The Wicked Wallflower (21 page)

“You built all this for our story?”

“I built it for you, Emma.”

The slowly dawning truth defied all of her expectations about Blake, about herself, and about love.

“I am speechless,” she said. Because she had to say something—­the moment seemed to call for it. And she did not know what to say. No one had ever romanced her, and certainly not so extravagantly—­yet plainly—­as this. It was terrifying, that.

The rain fell in sheets. In buckets. He could not possibly have planned that portion, and yet this moment was unfolding perfectly, just as she had imagined it. Unfortunately, she hadn't written any dialogue for herself—­never believing this romantic moment would actually happen.

“Allow me to explain,” he said, raking his fingers through his wet hair. “I would like our story to be real. That is to say, perhaps we might . . .“ Blake scowled. She clung to every word, hoping, wondering, daring to believe . . . He quit his pacing, turned to face her and grasped her hands.

“Dammit, woman, I am falling for you. This is my attempt at bloody wooing you.”

Emma laughed from nerves—­this was happening!—­and relief that even in this moment she and Blake maintained their banter. She was sure that a legendary seducer such as he had never, in a moment of desperation, uttered the words, “
Dammit woman I'm bloody trying to woo you.
”

The imperfect language. The frustration. The throbbing of her heart. The taste of his lips. His warm hands holding on tight to hers. All these things told her this moment was real.

This love is real. The story is real.

“It's not the fortune, I swear to you,” Blake said. “It is because I want you to look at me the way you look at Benedict. Because I want someone who will challenge me at every turn. I constantly crave your kiss. And I want someone who drives me utterly mad in all the best and worst ways. That someone is you.”

It was not the love confession of a practiced seducer, for it lacked poetry and pretty compliments and murmured promises. No, this was the rough, imperfect, heartfelt statement of truth of a man in love. And it left Emma absolutely, utterly speechless.

She could scarcely breathe, which made her light-­headed, which made thoughts impossible. She could only feel. She feared she might burst from the combination of shock, desire, and a nagging fear this was all a dream.

“It would be far less agonizing if you would say something, Emma,” Blake said, his mouth tipping up into a grin. “Preferably something about your undying love for me and how you've been dreaming that I would confess my innermost feelings of everlasting love for you. Say something, even if it's ‘Shut up,' or ‘Get out,' or ‘This farce of an engagement is over.' Say anything.”

There was only one thing to say, really.

“Kiss me, Blake.”

The Drawing Room, Avery House

Lord Avery burst into the drawing room in what his wife would politely describe as “a state.” Lady Avery remained calm in the face of his blustering.

“Wife, what is this nonsense I'm hearing at the club about our daughter's engagement?”

“Hmm?” Lady Avery looked up from her embroidery. “What gossip?”

“Just returned from my club. They are saying the engagement between Emma and Blake is a sham. It's in the papers! Have you any idea why anyone would say such a thing?”

“None whatsoever,” she replied, looking away and focusing intently upon the intertwining initials she delicately stitched onto the fabric:
E & B.
The “B” was not for Benedict—­if she had her way.

“We haven't yet signed the contracts. Ashbrooke thought it'd be most efficient to wait until after the Fortune Games to see if they won the fortune.” Lord Avery fretted, now pacing before the fire. “We stand to be devastated by this, if the rumors are true. Who will marry her then? How will we pay for the blasted wedding you are planning? We'll be bankrupt!”

“Ahem.” The butler cleared his throat. He held out a tray with a letter. “There are callers. Many, many callers. Are you at home to visitors, my lady?”

At the gazebo

He kissed her. It was simple: his mouth claiming hers. But what brought them to this moment had been anything but simple. In spite of all the deception, this kiss was real.

Emma felt herself grow bold.

The stones beneath her feet were proof.

The roof over her head: proof.

The wisteria and ivy entwined: proof.

Blake's arms wrapped around her: proof.

His tongue tasting and tangling so intimately with hers: proof.

The warmth unfurling in her belly, the flush stealing across her skin—­all in spite of the downpour—­was proof that Blake desired her. She grasped a handful of his linen shirt, holding on as if afraid she might be swept away in the rain.

Blake nibbled gently upon her lower lip before pressing kisses along the sensitive skin of her neck, drawing a gasp from her lips. Emma tilted her head as if to say,
More.
Her hands roamed and explored the silky strands of his hair, the smooth line of his jaw, the wide expanse of muscles across his shoulders and chest. Every touch told her this was real, which was possibly the most seductive part of all.

Blake tugged down her bodice and pressed a kiss upon her breast. Such a sensation in such a place shocked her. That they might be seen, oddly increased her arousal. She was surprised to discover such wanton desire in herself. Blake's mouth was hot upon the dusky center of her breast. The wind blew a cool breeze over her warm, exposed skin. Her knees buckled and he caught her. His touch
literally
made her weak in the knees.

The Ashbrooke Effect was real. She was not immune. Not at all.

“Damn,” Blake swore softly. “I forgot a bench. I want to lie you down,” he said, kissing her. “I want to feel you beneath me, on top of me . . . I meant to have a bench.” His voice was hoarse and his hands exploring.

“You really did have an ancient looking gazebo constructed just for me,” she whispered, needing to say it aloud for the truth to sink in. “For us.”

Blake grinned and said, “If I'm going to seduce a woman, I'm going to do it properly. Or improperly, rather.”

Then he kissed her again.

Then he swept her off her feet. Literally.

Blake lifted her as if she were weightless and set her on the balustrade. Still, she clung to him, not wanting anything to separate them. She needed to feel him so she might know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this moment was truly happening, that it was not some wicked fantasy.

Blake pushed up her skirts and urged her legs apart so he could settle between them. The pressure of his hard arousal against her made Emma gasp with wanting. She moved her hips, exploring the pressure, only for it to intensify with every touch. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him harder against her entrance, and he groaned. The sound thrilled her like nothing else. She, little Emma Wallflower, made the notorious Duke of Ashbrooke groan with pleasure from her touch. She made him hard.
He desired her.

“Oh, Emma. You're so beautiful.” Any protestations she might have uttered were silenced when he claimed her mouth for another kiss. Truth be told, she dared to believe him, just a little bit. She certainly
felt
beautiful right now. He, and only he, had ever made her feel that way.

He tugged down her bodice and she warmed under his appreciative gaze.

Even with her dress hardly covering her, Emma was not cold. No, she was warmed by his loving, desiring gaze. She was warmed by his hands, cupping her breasts. She was warmed from his hot mouth closing around the dusky centers of her breasts, which had been begging for his attention. The heat she felt burned within, making her almost intolerably hot.

But still she clung to fistfuls of his linen shirt and wool jacket. If she didn't hold on, she would surely fall, tumbling backward out into the newly planted shrubbery and muddy ground.

She did not want to fall.

She wanted to stay in Blake's embrace.

What if this were forever? What if he wouldn't tire of her, or find himself entranced with a girl who was taller, with beautiful blond hair, the ability to bat her eyelashes, to flirt and act seductively? The idea that he could fall in love with her and only her made her heart start racing. If that could happen . . . if she could believe it . . .

Well then, she'd fall right in love with him.

Why couldn't she believe it?

“Touch me, Emma.” The roughness in his voice thrilled her.

“I don't want to fall,” she whispered.

“I will hold you. Trust me. Touch me.”

Emma flattened her palms over his firm chest. She undid a few buttons and slipped her bare palms against his hot skin. The wicked idea of treating him to the same exquisite torture crossed her mind; she tentatively explored his nipples with her tongue, licking and kissing.

“Oh God, Emma,” he hissed, his fingers threading through her hair, then grasping tight. She gave a satisfied smile.

She explored the wide expanse, feeling the taut ridges of his abdomen and the muscles across his chest with her hands. With her mouth. She breathed him in. Tasted him.

He was strong. He could hold her forever, if he wanted. She reached up and felt the strong line of his jaw, smooth. His hair was starting to dry, and it was soft.

“Emma . . .”

He pressed closer to her, and she felt his desire for her pressing hard against her. She didn't just imagine him inside of her, she craved it with an intensity that shocked her. She didn't know . . . and yet she needed him.

Blake's hand rested on her ankle before beginning a long, slow caress of her leg, up her stockings, past the garters, layers of skirts pushed aside. Their gazes locked.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

“Oh no,” she murmured. Then she gasped in shock as he pressed his fingers upon the sweet place between her legs. She closed her eyes, bit her lip and gave in, moving with the slow, lazy circling rhythm of his hand. That pressure: it was building. That heat: it was impossible. She couldn't breathe now. She could only feel.

More, she needed more. Or she would explode. Blake, she needed Blake. Or she would die.

As if he just knew, Blake's mouth crashed against hers for a passionate kiss. The pressure of his touch intensified upon her, and she writhed in time to his rhythm. She moaned softly as she clung to him desperately. And then she could hold back no longer.

Emma cried his name as the pleasure shattered over her. When the lovely, amazing feeling started to subside, she collapsed into his arms, resting her cheek on his firm chest. His heart beat hard, like hers. His breath caught. She could hear it, and she could feel it.

She felt, too, that Blake was still hard. His arousal was pressed against the vee of her thighs.

“What about you?” she whispered, and he gave a strangled sigh that sounded a little bit like, “Oh Emma” and a little bit like, “Oh God.”

“I want to feel you,” she said, peering up at him.

“I would
never
refuse you,” Blake murmured, and they laughed together.
That
was the moment she felt such a powerful connection to him and the sort of intimacy that had never before occurred to her. It was one thing to indulge in all these wickedly sensual activities with him; it was quite another to laugh together in the midst of it. Try as she might, Emma couldn't picture sharing such a moment with Benedict. He was awfully serious.

She didn't try very hard to picture herself with him, though. Not when she had this intimate time with Blake, whom she wanted to please the way he had pleased her. There was a selfish aspect to her desire to bring him to satisfaction, too. Every time Blake gasped from her touch, or groaned with desire as they kissed, she felt a surge of pride and power.
She
, the Buxom Bluestocking and London's Least Likely, brought such pleasure to such a rogue.

Emma dared to think that
maybe . . .
maybe they could last forever in satisfied bliss.

But there were more pressing matters requiring her attention at the moment. Together, she and Blake fumbled with the buttons on his breeches until his arousal sprung free. She took him in her hand, marveling at the feel of him: hard and throbbing, but the skin soft and warm.

Blake's large hand closed over hers. Together they began to move up and down the long, hot, hard length of his shaft.

“Kiss me,” he whispered. She kissed him slowly and tenderly until his breaths became shorter and sharper. Until his hand on hers moved harder, faster. Emma knew that same pressure was building within him, that same intolerable heat, that same need for more, more, more. She kissed him hard and rocked her hips in the same rhythm until he called out her name in a hoarse shout, until his teeth sank down on her shoulder, until he was spent after a few last determined thrusts.

They leaned against each other for support, then, with her cheek pressed against his chest, listening to his pounding heart. Blake threaded his fingers through her hair and soothingly caressed her back. They remained like that as their breathing returned to normal and their heads began to clear.

The rain had eased from the torrential downpour to a steady drizzle. A fog rolled in amongst the trees. They had just this moment blissfully alone before they had to return home, where not one but two weddings awaited her.

 

Chapter 18

This author has it on excellent authority that His Grace, the Duke of Ashbrooke did not propose to Lady Emma Avery. The lady herself did not buck convention and ask for the duke's hand. Thus, the question remains, how did this shocking proposal come about? It was The Weekly's own Mr. Knightly who received the announcement, which this author was able to peruse. 'Tis written in very ladylike handwriting, which is all the more intriguing because it was not a lady who relayed a certain outrageous tidbit to me: the engagement is a sham and they have no intention of marrying each other.

—­“
F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE,”

T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

The Drawing Room, Avery House

I
N RETROSPECT
,
E
MMA
thought she ought to have brazenly strolled into the drawing room in her sodden dress and disheveled hair. She never should have snuck up the servants' stairs to her room to change her dress to restore her appearance to rights.

She had thought of propriety and the embarrassing if not impossible task of explaining why she looked as if she'd just been ravished in a park in a rainstorm without quite admitting to being nearly ravished in the park in a rainstorm.

In this instance, the
right
thing was very much the
wrong
thing. Appearing like a debauched maiden—­especially with Blake on her arm—­would have put the rumors to rest. Immediately.

But no. Oh no. Blake pressed a gentle good-bye kiss upon her lips when he saw her safely to the servants' entrance. He promised to see her again soon.

“But—­” So many questions burned on her lips.
What does this mean? Are we betrothed in truth? What of the fortune and our fate? Did Blake love her? Dare she let herself fall in love with him?
But she was suffering terribly from the Ashbrooke Effect, and instead kissed him until her mind was utterly, deliciously blank.

Having heard the high-­pitched buzz from the drawing room that informed Emma of callers, she thought it best to fix herself up. She changed into a clean dress, brushed her hair, and pulled it into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. Her appearance restored, she descended to the drawing room to face the vultures. Lud, did they crowd into the drawing room, perched upon every chair and settee. Some even stood, crowded into every available space.

At least Olivia and Prudence were here—­with concerned expressions that made Emma feel queasy. She felt an intense pang of longing for afternoons free of callers, spent in blissful (if lonely) solitude with a book before the fire.

Her mother stood and pushed her way through the guests to clasp Emma's hands. “Where is the duke? Were you not with him?”

Emma sighed. Of course, they were only interested in the duke.

“We enjoyed a walk in the park,” she replied.

“Just now?” Lady Montague inquired, with a wary look toward the window. A steady drizzle fell from thick gray clouds.

“You went out in the rain?” A woman Emma didn't even know was aghast at the notion. Who was she? And what on earth brought her here? It could only be one thing, Emma concluded: the announcement of the Fortune Games winner. But if that were the case, why did everyone care so much about her walk in the park in the rain with the duke?

“You do not look as if you had been in the rain,” Lady Katherine remarked sharply. She gave a pointed look at Emma's fresh dress, and Emma wished desperately she had arrived through the front door, with Blake, in her ripped and wet gown, her hair a tussled mess.

“We did not see you return,” her mother said. “Where is the duke now?”

“I believe he returned to his residence,” Emma said with a slight shrug. “Or perhaps he went to his club.”

She had been too busy kissing him in the most indecent, wanton way to ask such mundane questions as to his whereabouts. She debated saying just that, for it would silence them all, when Lady Katherine heaved a sigh and said, “Pity, that. I would just so love to hear his comments on the rumors. Of course,
you
could also put the matter to rest, Emma,” she added with a devious smile. Emma's heart lodged in her throat. “Is it true your engagement is a sham?”

A
FTE
R RETURNING
E
MMA
safely to the house via the discreet servant's entrance, Blake hummed a happy tune—­
their
song—­as he strolled back to his carriage parked in the mews. He chatted amiably with the groomsman for a few moments and flipped him a coin for his discretion.

Emma, God, Emma . . . he'd left her only moments ago and already he missed her. He had always loved women, stumbled head over heels for brief but intense affairs. He'd fancied himself infatuated before. But it had never felt like this. She made him want to be a better man. She made him want to prove his love for her.

Yes, love.

Blake braced himself for a wave of terror or panic to envelop him. None came. That had to mean something significant. He wanted to tell her that.

The investors were returning, too. His betrothal to a respectable woman had helped. Their appearance at the ball the other night made many believe the news that had been a “surprise to everyone.”

Everything he wanted was just within reach.

He climbed into the carriage and started on his way home. On Emma's street he encountered an unusually large number of parked carriages, idle drivers and horses standing about snuffing and pawing impatiently. Well-­dressed ladies hustled toward the Avery house. He slowed his horses from a trot to a walk. It had to be noted that no one seemed to depart.

Obviously there had been news—­the winner of the Fortune Games, most likely.

Once he stepped into the drawing room, he realized it was something else entirely.

Lady Abernathy had that deceptively sweet smile of hers as she asked Emma, standing alone amongst the lot of gossiping birds, “Of course,
you
could also put the matter to rest, Emma. Is it true your engagement is a sham?”

In an instant he took it all in. The ferociously inquisitive faces of so many misses and matrons keen to know if they ought to celebrate or cut Emma. All too clearly he could see them hanging onto the hope that this bachelor would remain eligible on the marriage mart.
If it were anyone else
they would politely, but glumly, offer their congratulations. But because it was
he
and
her. . .

Blake also detected the rampant desire for A Scene with which they might regale their acquaintances for weeks if not months. He had half a mind to provide it.

Emma's gaze anxiously fixed upon him. When he looked into her blue eyes, he saw her uncertainty.
Was their engagement a sham?
But he did not know the right reply and she provided no answer. He wanted only to please her.

Blake hesitated. The vultures leaned in closer.

Was he to claim her now, further cementing their bond and thus making it more impossible to break?

Or did she wish for him to make it easy for her and lover boy to be together?

She had wanted a choice—­and here he was, in a position to decide for them both.

How was he supposed to think when the vultures clucked and circled? His heart pounded hard, like a kick drum. He felt a cold sweat on the back of his neck. Someone had betrayed him—­or her. Who knew for certain that he had not proposed? His idiot friend Salem, his heir George, Emma, whoever had mailed the letter . . .

And above all, why did he continually find himself in the Avery drawing room, pressed to make life-­altering decisions in front of a pack of gossips? The first time, the answer had been easy. Find the girl. Kiss the girl. Hold onto the girl.

He glanced again at Emma's blue eyes, which implored him to say something for God's sakes! The last time he let her speak for them, she'd told everyone he played the flute.

Blake treated everyone to a flash of the infamous Ashbrooke grin, known to melt hearts and make knees buckle.

“Sorry to dash your hopes and dreams, ladies,” he replied. He slid his arm around Emma's waist. “But I'm afraid my heart is spoken for.”

But even that would not deter Lady Katherine, who gave a little laugh and remarked, “That is, until the winner of the Fortune Games has been announced.”

“Yes, about that . . .” Lady Avery murmured, and all heads swiveled to focus on her. “Emma, a letter arrived for you. From Lady Grey.”

Emma tentatively reached out to accept the sheet of folded vellum from her mother's eagerly outstretched hand.

“Mother, this letter is opened already.”

Indeed, the red wax seal had been broken. Blake narrowed his eyes and focused on Lady Avery. She quickly glanced away and gave a little laugh.

“I could hardly restrain myself,” she replied, glancing around the room, seeking agreement from her guests. “Go on, read it!”

Emma slowed unfolded the sheet. Blake peered over her shoulder to read the letter that declared their fate. Lady Avery clasped her hands together and smiled with glee. The guests all leaned forward, nearly spilling off their chairs.

Emma gave a sharp intake of breath. So did Blake.