Madelynne Ellis - Her Husband’s Lover

Emma followed him down into the basin. They stood awhile in companionable silence. He liked that quality in a woman. So many of the silly chits in town saw silence as their downfall and chattered on inanely without pause. Of course, she was older than most of the maids out seeking a husband. He guessed her to be a good ten years older than her sister.

‘What are your passions?’ he asked. When she turned and looked at him he qualified the statement: ‘As you’re not one for boxing.’ He imagined she’d list the normal rote of womanly accomplishments, but instead she simply shrugged. Only after a significant pause did she answer.

‘I pickle things.’

‘Cabbages, beetroot, that sort of thing?’

She laughed at his seriousness. ‘What else? You didn’t think me an amateur naturalist, did you?’

‘Well, I confess the thought of pickled mice did cross my mind. You’re clearly not a great lover of crowds, so something else must entertain you, and I’ve come across a few rather eccentric recluses.’

Outrage briefly flared in her eyes. ‘I’m hardly that.’

‘No. No, of course not. You’re far too pretty to be a hermit.’

Emma blushed a little, his ill-chosen words forgotten in the wake of the compliment. She turned away from him still smiling and found herself a perch upon the fallen log. ‘Do you have one on your estate?’ she asked a moment later. Her fingers worked over whatever names were carved into the tree bark.

‘Me? I have neither a hermitage nor an estate. I own very little save a vast array of coats and a plethora of dubious appellations. Everything belongs to my father, including a few of the labels with which I’m blessed.’ He was rather glad she didn’t enquire into what those labels were as most of them were unrepeatable. ‘You don’t paint?’

‘No. Do you?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Any other hobbies?’

He couldn’t help it. A wicked grin slid across his lips. ‘One or two.’ He raised his brow.

‘Oh!’ Emma gulped, and then retreated into the shadows of her bonnet. She left her perch and went to look at some of the wild flowers nestled amongst the ferns. Still, it wasn’t long before he felt her gaze upon his back. He’d been facing away from her, eyeing the tunnel entrance, itching to explore, but wondering if it was too much to ask her if the passage were truly as riddled with dirt as she seemed to suggest. Darleston turned a little so that he could spy her from the corner of his eye. She was looking – no, staring – at him intently, her expression a curious mix of desire and revolt; hot eyes, sullen lips.

The expression alone raised a purr of interest in his chest. Coupled with his need for affection – well, the possibility of her wanting him set his pulse racing.

Maybe he was mistaking anger for desire. If she knew or suspected what had happened between him and Lyle then it made sense that she’d be riled. Not that their encounters so far suggested that. Additionally, there was something in her gaze that was too curious, too warm to be anger. Plus the stare wasn’t focused upon the back of his head as though she intended to deliver a blow, rather it travelled up and down his form, taking in the contours, lingering over his profile and the curve of his arse.

The merry devil was staring at his arse.

Well, that ruled out the possibility of her being Sapphic. It wasn’t repulsion over being with a man that was keeping her from Lyle’s bed. The notion had briefly entertained him, or at least the possibility of watching her with another maid had done so.

Darleston turned to fully face her. He raised a brow. Emma’s chin immediately drooped towards her chest. Four strides brought him to her. He took the obvious course. The same one he’d trodden with many a drooping wallflower. He stretched out a hand and with two fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Shock so deep it bleached every hint of colour from her face transformed her expression. Her eyes opened so wide her blue irises shone like halos. Emma’s mouth fell open, and not in a good way. Not in a ‘kiss me, I’m yours’ way. Instead, he winced, expecting a scream. However, she remained silent. Then, rather than knocking his arm away, she scrambled backwards away from him as though he was Satan and his hellish touch burned.

‘Why?’ she might have asked. ‘Why did you touch me?’

Instead – nothing. Arms wrapped tight about her body, she continued to shiver.

‘I didn’t mean to startle –’

‘Forgive me.’ She cut him off. ‘I no longer feel so well.’

In truth she didn’t look it either.

Darleston watched her flee back up the steps and into the thicket of grass and briars. Considering the shock he’d seen on her face, he didn’t envisage her halting before reaching the edge of the copse, perhaps not until she’d locked herself behind her stout bedchamber door.

Naturally any decent man would have followed and seen her home safely, or at least attempted to intercept her flight, but pursuing her would likely cause more harm than good. He’d seen the sheen of tears in her eyes; heard the thickness in her throat. And he and tears never mixed to anyone’s satisfaction but his own. His brother Neddy had once observed that what he really needed in his life was a doxy who wept whenever he spoke.

‘Satisfied that I’m no liar now?’ Lyle emerged from the gloom in the tunnel’s entrance and sauntered towards the fallen tree.

Darleston strode upwards to meet him, admiring the buff and cream ensemble in which Lyle had dressed. Pale colours suited him. His breeches had been handsomely cut so they rode over his upper thighs like a second skin, giving rise to all manner of tempting thoughts – and wasn’t that likely the intent?

‘Followed us out, did you?’ he asked.

Lyle offered him a simple shrug. ‘It seemed prudent, given your reputation as a licentious rakehell, and, considering what I’ve just witnessed, it seems I was right to keep watch.’

‘And what did you see exactly?’

Lyle cast an awkward glance in the direction of Emma’s flight. ‘Robert, it seems very much to me that you were attempting to kiss my wife, which is rather unsporting of you, given all the pleasure I advanced you last night.’

‘I was merely trying to affirm what you’d told me.’

‘Then a handshake would have done.’

Darleston rested against the fallen log in a spot where the bark had completely worn away. This close to the tunnel entrance, he could see that it was indeed damp and riddled with murky puddles.

‘I can count on one hand the number of ladies with whom I’ve shaken hands. A kiss is a far more customary greeting.’ Admittedly, he didn’t generally aim for the lips, but usually the knuckles. ‘And she was looking at me with such obvious desire it seemed rude not to oblige.’

‘You’ve a vivid imagination if you think Emma was assessing anything other than your intellect –’

‘She was staring at my arse.’

‘– but it’s useful to know what it takes to grab your attention.’ Lyle counted the pointers on his fingertips. ‘A salacious expression, a pout and a prominent “don’t touch” label.’

‘It was more pleading than salacious.’ Salacious rarely stirred his blood any more. In fact, he liked things difficult. In a fit of playfulness, he leaned closer to Lyle. ‘I’d like to see you donning a “don’t touch” label. I think I know the perfect place to hang it.’

‘Would that be where you wish to touch the most?’

‘Perhaps,’ Darleston remarked cryptically.

‘Damn it, Robert! What game are you playing with me?’ Lyle brought his palm down hard upon Darleston’s knee. The resulting slap echoed around the arena. Birds scattered from the interlacing branches overhead.