Page 14 of The Mister I Married (Romancing the Rogue #3)

Emmy’s tour of Bristlewood lasted the entire morning and half the afternoon and still there were rooms she had not yet seen.

Somehow the castle seemed even more massive from the inside, and though she was almost certain she would never feel confident enough to walk its halls alone without a map, she adored the place.

Tess, of course, was an enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide. She’d shared so many details and anecdotes about Bristlewood and its past residents that Emmy couldn’t possibly remember it all.

Of course, she might have been a better student had she not been so distracted by thoughts of her husband and the look on his face when she’d dismissed him from her bedchamber this morning.

Had she injured his feelings? She hadn’t intended to, but she suspected she had all the same, and no matter how many times she reminded herself that their marriage was a business arrangement, and there was no reason they should spend every minute together—that, indeed, there was every reason they shouldn’t —she could not help feeling guilty.

She did not like the thought that she’d hurt him.

Sipping her sherry that evening at dinner, she stole another glance at Alex over the rim of her glass, hoping to interpret his mood, but his expression was frustratingly uncommunicative.

She hadn’t seen him since this morning, except through an upstairs window when she’d caught a glimpse of him leaving the house with his dogs, presumably for a walk of the grounds.

She wished she knew what he was thinking. Was he upset with her? He’d said barely a word during the meal, but perhaps that was only because his sister hadn’t stopped talking since they sat down to eat.

“I told Emmy all about Bristlewood on our tour today, Father,” Tess said, scooping up a bite of trifle with her spoon, “but I could not recall the year it was built. Was it 1567 or 1568?”

“It was 1568,” Mr. Whitcomb replied, setting his spoon down on his plate before leaning back in his chair and tipping his face up to the ceiling. “It was commissioned by Sir Peter Pombaster, a man who was, by all accounts, besotted with the Normans’ architecture, especially their castles.” He shook his head, his fingers fussing with his puffy, white cravat. “Unfortunately for his family, this obsession led to their downfall, and when he died in 1612, he was declared posthumously bankrupt, and all his estates were sold to settle his debts. My great-great-great-grandfather purchased Bristlewood for a song.”

“Your home certainly has a colorful past, Mr. Whitcomb,” Emmy said with a smile. “I look forward to hearing more of its history.”

He returned her smile but did not reply, and his gaze held hers for a long, discomfiting moment. Emmy looked away, uncertainty tensing her shoulders as she ate another bite of trifle.

She’d caught her father-in-law watching her more than once this evening, the expression on his face one of thoughtful examination, as if she were a riddle he hadn’t yet worked out. She had no idea what it meant, but she hoped it would cease soon.

“What of your family home, Emmy?” Tess asked, her brown eyes alight with curiosity. “Is it anything like Bristlewood?”

Emmy shook her head. “Oh, no. Keswick House isn’t nearly so interesting, I’m afraid. Nor so large.” She smiled, picturing her childhood home, a grand but charming Carolean-style house of white and yellow stone surrounded by lush, green lawn and bounteous gardens. “It is rather lovely, though.”

“Keswick House is in Kent, is it not?” Alex asked before taking a sip of his wine.

She nodded, glad he was speaking to her, even if it was only to ask about Keswick House. “Yes. Near Maidstone.”

“I’ve never been to Kent before,” Tess said. “Is it very beautiful?”

“Very beautiful, indeed,” Mr. Whitcomb interjected. “Windmills everywhere and lush, green downs as far as the eye can see.”

“Oh, I would love to see it someday,” Tess said, her gaze settling on Emmy. “And Keswick House, too.”

“So would I,” Alex said. “Assuming we’re invited, of course.”

He smiled at her from across the table, and Emmy felt the weight of expectation as if it were a tangible thing. The idea of visiting her childhood home with her husband and his family was not unpleasant, precisely, but it was odd. It hadn’t occurred to her—naively, perhaps—that the two families would someday come together under the same roof, and she had no idea how she felt about it.

“Perhaps in the new year,” she said with a stiff smile. And then she changed the subject. “I think I would like to visit your little village tomorrow, Tess. Would you like to accompany me?”

Tess blinked, her lips parting. “Oh. Yes, of course. I don’t often go into the village, but—yes, that might be nice.”

Emmy nodded. “Excellent.”

Quiet settled over the table as they all returned to their dessert, only the scrape of silverware on porcelain preventing absolute silence. Emmy was certain Alex was watching her, though she could not bring herself to look at him. She could not claim to know his feelings, but after their conversation this morning, she would not be surprised to learn she had displeased him—again—with her request to see the village with Tess.

There was every possibility he thought he should be the one to take her, just as he’d evidently assumed he would show her Bristlewood, but if he was disappointed, he would simply have to get over it. And so would she. She could not let his desires sway her—not on this, at least.

Boundaries .

“Oh, Cook’s trifle was marvelous this evening, wasn’t it?” Tess said. “I can’t eat another bite. Father, would you like the rest of my trifle?”

“No, thank you, my dear. Too much sugar keeps me up at night.”

Tess turned to her brother. “Alex? Would you like my trifle?”

He grimaced and held his hands out as if warding off an attack. “Absolutely not. I shouldn’t have finished mine, but it was so good I couldn’t help myself.”

Emmy glanced down at her own empty plate then back at her husband. “Nor could I,” she said sheepishly. “Your cook is dangerously adept with desserts.”

Alex gave her a small smile, which told her absolutely nothing of his mood, but still, a wave of guilt washed over her. She reminded herself that there was nothing to feel guilty about, that she was upholding her end of the bargain like she’d promised, but the feeling stubbornly persisted, bringing with it the urge to act, to do something to please him and ease her own conscience.

“Will you play chess with me tonight, Emmy?” Tess asked, pushing her plate away. “I often play with Father and Alex, but I nearly always beat them. I would relish the chance to go up against a new opponent.”

Emmy gave her a regretful smile. “Perhaps tomorrow. I’m too tired tonight.” She set her napkin on the table and drew in a shallow breath. “In fact, I think I would like to retire early this evening. If my husband is amenable, perhaps he would escort me to my chamber?”

She met Alex’s gaze across the table and gave him a tentative smile. Her husband was not entirely pleased with her right now, but perhaps she could make it up to him.

After all, there were no boundaries in their bedroom relations.

Alex had no idea what to think as he cupped his wife’s elbow and escorted her from the dining room.

After what happened this morning in her bedchamber when she’d summarily dismissed him without warning—not to mention, her invitation to visit the village, which she’d extended to his sister instead of him—he had no blasted idea what was going on inside Emmy’s head.

Or why she’d asked him to escort her to her chamber.

He waited for her to speak, to volunteer an answer to that question, but even now, as they climbed the stairs leading to their rooms, she did not break the silence.

Curiosity prodded at him, compelling him to speak, and he cleared his throat. “Was there something you wished to discuss with me, Emmy?”

She looked over at him, and he caught the flicker of wariness in her eyes just before it vanished behind a smile. “No. Nothing at all.”

He nodded, more confused than ever, but there was no sense in pressing her on the subject. Perhaps she simply wanted his escort. This was only her second day at Bristlewood, and the house could be difficult to navigate at first.

“How was your day?” she asked a bit awkwardly as they entered the dimly-lit corridor and ambled up the Persian carpet toward her bedchamber door.

“Uneventful,” he said with a shrug. “I spent much of it going over the accounts.”

She nodded. “I saw you through a window this morning, walking with Gracie and Prescott. Do you walk with them every day?”

“Yes. Nearly.”

And he nearly invited her to join them tomorrow, but he stopped himself before the words could escape. He didn’t entirely understand why but she seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length and he was doing his best to respect her wishes, even though he didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to be kept at arm’s length. He wanted her to want to spend time with him. He wanted her to ask him to escort her to the village tomorrow. He wanted her to ask if she could join him on his walk with the dogs.

He wanted her to want to be with him.

But we do not always get what we want, do we?

“Well,” he said, as they approached her chamber door. “Good night, Emmy. I hope you sleep well.”

She blinked up at him, her hand going still on the doorknob. “Are you not—do you not intend to join me?”

His brows rose. “I…did not like to presume.”

She cocked her head to one side as if perplexed, as if she thought he should presume and it was silly of him not to. “If I am to conceive a child, we must fornicate frequently, mustn’t we?”

Fornicate. Frequently. She sounded so logical, so dispassionate, like a banker negotiating terms.

She was right, though. Without ‘fornication’ there could be no family, and he was not too proud to admit, to himself at least, that he was eager to have her again. He only wished he could be sure she felt the same.

“Yes, I suppose we must,” he said with far more calm than he felt.

“Right.”

And with a resolved nod, Emmy opened the door and stepped into her bedchamber. Alex followed her inside, his heart beating faster as he shut the door behind him.

The room was comfortably warm and softly lit, with only a small fire in the hearth and a single candelabra burning on the dressing table. The bed beckoned, its emerald silk coverlet calling to mind images of last night, of Emmy’s nakedness, her dark hair framing her shoulders, stark against her pale skin.

He swallowed and turned his back on the bed, an act of self-defense. With unsteady hands, he removed his jacket and draped it over the chair at the escritoire. He moved on to his waistcoat next, the silence in the room beginning to grate, which was an unusual sensation for him. He was not one of those men who felt compelled to fill a silence.

Not usually, at any rate.

“The fish was excellent this evening, wasn’t it?” he said without turning around. He shed his waistcoat and laid it on top of his jacket.

Emmy’s soft hum of agreement whispered up his spine as he began unknotting his cravat.

“The sauce was perfectly seasoned.” He tossed his cravat onto the escritoire.

“Indeed.”

“And the trifle was almost too decadent, I think,” he rambled on, turning to face her as he worked at his cufflinks. “Mrs. Hatton must have—”

His gaze fell on his wife, surprise cutting his words short.

Emmy was motionless, standing in the middle of the room with her hands clasped at her front, watching him.

“I’ve never seen a man undress himself before,” she said, her cheeks rosy. “Do keep going.”

The words were slightly out of breath, as if she’d just sprinted up a flight of stairs.

It dawned on him then that his wife was aroused—aroused by the sight of him disrobing before her, and the realization in turn aroused him.

His pulse kicked up beneath the weight of Emmy’s stare, her gaze tracking his movements as he set his cufflinks on the escritoire beside his cravat. He was by no means a voyeur, but he liked his wife’s eyes on him. He liked it quite a lot.

Reaching for his shirt, he watched her face as he tugged the linen free from his waistband, enjoying the way her eyes darkened with interest. With lust . The need to touch her overwhelmed him, hastening his movements, and he swept his shirt over his head then tossed it onto the chair with little care for wrinkles. The rest of his clothing followed swiftly behind, littering the rug, and he stepped toward her, stark naked, his arousal obvious and almost painfully acute.

“Your turn,” he said softly, his words belying the urgency coursing through his veins, imploring him to sweep her up and toss her onto the bed.

“In a moment,” Emmy murmured, her gaze flitting over him like a teasing caress, and his cock throbbed with approval. “I want to look at you.”

And look she did, those gray eyes taking him in, looking their fill, and Alex might have felt self-conscious if not for the obvious gleam of admiration in her gaze.

“You are a comely man, Alex,” she said, her eyes meeting his, teasing yet sincere.

“Comely?” The description made him smile.

She nodded. “In an exceedingly masculine way, of course.”

“Thank you.” He bowed his head, surprisingly at ease receiving a compliment without a stitch of clothing on. “Have you finished with your inspection, then, wife?”

She cocked her head to one side as if considering the question, and said, “Yes, I suppose so. Though I must admit, I rather like having the upper hand.”

“I rather thought you would.”

She touched him then, her palms skimming across his chest and down his abdomen, her gaze on his, unwavering and unashamed, even as her fingers grazed the tip of his cock.

He drew in a sharp breath, pleasure spiking, and his eyes fell closed. She stroked him, slowly pumping and squeezing his length, and the uncertainty of her strokes nearly drove him out of his mind.

And then she dropped to her knees.

“Emmy…” he gasped, a half-hearted attempt at refusing her, though God knew he wanted her mouth on him—that he was, in fact, desperate for it.

“You don’t have to do this,” he gritted out, even as his cock disagreed, pulsing eagerly in her hands.

“I know.”

And then she leaned forward, and Alex nearly lost his grip at the first slide of those lush, wet lips over the head of his cock.

“Good God,” he muttered, his mouth falling open on a ragged groan. “Emmy…”

He gazed down at his wife, her dark, silky hair gleaming in the candlelight as she sucked him into her mouth. It was an image so erotic he knew he would remember it until the day he died.

Unable to keep still, he threaded his fingers through her hair and pumped his hips a little as she loved him with her tongue, licking and stroking as if she liked the taste of him.

He gritted his teeth. Christ above . He could spill in her mouth this moment if he allowed himself to.

“If I should do anything you do not like,” Emmy said, drawing back to peer up at him, “please do tell me so.” An impish smile played at the corners of her plump, wet lips, and even through the haze of lust, Alex was awestruck, staggered by her soft, dimpled cheeks and gorgeous, mischievous eyes.

Needing to taste her sweet lips, he urged her to her feet and kissed her deeply, reverently, expressing the words he could not voice aloud but wanted to ask as her subtle, sweet pea scent fell over him like pixie dust.

She leaned into his body, returning his kiss eagerly, her muslin skirts wrapping around his legs, and he realized then that she still wore her gown.

How in blazes was she still dressed?

He wanted her naked. Now.

“Come,” he murmured against her lips. “I think it’s time I balanced the scales a bit.”

Emmy held her breath, her stomach fluttering as Alex began to loosen the row of buttons running down her back.

She’d never been undressed by a man before. It had always been a maid or a friend, another woman—never a man, and certainly not one who made her shiver the way her husband did with every brush of his knuckles at her back, every breath that rustled the tendrils of hair at her nape.

Her body flushed hot, his touch sparking, heightening the desire simmering in her veins.

It was a singular experience.

Of course, she’d never pleasured a man’s member with her mouth before, either, and that had been a singular experience, too. One she was eager to repeat. She’d liked the unadulterated pleasure that had stretched across Alex’s face, the raw desire, the near loss of control. She wanted to do it again, only next time, she would not settle for near .

A low growl sounded from behind her, followed by a muttered oath. “Godforsaken buttons…bloody impossible…”

Emmy turned her head, her brows arching at this rare show of temper. “Shall I ring for a maid?” she asked over her shoulder, trying not to smile.

“No. There’s no need.”

The determined edge to his voice should have warned her, but she had only seconds to consider what his words might mean before the sound of shredding satin rent the room, followed by the patter of buttons on the floor.

Emmy gasped, her gaze locked on the tiny black buttons at her feet. “Alex! This is one of my favorite gowns!”

“I’ll have it repaired,” he said, his voice rough, though his hands were gentle as they slipped her sleeves over her shoulders and down her arms.

The mangled gown fell to the floor in a shush of blue satin, leaving her clad in only her stockings and chemise.

“I think it is beyond repair, Alex.” His warm hands closed around her forearms, and a shiver ran through her.

“Then I’ll buy you a new one.”

“That is not the—”

Alex drew her into his arms, her back to his front, and Emmy forgot all about the gown at her feet. She could feel his arousal pressing into her lower back, hard and hot with only thin cotton between their bodies. The sensation was alien, wicked. Intoxicating .

His arms encircled her, his palms gliding up her belly to cup her breasts and her head fell back against his chest with a sigh. He kneaded her, his large hands warm, his fingers rubbing and pinching her nipples, and the torment was sublime.

“Alex,” she whispered, her eyes closed, her hands gripping his hairy, muscled thighs. “Alex, please…”

She was begging, her voice reedy with need, and he acknowledged her plea with a low hum that reverberated through his chest.

His hands moved, descending, sliding over her ribcage, her stomach, edging toward the vee between her thighs.

Emmy drew in a stilted breath as his fingers dipped lower, into her heat, caressing her through her chemise.

The barrier should have frustrated her—and, in fact, it did—but the chafing cotton and his slow, circling strokes combined for the most delicious frustration she’d ever experienced.

She widened her legs, thrusting against his fingers, against her now-damp chemise, desperate and aching for release.

“Can’t wait any longer,” Alex rasped, as if reading her mind, and then he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.

He joined her, his naked skin and lithe limbs limned in candlelight, desire etched into every line of his face, and the sight sent butterflies fluttering through her belly. Beautiful . Her husband was a beautiful man, strong yet gentle. Quiet yet confident.

He moved with efficiency now, stripping off her chemise and tossing it to the floor before moving over her and settling between her thighs.

He leaned down, bracing on both forearms as he took her lips with his, the kiss searing, urgent, his tongue licking deep, drawing a groan from her throat.

She gripped his shoulders and squirmed beneath him, restless, gasping at the press of his hardened length against her quim.

He grunted an oath, his hips shifting, his mouth hot on her throat as he stroked deep, filling her to the hilt.

“Saints be,” she breathed, the invasion so fierce, so intense, it nearly overwhelmed her. She wanted to close her eyes, give herself over to the moment, but she wanted to watch Alex more. She wanted to see his face as he loved her. As he lost himself in her.

She wanted to watch him spend his seed inside her.

“Emmy,” he rasped, his hips pumping, his gaze hot, and she met each thrust with her own, wild, hungry, seeking satiation.

Close. So close .

She wrapped her legs around his waist and tilted her hips, taking him deeper, snapping the final thread of her tenuous control.

She stiffened and cried out as her orgasm shuddered through her, the pleasure immeasurable, pulsing through her body in waves.

Alex came hard, spilling his seed inside her, his head thrown back, his teeth gritted. Emmy drank him in through hazy eyes, satisfaction, joy washing over her that she’d done this to him. She’d made him lose himself, lose control. Only her.

Gently, Alex withdrew and fell onto his back on the bed, his chest rising and falling with each panting breath. A comfortable silence fell between them, and Emmy lay there, contented, listening to their labored breathing and the quieting thump of her heart.

A deep sense of satisfaction settled over her, and she was certain she had never felt so thoroughly relaxed in the whole of her life.

“Well,” she said into the quiet, “I think we’re getting rather good at that.”

Alex barked out a laugh, and Emmy turned her head to look at him, a smile tugging at her lips. “Do you disagree?”

Still chuckling, he met her gaze, his hazel eyes soft with contented mirth. “No,” he said. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

Emmy sighed and reached for the bedsheet bunched at her feet. Now that her blood had begun to cool, the room seemed to be doing the same.

“It’s a shame that women are not permitted to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh the way men are,” she said, tucking the sheet around her breasts. “I might have done this ages ago.”

“Would you?” he asked. “You told me once you’d never met a man you wanted to kiss.”

“True, but if I’d known what kissing could lead to, I might have been keener to test the waters a bit.”

“Mm.” His voice was thoughtful, almost languorous. “Well, speaking for myself alone, I’m glad you didn’t.”

Emmy’s brow puckered. “Why? Because I would not have been a virgin on our wedding night?”

In society’s eyes, a young lady’s greatest asset was her virtue. Men, of course, were not held to these same standards.

“Because I would have been the only virgin,” Alex said. “And I wouldn’t like to be compared with your past lovers.”

She smiled at that. “You might have been the best I’d ever had.”

“Highly unlikely, but I thank you all the same.”

She laughed, charmed by his self-deprecating sense of humor. “How is it you had never been with a woman before me?” she asked, turning onto her side to look at him. “I understand you did not wish to bed a courtesan, but did you never meet a woman who tempted you?”

He smiled, his gaze trained on the ceiling. “Of course I did. I’m not a saint. I enjoyed the odd flirtation in my youth, but beyond that…” He trailed off with a shrug. “I am my father’s only son—his heir—and I could not afford to be cavalier with my health or my future.”

Emmy nodded. She hadn’t considered that aspect of it, but as his father’s heir and only son, of course he must be careful. He had his family line to consider.

“Do you ever resent that?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Do you ever wish you were born a third son, or a fourth, one with fewer responsibilities and more freedoms?”

He considered the question for a moment then answered, “No. I don’t.”

“Did you used to? In your youth, perhaps?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

She regarded him in silence, uncertain whether she believed him or not. She didn’t think he was lying to her, exactly, but she did wonder if he might be deceiving himself without realizing it.

After all, didn’t everyone crave someone else’s existence now and then? It was inconceivable to her that he could have been so content with his lot in life that he’d never once longed to be someone else.

She considered herself a generally happy person, one with a great deal to be grateful for, but even she had indulged in the odd flight of fancy, fantasizing about a life as an independent widow, or a queen, or a man. She’d assumed everyone did that, but perhaps she was wrong.

“Does my answer surprise you?” Alex asked softly, and when she looked up, she found him watching her with interest.

“It does, actually,” she said with a rueful smile. “I think you are the only person I’ve ever met who is totally happy in his own existence.”

He rolled onto his side to face her, concern dipping his brow. “Are you not happy?”

She shook her head. “I’m happy, but I have had moments of discontentment, too. My life is far from perfect”—she shrugged—“but then, so am I.”

He raised one brow, his eyes growing heavy with sleep. “Now you tell me.”

Emmy laughed as she snuggled into her pillow and pulled the sheet up to her chin. Sated and drowsy, she closed her eyes, and as she drifted off to sleep, she thought of Alex, of how much she liked him, and how much she liked that he was hers and only hers.