Emily gazed at his sleeping form, still amazed that Maxwell was in her arms. He had fallen asleep within seconds of loving her thoroughly. She shifted and winced. He had been insatiable, taking her several times in the two nights she’d slept in his room. He had been unhurried. He worshipped her, licked her all over, and ensured she wept from pleasure.
She brushed locks of hair from his forehead and leaned over to kiss his lips softly. He slept in relaxed repose, his chest gently lifting with each even breath. She pulled away the covers to look at his scarred flesh. She had seen it before but had been too distracted by the hunger that bled from him to fully examine it.
With the tip of her finger, she gently traced the scar from his hip to mid-thigh. She noted the changes in him. Her heart clenched in pain for what he must have suffered. He had lost weight, his hair was longer, and there were dashes of silver at his left temple. His chest bore three different scars, and the slight beard gave him a rakish look. Despite all that he still sounded and touched her like her Maxwell. The only time he had taken her rough was when she was awakened earlier by his tortured groans and shook him awake from his nightmare. His eyes had been wild as he stared at her, his face drawn into savage lines of torment. Without speaking, he had draw
n her underneath him and then buried his length without any preliminaries.
She gently rose from the bed, not wanting to wake him. The speed with which he had fallen into slumber indicated the depth of his exhaustion. She dressed silently, her mind whirring with questions. She had pushed those thoughts away for the past days, focusing only on having her beloved back in her arms and soothing the pain and loneliness that bled from him so profusely. She could not even begin to fathom how he could be alive and how Marcellus had known.
She eased open his door and slipped into the hall and froze at the sight of his father, Edward Wynwood, the Duke of Harcourt, walking toward his son’s room.
Emily raked her hands through hair that was still mussed. The fire in her cheeks spread and burned through her entire body. “I…”
“Be at ease, my dear. I had expected you to be in his room. I hope my presence has not discomforted you in any way,” he reassured her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “I fear I must confer with him on an urgent matter.”
She felt flummoxed. She had expected outrage or something other than humor. She had been in Maxwell’s room for two nights. And they were not married.
“He is asleep, but please wake him if it is urgent. I…I am heading to my room,” she burst out and swept past him.
“Emily.”
She froze, then spun at how he said her name. The kindness in his blue eyes almost felled her.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Marcellus paces the library like a caged tiger,” he said kindly. She saw the knowledge in the duke’s eyes. He knew she had been with both of his sons. Emily wanted to die.
She sucked in a harsh breath and could only nod mutely. He forced things to her mind that she wanted to keep banished until Maxwell woke. She wanted to speak with Maxwell first. She feared she could not face Marcellus. The agony that ravaged her at his deception was too painful, too real, and too surprising.
She went into her room, rang the bell, and ordered a bath. Her mind churned in confusion at what to do. She sat in the bath for almost an hour, soaking her muscles and the tender ache in her core. Tears ran down her face. She had given herself to both brothers. God, what did that make her? They were both intense and passionate but loved her so differently. Her body burned as she remembered that Maxwell had wanted to take her a third time the first day they came together. It had been impossible. Mortifying heat had crawled up her face. If she had not been with Marcellus only a few hours before, it would have been different. Dread had frozen her when she’d had the thought. She’d fretted if Maxwell would have been able to tell that she had been with someone else. She couldn’t imagine how she would function being in Marcellus’s presence now that Maxwell was back. What a mess.
She rose from the water and dried without assistance. She walked to her armoire and withdrew a simple blue day dress and clothed herself. She could do nothing with her tumbled hair. She decided not to ring for Anna as she had the sudden urge to confer with Marcellus before Maxwell woke.
She looked in the mirror, and her eyes widened. She had expected to look pale and bloodless, but instead, she glowed. Her eyes glinted, and her cheeks were flushed. She banished the traitorous thought that she was excited to see Marcellus and swept from the room.
Chapter 5
December 19, 1917
Dearest Emily,
Happy birthday, my love. I wish I was there to celebrate with you. We need such lightness of celebration in the midst of this unceasing despair. I order you not to feel guilty at the lavish party your mother organized for you. You are now twenty-one, and I believe she is proud of the wonderful young lady that you are. I know that we are in wartimes, but I want you to consider the fear that Lady Langford is feeling. Everything she knows has been displaced, and it is all changing. This may be her way of clinging to what she knows and what brings her comfort. I love that you adore the gifts Marcellus has bestowed upon you. Do not think they are lavish. That is his way of letting you know how valued you are. I pray I will be there for your next celebration. I welcome all letters that tell me of the simple things that brighten your day.
Your love, Maxwell Wynwood
Emily entered the library and closed the door with a soft snick. Marcellus stood by the windows, and he did not turn around at her entry. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth, and the words that barreled from her were not the calm ones she had practiced while walking down the graceful staircase.
“You lied to me!” She clasped her hands tightly in front of her and walked over to him.
“It was necessary.” His cultured tone was cool, autocratic, and unrepentant. He slowly spun to face her, and she glared at him in furious shock. His face was a mask of cold, studied indifference. Where was his remorse?
“Why did you not tell me he was alive?”
“I have no intention of repeating myself, Emmeline. It was necessary. I believe it would be best for Maxwell to explain.”
She took several calming breaths and went to the heart of what devastated her. “You knew he was alive, yet you made love to me. You made me betray him.”
She did not understand his flinch or the look of pain that chased his features.