Page 16 of Dukes Do It Better
“I like it,” he said. The table hid exactly how much he liked it, thank God. Simon and Miss Martin had settled into their own conversation and were effectively ignoring everyone else’s existence, which was probably for the best.
“My mother always wore scent. You could smell her before you saw her in a room, and it lingered in the air after she left. She claimed it was her signature, but I always found it cloying. After she died, everything she owned still smelled like it for weeks afterward.” Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I’m not sure why I told you all that. I don’t mean to bore you with my life story.”
Under the table, Malachi tightened his finger around hers. “You’re never boring, Emma. Your life story is fascinating. You have nothing to apologize for.”
She looked away from him as if uncomfortable with his scrutiny, then offered her cup when their efficient waiter arrived. When she sipped the fresh steaming brew, the line of her shoulders relaxed and she sighed. It was decent coffee. A kindred spirit. He brought his own cup to his lips to wet a suddenly dry throat.
This woman tied him in knots, and he wasn’t keen on the idea of untangling from her any time soon.
Her finger flexed around his under the table, but she didn’t let go.
Chapter Five
Dear Future Lover,
On days like today, I wonder what kind of life I’m offering you, if indeed you ever turn out to be real. I’m doing my best, but the parlor still smells like burned goat hair, and my son went to bed without his supper.
—Journal entry, June 12, 1824
Parenthood taught one the value of sleep, over and over.
Emma kept her eyes closed, but shifted to make room for Alton’s body. If he thought she was still asleep, he might curl up and drift off. Exhaustion threatened to pull her under again as her son squirmed beneath the covers.
It couldn’t have been that long since she went to bed. She’d taken some time to peruse the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée until the itching under her skin couldn’t be denied any longer.
Sitting so close to Mal in a public place where she couldn’t act on the needs he stirred up had been a sweet torture. Bay rum and coffee had filled her nostrils, then moved to her memory, where she could later use those sensory phantoms to imagine he was close. Linking fingers and feeling his breath caress her cheek weren’t enough. Not when she knew exactly what kind of pleasure those fingers could create. On top of that, the anticipation of seeing him again at the Vanfords’ ball left a fizzing sensation in her veins that made her twitchy and restless.
Thankfully, she had Phee’s solution to the problem of an empty bed for the foreseeable future. When she and Phee had first moved to Olread Cove, back before Cal showed up and begged convincingly enough for Phee to marry him, Emma discovered her friend’s talent for whittling. The rest, as they say, was history.
Roger the Dildo was the result. Long, smooth, thick, and polished with wax to a fine sheen, the best part of Roger was his innate inability to get a woman pregnant. As benefits go, this was pretty compelling for a woman who’d found herself pregnant, unwed, and abandoned by the penis responsible several years ago.
For years, Roger had been enough. Last night, with Mal so fresh in her mind, she’d needed Roger’s perfectly formed length three times. The hour grew late before her body would settle down and rest. Wildness paced inside her like a feral animal, until she finally pacified it for one more night.
As her body had cooled from another orgasmic rise and fall, her mind returned to what Mal had said in her drawing room. I want you in my bed again.
Tempting as it might be to ponder his words further now that she was awake, she couldn’t. Alton wiggled again, tossing from his belly to his back, then rolling to bury his head in her shoulder. Emma slipped her arm under his sturdy little shoulders and held him close.
“Did you use the chamber pot before climbing up here?”
“Yes.” His voice wobbled. Not the drowsy response she’d expected.
Emma opened her eyes and tried to make out the pale contours of his face in the darkness. “Did you have a bad dream?” A brush of her thumb over his cheek came away dry.
The head resting on her shoulder nodded, then paused and moved in the other direction. “It wasn’t scary. It made me sad.”
If it wasn’t a scary dream, then she probably didn’t need to light the lantern, but she asked anyway. “Do you want the light on while we talk about it?”
He murmured no, then brought the covers up over his shoulders. “I dreamed we were home. Mrs. Shephard made honey cakes and we ate them outside by the cliff on the woolly yellow blanket we keep in the upstairs cupboard. The water was gray with white tops, and the gulls were stealing the cakes from our plates. Polly was shooing them away and we were all laughing.”
Their housekeeper made excellent honey cakes. Emma hadn’t learned her secret yet, and the older woman refused to give it up. Their maid, Polly, would absolutely chase away the birds in defense of Alton and said honey cakes. The image made her smile into the darkness.
“That sounds like a lovely dream, darling. Why did it make you sad?”
Sniff. “I want to go home. I miss Mrs. Shephard and Polly. And what if Leonard had her babies without us?”
Ah. An echoing ache made itself known near her heart at his words. Yes, she missed Polly and Mrs. Shephard too. The servants were enjoying time with their families while she and Alton were in London. Jimmy, the caretaker, stayed on-site full time to deal with the livestock. And yes, Leonard the goat had probably given birth by now.
If Phee had any idea her pleas for them to stay had won over the chance to see adorable tiny goats bouncing over the lawn, her friend would be insufferable.
