Would it truly be so wrong to take this one night? To feel truly alive, if only for a fleeting moment? She had given so much of herself to others—to her grief, to charity and duty. Why shouldn’t she have this one thing?
What would it hurt to go to Nicolas? To take something for herself? She would wager her friends at the Wicked Widows club would not hesitate if they were in her slippers. The thought caused the corners of her lips to curve up.
“I am a widow, after all,” Emily said, her fingers toying with the locket that held her late husband’s portrait. “Am I not allowed a bit of indiscretion?” But even as the words left her lips, doubt crept in. The weight of societal expectations pressed down upon her, threatening to smother the tiny flame of hope that had kindled in her breast.
Emily moved to stoke the fire, watching as the flames leapt higher. The warmth caressed her skin, a poor substitute for the touch she truly craved. Her mind wandered to Nicolas—his tousled dark hair, those seductive green eyes that seemed to see right through her, and his roguish grin.
“What would it be like,” she wondered aloud, “to feel his hands on my skin?” The words hung in the air, full of possibility and danger.
Her hand hovered over the flame as doubt gnawed at her resolve. What would society say? What would he think of her? Yet, the fire in her blood had awakened something long dormant, a yearning she could scarcely ignore.
Emily felt as though she stood on the precipice of something monumental, teetering between propriety and passion. Her heart raced with the thrill of it all, even as her mind cautioned restraint.
She moved back to the window, pressing her palm flat against the glass. The cold seeped into her skin, grounding her in the present moment. Outside, the world was dark and windswept, the familiar landscape transformed into something wild and untamed. Emily felt a kinship with that wildness, a part of herself longing to break free from the constraints that had bound her for so long.
Her fingers curled against the glass, her resolve crystallizing with each passing moment. The quiet ticking of the mantel clock seemed to echo her quickening heartbeat. She took a deep breath.
“To the devil with it,” she said, her voice barely audible above the howling wind. “I have mourned. I have been proper. But I am still alive, and I deserve...” She trailed off, the word ‘passion’ caught in her throat.
With trembling hands, Emily reached for the candle on her bedside table. Its warm glow cast dancing shadows on the walls as she moved toward her bedroom door. She paused, her hand on the doorknob, as doubt crept in.
If anyone should find out, she thought, biting her lower lip. But then, how would they? The isolation of the storm seemed to cocoon her, offering a strange kind of freedom. No-one was here other than her servants and they were all abed. They would never gossip about her at any rate.
Emily stepped into the darkened hallway, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. The flickering candlelight illuminating her path.
As she approached Nicolas’s room, her heart thundered against her ribs. She could hear his playful voice in her mind, teasing her about her boldness. The thought brought a small smile to her lips, despite her nervousness.
She notched her chin, her confidence growing. She was taking control of her own happiness. Surely, there could be no shame in that? With each step, she felt both exhilarated and terrified.
She paused outside Nicolas’s door, her hand hovering over the handle, her breath coming in short, quick gasps. The memory of Nicolas’s smoldering gaze teased her thoughts, as if beckoning her. Could she really do this?
Taking a deep breath, she grasped the door handle, the cold metal a stark contrast to her flushed skin. Her heart pounded with anticipation as she prepared to step into his room and, if she had her way, his bed.
As she turned the handle, desire coiled low in her belly, an ache that demanded to be sated. For too long, she had ignored her own wants and needs out of a sense of propriety and grief. But in the days since his arrival, something had awakened inside her—a yearning to feel again, to embrace passion and pleasure. And she instinctively knew Nicolas, with his roguish charm and heated glances, was the only man who could satisfy her.
Emily pushed the door open, slipping inside the dimly lit bedchamber. The click of the latch vibrated through her. There would be no turning back now.
Nicolas stood by the window, his broad shoulders silhouetted by moonlight filtering through the pane. At the sound of her entrance, he turned, eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her—chestnut hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, the thin white fabric of her nightgown doing little to conceal her womanly curves.
“Emily?” His rich baritone sent a shiver down her spine. “What are you doing here at this hour? Are you alright? Has something happened?”
She stepped closer, pulse pounding in her throat. The way he looked at her, gaze darkening with unmistakable desire, emboldened her. “I could not sleep for wanting you.”
His lips parted on a sharp inhale. “Emily?—”
“I am a grown woman and a widow besides,” she said, tilting her chin. The thrill of defiance emboldening her. “I can no longer ignore what I feel for you… this attraction between us.”
Closing the remaining distance between them, she placed a trembling hand on his chest, feeling the drum of his heartbeat through the fine linen of his shirt. “I know you want me too, Nicolas. I see it in your eyes.”
He captured her hand in his larger one, strong fingers caressing her palm and sending sparks skittering over her flesh. “More than you can possibly imagine.”
“Then show me,” she breathed.
Eight
Nicolas’s breath ghosted over her lips as he paused, searching her gaze. “Are you sure, Emily?”
She nodded, her pulse hammering in her throat. “Yes. I have never been more certain.”
