His Convenient Marchioness. Elizabeth Rolls

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СКАЧАТЬ do that.’ And wondered if he had overstepped the mark. But she smiled, a little wistfully he thought, as he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. A courtesy and a minor one at that. But he liked the thought of doing things for her.

      Emma made the children say their goodbyes as soon as they were inside. ‘Off to the kitchen, both of you. Hang your damp things by the fire and tell Bessie I said you could have some hot milk.’

      ‘And cake?’ Harry wheedled.

      ‘A small piece,’ Emma allowed, as she pulled off her gloves. ‘Say goodbye to Lord Huntercombe.’

      Georgie knelt down, hugged Fergus and shrieked with laughter as he licked her face. She jumped up, gave Hunt a ravishing smile. ‘You don’t need my hankie, do you, sir?’

      Laughter welled up at the child’s certainty. He shook his head. ‘Not this time, Georgie. Enjoy your cake.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’ Harry held out his hand and Hunt shook it.

      He watched the children as they rushed down the short hallway, waving at the door into the kitchen. It banged behind them.

      That left Emma. He took a deep breath as he pulled off his own gloves. There was only one way to say farewell to a woman you had sort of asked to marry you...he caught her hands and his breath jerked at that first touch of his bare hands on hers. He felt the warmth of her skin, the slight roughness of her hands that told him she did indeed do some of the housework. Those deep eyes, drowning blue, widened as he drew her closer. ‘You permit?’ He wanted to kiss her. Every fibre in his body urged him to do just that. But she was not a woman who either gave herself, or could be taken lightly.

      For a moment she looked utterly confused. ‘Permit? Oh!’ A flush crept over her cheeks. He thought her fingers trembled a little, or perhaps his did. Whichever it was, his heart was suddenly pounding. Yes, he was definitely attracted to her. Rather more than that if he were to be honest about it. He wanted her and every instinct clamoured for him to take her in his arms and show her that.

      But this was supposed to be a polite, decorous courtship. A chaste kiss would be more the thing.

      ‘I think... I think I may have forgotten...’

      Heat shot through him at the soft confession. ‘I haven’t,’ he assured her. Releasing her hands, he took her in his arms and drew her closer until their bodies touched and his blood hammered in a rhythm he had thought lost. It was not as though he had been a monk these past few years, but this was different. And not merely because he was thinking of marriage. It was just...different. She felt right in his arms, soft breasts against him, her eyes dark in her flushed face. She smelled of soap, just soap, rain-damp wool, and warm, sweet Emma.

      ‘My lord—’

      ‘Hunt.’ He put his hand under her chin. Lord, she was soft. Peach soft, silk soft. ‘My friends call me Hunt. Will you be my friend for now, Emma?’ He stroked the delicate line of her throat, knew the leap and quiver of her pulse under his fingers. And wanted. Burned. A chaste kiss.

      ‘Yes.’ It was no more than a whisper, yet he heard it in every corner of his being as he lowered his mouth to hers and feathered the lightest, briefest kiss over her lips. It nearly broke his control, because her lips flowered under his, opening on the sweetest, softest sigh, inviting him in. Everything in him leapt to meet her response and he took the kiss deeper, tasting the warmth and shy welcome of her mouth. She met him, took the rhythm from him and their tongues matched, danced. Her body moulded to his, supple and pliant under his hands. He found the curve of her bottom, pressed to bring her more fully against his aching shaft and heard the soft gasp of shock.

      A kiss. Just a kiss. This was more than just a kiss.

      And he was going to want more than just sex... Damn.

      Somehow he broke the kiss, released her and stepped back, his body taut with protest. Just a kiss. He would not give her the least reason to think he subscribed to society’s usual attitude to widows with a shady past. Even if his body had no discretion, he didn’t have to give it free rein. Not until he had her to wife. And even then, this was to be a marriage of convenience. The sort where a gentleman visited his wife’s bed, then retired to his own.

      ‘Au revoir, ma’am.’ He raised his hat, put his gloves back on and left. Before he could change his mind. The door safely closed behind him, Hunt used the short walk back to the inn where he had left his carriage to remind himself exactly what a marriage of convenience entailed. An alliance of mutual benefit. A contract, an arrangement that would not require any changes to the routine of his life. Except for regular sex. As enjoyable as he could make it for both of them. But not passion. They would be friends with an affectionate regard for one another. Not lovers in any more than the physical sense of the word.

      * * *

      Emma only permitted herself to think about Hunt’s not-quite offer after she had kissed Harry goodnight. She went back down to the parlour and tried to consider it dispassionately.

      There were no logical arguments against. Not if he could accept her past.

      Hunt was offering a future for the children. Without even waiting to be asked he had said that he would dower Georgie as if she were his own daughter and named a sum that had nearly made Emma’s jaw drop. Harry could have a good tutor, go to school, university and be trained for a profession. There would be money settled on him as if he were Hunt’s younger son. Money would be settled on her to provide for her in the event of Hunt’s death.

      I’m not precisely a spring chicken. She smiled at the memory of his wry voice. How old was he? She was no spring chicken herself.

      He offered passage back into the world from which she had been exiled. She had never regretted the exile for herself, only the difficulties of providing for the children. But now she had a way back and a future for her children. All she had to do was marry him without love on either side. Instead she would have respect, some affection and kindness. And the title of Marchioness of Huntercombe.

      She liked him. He was a good man, honourable to the core. She had enjoyed his company both the other day and today. But she had loved Peter. Passionately. If she married Hunt she would be marrying for advantage. Though she could not pretend it would only be for the children’s sake. She wouldn’t insult Hunt by wearing pretty clothes again and accepting jewels from him, while pretending they were sack cloth and ashes she wore for the sake of Harry and Georgie. Nor could she pretend that she would not enjoy sharing her bed with a man again.

      No. Not just any man—Hunt. Her breath caught. She wanted him. Her whole body hummed at the memory of that kiss. Hours later and the shock of awareness lingered, with the faint enticing odour of sandalwood soap, damp wool and warm male. She could still feel the fierce strength of his arms as he held her and her breath hitched at the remembered taste of his kiss, hot and male, as her mouth had trembled into that swift, shocking response. Heat crept over her cheeks at the memory of his erection pressed against her belly. Had her response shocked him? Would he think her a wanton or, even worse, desperate to have responded so fast? So freely? He had called her ma’am afterwards and left immediately, but—she was being foolish. He was the one who had initiated the kiss. If he didn’t want a response then he should have delivered a chaste peck to the cheek. He was the one who had pulled her against him.

      But she had wanted him, still wanted him, and it bothered her. Other men had made advances to her in the last few years. None of them had interested her and not just because they had offered nothing more than an affair. She hadn’t СКАЧАТЬ