Not control. She was too strong for that, but there were other ways men used to assert what they considered their…virility.
Emerson’s chest tightened. He wanted to seize time itself and throttle it for what it had stolen from her. The thought of her shrinking in silence under another man’s roof clawed at him, made his blood burn. She deserved laughter, light, the kind of fire she kept hidden under all that starch and propriety she allowed Society to put upon her.
With a deep inhale that took in her subtle orange blossom scent, he spoke in a low growl. “Did he ever hurt you? Your person, I mean.”
Her eyes dropped from his, and she shook her head as if words deserted her. After a long moment, she sucked in a deep breath. “No.” Her voice held a crack, and she tried again. “No. I suspect he saved that for his actresses and opera dancers.”
He removed his hands from her shoulders, allowing her to take what solace she needed through herself. Forgiving herselfwas a key to her healing. He wanted her to heal more than he wanted his next breath.
Her arms wrapped her body, her chin lowered as though she might fold into her own shadow. “He had no use for me, not beyond my name and dowry. Oh, he appreciated my dressing to perfection, smiling at his side, nodding when the matrons praised his choice, and most of all, his connection to Ryleigh. But once we were encased within Stanford house where no one could see? I failed to exist.” Her knuckles turned white with her tightened fingers. “Eventually, even that ceased to matter.”
Missing their appointment took on a new, heartbreaking significance, as if he wielded a knife into her already wounded heart.
Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Stanford preferred his women younger. Much younger. Girls who had no defenses, who mistook his attention for affection. And when he grew bored, he discarded them as one does a glass of wine gone sour. The last young woman escaped him only to die mere steps from the front doors of Hope House.” Her voice wavered. “Men willneverunderstand. My husband’s sins were vast, but no, he left no visible scars. No one consideredmea victim. I smiled. Played my part. I gave Society what it expected—a dutiful wife, a baroness who did not weep in public, who held her chin aloft while they whispered behind their painted fans. It was the only way to survive the shame of tying myself to such a fool.”
She looked up then, eyes burning. “That is precisely why I went after Miss Lockhart tonight.”
Emerson’s breath caught. Fierce, foolish, unyielding woman—she was fire itself, forged out of neglect and humiliation, burning now for every girl who might be broken as she once had been. And God help him, he wanted nothing more than to stand in that fierce blaze of hers.
He moved to her once more and pulled her tightly into his chest, wrapping her within an embrace he prayed didn’t suffocate her. He bent nearer and willed his thoughts to her.Never again will you be treated as such. Not while I draw breath.
To his absurd relief, her arms wrapped his waist, and she hung on to him as if her very life depended on it. On him.
He leaned away and lifted her chin. “You are a wonder, my lady.” He dipped his head and kissed her.
The dependency shifted. Right then, he knew that it would be he who died if he didn’t protect her.
The stroke of her tongue against his ignited the slow burning fire in his chest. “Oh, Rose,” he breathed. “What you do to me…” His lips moved to the column of her neck. “Your bed?” he growled.
She stepped back, her eyes wide, meeting his.
The air in his lungs constricted, awaiting her reaction.
But then she took his hand and led him from the room and quietly, furtively, up the stairs to her private sanctuary.
He was struck first by the soft pink warmthof the room—so at odds with the fiercely rash woman he was coming to know. Nothing of the cool composure he expected she exhibited to the world.
The delicate scent of orange blossom lingered in the air, the private contradiction to the name she bore. Rose damask hangings about the great bed were slightly askew, the counterpane rumpled in a way that betrayed her nights were perhaps as restless as his. A white muslin night rail with delicate pink embroidery—that she would have no need for—hung over a screen in one corner, and a faint impression marked a pink-upholstered chaise near the window where he pictured her sitting alone with her embroidery or a book.
Not a single trace of her late husband marred the room, and the realization hit him hard: this space—warm, feminine, tender—was Rose unguarded, a part of her she kept from all others.
He tugged her to a stop just inside the closed door and took her lips with his, rubbing his hands over her arms. This was a woman who required a man’s patience, and he only hoped he could maintain his own. Nibbling her lips led to trailing her satiny skin to the lobe of her ear with a gentle bite, then sliding along the length of her delectable neck. The fragrant orange blossom was strongest here—he could almost taste it, licking her skin.
Emerson ran his fingertips along the bodice of the dark blue silk. “This gown is indecent,” he growled, then leaned down and used his tongue to show his exact reason for saying so, teasing a barely covered nipple.
The moan she released had his already rigid cock stiffening to painful intensity. He tugged at the puffy sleeves, serving his purposes perfectly when her breasts popped free. Her nipples were as hard as the studs in her dress reflecting the fire’s light. Taking one of those hardened pebbles in his mouth, he sucked hard.
She gasped, and he pulled away, spinning her around, making quick work of the long row of buttons that took much too long.
“You could rip it,” she whispered.
“I definitely will not,” he growled. “If I’m to suffer with patience, you shall as well.” The dress parted, and he slipped it down her body, then he took her hand and helped her in stepping over her pooled skirts. He swooped up her dress and draped it over the settee without letting go of her hand.
The soft whisper of her white fine linen chemise clinging to her curves hung mid-thigh, drawn high due to the ivory stays laced snugly over it. Teasing him further by the whitesilk stockings tied just above her knees. Her corset’s whalebone channels shaped her with elegant precision, the pale fabric a striking contrast against her warm skin.
Such simple pairing of chemise and stays was somehow more intimate than full undress—unguarded, unadorned, and achingly feminine—and had his insides coiling tightly.
Emerson turned her away from him and tugged on the corset strings, then lifted it from her body and dropped it to his side. He laid his lips against her neck and breathed in the spicy essence of her before leading her to the massive mahogany bed.
