Page 25 of Chasing the Earl
Emmagene, encased ina thick robe after a hot bath, paced back and forth across the rug in her guest room. After arriving at the top of the hill, escorted by one of Southwell’s footmen, a brawny young man who’d said not a word to her, Emmagene had been greeted by Lady Trent, who Emmagene was sure had been struggling to contain her hilarity at the notion of Emmagene tumbling into the underbrush with Huntly. The muted horror of the other ladies in attendance had been evident by a scattering of gasps and the snapping of Lady Bainbridge’s fan. Honora, bless her, had insisted on personally escorting Emmagene back to Longwood. Of Huntly, there was no sign. He could have been skipping through the woods with Montieth for all she knew.
A hot bath had soothed the aches from her body, and Honora had brought ointment for her scratches, along with a small decanter of brandy. There was nothing to be done for the way her emotions ebbed and flowed, nor the soft press against her heart at the memory of being protected by Huntly’s muscular form.
After assuring Honora she was fine, she pushed her cousin out the door.
The lower half of her body gave a delicate throb, a reminder of what would have occurred had Montieth not found them. Sitting beside Huntly on the blanket, sharing whiskey with him, had imbued Emmagene with a warm, tentative glow. A feeling of companionship. Of being known by someone. Silly, she supposed, because they’d known each other less than a week. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she recalled the gentle touch between her thighs. The way he’d cradled her to keep her from harm.
Emmagene hadn’t wanted it to end.
Huntly, blunt to a fault, had whispered he wanted to fuck her, words she found both crude and oddly arousing. There would be no false declarations of love in order to bed her. No lies regarding affection, or promises for the future. He wanted Emmagene in his bed and nothing else.
She stopped pacing and looked at herself in the mirror.
Her hair, now free of twigs, flowed over her shoulders. What little curves she had were hidden deep within the folds of her robe. She tilted her head, taking in the pale oval of her face. Under the best circumstances, Emmagene might be considered striking. She would never be thought of as beautiful, like Honora. Nor was her figure anything to become overly excited about. Geoffrey had often mocked her boyish form, though it had not stopped him from taking his pleasure. Yes, she’d allowed a few other gentlemen to steal a kiss here and there but mainly out of curiosity on her part. None of them had truly been interested in Emmagene, only what marriage to her would bring them.
No man in recent memory had wanted Emmagene solely because they’d found her desirable. Except for Huntly.
She was rapidly approaching thirty. Firmly on the shelf. Her status as an older, unwed spinster meant no one cared the least about her reputation. Her virtue might have been in danger had she not already been relieved of her maidenhead by a wastrel son of Lord Anderly. There was absolutely no reason Emmagene shouldn’t allow herself a small indiscretion. Wasn’t that what house parties were for?
Huntly was unlikely to pursue her once they returned to London, nor would she wish him to. It was doubtful she and Huntly would ever see each other again. Huntly wasn’t popular in society, had few friends, and was unlikely to gossip. Besides, who would care about the love life of the sour Emmagene Stitch?
A knock sounded on her door, and she paused in her pacing before the fire. Probably Honora returning to check on her once more. Shaking her head, she flung open the door. “Honora, I promise I am well. It was just a fall. Nothing—Oh.”
“Your boundless vocabulary seems to fail you when not cursing.”
The Earl of Huntly, massive form filling her doorway, looked down on her, an amused smile fixed on his lips. His gaze ran along the hair streaming over her shoulders, then down her body, to her toes. It felt as if he peeked beneath the hem of her robe. Heat darkened the blue of his eyes a moment before his mouth swooped down to capture hers.
*
Henry convinced himselfhe would only check on Miss Stitch after their tumble down the hill. They were both in the same, partially deserted wing of Longwood, where Lady Trent put away the most troublesome guests. No one would remark on his presence at her door. He assured himself as he left his room to go to hers that seeing to her welfare was the proper, gentlemanly thing to do.
Not a bit of it was true.
Once she opened the door, clad only in a robe, which frankly did nothing more than entice him to behave poorly, Henry’s mouth fell on hers. Ravenous and urgent. He wanted to swallow her whole.
Emmie clung to him, as he’d hoped she would, rising on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck. There wasn’t anyone to see, at least not where their rooms were located.
He kissed her as if he would never do so again, seeking out the soft recesses of her mouth with his own. His hands wandered down her lithe body, now after much consideration, more perfect for him than he could have imagined. Her sleekness fit against his rough form as if they’d come from the same mold, her small curves malleable beneath his hands. Desire for her threatened to overwhelm him. When he lifted her, she wrapped her legs around his waist without hesitation.
Henry kicked the door shut.
He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, coaxing her to open her mouth and groaning when she did, breaths and tongues mingling. His cock twitched, the arousal for her threading around Henry’s hips and thighs with painful urgency.
Emmie moaned, pressing herself more fully against him.
Henry laid her on the bed and stood back, lust filling him at the sight of the partially opened robe exposing her skin. Her gorgeous hair spread out in a halo around her.
“I won’t be gentle,” he said in a choked voice, wanting her so badly he could barely speak. “I don’t think I can be.”
“Good. I can’t be either.” She tilted her chin at him.
Henry dragged his hands slowly up the lengths of her legs, long and toned as he’d imagined them to be. Moving his hand across her hip, he tugged at the sash of the robe.
She was naked.
Gently Henry trailed a finger over the small, beautifully shaped breasts, lightly grazing a peaked nipple before brushing over the skin of her stomach. His hand splayed just below her navel as he stared down at her, his heart constricting in ways he had never considered. He leaned over, lips trailing along the side of her breast, before placing a kiss on one taut nipple.
A low gasp of pleasure came from her. “I’m no longer a maid.”
