“What exactly is the purpose of a country walk?” Morgan asked.

Emma peered up at him, hand to her bonnet. “Does there need to be a purpose?”

He offered a hand and helped her over the stile before jumping easily down himself. A flutter of excitement made itself known in her stomach as she admired his athleticism. She’d experienced his capabilities herself this morning—and last night.

Goodness, what a wanton woman she had become. Or a wicked one, as he liked to call her. Somehow, having gone to bed with him made him all the more handsome and desirable. She’d wager there were not many women who could say they had such generous husbands.

And this morning...well, this morning made her want to pull out a fan and flutter it in front of her face. He’d made love to her as though she were something precious and wonderful. Every touch and kiss had made her heart swell. Part of her wanted to clamp down on these feelings—some natural instinct to protect herself, she suspected—but there was no denying them. She was growing fonder of her husband by the day.

Now, if only she could get him to stay in the country and actually share her bed.

“When one walks in London, there is always a purpose.” He offered his arm to her. “It is to go somewhere or to be seen.”

Emma hooked her arm through his. “Well, there is no one to see us here.” She motioned to the empty fields. “But we can have a purpose. We shall visit the hop field. After all, it is what you came here for, was it not? To see to business with Guy?”

He nodded. “We’ve already gone over the figures but I have yet to see the produce for myself.”

“There. So now we have a reason to walk.”

He glanced up at the sky. “It’s going to rain.”

“It is not.” She hoped. The clouds did look a little thick and gray.

“I loathe the rain.”

“Is that because it ruins your hair?” she teased.

“Minx.” He gave her a little jab in the side with a finger and she tugged her arm away from his and hurried ahead of him so he could not poke her again.

“Or do you fear for your expensive hat? Surely the Earl of Radcliff can afford plenty of hats.”

“Not now I have an expensive wife to look after,” he said, grinning.

“Am I really so demanding?”

Morgan hurried to catch up with her. “Always. Especially in the morning.” His grin turned salacious and he reached for her, drawing her close.

Her breathing hitched, her nipples pressed against her stays. His dark gaze danced over her face. Emma could see his attention linger on her lips and she forgot how to breathe entirely. She waited for him to lean in for a kiss, feeling as though she needed it more than even that influx of air into her lungs.

“Oh, good morning!”

Morgan released her and whirled to view their intruder. Emma grimaced. Mr. Bartholomew certainly did not know how to pick his timing.

“Bartholomew.” The word was bitter as it came from Morgan’s lips.

“Lord Radcliff, how are you? Taking a walk, I see.” Mr. Bartholomew glanced up at the skies. “I fear it might rain. Is it wise to take Emma out in this weather? She may catch a cold.”

“It is not going to rain,” Morgan said determinedly. “And Lady Radcliff is not afraid of a little rain, are you, my love?”

My love. How funny the words sounded. Funny, and yet, quite appealing. Morgan drew her close and Emma smiled politely in an attempt to cover her husband’s abrupt manner.

“Not at all. I am a country girl after all.”

Mr. Bartholomew smiled and his gaze ran up and down her. “Of course you are. Of course you are,” he murmured. “I was just on my way to speak with your brother Lord Weston,” he explained. “I hope to spend more time here in Hampshire and am interested in some of his business dealings. You would know about that, would you not, Lord Radcliff? Perhaps you can tell me if there are some good investments to make.”

Morgan stiffened. “If I did, I would not discuss such things out in public.”

“Forgive me, I was under the impression you were not the sort of man to shield his wife from business discussions. I am sure Lady Radcliff is not without her upstanding of such matters, particularly given her sister’s role in the recent ale crop. Perhaps another time then.” He tipped his hat. “Lord Radcliff. Lady Radcliff.”

Emma gave a little dip, not unaware of how Mr. Bartholomew kept his gaze on her. Morgan’s grip tightened on her.

She frowned. “He’s a strange man, that one.”

“He’s an impertinent, rude man, that’s what he is.”

“You were not exactly polite,” she pointed out.

“Nor do I have to be. Not when he...” He shook his head. “Well, it does not matter.” He took her hand and threaded it through his arm.

“Do you think Guy will be interested in working with him? I hear he is quite a savvy investor.”

Morgan shook his head. “He’s been lucky in business so far. He started with only a small fortune and did invest well, I shall give him that much, but we have no need for another investor at this point, and I dare say Guy would not wish to work with him either.”

“I do not think Julia likes him much, either.”

Morgan chuckled. “No, Julia is excellent at making her feelings known.”

“So is Catherine. Amelia is the only polite one between us. I think we get it from our mother.”

“I would not dare comment on my mother-in-law.” Morgan pressed his lips together. “We might not have been married long, but even I know that.”

Emma chuckled. “I’m sure she would agree.” She gave him a sideways glance. “I would have liked to have met your parents. What was your mother like?”

“About as outspoken as all of your sisters put together. She was always laughing.” His smiled dimmed. “My father was more serious but she knew how to make him smile.”

“I am sorry about the accident. It must have been very hard.”

He shrugged but said nothing.

Emma opened her mouth to probe more but the words jammed in her throat. How could she ask him about his family and why he hated Berkshire so much when it made him look so miserable?

A spot of wet landed on her nose. She glanced up. “Oh it’s raining.”

Morgan swiped a drop from her nose and shook his head with a grin. “I thought you said it wouldn’t.”

“You said it wouldn’t either to Mr. Bartholomew remember.”

His lips tightened. “I remember.” The droplets turned swiftly into a downpour, hammering onto the ground and making the brim of her straw bonnet buckle under the weight. He took her hand and led her toward the woods. She hurried to keep up with him and prevent herself from tumbling, leaving her breathless by the time they stopped under the shelter of the trees.

Still holding her hand, Morgan leant his free arm against a tree and looked out at the downpour. “I hate the rain.” The words were said with a smile.

“There’s rain in London, you know?”

He tugged her into him so that she had to splay her hands over his chest to prevent herself from crashing against him. “London rain is different.”

“It is not and you know it.”

He pushed back her bonnet and eased several damp curls from her face before cupping her chin in both hands. “I will not be persuaded otherwise.”

“And I will not cease trying to persuade you.”

“Then I shall have to find ways of silencing you.”

His lips were so near to hers now that she could feel his breath, warm and inviting on her mouth. She gripped his coat sleeves and held her breath, captive before him. That now familiar strand of desire wove through her and though familiar, it did not fail to knit itself around her stomach and make her feel as though a thousand butterflies were beating in her chest.

“You could try,” she urged.

“Then I shall.”

Emma closed her eyes when his lips touched hers. She took in the sensations of heat and wet and cold, mingling into one delicious riot of wonder. She would not give up her fight to stay in the country but that did not mean she couldn’t enjoy his attempts at keeping her quiet. And she intending to enjoy this one very much.