Luck Is No Lady (29 page)

“What is worrying you?” Roderick asked. His voice was a low murmur in the quiet darkness of their bedroom.

Emma curved her lips in a dreamy little smile. He was getting rather good at reading the subtle clues to her emotions.

It was late and the house had long been still.

Emma loved this time of night when it was just the two of them. When they weren't making love they would sometimes talk for hours, or hold each other in gentle silence. Roderick had purchased the house as a wedding gift for her, and they had been living there since the first night of their marriage. The house was close to Angelique's, yet not terribly far from the club, and it felt like home the moment Emma was carried over the threshold.

Roderick no longer stayed at the club until it closed, having handed over a significant amount of responsibility to Metcalf and Bishop, but he still had trouble getting to sleep at a normal hour. So the late hours of night and the earliest hours of morning had become their time.

They lay facing each other in bed, naked but for the sheet draping over their still-entwined legs. Emma had both hands tucked beneath her head, while Roderick rested on his elbow, his head propped up on his hand. The fingertips of his other hand traced swirling designs along the slope of her waist and hip, keeping her skin sensitive and her body attuned to his touch.

After months of marriage they had both gotten comfortable with the subtleties that existed in living so closely with someone. Not only in the physical realm, but in other ways, such as how Roderick was learning to recognize many of Emma's shifts in mood. He seemed able to sense when her emotions dipped or her thoughts became preoccupied. And he, better than anyone had ever been able to, helped her to keep such things in perspective.

He had a way of presenting another angle from which to look at problems and worries. Emma was learning so much from him. And about him. The kindness she had always seen in him was so completely ingrained to his person, as was his near-selfless generosity. She saw how injustice fired his anger, and adored that he fought to reverse wrongs whenever he could.

And when he looked at her, whether from across the dinner table or across their bed, she felt love so sure and strong it amazed her.

“Is it your sisters?” he prompted.

Emma sighed. “Of course I support them completely, but I cannot help but wonder if they have made the right choices.”

He said nothing, just continued the slow, lazy circling of his fingers over her skin.

“Portia has always craved a life beyond the mundane. She adores excitement,” Emma explained, meeting Roderick's attentive gaze. “But I cannot imagine why she would want to involve herself in something so dangerous. It terrifies me.”

He nodded in understanding. “She is not alone.”

“I know, and I trust him. It is just not the same as being able to watch over her myself.”

Smiling, he leaned forward to press a light kiss to the tip of her nose before righting himself back on his propped elbow. His smile was warm and only slightly amused. “I suspect your little sister is far more skilled than any of us know.”

Emma smiled in return. “You are likely right. And she is obviously happy. So is Lily, for that matter. It is just that she has such a tender heart and he is…well…”

Roderick's deep chuckle pulled her out of her worrisome thoughts.

“I am sorry. I am being ridiculous. They are both grown women, capable of living their lives without my constant interference.” She slid her foot along his leg in a casual caress. “I hope I can come to terms with that sooner rather than later.”

“I doubt it,” Roderick quipped. “You will always worry about them. It is in your nature, and one of the many reasons I admire you.”

“You do not mind having married into such a tiresome brood?”

He shook his head, his gaze soft as he met her eyes. “I love your family. And considering how things have been going with Wright…it is more than I could have hoped for.”

“You do not feel overwhelmed?” Emma asked, concern in her tone.

He smiled. “To the contrary. I feel overjoyed.”

Emma bit her bottom lip before she replied. “Well, there will soon be someone new to fuss over.”

His eyes darkened and his hand stilled over her hip. They were the only indications he heard her. As he stared at her in the silence of their bedroom, she watched his face, waiting for the moment when his clever brain would accept the meaning of her words. When his silence continued, amusement chased away her anxiety and a grin widened her mouth.

“Someone new?” he asked dumbly.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “someone brand-new.”

He closed his eyes for a second. Then the hand at her hip curled around behind her back and he drew her to him across the bed until her breasts and belly were flush against him. Rolling over her, he pinned her beneath him, settling his strong legs between hers as he held himself up on his elbows and looked intently into her face.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you,” she replied.

Then he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply.

Whatever life had in store for their future, they would manage it together. As a family.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in the Fallen Ladies series

London, 1812

The young, elegantly dressed gentleman sat in the darkness of his carriage, deftly turning a snuffbox over and over in his fingers. Every now and then, he looked out the window at the building across the street. This was his third night coming to this spot. On each of the prior evenings, he had not been able to convince himself to leave the vehicle.

Tonight he was resolute.

He had heard much about Madam Pendragon's Pleasure House. It was reputed to offer an extensive array of sexual diversions to anyone with the means to afford the exclusive rate and the proper sponsorship. Aside from the services provided by the ladies of the establishment—and more pertinent to his needs—was the fact that Pendragon was known to enforce strict rules of discretion for her clients' protection.

Discretion was vital to his purpose. Without a guarantee his activities would be kept entirely in secret, he would never consider becoming a client of the high-class bordello.

As he sat slightly hunched in the darkness, maneuvering the snuffbox in a constantly rolling pattern through his fingers, he acknowledged the restlessness traveling through him, like constantly shifting desert sands. It made his skin itch and his blood thrum through his veins. The agitation would only continue to increase.

He could not go on in this manner much longer. He understood that much at least, even if he was at a disastrous loss as to how to rectify his situation.

But that was why he was here. He intended to seek Pendragon's assistance.

If he could just bring himself to leave his carriage.

With a growl of frustration, he curled his fist around the snuffbox and jammed it into his coat pocket. Allowing no further thought, he unfolded his lean body and pushed through the carriage door to the pavement. He crossed the silent street in long strides and took two steps at a time up to the door. A short, heavy knock prompted its opening.

After producing the required letter of reference, he was immediately shown to a private sitting room. For once, he was grateful for the air of entitlement he had inherited from a long aristocratic line. His wealth and social standing were ever apparent in his manner and bearing. The deference he was afforded had never been as welcome as it was tonight as he waited for Madam Pendragon in solitude.

The woman arrived within a few minutes.

She was much younger than he had expected—perhaps in her midtwenties. Certainly not many years older than himself. Blond and rather pretty if not for the assessing way she observed him as she crossed the threshold into the room. She was gowned in flashing red satin. Her figure was lush and rounded and her smile, when she finally displayed it, held within its curves a wealth of knowledge and mystique.

It was this woman's reported knowledge that had brought him to her door.

“My lord,” she said in a velvety tone. “It is a pleasure and delight to have you visit my modest establishment. Please take a seat. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I do not drink in company.”

Her laughter was rich and melodious as she crossed to a liquor service. “I insist, my lord. I intend to have a brandy and it would not be gentlemanly for you to allow me to drink alone.”

He watched as she poured the liquor into two snifters then turned to bring one to him. When she reached his side and extended the glass, he realized what he had initially thought was a bracelet winding around her forearm was in fact a tattoo. A black dragon adorned the pale skin of her inner arm, its serpent-like tail twisted around the delicate bones of her wrist, and the creature's tiny green eyes stared at him as she waited for him to take the brandy.

“Please, my lord. Accept the drink and come sit with me. We shall talk.”

There was patience in her voice, as well as an odd note he struggled to identify. Whatever it was, it managed to soothe some of his initial discomfort. He took the snifter and brought his gaze back to the woman's face.

Her head was slightly tilted and her green eyes, much like the dragon's, met his without judgment or expectation. She did not say anything more—just waited calmly for his decision.

He experienced a rush of self-assurance. He had come this far. He had gone years in his current state and had no intention of continuing in the same manner for the rest of his life. It had not been easy to finally acknowledge he needed assistance, especially from a prostitute, however high-class.

As if seeing his acquiescence in his expression, Pendragon's smile widened before she turned to take a seat in one of the plush chairs. He lowered himself into the chair beside her, holding the brandy snifter balanced on his knee.

The burst of confidence gave way to a trickle of uncertainty.

He would need to explain what he wanted.

The heat of his frustration, which never seemed to be very far from the surface lately, began to stir. The old and familiar powerlessness spread through him as he considered how to articulate his reason for being there. He hated acknowledging it had come to this. He hated knowing he would have to confess his weakness to this stranger if he was to ever find a way past it. He clenched the chair in a death grip.

“My lord,” the madam whispered soothingly as she leaned forward to rest her hand over his.

He wore gloves only to the most formal affairs, detesting the feel of them against his skin, but he wished he had them now. The moment he felt the warmth of her bare fingers, he flinched away—violently and uncontrollably. “Do not touch me,” he muttered through clenched teeth, fisting and unfisting his hand as if he could will away the burn of that one simple touch. He lowered his gaze. “I cannot bear it.”

He waited tensely for her to order him to leave. He had been foolish to come here. What did he expect to gain by coming to a pleasure house when he could not abide even the most casual touch?

“My lord.”

Something in the madam's tone had him lifting his gaze to meet hers. She still leaned toward him. Her expression was calm, but he saw in her eyes something he had never observed in anyone else before—acceptance.

She smiled. “I am beginning to get a sense of why you have come to me, my lord, and I shall endeavor to accommodate your needs. Why don't we start with a few simple questions?”

He gave a short nod, surprised she was willing to go on.

“Excellent.” She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of brandy. Then she began her questioning with a concise and steady rhythm. “What is your age?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Your aversion to touch,” she began gently, “is this something you have lived with for long, or is it relatively new?”

Pain seared across his upper back and his stomach twisted violently. His breathing spiked. But an iron will developed over years of practice came to his aid as he brought his physical reaction back under control. He regulated his breath until it returned to a steady rhythm and the cramping in his muscles eased.

Then he looked into the madam's green eyes.

“Since I was young,” he answered.

“Interesting.”

Madam Pendragon took another sip of her brandy. Her steady gaze never left his. Somehow, her unrelenting focus did not feel invasive. Just the opposite—the steady, assessing nature of her manner along with her lack of an emotional response inspired an unusual sort of assurance.

“Tell me, my lord, what do you hope to accomplish in coming to me?”

He hesitated only a moment before giving his answer. “It is time I enter society. As you noticed, I am unable to manage even the most causal of social interactions without difficulty. I cannot allow my personal limitations to become fodder for ridicule and gossip.”

The madam nodded, her smile never faltering.

“I understand your establishment provides a wide variety of services to its members,” he continued, his voice lowering as he tried to find the right words. “And that you have very strict rules regarding privacy.”

“That is quite true, my lord.”

“I seek assistance—or perhaps training is the more appropriate word—in how to accept the touch of another person without the sort of reaction you just witnessed.”

“I see.” The madam shifted slightly in the chair, stretching her lush body in a way that immediately drew his attention. “Now, my next question is rather prying, but as I am sure you will understand, your answer is also quite necessary for me to know if I am to properly assist you.”

Distracted by the curves beneath her red satin gown, he nodded.

“Have you ever been with a woman? In the full sense, of course.”

His response came from a choked throat. “No.” He had never admitted as much to anyone. Yet she barely reacted to the information, simply nodding and continuing on. He realized this madam was not likely shocked by much of anything.

“Are you able to achieve arousal?”

His muscles tightened and his fingers curled dangerously tight around the snifter. “Yes,” he said after a moment.

Pendragon smiled and tipped her head. “Are you attracted to women, my lord, or do you find yourself drawn to other men?”

The question surprised him, but was easy to answer. “I am interested in women.”

“Excellent,” she replied in a breathy murmur.

He frowned. “I am not certain how such questions are relevant, madam.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Her gaze then met his with a direct but gentle focus. “You could have gone to a physician for the kind of help you are requesting, but you came here to me. Tell me, my lord, what else is it that you seek?”

Now, he hesitated. Not because he did not understand what she was asking, but because he did. She had seen through to the exact point he had been afraid to admit outright.

Anticipation dosed liberally with trepidation rolled down his spine.

His voice was low and thick when he finally answered. “I want to know what it is to feel pleasure.”

His answer seemed to please the madam. Her smile turned sultry and a light flickered to life in her gaze. “And so you shall, my lord.”

In a move as subtle as he suspected it was contrived, the madam smoothed a hand over the curve of her hip and down the surface of her thigh as she leaned forward, revealing the deep shadow of her cleavage.

“There is no better way to learn of pleasure than to discover all the ways to give it.” Her voice lowered to a husky murmur and her green eyes stared into his. “If you put yourself into my hands, I promise, my lord, you shall attain both of your goals. You shall learn how to accept a variety of physical stimulation, from the most fleeting and casual to that which is more intimate. You shall have access to beautiful, sensual women. Their bodies will be yours to explore, to command, and to satisfy. When you know what it is to give pleasure to a woman, your own fulfillment will naturally follow.”

At her words, the yearning he had struggled for years to deny surged through him. His heartbeat raced and his stomach tightened. He had lived so long with a sense of powerlessness, believing he would never know what it was to be with a woman. The idea that he might finally experience more than pain and discomfort from the touch of another person, was an intoxicating thought.

Pendragon's gaze flickered to his lap before lifting again. She smiled and her expression, which previously had been all business, now contained a hint of playfulness. “I can see the idea appeals to you.”

He did not deny it. Her teasing made it easier for him to acknowledge the lust inspired by her suggestion. But still, he knew well his limitations, his total lack of experience. “I should hate to be a disappointment. To anyone.”

The woman's green eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You shall do quite well, my lord, have no doubt. I possess a particular sense about these things.”