Merry Widows 02: Just One Of Those Flings

by Candice Hern

  She opened the package to find a beautiful gold chain. It had alternating large and small links, the larger ones finely engraved in a scroll pattern.

  "It is for your watch," he said.

  "It is lovely. How thoughtful of you, Gabriel. Thank you."

  "I would prefer to give you emeralds and sapphires, but I suspect you would not accept them from me."

  "No."

  "But I have wanted to give you something. Something to celebrate what we have together. It is not much, but you cannot reject a simple gold watch chain. No one need know it was a gift from me."

  To celebrate, not terminate. Thank heaven.

  "I will know," she said. "And I will treasure it, Gabriel. Thank you."

  She kissed him, and though it started out tender and warm, it soon grew hotter. But her blasted bonnet was in the way. Gabriel untied the ribbon at her chin and removed the bonnet, placing it on the opposite bench with his own hat. He took her in his arms again and set about ravishing her mouth. The bouncing rhythm of the carriage served to increase their passion, until Gabriel pulled away with a groan. He took her hand and placed it on his crotch.

  "You see what you do to me, Beatrice?"

  She traced the outline of his erection with her fingers, and he groaned louder. She quite literally held him in the palm of her hand. He was completely under her control. She could do anything, and was all at once giddy with her own power.

  She deftly unbuttoned the fall of his breeches and felt his body tense.

  "Beatrice?"

  "Hush. Let me please you."

  She reached inside the open flap of his breeches and pulled at his smallclothes until his erection sprang free. She ran her fingers up and down its velvety smoothness, and he threw his head back and clenched his teeth. A tiny bead of moisture escaped from the tip of his cock as she brushed it with her fingers. She bent and licked it off with her tongue. He gave a sort of growling moan, and shouted aloud when she took him completely into her mouth.

  Gabriel arched against her, thrusting his hips up and down with the rhythm of the carriage, his breath ragged and loud. She delighted in the pleasure he took from her, and she gave it gladly, enthusiastically, basking in the wonder that they could share their bodies so freely with each other. She felt his climax coming as he rocked faster and thrust deeper. Suddenly, he pushed her roughly away and jerked a silk handkerchief from his coat.

  Beatrice held him as he groaned and spilled his seed into the white silk.

  Chapter 12

  "This is where the new clock will stand," Thayne said, "against the wall behind the scaffolding." He was still a bit unsteady on his pins after what had taken place in the carriage. But Beatrice was as composed as ever, looking elegant and refined and not at all the sort of woman who would pleasure a man while driving through Holborn, or tell him afterward that he need not have resorted to the handkerchief. That was one of the things he liked best about her. Not only that she knew how to pleasure a man and did not shrink from doing so, but that she was so full of surprises.

  She certainly was not what he'd expected, though he could not say precisely what that was. Beauty and refinement, he supposed. But there was so much more to her than that. He loved her self-possession, how she knew who she was and what she wanted from life. Once again, it might have been simply a matter of maturity. He really needed to stop comparing her with all the young women he was supposed to be courting, but he could not help himself. Any one of them—Lady Emmeline Standish, Miss Fancourt, Lady Catherine Villiers, any of them—might in time mature into the kind of woman Beatrice was. But how was he to predict such a future, and would he be willing to wait?

  One thing was becoming more and more clear to him. He wanted more from Lady Somerfield than an uncomplicated affair.

  "It's lovely, Gabriel." She studied every corner of the room, which was rather grand in size for an entry—not as imposing as Doncaster House, but more so than the average town house.

  He smiled. "How can you possibly tell when everything is in such disarray?"

  "Oh, it's easy enough to see the potential of the space. I like the openness of this hall. There is so much light. It is very welcoming, while still retaining an impressive grandeur."

  "I like open spaces," he said. "I had two walls torn down—here and here. It was too dark and small before. This way, we take advantage of the windows, which were doing little good in the smaller anterooms. You will see that throughout the house I have had several walls torn down and rooms combined. I despise cramped spaces and lots of little rooms heading this way and that, like a rabbit warren. I prefer to spread out a bit. Fewer rooms, but each one more spacious. I hate to feel . . ."

  "Confined."

  "Yes." He studied her face, astonished again by her insight. "Exactly."

  "From the time we first met," she said, "I sensed that you were not a man who could be bound to a place, constrained from reaching farther. You have such a large presence, Gabriel. A small house or even a small room would never suit you. It would be too insulating, and you would be bursting to get free. I am not surprised that you have been consolidating rooms here. I suspect you will be knocking down walls all your life."

  He gazed at Beatrice in wonder for a moment. Then, without thought, he pulled her to him, battled for a moment with the brim of her bonnet, and kissed her. He didn't care that workmen were watching. He had to connect with her right then, in that moment, when she seemed to have looked straight into his soul.

  She kissed him back, but then gently extricated herself from his arms. "You should not do that," she said. "Not here." Her mouth was set in a disapproving line, but the sparkle in her eyes told him she wasn't truly angry.

  She turned away from him and studied the ceiling. "I am glad you are having the plasterwork restored. It is very fine. How will you have it painted?"

  He looked up to where the classical moldings and coffers were being brought back to life. The decoration was not at all modern in style, having been done in the middle of the last century. But he liked it well enough and thought it suited the room, so he had hired the best stucco and plaster workers to restore it here and throughout all the main rooms. "I hadn't thought about color," he said. "I assumed it would be white."

  "May I make a suggestion?"

  "Of course."

  "Introduce a subtle bit of color in the grounds. You see this acanthus pattern?" She pointed to a heavy molding around the edge of the ceiling decorated with a scroll of acanthus leaves alternating with a more elaborate floral element. "The small bits of ground, the flat areas behind the raised patterns, could be painted in the palest gray in order to set off the scrollwork. Or blue gray. Or even a pale sage green. That way the eye is more clearly drawn to the intricacy of the plasterwork. It's a subtle but effective trick."

  "I see what you mean."

  "And if you are inclined to add gilt—"

  "How did you know?" He grinned.

  "I have seen your father's house, my lord." She returned his smile. "As for the gilt, I would recommend that you use it sparingly. Allow the beauty of the plasterwork to stand on its own. Those floral bunches, for example, between the acanthus leaves— you might use gilt on the ribbon that ties them together. It would be restrained, but still elegant enough for the home of a marquess."

  He looked up at the molding and tried to imagine what she suggested, and found he liked the idea. "You have a good eye for decoration, Lady Somerfield. It shall be done. I will talk with the head plasterer tomorrow. Now, let me show you the rest of the house. I'd like your opinion on a few other matters."

  He walked toward the staircase, but she did not follow, and he turned to find her brow furrowed into a frown. He placed a hand on her arm. "What is it, Artemis?"

  "You ought not to be asking my advice, nor should I be giving it. You are to be married soon. Your bride will be the one to consult, not me."

  He stiffened and dropped his hand. "I have not yet chosen a bride."

  "Then perhaps you
should wait on some of these decisions."

  "I do not wish to wait. I want it done now so I can move in as soon as possible." He moderated his tone, which had become autocratic even to his own ears. But dammit, he did not want to think about his future bride when he was with Beatrice. And she really did have a good eye. "I would very much appreciate your advice," he said, and infused the merest hint of seduction in his tone. "My architect has merely been following my requests without suggesting alternatives. I fear I must intimidate him, but I am not so vain to think I have perfect taste. I have expensive taste, to be sure, but I am willing to entertain any recommendations to make Loughton House the best it can be."

  "Loughton House?"

  "Yes. That is our family name, you know. And I want the house to honor that name. So any advice you may have would be more than welcome. Truly."

  Beatrice reluctantly agreed, but seemed circumspect at first as he took her from room to room. Soon, though, she was offering more suggestions. Some were simple, such as the type of fabrics for the window coverings or where a mirror should be placed to add light to a room. But some were more complex, such as replacing a wall with a pillared screen, or moving a chimneypiece from one wall to another.

  More than once, he agreed with her and stated, "It shall be done." But in truth, Thayne paid more attention to Beatrice than he did to her suggestions. Her blue eyes were lit in one moment with enthusiasm for some proposed alteration, in another moment softened with admiration for the carving of an over-door or the pilasters placed between windows.

  It was as if she belonged here. She loved the house. Thayne sensed it more than merely believing her words of admiration. She loved it. She would make it a beautiful home. If it were hers.

  She caught herself more than once, and reminded him that he must save some decisions until after his marriage. But as he watched her, Thayne had a difficult time imagining anyone else in the house. Still, she was his mistress, not his wife. He must remember that.

  He left the gallery for last, one of the few rooms that did not have workmen wandering about or perched on ladders or scaffolds. They were quite alone, finally, and in his favorite place. "This is where I plan to display my sculpture collection. Some of it, anyway. I could not possibly fit it all in this room."

  Plinths and platforms were being built specifically for certain pieces. Sections of wall had been demoiished and scooped out, and niches were being installed to house other works. It was as messy as the other rooms, but here, at least, Thayne's vision was complete and unalterable. He knew precisely what he wanted.

  "I am afraid," he said, "that some people will be outraged to see such alien artwork on display. But I have developed quite a passion for it, and I want it where I can see it."

  "In hopes that others will develop an appreciation for it, too."

  He smiled at her, pleased once again at how well she understood him. "Yes, that is my hope. In fact, I have a larger plan in mind. Shall I tell you?"

  "Please."

  "I hope to build a public gallery one day where the bulk of my collection will be on display for everyone to see and appreciate. Such beautiful art should not be kept from view simply because it is unfamiliar."

  "What a splendid idea, Gabriel."

  "Do you think so?" Her praise made him feel like a schoolboy. His chest swelled with pride. How foolish that the opinion of his mistress should mean so much to him.

  "I do," Beatrice replied. "I shall be very disappointed if you do not build your gallery. You must educate the rest of us to better understand what is alien in style or in religious context. How much did you bring back with you?"

  "Over two hundred pieces."

  Her mouth gaped in astonishment. "Two hundred?"

  "And a bit more. Some are quite small, though, so as large a collection as it sounds."

  “Where do you keep it?"

  “Here. I have two temporary storerooms filled with crates.”

  “Are any unpacked?"

  "Some."

  "May I see them?"

  He gazed at her, trying to determine if she was patronizing him, but he saw only genuine interest. "I'd like to show you, if you are truly interested."

  "Of course I'm interested. Everything about you interests me, Gabriel."

  He slipped a hand around her waist. "Everything? And here I was thinking it was only my body you craved."

  She pressed herself against him. "Everything. I want to know all your passions."

  He reached down to kiss her, but the damned bonnet was in the way again. He dipped under the brim and gave her a quick kiss, then went to work on the ribbon beneath her chin. "I am tempted to forbid you ever to wear these things in my presence. They're a damnable nuisance."

  She removed the bonnet and laid it on one of the plinths along with her reticule, then walked into his arms. "A lady must always wear a bonnet in public," she said as she gazed up at him. "You cannot forbid that."

  "But this is not public. This is just you and me, alone. With no bonnet to keep us apart." He kissed her, but kept it gentle. He was not assuaging a hunger. He was savoring something precious.

  He put her away from him after a moment, and said, "Come. Let me show you a few pieces from my collection."

  He took her into one of the storerooms off the gallery. Crates were stacked everywhere. Some were open and empty, the statues unpacked and standing against one wall.

  "There is no chronological or historical logic to what you see," he said. "Most are Hindu, though some are early Buddhist. Some are perhaps two hundred years old; others are over a thousand. When I have a true gallery, I will impose some sort of order. But here, in my home, I will display a variety of pieces."

  "Your favorites."

  "Yes."

  He did not explain what any of them represented. He simply allowed her to look. She stood quite still, her gaze sweeping the room.

  "My goodness," she said at last. "I can see what drew you to them. They are so very different, so . . . earthy."

  He chuckled. "They are indeed. You see this one?" It was a large carving of one of the Apsaras, a celestial female spirit, a sort of nymph, which had once graced the outside of a temple. She wore nothing but a thin strip of fabric around her waist and a series of necklaces that hung between and over her extremely voluptuous breasts. "This is what I meant when I said you reminded me of Indian sculpture." He reached out to touch the smooth sandstone, his fingers tracing the nymph's curves as he spoke. "Full breasts, small waist, elegant flare of hip, a slight softness of belly. If this was white marble instead of weather-darkened stone, it might be you."

  She laughed merrily, and the sound reminded him again of temple bells. "I do not look like her! No human female looks like her. Those perfect round globes are an Indian man's fantasy. Breasts that size, no matter how firm, would sink to the waist on a human woman. I am pleased that I remind you of such an ideal form, but honestly, Gabriel . . ." She paused to laugh again. "You cannot tell me you have ever seen a real woman with a body like that."

  "Yours comes very close." He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her full breasts. "Very close."

  She leaned back against him, and in that moment Thayne thought he never wanted to let her go. He was falling in love with her. Had fallen.

  The realization shook him to the core for an instant, then settled upon him with ease. Nothing in his life had ever felt so right.

  "Aside from her rather spectacular body," Beatrice said, oblivious to Thayne's epiphany, "it is really a beautiful carving. There is so much movement in the lines of her body, the way one hip is cocked and one thigh slightly forward, the arm raised. Is she a dancer?"

  "Yes, she is."

  "I can see why you had to have her. And what of this pair?" She moved out of his arms to study another piece.

  He watched her with new eyes. Or eyes finally awake to what she had become to him. A part of him wanted to throw himself at her feet and pledge his eternal love, now that he recognized it for wh
at it was. The more rational part of his brain told him she would not appreciate such a declaration. Nor, in truth, was he ready to give it. Only a fool fell in love with his mistress. He would keep his feelings to himself and simply enjoy being with her, loving her.

  "This is a stone icon of Shiva and Durga from Uttar Pradesh," he said in his most pedantic, unloverlike tone. "It dates from the eleventh century."

  "Really? How extraordinary to think such . . . sensual sculpture was being created in India while our ancestors were being represented in the stiff, formal manner one sees at old churches and tombs. It truly defines the difference in our cultures, does it not? I do not know who Shiva and Durga are, but can you imagine one of our eleventh-century kings sitting like this with his queen? It is rather moving, actually, the way they sit together with their arms wrapped around each other and her leg resting on his, so natural and human. There is such an open sexuality, is there not? And yet so much affection."