Chapter Thirty-Two
James hadn’t managed a single minute of sleep. Which was infuriating, as he wanted to look his best today.
He needed to have a serious talk with Emma, as soon as humanly possible. That kiss last night, the way she’d become tongue-tied when she saw the portrait, gave him hope. She’d given away her feelings, and he was damn well going to take advantage of it.
He’d left it too late with Belinda. Which, as it turned out, was all to the good.
But he wasn’t going to leave it too late with Emma.
If she didn’t yet realize the strength of his feelings, he was going to enlighten her. And he needed to do it while he still had the upper hand, before she had time to doubt or question the fact that they were made to be together, that each completed the other.
He would behave like the perfect gentleman and give her no opportunity to find fault with him. Today he’d discover if he’d interpreted her behavior correctly. Today he hoped to become the happiest man alive.
Because any other outcome would simply crush him.
Having gained admittance to No. 12 Great Pulteney Street, James strode into the parlor where he’d been told Emma could be found.
Thank the gods neither Mama nor Jemima were with her—he was wound too tight for company. He stepped through the door, discovered the key was in the lock, and turned it.
Then fetched up short.
After the magic of last night, he’d expected Emma to be more pleased to see him. Instead, she stood in the middle of the floor, chewing her lip, looking at him warily. Almost…guiltily.
Strange.
He took both her hands in his, saying, “I startled you. I’m sorry.”
She looked dazed. “Um…”
Concerned, he asked, “Dearest Emma, are you tired? But of course, you must be. I danced and promenaded you off your feet last night and dragged you around introducing you to all of my acquaintance. It was very selfish of me, and I apologize.”
At that, she rallied, tilted her chin, and quipped, “Two apologies coming so fast upon each other? You’re in a sorry state today, James.”
He tossed his head back and laughed. “Tired, but not lacking in wit.” He looked down into her sparkling hazel eyes as the laughter ebbed away—and lost himself in them.
“I—” he began.
“Shh. Don’t speak.” She freed one hand and placed it on his mouth, then rubbed her finger gently across the seam of his lips. The amused look in her eyes had given way to a troubled one.
Unacceptable.
He bared his teeth, took her finger in his mouth, and bit down gently on it.
She laughed nervously, but he retained her finger between his teeth, captured her gaze, and swept his tongue over and around her fingertip.
Her response was an expression halfway between shock and arousal, so he freed her finger, blew on it to dry it, and subjected her to a wicked grin. The shock vanished, and her eyes darkened with promise.
Excellent.
He drew her into his arms and pressed her against his chest. “If you don’t want me to speak,” he murmured, “you must find something else for my lips to do.” It was all the warning he was prepared to give her.
Her eyes fluttered shut as his mouth found hers. Remembering with regret that he’d sworn to be a gentleman, he pressed a brief kiss on her lips—and waited.
When she made no effort to push him away, he ran his tongue lightly over her mouth, giving her just a taste of what was to come, in hopes of stirring her into wanting more. But holding back the furnace of his desire was torture. She pressed her hands against his chest, and for a terrifying moment, he feared he’d taken too great a liberty, and drew back. But her hands just fisted in his jacket and drew him closer.
He needed no further encouragement. He’d hesitated once before—oh, how long ago it seemed now!—and he was never going to make that mistake again.
He brought his mouth down hard over hers and pressured her to open for him. Gloriously, she did, and he took full advantage, thrusting his tongue into her velvet heat.
When her head fell back, allowing him all the access he desired, elation suffused every pore of his body. He drank from her greedily, his tongue luxuriating in a slow, rhythmic exploration of her mouth. As if made for him, she kissed him back, shamelessly tangling her tongue with his, running one hand up into his hair and pulling his head closer, deepening their kiss.
He cupped her face with his hands, his fingers splayed across her cheeks, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones and temples with tender appreciation. He must keep a tight rein on his passion and not ask too much of her. He wanted to enjoy every last fragment of the sensations they were arousing in each other.
And he wanted her to enjoy it, too.
But right now he had something more important to do. It was an agony to pull away when she looked so rosy and tousled, but he mustn’t lose control.
He knelt down and sat on his heels at the same moment as she collapsed into the chair in front of him. He allowed himself a brief moment of masculine pride at the fact that his kiss had affected her so fundamentally.
He leaned toward her and rested his forehead on her knee to gather himself.
After a moment she reached out and touched his hair. It felt like a benediction. She began stroking him, making him want to kiss her all over again. What more encouragement did he need? She wasn’t going to reject him. She’d never caress him with such tenderness if she didn’t care for him.
Raising his head, he caught her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, and gazed up into her face, waiting until the dreamy look left her, and he held her full attention.
His breathing constricted, and a shard of genuine fear speared through him. What if—God forbid—he’d got it all horribly wrong?
But if he’d learned anything at all over the last few months, it was that he couldn’t afford to question everything. Sometimes he just needed to let instinct take over.
“Emma,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t notice the tremor in his voice. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”