Page 37 of The Soldier
“Emmie,” he whispered. “Em. Sweetheart, wait.” He drew back, stealing little parting kisses as she went still in his arms. “Voices.”
In the corridor—beyond theunlockeddoor—Steen was murmuring to a footman.
“They are no doubt on the nursery floor, or even in the attics,” Steen said. “His lordship is personally overseeing the repairs to the roof. I shall look in the kitchen, however, as he might have sought out Miss Farnum below stairs.”
“Dear God,” Emmie hissed. But when she would have pushed away, St. Just gently restrained her.
“Hush,” he murmured. “They’re gone. Just be still.”
“We have been wicked,” she moaned, dropping her forehead to his bare shoulder. “Wicked, wicked, wicked.”
“We have not been wicked,” he rumbled, pleased that she’d cling to him in her supposed remorse. “We have been foolish, perhaps, as the door is not locked. But a kiss is hardly wicked, Emmie.” He kissed her temple to emphasize his point.
“A kiss can be wicked when we’ve no honorable intentions,” Emmie replied stoutly even while she leaned more fully against him.
“It’s still just a kiss.”
“Well.” She tried again to step back but got only far enough to meet his eyes. “I am sorry. I provoked you, and I should have made you stop. Now please let me go.”
“You did nothing wrong, Emmie.” He let her step back but kept hold of her hand. “And I will apologize for taking liberties but not for enjoying them.” In his breeches, his cock was not apologizing for anything, but rather, stating some very definite demands.
“I cannot discuss this now,” Emmie said, dropping his hand. “I just… I cannot.”
He watched her march out of the room, spine stiff, cheeks suffused with hectic color. She’d left the tin on the bed, and he wondered if she realized she was going to smell like rosemary and lavender until she changed her dress. Locking the door behind her, he shucked out of his boots, unbuttoned the fall of his trousers, and stretched out on her bed, bringing himself to a leisurely, intense orgasm.
When he rose from her bed a few minutes later and put his clothing to rights, he was still musing on that one, very informative kiss. He’d learned that Miss Emmie Farnum was not indifferent to him nor indifferent to the pleasures he could share with her. He’d learned he had a thorough physical craving for Emmie Farnum, and though she was a decent woman, she was also independent and outside the usual strictures of society. He would not force her—of course he wouldn’t—but he would invite and persuade and cajole until she told him his attentions were unwelcome.
And even if he never got her into his bed, the chase would be worth it, as she’d already proved to him his desire wasn’t dead after all.
“What has you so pleased?” Douglas asked as the earl, once again decently covered, approached his own bedroom.
“I feel better.” He smiled hugely at the understatement. “Come along.” He hooked Douglas by the arm. “You will, too.”
“Careful.” Douglas extricated his arm. “That is one of my raking arms. Why do you suppose the term rake has the significance it does? I cannot recall ever being quite so sore in such inconvenient locations, short of illness and saddle sores.”
“Shirt off,” the earl ordered when they were behind Douglas’s bedroom door. “And I have to agree with you. Saddle sores are about the worst discomfort imaginable, probably the only revenge horses are granted for all the ways we take advantage of them. Turn around.”
Douglas complied, showing a back less burned than the earl’s, but still pink.
“So what have you there?” he asked as the earl spread cool salve down the muscled length of Douglas’s spine.
“I’m not sure what all is in it,” St. Just said, taking care not to abuse burned skin, “but it smells of rosemary and lavender. I get a hint of mint and comfrey, maybe some arnica.”
“I will get the recipe.” Douglas sighed as the earl worked over his shoulders. “Don’t forget my neck.”
“Get your own scrawny neck,” the earl growled, his fingers gliding over Douglas’s nape. “I wouldn’t bother with a neckcloth, were I you. Turn around and close your eyes. I’ll do your shining countenance. Why in the hell wouldn’t we know enough to wear hats?”
“We were too busy showing off for the lads, and it feels good to pretend we are eighteen and indestructible. Or it did feel good.”
“You’re supposed to let this stuff sink in before you put your shirt back on. And I’ve been meaning to ask you how much longer you can stay.”
“At least another week. I would like for Rose and her mother to have a little time to get reacquainted before I join them, but I do not want to wear out my welcome here.”
“You could not do that if you tried,” the earl scoffed, putting the lid back on the tin. “Winnie will be upset when you go, though.”
“I think Miss Winnie is in a general state of upset,” Douglas mused as St. Just appropriated a hairbrush. “She has lost a papa who didn’t love her, and I think that in some ways is worse than losing one who does.”
“How do you mean?” The earl shot a questioning glance at Douglas in the vanity mirror. “I should think he was no great loss.”
