by Holly Bush
Blake came around the table in a huff. “Absolutely not.”
She pulled her hands under her arms and lifted her elbows. “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”
“I forbid it. Sit down and enough of this foolishness,” he shouted.
Gertrude threw back her head. “Cock-a-doodle-do.”
William giggled, and his father flashed him a frown. “Sit down, I say. I won’t have a lunatic prancing around my dining room, spouting nonsense,” he shouted.
She dropped her arms. “Really, Sanders. It’s what you subject us to night after night.” Gertrude nodded to Melinda. “Come to my room later. We’ll discuss your education.”
Blake sputtered and shouted empty threats as Gertrude sailed out the door. He turned to those left at the table. Elizabeth’s hand covered her mouth. William and Melinda would not look at him.
Anthony stared. “Well done, Wexford.”
“She’s a madwoman run wild, I say.” Everyone stood to leave. “She tries to make me the fool,” he said to their backs.
Anthony turned. “No, you do that very well on your own.”
Blake stood outside of Gertrude’s door, his hand lifted to knock fully prepared to argue until midnight if necessary. Was that crying he heard? “Gertrude? No need for sniffles behind closed doors.” She opened the door. “I thought I heard you crying.” He looked at her eyes. “Must have been mistaken.”
“It’s not me. It’s your daughter,” she replied.
“Melinda?” Blake peeked around Gertrude’s shoulder.
“Go away. She needs to cry this out.”
Blake bristled. “I will not. She’s my daughter.”
“Go away,” Melinda said. Gertrude closed the door.
“Melinda? Can you hear me? Open the door, please.” Blake waited and the door parted a crack. “Why are you crying?” Melinda walked away from the open door and sat down on the bed beside Gertrude.
Gertrude pushed the blonde hair out of the girl’s eyes. “Your father’s talking to you. Isn’t that what you want?”
“He thinks I’m capable of nothing more than organizing sheets and tea service. And giving him heirs,” Melinda replied and stared out the window.
Blake shook his head. His daughter’s words wilted him. “No, that’s not true.”
Melinda nodded her head, spilling tears down her cheeks. “Yes, it is. William’s the heir to carry your title. Donald’s the baby, so you don’t care about him yet. And I’m … I’m the one to be obedient and useless.”
“Why would you think that, Melinda? You are my beautiful, golden girl. I adore you,” Blake said, a knot in his throat.
Melinda looked at Gertrude. “I told you. Has nothing to do with what I think or feel. Only what I look like and whose son I can snare.”
“Did you put these abominable ideas in her head?” Blake asked.
Melinda jumped up. Her lip trembled. “You don’t even think I can form my own thoughts. Miss Finch has nothing to do with this. She said you love me.”
“Of course, I love you,” Blake said, hands splayed.
Melinda shouted and cried. “Then why don’t you know anything about me? About what I want? Because you’ve had it all planned since my birth. I tell you I won’t marry right now. I may never marry.” Melinda dissolved into Gertrude’s arms.
Blake was afraid, truly afraid. Had he never given Melinda her due? Did she think so little of herself and her place in his life? The picture of Melinda at six running to him and smearing his face with wet kisses came into his head. Where had that little girl gone? How could she question his love? Was she lost to him, so like Ann, to his horses and mistresses and society?
“I know more about you than you think. I know you like hot cocoa first thing. And prefer violets even though you always told your mother her roses were better.” Melinda looked up to him. “I know you’re smart enough to outwit William at his war games, although you often let him win. And you read silly books about knights and ladies waiting in castles.” The girl smiled softly and looked away. Blake looked down at his hands and back slowly to Melinda’s face. “Even if I don’t say it often, I think you are clever and witty and far more capable than I ever was at your age. If you feel you should wait awhile before marriage, I’m sure you have good reason.”
“Do you mean it, Father?” Melinda’s tears ran down her face in sheets.
Blake nodded.
Melinda threw herself into his arms. “I love you so much.”
“There, there, poppet.” Blake squeezed her tight. “I love you, too.”
“I want to talk to Lady Elizabeth, Father,” Melinda said as kissed his cheek.
Melinda hurried from the room with a light step. Leaving Blake and Gertrude facing each other.
“What I would have given to have my father talk to me as you just did with Melinda,” Gertrude said.
Blake clasped his hands together behind his back. “Obviously I’ve not done it enough.”
“She’ll cherish this talk forever.”
Blake looked at Gertrude. She had forced him to do what needed done years ago. He had loosened the tight fist of English tradition and its hold on his family. He had yet to decide whether this of freedom he granted Melinda frightened or exhilarated him. “Come with us this weekend to the house party at Morgan’s,” he said to Gertrude.
She nodded and smiled. “Alright.”
Chapter Eight
The intimate gathering at the home of Stewart Morgan was not as Gert imagined. At least fifty guests, including Cameron Fawcett, were lodged in the sprawling mansion. A ride was planned the first morning, and Gert dug through her trunk for her split riding skirt. She donned it over her calf-colored boots, buttoned a crisp white shirt and placed her flat-brimmed hat on her head. The loose string tie hung at her neck. Whatever had prompted Gert to bring the outfit, she didn’t know, but she was glad she had it, and was determined to enjoy riding one of the beautiful stock from the Morgan stable. And this was how it was done in America, she said to herself and tilted her head at the reflection of the mirror.
Gert heard a knock and Elizabeth and Melinda came into her room. “We could hardly decide which door was yours in this labyrinth of hallways,” Elizabeth said. Her words trailed away as she looked at Gertrude.
“I feared we’d walk in on our host and see him in his drawers,” Melinda said with a muffled giggle. “What an interesting outfit, Miss Finch. Is this what you ride in at home?”
Gert nodded. “Will I embarrass you two?”
Elizabeth circled her, examining the skirt. “It’s saucy to be sure. Blake will be beside himself.”
“I wish I had one just like it,” Melinda said. “Look at this silly little hat of mine compared to yours.”
Gert looked at Melinda’s blue velvet riding habit. The short jacket fit snugly over a full skirt with a matching hat. The feathers dipped attractively over the girl’s face. A froth of white lace was exposed at her neck. She was like a picture from a book.
“Your outfit is beautiful, Melinda. But I don’t ride sidesaddle. Aren’t you riding, Elizabeth?” Gert asked as she pulled on her calf gloves.
Elizabeth shrugged. “Anthony won’t let me. Afraid I’ll fall. Truth be told, I’m glad. I hate horses.”
Gert laughed. “Well, I can hardly wait. Let’s go pick our mounts, Melinda.”
They walked down the steps arm in arm with Elizabeth trailing behind. Conversation ceased. Every eye was on Gert. Cameron Fawcett stepped forward.
“What do the Americans call these outfits? Duds, that’s it. You look spectacular, Miss Finch,” Cameron said and offered his arm. The rest of the crowd murmured but followed close behind to the stables. Cameron Fawcett led them to the mounting block where Sanders stood with the head groom.
“I’ve picked horses for you both,” Sanders said as he looked at Gertrude up, and then down.
Melinda placed her hand in the groom’s as he helped her mount.
“I’ll pick my own, thank you,” Gert said a
s she walked by the calm chestnut-colored horse, towards the stables.
“Miss Finch,” Sanders shouted and followed. He whispered when he approached. “What are you wearing?”
“What I ride in at home,” she said as she walked from stall to stall. “Fine animals your friend keeps.” She turned to a groom. “Would you saddle this one for me? No, not a side saddle.”
“That animal is far too strong for you too control,” Sanders said. “Choose another.” He turned to the groom. “She’ll take a sidesaddle.”
The groom looked from Gertrude’s shaking head to Sander’s stern face. He picked out a sidesaddle.
“Oh, never mind,” Gert said and pushed past him. “I’ll saddle him myself.”
Blake stood beside her describing disasters she would befall, all the while pointing a finger her way. She saddled the horse, led him from the stable, turned the stirrup and pulled herself up. Blake continued his chatter when she kneed the mount and shouted “yaw.” Gert burst past sedate riders and her hat flew to her back held by the string tie. The wind whipped at her face as she let the animal hit a full run. The horizon of trees flew past, and she leaned close over the neck of the horse. Gert pulled up as they approached a low stonewall. The stallion took it with ease and she blinked back tears. She hadn’t realized how much she missed home until then. Gert reined in under a stand of trees to admire the countryside. It was beautiful and well-manicured. But not like home. There was no wild primitive landscape here. Even the fox they were to hunt had been let out of a cage. Other riders joined her.
“Remarkable seat you keep, Miss Finch,” Cameron Fawcett said.
Sanders nearly ran her down, and her horse sidestepped and snorted.
“Get control of your mount, Sanders,” she shouted.
“You’re the one in dire need of control, madam,” he said. “You ride like a demon.”
Gert smiled broadly. “I’ve been riding for years.”
“Would you care to meet me by the lake, Miss Finch,” Fawcett asked with a wry smile.
“Last one there is a ninny,” Gert shouted as she kneed the horse, leaving Sanders and Anthony watching.
The weekend dragged by for Gert. She studiously avoided Sanders and spent as much time on the back of a horse as possible. Because she had nothing to add to the clusters of women’s conversations after dinner, Gert retired early. She knew nothing of fashion or protocol, nor could care less about gossip, especially about people she had never heard of. Mentally, she was already sailing to the States.
Gert sat in her nightclothes by the window of her room and stared through the polished glass. It had been a grand adventure, to be sure. She had met relatives she didn’t know she had and liked them. The Sanders children were engaging and lively. Hopefully they understood the privilege they accepted as their due by birth and the constraints that privilege brought. There would be no enlightening revelation by their father, of course. Gert slouched back in the overstuffed chair and thought about Blake Sanders. In her wildest dreams she had never imagined a man as handsome as he, kissing her. She laughed at herself. She could imagine no man kissing her. It would with all likelihood never happen again. Gert pulled her robe around herself and blew out a breath. As much as she hated to admit it, she would miss the anticipation of Blake’s kisses.
After the very first time, she found her mind wandering often to when he would take her by the arms and kiss her with the wild abandon he did. It was nothing to him, for sure. But to her, ah, to her it was the fulfillment of a dream buried deep. She could imagine him looking into her eyes with love, as he broke away, rattled from their embrace. Looking at her, “yes,” she said aloud as she sat up straight in her chair, Gertrude Finch, with affection and possessive desire. She would be the object of that man’s deepest passion, the match to his soul and keeper of his faith in dreams.
Gert sighed and wilted back against the flowered chintz. Elizabeth was right. She was a hopeless romantic. Caught in a tall body with a sharp tongue honed to keep men away. For a man such as Blake Sanders would never hold her, love her and be her mate. She had chosen her life. Her passion, the liberation of women enslaved by money, power and … love. Her ship sailed on Tuesday. She would return to the women who needed her. To Uncle Fred and the hands where she was comfortably ignored. She would return to her speeches and causes and the land she loved. And she would tuck away her memories, pulling them out and reliving them as she watched the sun set over the ranch.
Gert knelt to pray then, not for safe passage or the health of her loved ones. She did not beg God to keep poor women safe or for hungry children to know a full plate. She prayed instead, to her own mortification, to remember visibly, tacitly, the feel of Blake Sanders’s mouth upon hers.
She tossed and turned for an hour, dancing pirates whirling through her head. Every time her eyes drifted closed, she felt the wash of Blake’s breath on her cheek and the strength of his grip on her arm. She had prayed fervently to never forget the feel of Blake Sanders. Maybe God played a grim joke on her – never allowing another sensible thought to filter through her brain. But sleep came finally, if not rest.
* * *
Gertrude had retired early and quietly both nights at the Morgan’s. Blake watched her slink away. She had made herself scarce to him and rode like a she-devil when she thought no one watched. It was for the best that she left. For Blake knew he was nearly at the end of his rope. If he didn’t bed a woman soon, he would explode. He shifted and straightened himself behind a potted palm. Even the thought of sex made him rock hard. What a deplorable situation he found himself in. No wife, no mistress all the while a piece of his anatomy begged for solace. He closed his eyes and envisioned his Aunt Constance’s whiskers. Tried to hear her shrill voice and pick up the scent of soured soup that he associated with her. It had always done the trick in the past. One thought of his father’s sister and the gray, stiff hairs protruding from her ears had wilted any unwanted desire. The ears he imagined now were hairless and pink. Small and holding back volumes of hair under a flat-brimmed hat. The smell of roses hit his nose, and he opened his eyes. Elaine Bentmore stared up at him and fluttered her lashes.
“If you need anything, Your Grace. Anything at all,” Elaine tittered. “I’ll do my best to help.” She ran a tongue over her lips and a painted nail over her breast and dropped her gaze to his crotch. “Third hallway on the right. Past the portrait of the dogs. Up the staircase, turn left.” She paused and blinked. “The second door on the right.”
Elaine would do most certainly, Blake thought. Willing, and he remembered, very able.
Elaine turned away to look at him over her shoulder. From his boots to the top of his head. Her eyes dropped demurely. “At midnight.”
Blake could have rubbed his hands together with glee. The trick in these cases was to remain sober enough to do the deed and be soused enough to not hear any of the woman’s drivel. Ah, yes, he said to himself as he lightly made his way around the room, nearly whistling. Where’s the whiskey?
An hour and a half later, Blake felt sure he tottered suitably on the peak of not smashed and a drunken fool. Anthony eyed his smug smile, but Blake would give no particulars. No one here needed to know the months it had been since he bedded a woman. Only to have his needs engorged further with the damn American. Kissing him anywhere it suited her, Blake thought to himself, and stumbled over the edge of the carpet. Kissing him and bouncing those magnificent, large, white breasts, nearly under his nose. Quite a light skirt, he thought, actually. The room began to spin, and Blake put his drink down. Still confident in his manhood but wholly deaf in his mind to Elaine Bentmore’s silly talk. Now what were those directions, he asked himself at the bottom of the staircase.
Blake wandered the Morgan home looking for a portrait. As in every titular home in England, there were hundreds. He peered and wobbled as he looked at another. Blake jumped back with a start. Damn ugliest woman he had ever seen stared back from the canvas. He grimaced and hoped his manhood wou
ld prevail. If Blake didn’t get himself between a woman’s legs tonight, he surely would be able to identify every one of Morgan’s relations. Blake chuckled and the sound reverberated down the deserted hallway and turned at the sound of his laughter. Ah, here’s a staircase. Up he went and turned right. Second door on the left. Yes, he remembered dear old Elaine’s instructions now.
Blake undid his cravat as he inched open the door. The little tease was under the blankets! Probably imagining him sucking her skin dry, he said to himself as he pulled off his boots. Waiting for me to spread her legs he thought and growled aloud as he worked himself into a frenzy and out of his tight pants hopping around on one foot in the darkness. He lifted the blanket and stretched out beside her.
Had Elaine grown taller? Ah, well. Her back was to him, and he fit one hand between her arm and her side, reaching for a breast. Oh, yes, he cried to himself as her nipple hardened against his palm. He didn’t remember Elaine’s breasts filling his hand to overflow like this but was enjoying himself all the same. She groaned from deep within, and Blake buried his face in her hair. Burrowing through, hunting for a neck, an ear. Any naked flesh. Elaine Bentmore in a flannel nightgown? Ah well, he would have it off her soon enough.
Blake ground his hips against a round, lush bottom. He filled the small ear with his tongue, and she arched back against him. Slowly he lifted the nightgown and let his hands run their course over long silky legs. She turned to him as his hand skimmed her stomach and lower. Blake’s mouth was on hers then. He kissed her fast and slow, languishing and then burning to have her, gently but soon consumed with passion and she came alive under his mouth. Returning his kisses with moans and surrender. He rolled atop her. Pushing himself at her, feeling her yield, impatient and out of his mind with hunger. Vaguely a thought filtered through his muddled brain. He didn’t recall Elaine’s hands burning his flesh as they did now drifting down his back. Nor gifting him with such a passionate response such as this. He could swear he smelled lemons. The scent was driving him mad. He was long past the ability to speculate on why.
