to being left behind.

Had she known?

The fire that had taken her life had happened so suddenly, and over ten years ago now. If this was true, then Rickard would have been barely into his teenage years. A mere child.

They still would have been ‘married' for almost twenty years.

Adam desperately wanted to deny it or find faults in Rickard's story, but his father had never been reliable, had always been cruel. The absences alone could confirm the story.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Adam demanded. "When you first came to the house claiming to be my friend, then William's?"

Rickard's shoulders were stiff. "I looked into you and your brother before ever approaching your home," he said after a long pause. Merry music drifted through the open doors, the backdrop of the ball a mockery of the conversation they were forced to have. "Your reputation across London was fearsome, and the accusations I was carrying against your father—I know they have weight. To accuse him of such a terrible thing… I thought you would object."

Adam snorted. "No doubt you believed the rumors calling me a monster."

"I didn't believe them," Rickard said earnestly, "but when I witnessed your reaction to my presence in the house, I thought perhaps that caution would be best. For days I have wondered how best to break the news. I intended to do it with your wife nearby, so she might temper your reaction, but you forced my hand."

So she might temper your reaction.

Adam had pushed him against the wall. Such a response was justified, even if he hated it.

"I apologize for losing my temper," he said stiffly. "But you could have told me at any time. My relationship with my father was not such that I would not have believed you, or been offended by the accusations."

"I'm afraid I wasn't aware of that at the time."

Adam sighed, trying to reconcile this new information, but there was a ball of fury in his chest. Not at Rickard precisely, although he was a manifestation of everything Adam didn't want to acknowledge. But at his father.

His father, a man too cowardly to discipline without the use of a switch or belt buckle, had betrayed his mother in the most fundamental way possible. Adam had never loved his father, but he had always adored his sweet, gentle mother. She had been the best part of the family, and her death had destroyed him.

Now he would forever be wondering if she had died knowing the depths of his father's betrayal.

And Rickard, a man who had evidently been brought up to know Society as his right, might be denied a place in it.

Rickard, a product of the union Adam's father had had with another woman.

Rickard, his half-brother.

"William," Adam choked out. "Did he know?"

Rickard shook his head. "No one knows this now but you and I."

"I—" Adam broke off, not knowing what he should say.

Beyond the curtains, people were laughing, and the sound was grating on his nerves.

"I understand," Rickard said, before Adam could say any more. "I'll find an inn for the night and give you some time. This is heavy news. In your shoes, I can only imagine what I would be feeling."

Adam shook his head, trying to clear it.

No one knows this but you and I.

He had come searching for answers, but the truth was more than he could comprehend.

* * *

After the exhilaration and excitement of a ball where she had indisputably been the belle, the carriage ride home seemed almost unbearably quiet. Adam sat opposite her, his knee brushing hers, but unlike the tension that had swamped them on the carriage ride in, there was nothing but silence between them now. His face was pale and drawn, the savage beauty of it partially hidden behind contemplation so severe that she had no space for it.

Rickard was not there.

Adam had explained he was going to stay in London for a few days before returning to the estate, but he had given no explanation as to why. Emmeline guessed it was something to do with jealousy, but Adam had barely acknowledged her presence, so she didn't think he would respond particularly well to a barrage of questions.

Still, as they finally reached the manor and he helped her down, she was alarmed by the distant look on his face. After all the flirting and the way she had left their last conversation, she had hoped that when they returned home, he would have shown some interest in her.

Instead, he looked as though he barely noticed her.

He looked as though he had seen a ghost.

"Adam," she said as she followed him up the stairwell, her skirts bunched in one hand as she hurried to keep up with him. "What's wrong?"

"It's late," he said in that same dull voice. "You should go to bed."

"Adam. Look at me." She caught his arm, turning him back so he faced her again. "What's wrong? What happened at the ball?"

He blinked, and in the moonlight, he looked bathed in darkness, his eyes like two wells of the deepest azure. She had already fallen into them, trapped like a fly in his web.

"Go to bed," he repeated and turned away.

"Adam!"

"Leave me alone," he snapped, his voice sharpening.

Well, at least she was provoking some response from him.

"I will not," she said, catching the door to his bedchamber and following him inside. "I am your wife, Adam."

"As though I am not aware."

"Then talk to me. Don't ice me out as though I have no place in your life. You are keeping me here." She stiffened when he turned, shoulders tight, to face her, his face hard. "I chose this, but I did not choose to be tossed aside."

"You," he said grimly, "are reading too much into the situation."

"If I am, it's only because you have given me no choice. What conclusion am I supposed to draw when you withhold all details from me? What am I supposed to think?" She stepped up to him, looking up into his face.

People thought he was cold, that he had the devil's temper, and maybe that was true, but she saw the heat it contained. The passion. The pain. This was not a man she could dismiss as being heartless when she saw so much evidence of a heart.

He would not turn away from her now.

"Leave me be, Emmeline," he said.

"I will not. You are my husband, and if something has happened to concern you, then it concerns me too." She reached up to lay a hand on his cheek, marveling at herself and her boldness. "Talk to me."

"Enough." He caught her wrist, lowering it from his face. "Enough."

"No." Her word was soft, but she put every ounce of resolve she had into it. She would not back down.

He growled under his breath and yanked her closer. She crashed against his chest, breathless, expecting him to drag her out of the room. Instead, he brought his mouth down on hers.

He kissed her as though he were starving. As though he were drowning and she was the only air he needed to breathe.

He kissed her as though they were the only two people on the earth, and as though there was nothing more for them to do.

Emmeline returned his kiss with all the fervor that had built behind her sternum. When he had first left her, she had vowed that she would not forgive him easily, and yet with every hard, angry movement of his lips, her resolve crumbled.

And the longer he kissed her, the more his anger dissolved, too, replaced by a want that she understood, and a hunger that she felt. It warmed the pit of her stomach, an ache she could not ignore. Only he could see to it.

"Emmeline," he said between kisses. "I am not the man for you tonight."

"You are the only man for me." She drew his face back to hers for another kiss. "I want you."

He growled again, hands on her waist moving to her breasts, and with quick, careful yet confident movements, he palmed them. Her nipples, stiff and sensitive, sent pleasure to her core, and she tipped her head back, giving him access to her throat.

In this way and this way only, she would give him everything he desired. The ache in her tightened, and she could only gasp. "Please."

He fell onto the bed, pulling her down into his lap, kissing her all the while. She tugged at her skirts, trying to raise them above her hips, while he hurried to unlace her dress, tugging at the strings. It felt as though there was a fire underneath them, pushing them to hurry, hurry, hurry. She needed his hands on her now, needed him to feel how much she wanted him.

As though he could sense her thoughts, his hips bucked up, and she could feel his erection through his pantaloons. He groaned into her mouth, and she let out a low hum of pleasure. Her senses were tangled. All she knew was his hands, finally loosening her dress enough that he could tug it over her head. Her curls, already loose from their elaborate updo, tangled and tumbled free. He slid a hand into her hair and loosened the remainder of her pins.

"You have such beautiful hair," he breathed, taking a fistful and applying just enough pressure that she gasped. "I love the way it feels in my hands."

She let him control the angle of her head, baring her throat to him again, and he scraped his teeth across her tender flesh. His other hand reached under her dress to grasp her hip, moving her against the bulge in his pantaloons. Pleasure bloomed at the point of contact.

"You know," she said breathlessly, "if your intention was to distract me, consider me distracted."

His only answer was to bite the spot between her neck and her shoulder. "You aren't wearing any stays. You're the one that is distracting me."

"This way, there are far fewer layers to remove."

"You will be my undoing," he said, guiding her to rub against him again. She moaned, and he secured his hand in her hair a little more firmly. "I drove myself mad tonight watching you."

"I like it when you watch me," she told him honestly, and was rewarded by another kiss.

He plundered her mouth the way he had entered her life—with utter conviction, a level of determination that bordered on ruthless. Emmeline was helpless under the barrage. She was helpless to resist him.

And by the way he groaned, rocking against her as though he wished there were nothing but tender words between them, he felt the same way.

That was why she had worn the dress, which was now a crumpled heap on the floor.

His teeth gently closed around her nipple, covered only by her chemise, and he suckled her through the fabric. She whimpered.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice gravelly. "Emmeline, tell me what you want."

"You," she managed. "All of you. Whatever you have to give."

"That is a dangerous thing to say, love."

"Is that not what we are?" she demanded. "We are danger and we are fire, and if we are not careful, we may become ash." She caught his face between her hands, looking down at him. "And yet when you look at me like this, there is nothing I want more than to burn with you."

"Then burn," he told her, and ripped the chemise in a display of power that made her gasp, liquid pooling between her legs.

When he removed his shirt, her sensitive nipples rubbed against the dusting of hair across his chest.

Skin. So much of it, warm and soft under her fingers. Emmeline marveled at the dichotomy of the hardness of his muscles underneath the smoothness of his skin, like velvet over steel. Adam paused what he was doing as she ran her palms across his chest, her fingers exploring him.

This was the first time she had ever seen a male torso. And although she knew, anatomically, how a man looked, the reality was very different. Altogether more tactile. She could feel the slight inhalation, the way his stomach muscles rippled with tension as she put her hand there, sliding down to the waist of his pantaloons.

"Emmeline," he said, his voice thick.

"All this time. All this time, we could have been like this." She looked up at the sharp, handsome lines of his face. There was no distance between them now; that had all been burned away with heat. "Why?"

He brought his mouth down to hers, his tongue sliding against hers with an erotic burst of slick heat, and rocked her against him. She had nothing protecting her most intimate area from the soft scrape of his pantaloons, the thick rod underneath pressing right where she needed.

A distant part of her mind told her that there was something wrong, something disgraceful about the way she rubbed along his length, evidence of her desire smearing his trousers. But more than that was the little flashes of friction she felt with every movement.

Whatever had come between them before, there was nothing between them now. Nothing but that thin layer of material that seemed almost as though it taunted them.

She rocked faster, his hand on her hip encouraging each movement. That coiling, restless heat inside her rose again, sharp and bright like fireworks, threatening to explode inside her.

The edge beckoned.

Her head lolled back, his hand still in her hair, but the pressure was gentle now, tender. His breath came fast against her throat, his movements urgent.

"That's right," he told her. "Like that. Yes, my sweet."

Each word was ragged. They filled her with a thrill she hardly knew how to acknowledge.

That's right.

Yes, it was so right. She could hardly breathe, the tension in her coiling tighter and tighter. As she reached her peak, her movements grew clumsy, and he held her against him as she finally fell apart.

He groaned, pressing against her with a series of short, jerky thrusts, and when she looked at him, his eyes were dark and hazy, his jaw slack with pleasure. There was no attempt to turn away from her—he just watched her with a lazy satisfaction that she felt in all her limbs. Heaviness, as though the only thing that she could possibly do now was curl up against him and give way to slumber.

In case he was contemplating turning her away, she wrapped her arms around his neck so they were aligned, chest to chest. After a second, he released her hair and wrapped his arms firmly and tightly around her waist.

This was not like the first time they had come together; there had been nothing but tenderness. A sense that this had been about more than the purely physical.

She didn't just crave what he could do to her, or how he could make her feel, but she wanted him to hold her just the way he was doing now, his breathing slowing as he pressed his cheek to her hair.

"It's late," he said in a low voice. "Will you stay with me tonight, Emmeline?"

"Of course."

She leaned back to see his face and ascertain by his expression what he meant by that, but there was a look there she couldn't interpret. Sadness, perhaps. A vulnerability that tugged at her soul.

Reaching forward, she touched his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. "You don't even have to ask."