“Emmie,” he whispered against the hollow of her neck, rocking his hips forward to press her more tightly against the hardness in his trousers. He turned her slightly, enough so that he could skim one hand up the length of her leg, to her thigh.
The slender body in his arm trembled. She cupped his cheeks and kissed him. Hard. Passionately. Permission for Henry to do what he would.
Trailing his hand over the silk-clad legs, Henry paused with his fingers at the apex of her thighs, the heat of her warming his fingertips. The soft hair covering her mound brushed against his hand as he found the opening in the layers of cotton that encased her.
Henry dipped his forefinger into her damp flesh, circling and teasing until a low moan sounded in the back of her throat. Emmie’s inner muscles grabbed at his finger as he thrust gently inside her, her hips grinding against his hand.
God, she’s perfect.
He wanted to taste her. Lay her out in the grass while the stream bubbled gently beside them and take her. He wanted her cries of pleasure to echo around him. Hear her laughing. Call out his name as she climaxed. Everything else, including the guests at the top of the hill, faded away until nothing remained but Henry and Emmagene Stitch.
“More,” she whispered to him, her legs sliding open further to his questing fingers.
“There they are!” someone shouted.
God. Damn. It.
Henry growled in frustration, pulling his hands from beneath her skirts. He grabbed her roughly, lips claiming hers in a furious kiss. “This isn’t over, Miss Stitch.” He couldn’t see her in the darkness and wished he could.
She slipped away from him, and Henry immediately felt the loss of her warmth atop him.
Lanterns bobbed their way down the hill, headed in their direction.
The crunch of her slippers along with the rustle of her skirts sounded as she stood. “This should never have happened,” she muttered. “I was plied with whiskey. I fell. Nothing more. I can’t—”
“Why not?” He reached for her in the darkness and found her fingers. “Why shouldn’t it?” Grabbing hold of her hand, he pressed an openmouthed kiss to her wrist. “I want you. In my bed, screaming my name as I fuck you. Repeatedly.”
“What a romantic you are, my lord.” She pulled free of his grasp.
He reached out to her again, and she sidestepped into the darkness. “I will never be anything but honest with you. Would you rather I ply you with compliments? Whisper platitudes in your ear?”
“God, no,” she hissed back at him.
Henry stepped back, hearing the bitterness in her response. So that was what had happened to Emmie, this difficult, challenging woman he was beginning to feel so much for and far too quickly.
“Hunt.” Montieth, sticks snapping beneath his boots, arrived, the lantern in his hand swinging back and forth, bathing the area in a hazy golden glow. He loomed over them as a tall shadow against the outline of the bushes, stumbling boots and additional lanterns discernable at his back.
“Here,” Henry answered Montieth, then lowered his voice. “Emmie—”
“Don’t call me that,” she whispered back.
“Miss Stitch.” Montieth’s voice came closer. “Are you injured?”
“Not at all, my lord. A few scrapes. Nothing that can’t be mended. The fireworks startled me, and I tripped. Lord Huntly acted very quickly to catch me but didn’t succeed.”
“I grabbed your ankle,” he said to her under his breath. “You tried to kick me off. I suppose I shouldn’t have bothered.”
Emmie didn’t answer. She was already moving off, arm firmly clasped by one of Southwell’s footmen.
“I’m fine, by the way, Montieth. Thank you for asking. Took you a while to get here.” In truth, Henry wished it had taken hours. “I grew concerned I would need to struggle up the hill in darkness, dragging Miss Stitch.”
“Luckily one of the servants returned to ask if you needed more wine. He noticed you were gone, your platter of cheese was smeared all over the blanket, and the wine was spilled. The poor lad debated whether to say anything because he assumed he’d stumbled upon an assignation. I caught him as he made his way to Southwell.” Montieth made a chuffing sound that Henry took to be laughter. “I assured him there must have been an accident considering it was Miss Stitch who had been sitting with you. It was far more likely she’d attempted to bludgeon you while watching the fireworks.”
“What other explanation could there be?” Henry agreed, trying to make out her thin form as she went back up the hill.
He could still feel Emmie in his arms and taste her on his lips.
Chapter Nine
