Free What a Lady Requires by Ashlyn Macnamara

stretching his legs until his position was as relaxed as hers was stiff. “The same way anybody does it. We talk. Tell me about yourself. What do you enjoy doing to pass the time?”
    “I…I…” Was that a blush? Good Lord, was she about to surprise him with some secret confession?
    “Be honest now. I can’t imagine you concern yourself with the typical feminine frivolities. You can tell me you enjoy riding down matrons in a phaeton and I will not judge you.”
    “I do the books.”
    Good Lord. His disappointment with that statement made him regret finishing his drink so quickly. He could have used the burn of brandy to warm himself up. “I see, but what do you do for pleasure?”
    He deliberately drew out the last word. Any society lady would have taken up the flirtation.
    Not Emma. She merely blinked. “I just told you. I do the books.”
    “And you take pleasure in that?”
    She leaned forward, and her expression lightened. “There is nothing better than creating order from chaos, than taking columns of disparate figures and making sense of them, of working at the numbers until they balance and everything is neat and tidy, arranged all in rows.”
    Good God, she was serious. Her spectacles magnified her eyes, emphasizing their purplish spark. He studied the line of her neck, elongated like the very column of figures she was waxing poetic over. She wore her chestnut tresses high and twisted into a tight plaited knot minus the loose curls most women left at the sides to soften the effect. Neat and tidy, indeed. Not a single hair out of alignment.
    Even so, he searched for the pins that secured her coiffure, his fingers itching to pull a few. And what would she do if he taught her how passion could undo a woman? Leave her stripped bare, in a tangle of sheets, gasping and begging for more. Yes, physical love was a very messy thing, indeed.
    The thought stretched his lips into a grin, one he’d used in the past to win ladies’ affections. He’d been told it held the perfect hint of wickedness. “Do you mean to imply you’d never allow yourself to become disheveled? We must work on that. It would be a pity to neglect that aspect of your education.”
    If he didn’t miss his guess, she thawed somewhat at that. A spark flashed through her eyes, gone the next moment. It could be nothing but intrigue. Oh, yes, the project might take some determination on his part, but he’d have her soft and responding under him yet. Never let it be said he backed away from a challenge.
    Before Emma could reply, a footman padded in. “This was just delivered for you, miss—er, ma’am.”
    “Oh?” She looked awfully surprised to receive what could only be a note of felicitations.
    She took the paper from the salver and unfolded it. As her eyes scanned the message, any color Rowan had managed to put in her cheeks drained away.
    Was it more than a polite note on the occasion of her marriage? Her damnable aunt had approached him just before the ceremony and suggested he ought to keep an eye on his wife. The warning had contained enough cryptic hints that he’d written it off as maliciousness. If the woman had explicit evidence against her niece, surely she would have come out with the bald facts. But now he was no longer sure.
    “Watch her correspondence,” the harridan had said.
    Well, here was a bit of correspondence, and the news wasn’t good, seemingly.
    “What is it, darling?”
    Emma didn’t even flinch at the endearment. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
    But as she tucked the paper into her bodice, her fingers were trembling.

Chapter Seven
    Emma drew a brush through her hair, hardly noting any discomfort when the bristles caught on a snarl. Clad in nothing but a night rail and dressing gown, she’d long since dismissed her maid. At any moment, Battencliffe might come through the door that connected their bedchambers, but her mind was elsewhere.
    Ever since she’d received that dratted message, Mr. Hendricks had