A Scandalous Proposal

He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs about his waist and thrust down, taking him inside. One arm about his neck, she brought his mouth to one taut, silk-encased nipple. She moaned as he tongued her, tensing the muscles inside her hot, slick canal about his burgeoning manhood.

Gasping, he wrapped his arms around her and carried her back to the bed. With each step, she rocked her hips to take him deeper. By the time he eased her against the pillows and settled himself over her, he was already throbbing for release.

He managed to hold himself back this time. Driving in as deeply as he could, he stilled and bent to bare her breasts. Slowly he sucked and nipped each nipple in turn while she quivered under him, straining to rock her hips. He rested his weight against her, pinning her motionless while he savored her skin. When her breathing turned to shallow gasps, when a fine sheen dewed her chest, only then did he shift his weight and slowly draw himself out to the very tip, then slowly ease himself back in. She moved her hips urgently, her hands clutching his shoulders. “Please,” she whispered, “please!”

Digging his thumbnails into his hands to slow himself, gradually he increased the rhythm. She lay back, her hair streaming over the pillows, her eyes closed, and arched into him. He bent to suckle again her full, taut nipples, and she cried out, nearly destroying his disintegrating control.

“Evan,” he gasped as he drove harder, “call me Evan.”

“Evan,” she whispered, and then “Oh, Evan!”, until finally she sobbed out his name and he let her exquisite, sweet convulsions set off his own.

Afterward, he cradled her close, loving the feel of her sweat-drenched skin against his own. “Emily, sweetheart, don’t ever regret this,” he murmured as he slid his hands over the slick satin of her hips, her breasts. She cuddled into him and he massaged her shoulders and back, reveling in the sheer sweet pleasure of touching her.

She stretched out, languorous as a cat, one soft leg draped over his. After a few moments, her relaxed, even breathing told him she slept.

Though there was no need, he continued to gently stroke her. He felt a deep satisfaction that, this time, he had undeniably given her pleasure, and a sense of awe at the intensity of the pleasure she gave him.

He ought to wake her, let her dress him, take his leave. He never spent the night with his mistresses; once the loving was finished, he was usually eager to be off.

It seemed in this, too, being with her was different, for he had not the slightest desire to stir from her bed. There was utter contentment in holding her silken body close, watching moonlight play across her face.

She looked peaceful now, and happy. That was how he wanted her to be when she was with him: safe, content and satisfied. ’Twas his last thought before he, too, drifted asleep.

When later he woke, pink dawn painted the sky beyond the balcony. Emily, clad in a dressing gown, sat beside him on the bed.

Seeing him stir, she smiled. “Good morning, my lord. Should you like coffee before you go? Francesca has some ready, as it’s almost time for us to be in the shop.”

He nearly groaned with frustration. Though ’twas not much later than he sometimes returned from a night’s ramble, she was a businesswoman, and must rise early. Her subtle hint warned him ’twas too late for any further dalliance.

She seemed matter-of-fact now, both sadness and contentment gone. “No, I suppose I’d best be going,” he replied, still strangely reluctant to leave. Nonetheless, he let her help him into his shirt. As she buttoned it, he bent and pressed his lips against the softness of her neck.

“Oh, Emily,” he whispered.

She stilled. Then, somewhat awkwardly, she put her arms around his neck and drew him close.

After he’d dressed, she walked him downstairs, through the office and out to the front door.

“Lock it well,” he admonished as she slid the bolt open. “Shall I see you tonight?”

She angled her head to look up at him. “If you wish.”

“You know I do. Emily, sweetheart, I can’t dissemble about how much I want you.” He laughed shortly and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “I expect that’s only too painfully obvious.

“It may be foolish,” he continued, “but I would wish for you to want me, too. If you do not, I can respect that.” He managed a grin. “I cannot like it, but I’ll respect it. Unless you truly wish it—” he forced the words through reluctant lips “—I’ll not return.”

Despite that show of nonchalance, his pulse stampeded and sweat broke out on his forehead as he awaited her response.

She smiled faintly, and he began to breathe again. “I wish you to return as often as you like, for as long as you like.”

An upsurge of joy brought the grin back to his face. “Rest assured, I shall thoroughly enjoy coming at every opportunity! But be cautious what you wish for. Were I to visit as oft as I’d like, you’d have me underfoot constantly.”

She merely smiled, and he bent to give her a lingering kiss, which she returned, he thought, with some enthusiasm. “Until this evening, then.”

Before he could pull away, she stopped him with a touch to his cheek. “I’d forgotten how beautiful loving can be,” she said softly. “Thank you…Evan.”

His spirits soared to the rooftops. “Call upon me at any time.” Giving her one last kiss, he forced himself to exist. A few steps down the sidewalk, he turned to look back. She gave him a little wave, closed the door, and he heard the bolt slam home.

’Twas all he could do not to run back and knock.

Chapter Four

Several hours later Emily looked up from her worktable in bemusement. “Put them on the desk, I suppose,” she told the urchin with his paper-wrapped parcel of flowers.

“Where, ma’am? There be’s a pow’rful lotta posies a’ready.”

In truth, the top of her small desk was nearly buried beneath a floral avalanche. The bouquets—some small, some large—had begun arriving early this morning, and the parade continued steadily all day. Francesca had long since run out of vases, and the most recent offerings reclined in an odd miscellany of pots, mugs and bowls.

The numerous bouquets contained only pansies or violets. Deepest purple, pale lavender, near white, the shimmering velvet blooms and their perfume filled the office and spilled out into the salesroom beyond.

Searching for a spare inch, Emily surveyed the assortment with a mingling of amusement and exasperation. Lord Cheverley must have bought up every blossom in the city. They’d be reduced to water and cold mutton for dinner, as there was hardly a kettle or teacup left in the kitchen. She didn’t know whether to be touched or annoyed.

The delivery boy still stood, flowers in hand, looking at her expectantly. Sighing, she laid down her scissors. “Just bring them to me.”

The boy handed them over, but when she dug in her pocket for a coin, he waved her away. “The toff what sent ’em paid me good, ’n offered me an extry yellow boy if’n I wouldn’t try’n fob a tuppence off ya.” Tipping his grimy cap, he gave her a gap-toothed grin and ambled out.

Francesca entered from the kitchen behind her and raised her eyebrows. “By the Blessed Virgin, Mistress, your noble lordling must be pleased with you.” Eyes twinkling, she leaned over to pat Emily’s cheek. “And you, querida, look like a woman who has been well loved.”

“Enough, Francesca.”

“Ah, you grumble, but me, I think it very fine,” Francesca replied with unimpaired good humor. “You are tired, no, mistress? Rest, and I will deal with the clientela. Then I cook another special dinner.”

“Lord Cheverley is not invited for dinner,” Emily replied stiffly.

“But he comes tonight, surely as a saint’s reward,” Francesca said shrewdly. “Go rest yourself, mistress. He must not see your beauty dimmed. Take the violetas—” the maid wrapped Emily’s hands around the flowers “—and sleep. I left upstairs a vase.”

In truth, she was tired. With a sigh, she allowed Francesca to urge her toward the stairs. “All right. But for an hour only.”

“Good, I will wake you,” the maid agreed. “A hungry work, this loving is. Tonight will I prepare a hearty paella.”

“If you can find anything to cook it in,” Emily muttered as she walked out.

Emily slipped the fragile, fragrant blooms—deep violet with tiny white eyes—into her favorite vase, a delicate piece of blue-and-white Portuguese pottery in a fanciful pattern of birds and animals. Setting it down on the desk that also served as her dressing table, she caught her reflection in the little mirror propped against the wall. Solemn eyes, somewhat shadowed perhaps, stared back at her over a straight, narrow nose and generous lips. I look no different, she thought. Should not becoming a Fallen Woman have left some tangible sign?

Steeling herself, she picked the miniature off its easel beside the mirror. In defiance of convention, Andrew had wanted her to paint him relaxing rather than posing formally, and so she had. The neck fastening of his dolman was un-hooked, his capless hair tumbled as if in the ocean’s breeze. She’d managed to capture the sparkle in his emerald eyes, his high-spirited grin with just the hint of the devil.

Oh, Andrew, what would you think of me now?

The ache went too deep. Replacing the miniature on its stand, she wandered to the balcony. Wan sunlight, a feeble imitation of the fierce peninsular light that had bathed the quarters they’d shared in a score of different villages, cast a mellow glow. She leaned against the railing, gazing down into the garden below.