Chapter Nineteen
Emily stayed where she was when she saw Bracebridge come around the corner. Behind her, the path forked. To the left the path would take one to the house; to the right was the lake. He did not see her yet, so she took the opportunity to steady herself.
Frieda, now aware Bracebridge was headed their way, strained at the leash, but Emily said, “Sit,” in a determined voice, and the dog obeyed. What a good girl.
Hinderhead did not have an academy like Mr. Johnson’s in Bartley Green, but a retired pugilist owned a tavern in town, and Bracebridge often sparred with him. He took his fighting condition seriously. Every day he engaged in some form of training, whether it was a morning breather, sparring, or lifting heavy objects.
Bracebridge was at last close enough to see her, and Frieda left her seated position with a yelp, surging forward to the full extension of the leash. Emily stood to one side of this shady section of the path with a bottle in one hand and an umbrella in the other, which was necessary as a ward against the sun since her effects had yet to arrive from the Cooperage. She did not want to spend money on a new parasol when she had so many of her own. She closed the umbrella when he was close enough to know it was her.
Today must have been only a breather, as he called them, an exercise intended to improve one’s wind and bottom, in the pugilistic parlance. He wore only a shirt, shoes, stockings, and his breeches, the latter being held up by a sash.
Despite the clear sky, the weather was cool, so in addition to her borrowed umbrella, she wore a woolen coat recently procured for her in Hinderhead. Her half-boots were the same brown leather ones she’d been wearing since she’d left Bartley Green. The same bonnet that had made the trip to Scotland and back was on her head.
Bracebridge came to a stop several feet away. Her pulse sped up. She did like his height and the breadth of his shoulders. At the moment, his hair was a riot of black curls, and that dishevelment appealed to her as much as the rest. He never failed to make her pulse race. She’d had the idea that her relationship with Bracebridge might become something like her friendship with Harry Glynn, but it wasn’t that at all. Harry never smoldered the way Bracebridge did.
He put his hands on his hips and took in and released several breaths before he spoke. He didn’t seem annoyed or angry that she’d met him out here. “Em,” he said with a nod.
She came close enough to hand him the bottle, which he accepted with an appreciative nod. “Have you been waiting for me, or is this happy coincidence?”
“Not coincidence.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “I’ll warrant you’re the prettiest bottleman I’ve had at my side.” He referred, of course, to one of a prizefighter’s attendants during a bout.
“Mary says Mr. Rachagorla is very pretty.” As soon as the words were out, she wished them back. They made her sound as if she only cared about his looks. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Mr. Rachagorla was one of her husband’s closest friends. There was far more to him than his looks, whatever they might be.
“He is.” He leaned down to pat Frieda. “What a good girl you’re being. Gopal, however, never distracted me from a fight.” He unstoppered the bottle and drank deeply. “You would, though.”
She smiled. During her two seasons in London, she had successfully conversed with gentlemen and noblemen, cabinet ministers and members of Parliament, and she had never felt awkward or at a loss at any time. Bracebridge made her feel both. All the time.
He frowned at her, eyes narrowed. His lashes were thick and as black as his eyes. She had, in the privacy of their bedroom, kissed his beautiful eyes. She wondered what he’d think if she walked right up to him and did that now. “I should not have said that,” he said.
“That Mr. Rachagorla is pretty? Why not, if it’s true?”
“Not that.”
She patted Frieda’s shoulder. “What a good dog you are. She’s behaving very well, don’t you think?”
“When I compliment you, it is impossible to tell whether you take any pleasure in what I say.”
Her heart sank. This would soon be another mark in the column for failed conversations. “I assure you, I am always pleased.”
He handed the bottle back to her, then crouched down, hands cupped. She understood what he intended, for she poured water into his hands so that Frieda could drink. “You do not like flattery. That is my conclusion. What I don’t understand is why.”
“I do not want to argue. Not again. I apologize for making you think I do not appreciate your compliments.”
“This is a discussion, not an argument. I want to understand.” He stood and took back the bottle. He managed to wash off his face with what was left. When he was done, he rubbed his fingers through his hair.
“I suppose I could lie and tell you I wish to be flattered every moment of every day. But it isn’t so.” She waited until the lump in her throat was gone. “I appreciate your kind words, but are there not other things you might say to me? You might comment on the weather or something you have recently read. Anything.”
His expression moved from concerned to amused to something that made her think she really ought to kiss him. He looked at her from beneath half-lidded eyes. “Sometimes I tell you ‘more’ or ‘harder’ or ‘this spot over here.’”
“Yes,” she said, willing to have him divert her in this manner. “Sometimes you do say that.” With her most innocent expression and voice, she said, “I always follow your instructions.”
“You do.” He took a step toward her. “When we are intimate, I wish to tell you what I feel. Whatever your opinion about all the gentlemen who flatter you, you are an extraordinarily beautiful woman. May I tell you that, in those circumstances, without worrying that I am displeasing you?”
“Yes, of course.” She took a step closer to him.
“I’m not fit company for a lady when I’ve been training.”
She looked away from his face, from his soulful, expressive eyes. She had the right now to stare at him as much as she liked. Slowly her gaze moved downward. Her attention lingered at his chest and then at his hips. “Yes, look at you,” she said in a voice full of the white-hot spark of desire arcing through her. “What a sight you are.”
“Em.”
“I am not in the least offended by you.”
He grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands. “When I’m like this?”
“True, I like you better when you haven’t a shirt at all.”
He peeled off the shirt, revealing his heavily muscled chest. He gave her a wicked grin when he stood there, bare chested, his shirt clutched in one hand. “Like so?”
“Just so.” His smile melted her inside. She did like the way he looked. “There’s shade here,” she said, indicating a spot between several trees, three or four steps past the opposite side of the path and into the surrounding trees. “Wouldn’t you prefer to stand in the shade?”
Her entire being focused on Bracebridge when he glanced that direction. When he looked back, it was he who examined her from head to toe. She’d do anything for him when he looked at her like that, like he wanted to devour her. He took Frieda’s leash and tied one end to a branch suitable for the purpose.
“You prefer a disreputable man?”
“No doubt you’re ashamed to have a wife such as I am,” she said.
He grabbed her hand and walked them both off the path. “You’re correct. I had much rather be in the shade.”
She faced him, and he placed his hands atop her shoulders. She lifted her hands and set her fingers lightly to his chest. His skin was warm. She pressed her palms to his pectorals and slid her hands down. His body was hard, and she wondered why that did not frighten her, when he was so much larger than her.
“Give me your coat,” he said in a voice that was half growl. He stood behind her to assist her.
Her memories of that day a year ago when he had disabused her of the idea there could be anything between them pained her still. He had not been kind. But she had never been able to forget the moments leading up to those words.
She closed her eyes. This wasn’t Bartley Green, but all the same emotions burned through her. Bracebridge touching her, kissing her, his hands on her in places no one else had ever touched. Drugging, glorious, kisses. Her heart’s desire within reach.
When the garment was in his hands, he kissed the top of her shoulder.
That infamous day, they had been outside in the woods near the Cooperage, like now, on the edge of physical paradise. She had not known then what she did today, and she understood now why he had been so horrified. He had known that they were on the edge of unrecoverable ruin.
She was not the same woman now; how could she be? She was married, no longer innocent of all that, and the one thing she knew without any doubt at all was the two of them were physical creatures. Perhaps that was all they’d ever have.
He spread her cloak on the ground between the trees and helped her to sit. Once he was beside her, he kicked off his shoes. Her heart jumped because his smile was genuine and private, meant only for her. Only her.
“Hurry,” she whispered in a passion-roughened voice.
“Here.” He guided her to his lap and made short work of the fastening of his trousers. She was wet between her legs, ready for him. He brought himself to her, and once they got her skirts out of the way, she adjusted herself, hands on his shoulders, until he was inside her, stroking upward. “Lord, Em.”
His hands tightened around her hips. Holding her hard. This was more than paradise, though it was a paradise she lived in by herself. Plenty of men who were handsome and kind, or amusing or admirable for any number of reasons had begged for her attention. But her body had known all along that Bracebridge was the only man who mattered.
She bent over him and kissed him, hard, deep, passionate, and he returned her passion in kind. She adjusted herself and the rhythm of her hips, so that he came in deeper, and she pressed her hands to his chest, all the hard muscle of his stomach, each ridge, down lower. “I adore your body.”
“Wait, Em.”
She forced her eyes open. “What?”
He was grinning; she had absolutely no idea why, until he said, “Touch me a little bit over here.”
She didn’t mean to laugh, but she did, and it seemed a miracle to her that he laughed, too, and it was a moment so perfect that her heart broke. She let go of her resentment and guilt and accepted what she felt right then, which was a deep and abiding love.
When it was over and they had each found their private bliss, he put his arm around her shoulders, drew her close, and whispered, “I repeat what I said earlier. You’re the prettiest bottleman I’ve ever had.”
She turned her face away from his, resting her cheek on his chest near his shoulder. She laughed, because it was amusing at the same time it wasn’t. “Thank you.”