CHAPTER FIVE
‘MY GOD.’ Emily almost choked as she flung herself away from him across the bed, her heart juddering against her ribs, like a bird trapped in a cage. She was hideously aware that she’d closed her eyes a split second too late and that a unwanted image of Rafaele Di Salis without his clothes was now engraved on her memory.
Aware too of the sudden warmth of his body in the intimacy of the bed—his nearness. And felt the breath catch in her throat.
‘Don’t you dare come near me. And don’t touch me,’ she added wildly, trying to wrench herself free as his hands descended on her shoulders.
‘Now you are being foolish.’ Calmly but inexorably, Raf pulled her round to face him, his brows lifting as he studied the high-necked nightgown with its demure row of pearl buttons, the long sleeves and the lace-edged collar and cuffs.
‘I see the nuns’ training has prevailed in the bedroom as well as the kitchen, cara,’ he murmured, not bothering to hide his amusement. ‘So—will you remove this grotesque garment, or would you prefer me to do so?’
‘This is revenge, isn’t it?’ she said shakily. ‘Because I had the bad taste to prefer another man and let you know it.’
‘They say revenge is sweet.’ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Perhaps, tonight, we will both discover if that is true.’
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t do this. You—you don’t really want me. You know that. And you’ve punished me enough already. So just—let me go.’
‘Without having tasted the pleasures of marriage?’ Raf said mockingly. ‘I don’t think so, my sweet wife. There are so few novelties in life, after all.’
She drew an uneven breath. ‘You’ll make me hate you.’
‘But I thought you already did, mia cara,’ he said. ‘So what have I to lose?’ He paused, fingering the collar of her nightgown. ‘Now, which of us is it to be?’ he questioned softly.
‘I’m not taking it off!’ she flared.
‘As you wish.’ As he began to unfasten the buttons, Emily made a grab for his hand, intending to sink her teeth into it.
But he was too quick for her. ‘Wildcat,’ he accused, laughing, as he captured both her wrists with one lean hand and raised them above her head so that she was helpless. ‘If you wish to bite me, Emilia mia, then I will gladly show you how and—where. But later. For now, my attention is fully occupied with these buttons, as I refuse to make love to you in this—tent.’
She stared up at him, her eyes enormous in her pale face. She said unevenly, ‘How dare you use the word “love”?’
‘What would you prefer?’ Raf asked, as the last button gave way.
‘Some Anglo-Saxon crudity?’ His shrug was cynical. ‘You will find it all means much the same thing.’
‘You are vile,’ she said passionately.
‘You would naturally think so.’
He released her wrists, but only so that he could whip her nightgown over her head with a speed and deftness that appalled her and toss it to the floor beside the bed.
She tried to pull the duvet up to her chin, but Raf forestalled her.
He said quietly, ‘No, mi amore, I wish to look at you,’ and threw back the covers so that she too was naked in the lamplight.
Emily turned her head away blindly, digging her nails into the palms of her hands.
If I don’t look at him, she thought with a kind of desperation, if I don’t see him looking at me, I can pretend that this—this isn’t happening.
And I can bear it—somehow, especially if I think about something else.
She began to count in her head and had reached twenty before he spoke again.
‘Your body is like moonlight, carissima. Lovelier even than my dreams of you.’
‘Am I supposed to be flattered?’ She still didn’t look at him.
‘You don’t wish to be told you are desirable?’ He captured her chin, turning her to face him in spite of her resistance.
‘Only by the man I love,’ she said defiantly.
The dark brows lifted. ‘Dio, you still care about him, after what he has done? You astonish me.’
‘He must have been truly desperate,’ she said. ‘You—you have no idea what it’s like to be without money. You’ve always led this pampered life, with everyone dancing to your tune.’
‘You except yourself, do you, from this ludicrous generalisation?’ The note in his voice was almost one of disdain.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I danced too—when I was fool enough to marry you—and to think I could trust you when you said you wouldn’t touch me unless I—wished it.’
His smile was wry. ‘Perhaps I thought that, in time, you might change your mind.’
‘Then you were wrong.’ She was agonisingly conscious that he was propped on an elbow, his hazel eyes still intent on her exposed body, and that she felt not only horribly embarrassed by his continued scrutiny, but vulnerable. ‘May I cover myself?’ she requested curtly.
‘No, mia bella, not yet.’
‘But it’s cold.’
He smiled at her. ‘Then move closer,’ he invited.
She bit her lip. ‘Well—at least turn out the light.’
‘Later,’ he said. ‘When it is time for us to sleep. But for now…’
He bent and found her mouth with his.
It was the first time their lips had met since that night at the Manor, when she’d gone into his arms believing he was Simon.
Now the familiarity of his kiss shocked her. Scared her too. Even after all this time she suddenly found herself remembering the taste of him—the warm subtle scent of his skin.
Above all, his gentleness.
And it seemed that nothing had changed.
His lips were light but sensuous as they caressed hers, teasing the soft contours with unhurried persuasion. At the same time, his fingertips were stroking her neck, exploring the hollow beneath her ear and lingering at the base of her throat where the pulse leapt at his touch.
Emily was aware of a strange languor starting to permeate her senses while, deep within her, she felt a faint stirring, like the flutter of a butterfly wing or the slow unfurling of a rosebud.
She heard a small cold voice in her head whisper, So this is seduction.
And knew she was in real danger here.
Because Raf was a master of the game. He’d come here for her surrender and he would be satisfied with nothing less. At the same time, he would consider this initiation of his virgin bride no real contest for him. A foregone conclusion for someone of his experience. And that, before the night was over, she would be clinging to him, begging for more.
But she would make him think again, she told herself fiercely. Because she would fight him with every weapon she possessed—using her pride, her anger and her stubborn will to subdue her emotions—and especially that first kindling of unwanted sexual awareness that she’d just encountered.
She knew she would not prevent his physical possession of her. To struggle would be useless and demeaning. But she would make sure that his was a sterile victory—devoid of the response he would regard as his right. She had boasted to herself that she was immune to him. Now she would prove it by any means available. Retreat to some part of her mind where he could not