more of him. The rush of desire from a chaste kiss was so heady, so complete, that he barely kept himself from crushing her to him, pulling her on top of him.
Emily forgot everything but the soft moistness of Matthew’s lips. He lay prone beneath her, and she had to steady herself on his shoulder or fall into him with sudden, overwhelming weakness. The sensation of the kiss was about more than their lips; she felt it in her mind, in her heart, in her loins, whichso willfully desired him. She wanted to press against him, taste more of him. Her kisses grew intense, taking more of his mouth, opening to seek the true passion she’d only dreamed about.
Matthew Leland was a man back from the dead, struggling to reclaim his life—and finding her in it. Though she was taking advantage of him, she promised herself that he would be well compensated by her eagerness.
Against her will, she remembered that he had a wife, the thought dowsing her passion. She lifted her head to stare down at him. Always, this woman would be between them, until Emily could discover the truth about her. But how to do that? And what would Arthur Stanwood do with such knowledge?
“Emily? Is something wrong?”
He sat up, and as she felt both his hands on her shoulders, knew he needed some kind of explanation. She blinked as if forcing back tears, then put a hand on his chest. “You’re really home,” she whispered in wonder. “You’ll think me a silly female if I cry in the middle of a kiss. It was bad enough that I swooned at your feet last night—”
“Into my arms. I know how to catch a woman.”
She gave an unladylike snort of laughter. He pressed a handkerchief into her palm, and she dabbed at her eyes, hoping he didn’t notice that the fabric remained dry.
“I don’t think I’ve ever before reduced a woman to tears with my kisses,” he mused.
He brought her hands to his chest, and she felt the strong beat of his heart. He wanted his memories back; she couldn’t want the same.
But she would teach him whatever he wanted; she would make him happy. Nothing—no one—would stand in her way.
Chapter 8
E mily knew Matthew watched her too carefully. What emotions chased each other across her face, when she was trying to hide them?
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“Because I never thought to have the chance to kiss you again,” she whispered.
Then she smiled and patted his chest, turning away to gather up the remains of their picnic. When she mounted her own horse, she was surprised that he allowed it. She’d wanted him to ask her to ride with him again, but it seemed he had enough intimacy for one afternoon.
As they rode down the lane that wound between low hills, they passed a cottage that was part of the estate, remote, yet well-maintained.
“My father lived here before I was born,” Matthew said suddenly. She gave him a startled glance. “Before they were married, you mean?” She had always assumed noone was given the lease because the duke wanted his privacy.
He nodded. “My grandfather allowed the cottage to be leased, amused that a Cambridge professor wanted privacy to work, and some distance from the university. The old duke had a love of learning—if not a love of his wife.”
She winced with sympathy. “Didn’t your grandfather cause the first of the Cabot scandals?”
He grinned. “Not the first, but one of many. Weakness seems to run in the family.”
“But not in you, of course,” she said with a toss of her head.
“Of course. He gambled and womanized his way through his entire inheritance before he was twenty-five and then had to rebuild the family fortune.”
“Obviously, he accomplished that feat.”
“Yes, but he could never quite forgive himself for the unentailed land that had to be sold. He made no secret of the fact that he chose beauty and dowry over suitability when he married.”
“How flattering to his wife,” she said with sarcasm.
“Do not pity her too much. She made it
Emily forgot everything but the soft moistness of Matthew’s lips. He lay prone beneath her, and she had to steady herself on his shoulder or fall into him with sudden, overwhelming weakness. The sensation of the kiss was about more than their lips; she felt it in her mind, in her heart, in her loins, whichso willfully desired him. She wanted to press against him, taste more of him. Her kisses grew intense, taking more of his mouth, opening to seek the true passion she’d only dreamed about.
Matthew Leland was a man back from the dead, struggling to reclaim his life—and finding her in it. Though she was taking advantage of him, she promised herself that he would be well compensated by her eagerness.
Against her will, she remembered that he had a wife, the thought dowsing her passion. She lifted her head to stare down at him. Always, this woman would be between them, until Emily could discover the truth about her. But how to do that? And what would Arthur Stanwood do with such knowledge?
“Emily? Is something wrong?”
He sat up, and as she felt both his hands on her shoulders, knew he needed some kind of explanation. She blinked as if forcing back tears, then put a hand on his chest. “You’re really home,” she whispered in wonder. “You’ll think me a silly female if I cry in the middle of a kiss. It was bad enough that I swooned at your feet last night—”
“Into my arms. I know how to catch a woman.”
She gave an unladylike snort of laughter. He pressed a handkerchief into her palm, and she dabbed at her eyes, hoping he didn’t notice that the fabric remained dry.
“I don’t think I’ve ever before reduced a woman to tears with my kisses,” he mused.
He brought her hands to his chest, and she felt the strong beat of his heart. He wanted his memories back; she couldn’t want the same.
But she would teach him whatever he wanted; she would make him happy. Nothing—no one—would stand in her way.
Chapter 8
E mily knew Matthew watched her too carefully. What emotions chased each other across her face, when she was trying to hide them?
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“Because I never thought to have the chance to kiss you again,” she whispered.
Then she smiled and patted his chest, turning away to gather up the remains of their picnic. When she mounted her own horse, she was surprised that he allowed it. She’d wanted him to ask her to ride with him again, but it seemed he had enough intimacy for one afternoon.
As they rode down the lane that wound between low hills, they passed a cottage that was part of the estate, remote, yet well-maintained.
“My father lived here before I was born,” Matthew said suddenly. She gave him a startled glance. “Before they were married, you mean?” She had always assumed noone was given the lease because the duke wanted his privacy.
He nodded. “My grandfather allowed the cottage to be leased, amused that a Cambridge professor wanted privacy to work, and some distance from the university. The old duke had a love of learning—if not a love of his wife.”
She winced with sympathy. “Didn’t your grandfather cause the first of the Cabot scandals?”
He grinned. “Not the first, but one of many. Weakness seems to run in the family.”
“But not in you, of course,” she said with a toss of her head.
“Of course. He gambled and womanized his way through his entire inheritance before he was twenty-five and then had to rebuild the family fortune.”
“Obviously, he accomplished that feat.”
“Yes, but he could never quite forgive himself for the unentailed land that had to be sold. He made no secret of the fact that he chose beauty and dowry over suitability when he married.”
“How flattering to his wife,” she said with sarcasm.
“Do not pity her too much. She made it
Similar Books
