CHAPTER 4
A TRYST
Meanwhile, in a third-story room at the DeSoto House Hotel
“I cannot decide if you are fascinated by my bosom or with my gown,” Emma said, angling her head to one side as she regarded her fifty-three-year-old husband with an arched brow.
Robert jerked out of his reverie, the words exactly the same as those she had said to him the first day they had met. He remembered how her gown had him worried someone had set up another dry goods store in Galena without his knowledge. How her British accent had intrigued him. How it had him believing she was high-born.
“Uh…” He chuckled softly. “Of course I was staring at your bosom, my lady,” he admitted. He rushed to gather her into his arms. “I hope you you know I’m going to spend this entire day ravishing you in this…” He turned to take in the bed in the small hotel room, his brows furrowing at seeing it was no larger than the one in their master bedchamber. “This poor excuse for a bed,” he finished.
Emma tittered. “Whatever had you thinking we should spend our anniversaryhere?” she asked, moving to undo the buttonsof his sack jacket. “And telling the children we were going to Dubuque of all places?”
“I wanted us to do something… different,” he replied, glancing down to see she was already undoing his waistcoat buttons.
“I thought we’d all be going to St. Louis,” she said, giving him a pointed glance as she pushed the garments from his shoulders.
“Next year. For our twentieth anniversary,” he promised, turning her around so he could undo the fastenings of her gown. He could feel the crinolines beneath her bell skirt press against his legs. “By then, perhaps you won’t have to wear hoop skirts,” he added hopefully. He had seen what was to come in the way of ladies’ fashion, and he was looking forward to a time when the large bell skirts would go the way of panniers.
She giggled. “I am not looking forward to my bottom appearing as if I’m bent over and sticking it out as I make my way down Main Street,” she argued, turning around to undo the knot of his neck cloth.
“You can continue to wear your current gowns. I shall not mind,” he replied, although he made sure he didn’t sound enthusiastic about the prospect.
A quelling glance was her first response. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“You could wear nothing at all, and I wouldn’t mind a bit,” he whispered, his lips feathering over her forehead and down to her cheek and then to her lips.
“I’d be covered in red clay when I leave my studio,” she argued.
“I would bathe you,” he offered, a brow arching in a tease.
She giggled as her gown fell to the floor. “Robert Michael Montgomery,” she said, feigning indignation.
“I love it when you scold me,” he murmured, undoing the ties of her crinoline and her corset before lifting her chemise fromher body. His gaze darted to the floor. He half expected a cat to come out from under her gown. The large calicos seemed to favor hiding beneath her hoops.
“I hardly know why,” she countered, her blonde brows once again arching.
He cleared his throat. “It reminds me that I can occasionally behave in an improper manner and still expect you to sleep in the same bed with me.” From her widened eyes, Robert realized she had anticipated a different answer. “What?” he asked, all innocence.
“I am rather glad you agreed to feature my pottery in your shop all those years ago,” she stated.
He blinked. “How could I not? General saw to it all the pots I had on the shelves were destroyed,” he claimed.
She dipped her head but regarded him through the curtain of his lashes. “Despite the injuries you sustained as a result of that debacle, you didn’t seem to mind.” She reached for the hand where she’d had to stitch up the nasty cut, the scar from six stitches still visible in the middle of his palm.
Nodding, he pulled her into his arms. “Not a bit,” he admitted. “I think I fell in love with you the moment you stepped into my store that day,” he claimed.
“I certainly didn’t get that impression,” she countered. If anything, she had thought he was annoyed by her visit. A woman speaking with a British accent and implying his pottery wares were substandard, even if they were and he knew it. Or perhaps it had been her calling card, the elegant white pasteboard engraved in black.
Avalon Pottery
Premiere pottery in the style of England’s finest
Emma Avalon, Proprietress
He had even had the audacity to suggest she was from D.A. Sackett and Co. The Dewey Street pottery manufacturer hadn’t produced a single utilitarian pot at that point, but once they did, she’d had competition. Eschewing creating utilitarian pots in favor of more decorative ceramics, the sales of the finer creations proved she had made the right choice. Her wares were a popular product in Montgomery Dry Goods.
“Lust, then?” he prompted.
