by Holly Bush
Blake hated these occasional bouts he had with his conscience. What had started all this anyway, he wondered. He turned slowly toward Gertrude Finch.
Blake high-stepped through the crowd and shook his finger at her. “What makes you so almighty certain of yourself to judge me and my peers?” She looked at him blankly, as did Elizabeth and Anthony.
“Blake?” Anthony questioned.
Blake held his hand to his head and stared at his boots. He had been arguing with himself, silently, he knew. What possessed him to think she had answers to his questions? As if she was privy to his imaginary debate.
* * *
“I know the difference between right and wrong, that’s why. Between tits on a bull and the real thing. I know what’s important,” Gert said without hesitation. It had been exactly what she was thinking. The simpering snivelers around her had no purpose but their own amusements.
Sander’s head snapped up. He was breathing hard and pacing. Anthony and Elizabeth stared at him wide-eyed. “What’s important then?” he asked.
“Your children. Love. Courage. Fidelity,” Gert replied. “There’s more. Are you ready to hear them?”
“And you are an expert, I suppose, on these matters?” he asked.
“I am no expert. I never said I was,” she replied.
Sanders waved his hands in the air, mocking her. “No expert, you say. But you have the audacity to throw them in my face as if I know nothing of them. My children are the very reason for my existence. No one has ever called me a coward and repeated his mistake.”
“Love, fidelity?” Gert countered. “You wouldn’t know of those if they hit you square in the face.”
“Father, Miss Finch,” Melinda said as she moved from the arm of her recent dance partner. “Lower your voices. People are staring.”
Sanders dismissed her with a wave. “As if I care what this group thinks. I’m arguing with Miss American Know-It-All. The philosopher,” he said with disdain.
“Really, Blake,” Anthony insisted and motioned to the gathering crowd.
“Love and fidelity, your almighty, high-on-the-horse, bonehead! You’ve yet to explain their importance. I’m waiting,” Gert said.
“They’re not important. They only clutter up good coupling with regrets,” Sanders shouted.
A crowd had formed, and revelers peered over one another’s shoulders straining to hear. Fans covered the mocking grins of the women, and men openly gawked and pointed.
“Coupling?” Gert demanded and heard the tittering around her. “I suppose you are the expert on that subject. I’m sure there are women right here around us who could testify from personal experience whether your skill is as remarkable as you think.”
Sander’s face turned red, and his mouth twitched. Elizabeth’s intake of breath was audible.
A petite red head stepped forward. She giggled. “He’s divine, just divine.”
Lady Katherine marched through the crowd. “What’s going on? Get out of my way.”
Elaine Bentmore turned and shrugged. “The tall woman wanted to know if Sanders is as exquisite in private chambers as he is in public.” She latched onto Lady Katherine’s arm, leaning in conspiratorially. “And I told her. He’s divine.”
“That’s not what happened, Lady Katherine,” Sanders said.
“What happened then? Other than you making a spectacle of yourself,” the old woman demanded as she shook off Elaine Bentmore with a shrug.
“Lady Katherine, Sanders and I were discussing something entirely different. I’m sorry the woman mistook my meaning,” Gert said, her face burning red.
* * *
The blood cursing through Blake’s head finally slowed. He realized he had been shouting like a fool in a ballroom. The damn woman had publicly called into question something he was very sure of. But was private as well. What was it about this woman that made his good senses leave him? He could have shrugged regally and dismissed her and her words. But he hadn’t. Was there any way to save face in this crowd of vultures? Did he care? Not for himself, he supposed but for Melinda’s wide-eyed shock and the American’s obvious embarrassment. He bowed low.
“May I have this dance?” Blake asked.
Gertrude’s eyes widened. Sanders pursed his lips and tilted his head ever so slightly to Melinda.
“I’d be honored, sir.” Gertrude said and held her head high and placed her hand on his. The crowd parted as they walked to the dance floor.
They stared straight ahead without meeting each other’s eyes as they danced.
“We’ve embarrassed Melinda. I’m sorry,” she said finally.
“And you as well,” Blake said. He caught her look of disbelief. “I can see it in your face. I’m sorry for that.”
“I never in a hundred years expected anyone to reply. It was a rhetorical question, you know,” she said.
Blake shrugged. “Ah, hell, Gertrude, I did my share of baiting.”
“We must have looked like a pair of fools,” she said softly and looked up.
Blake harrumphed. “Let’s hope our retreat to the dance floor brings the attention with us.”
“And away from Melinda,” she added. “I hope your boots are thick, Sanders. I’ve stepped on your toes enough.”
Blake twirled her through the waltz, expertly and cocked his head. “Many a lady here tonight would testify to my skill on the dance floor. Do you care for a vote?”
Gertrude laughed aloud and then shuddered. “What was I thinking to pose a question like that? I didn’t even know sex could be one or the other. You know, good, or I suppose, bad.”
The subject matter, sex, her use of the word, the feel of velvet at her waist and the wide expanse of chest before him tightened the buttons across his groin. Ann had never once in all his married days ever uttered the word sex. This uninhibited woman was curious, and he admitted to himself he was drawn to her. Could he charm her?
“I have heard that there is such a thing,” Blake said. She looked at him. “Bad sex. I, of course, have never experienced it.”
“Awfully sure of your aptitude, Sanders?” She tilted her head and stifled a laugh. “The red head seems to agree. I suppose that’s in your favor.”
Blake looked in her eyes and at her face and hair. Her posturing was humorous and their arguments exhilarating. One thing to be certain, he would never be bored, with Miss Finch, Gertrude, nearby. Life would be lively and thoughtful and … and the sex would be good. The dance ended, and he escorted her to Elizabeth and Anthony. Stares followed them. Oddly, Blake did not care.
“How was the dancing?” Anthony said.
“Where’s Melinda?” Blake asked.
“She was dancing right beside you, Blake. With the Crawford viscount. Didn’t you see her?” Elizabeth said.
Blake acknowledged to himself he had seen nothing on the dance floor but the woman in his arms. “She’s fine then,” Blake said.
“A bit embarrassed, but Lady Katherine sent the crowd scurrying away with one of her looks,” Anthony said. “That woman would have frightened Napoleon. Fawcett,” Anthony added.
“Sanders, Burroughs,” the man said as he approached, bowing over Elizabeth’s hand. “Lady Elizabeth. You look wonderful this evening. Would you be so kind as to introduce me?” he said, nodding to Gertrude.
“Cameron Fawcett, Earl of Dover. Miss Gertrude Finch.”
“Mr. Fawcett.”
Fawcett’s brows rose. “An American.” He tapped his ear. “West of the Mississippi. Possibly Chicago.”
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Spent a few years in the States when I was young. Wandered about everywhere. The accents are quite distinct, you know,” Fawcett said and smiled. “Would you care to dance, Miss Finch? Or I could regale you with some silly tales of my travels over punch?”
“I would love to do either, sir,” Gertrude replied and smiled back.
Fawcett had maneuvered himself to Gertrude’s elbow. Sanders hissed in her ear. “I tho
ught you didn’t want to dance with any English fops?”
“I danced with you, didn’t I?” she whispered.
Blake grabbed her arm. “Sorry, Fawcett. Miss Finch is helping my daughter Melinda with her come-out. She’s far too busy,” he said.
“Really, Sanders.” Fawcett said dryly. “Isn’t that your daughter over there with her grandmother, Lady Katherine?”
Blake saw Melinda amidst a group of men and women, her grandmother’s hand clutching the girl’s shoulder. Before he could turn back, Fawcett had Gertrude’s hand on his arm leading her away. “Damn that man anyhow,” Blake said.
“Such language, Blake,” Anthony said. “What has you so upset?”
“We both know Fawcett’s reputation with women. For God’s sake, Anthony, he was with us on many occasions. Do something,” Blake said as he peered over other guests trying to see the dance floor.
“Gertrude Finch is well able to take care of herself,” Anthony said.
“I agree, Anthony,” Elizabeth said. “She’s very modern, you know. Anyway, what could happen on the dance floor?”
The crowd seemed to part on cue. Fawcett and Gertrude swung by. She was smiling and laughing at the dandy. “Look,” Blake said. “He’s got his bloody hands all over her.”
“Really, Blake,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve only heard you swear twice in your life and both times tonight.”
“I think it’s time we went home anyway,” Blake said. “Elizabeth is tired and Melinda need not dance with every man in London at her first ball. I’ll call for the carriages.”
Anthony looked at him. “As you wish, Blake.”
Anthony gathered wraps, and Elizabeth went to Lady Katherine and Melinda. Blake found William amongst a group of boys his own age. The son of the evening’s host went to school with William, and Blake had begrudgingly allowed William to attend. They met Melinda, Anthony and Elizabeth by the door.
“Where’s Miss Finch?” Blake asked.
Elizabeth looked up. “She’s staying.”
“What do you mean she’s staying,” Blake asked.
“Gertrude and Fawcett are telling tales about America to a growing number of guests. She seems to be quite the thing. Even with this evening’s unfortunate scene,” Anthony said. “Lady Katherine is staying with her and will bring her home in the second carriage.”
Blake spun on his heel. He found her, them, happily laughing to a large audience. “We are leaving, Miss Finch.” The crowd turned to him.
“I’ll be home shortly with Lady Katherine,” she said. “Thank you, though.”
The crowd turned back to Fawcett’s Indian story, which Gertrude was claiming he embellished. “Miss Finch. We are leaving.” Anthony was suddenly by Blake’s side.
“Come on Blake. We need no more scenes this night. Gertrude will be home when she’s ready,” Anthony said.
Anthony pulled him along, while he stared over his shoulder. In the carriage, Blake was sullen. Melinda sung along about her fabulous evening and blamed her father for cutting it short. Blake shrugged. William whispered to Anthony about seeing their host’s famous collection of nude portraits. Everyone had enjoyed themselves. But him. He had no claim on Gertrude Finch, nor did he want one. What she did was of no consequence to him. Then why could he think of nothing but Fawcett’s hands at her waist as they danced? Blake folded his arms across his chest and tapped his boot on the floor. Fawcett probably had Gertrude bent over a chair by now. Why was everyone else so calm?
Chapter Seven
Gert looked at the painting above a huge marble mantle. Cameron Fawcett had insisted she view it and that their hosts would not mind their foray into a study.
“It is remarkable,” she said and stared.
Fawcett pushed a stray strand of hair from Gert’s neck.
“As are you,” he said.
Gert looked into the man’s eyes. She knew what he intended. Sanders had looked at her the same way. Fawcett is handsome enough, she thought as he bent his head to hers. I wonder if it will be the same. His lips touched hers softly and lingered. They remained so long in the same dry position, Gert opened her eyes. This first mate was no captain to be sure. No clenching of bodies, lashing of tongues or hands roaming at will. Her third kiss was a sore disappointment. She broke away.
“I must be going,” Gert said.
Fawcett held her hand in his. “I hope I’ve not offended you. I’d like to call on you if I may.”
“I’m not offended, Cameron. I’m busy with Melinda’s come-out, but I’m sure we’ll see each other from time to time,” Gert replied.
Cameron Fawcett bowed low over her hand and escorted her to Lady Katherine.
After a quiet ride home, Gert handed her wrap to Briggs. She sang a song to herself and began up the steps. A voice behind her startled her.
“It’s after one in the morning.”
Her host was teetering about towards the staircase. “Are you drunk, Sanders?” Gert asked as she turned.
“Not at all,” Sanders replied. “I wouldn’t be anyhow if I didn’t have to wait up for you. The only thing to do was drink.” He hiccoughed.
“Go to bed,” Gert said and began up the stairs. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”
He was beside her in a flash, nearly tumbling them both down the steps as he grabbed her arms. “Did he kiss you?”
“Good Lord. Are you trying to kill us both? Did who kiss me?” Gert asked.
Sanders shook her arms. “You know who I mean. Fawcett.”
“Let me go. I don’t have to tell you anything. I’m thirty-two years old.” Sanders had no intention of releasing her, she could tell. “Yes, he did. What of it?” Gert could smell liquor on his breath and he swayed as he stood.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“I’m not going to confess anything to you. There is nothing to tell, anyway,” Gert said.
“A kiss is quite enough.”
“Not his,” Gert replied.
Sanders eyed her speculatively through red-rimmed eyes. “They were not pleasing to you?”
Gert couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with this man. She answered anyway. “Let’s just say they were not memorable. Like a dessert that doesn’t taste as good as it looks.”
He leaned close and looked at her mouth. “Forgettable, you say.”
Gert’s eyes drooped, and she licked her lips. His nose was nearly touching hers. “Easily done.”
She could no more turn away from the man, from the face and lips looming over her, than swim the ocean home. His breath was warm on her mouth. The marble foyer surrounding them was reduced to a shadowy mist.
“You’ll not forget this.” Sanders angled his mouth and claimed her.
Gert succumbed to the heat and passion of his kiss. Fawcett’s weak attempts were gone in a flash compared to the all-consuming man kissing her. His hands and mouth were everywhere, demanding everything. Just as a good pirate should.
* * *
Blake would burn the memory of Fawcett from her mind. He inhaled the scent of lemons and kissed the freckles on her nose. She was pliable, yet met his kisses with her own strength. Gertrude was no silly weak woman, tittering in his arms. She was tall and lush, and when he pulled her bottom to him, she groaned. Sweet agony these layers of clothes.
She broke away, breathing hard when his hand reached her bosom. “What are you doing?” she asked.
Blake looked down and saw his large, tan hand around a plump white breast. Could he reach around the stay to her nipple? He groaned and dropped his hand.
“I’m terribly sorry. I seem to be caught up in the moment,” Blake said, but could not drag his eyes from the breasts before him.
“Another apology, Sanders? Fawcett didn’t stick his hand down my dress or his tongue down my throat,” she hissed.
The liquor running through his blood loosened Blake’s mouth. “He better not have.” She was staring at him, slack-jawed and wide eyed. Blake straightened. “As unbelieva
ble as it is to me, I find I cannot keep my hands off of you.” She bristled. “Anyway, you admitted Fawcett’s kisses were forgettable. Mine, I know, are not. Tongue and all.”
“Of all the conceited,” Gertrude said. “Of all the arrogant comments you have made to me, that is the biggest of them all.”
“Tell me it’s not true. Look me in the eye and tell me that Fawcett’s kisses make you weak-kneed. That you weren’t imagining further than a few simple kisses just a moment ago.” Blake grabbed her arms. “Tell me they don’t drive you near insanity with the passion they generate. And tell me why, woman, why they do.”
* * *
Blake sat down in the middle of the staircase. Gertrude had run from him as if he were a specter. And why shouldn’t she he asked himself? He was sober enough to know he had spoken of himself. About his own passion and its source. He admitted to the woman to his own chagrin that he could not keep his hands off her. Why? Did she see as clearly as he that he railed not at her but at his own miserable self? Blake stood, praying for peace with sleep. But as he passed the door to her bedchamber, he could not stop himself from wondering what she was thinking and feeling. Did she sleep soundly or toss? Did she stare at the door and wonder if he would open it or wish the time away until she could escape England and return to her home?
The next morning Blake sat at his desk and held his head. He had drunk more liquor in the last month than his whole life. He stared at the papers Briggs handed him from his barrister. What nonsense did the man require to be answered now? Blake swallowed as he read. His wife was requesting he proceed with a divorce. She will marry her merchant then, he thought. Ann will happily move along and he would be left with the stigma, the questions and the loneliness. The door to his office banged against the wall. Anthony stood on the threshold, glaring.
