The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance)

by Jenn LeBlanc

  “Yes, well. Perhaps it’s not love then, but merely lust.” Perry drew the last word across his tongue as he considered. “I must travel to Eildon Hill,” he said, hitting the arm of the chair.

  “No! You’ll arrive at Eildon soon enough. The last thing I need is a pompous ass trouncing around the manor, declaring his ill-gotten knowledge to everyone. Besides, there is no audience, so you would find it discouraging.”

  Perry smiled. “True, I do prefer to flaunt your misdeeds in front of others, when it benefits me.”

  Actually, to his benefit, Perry had never undermined his authority. He was a jovial man who was audacious and entertaining, but his honesty always managed to land on the mark. Gideon needed him. He needed, right now, his opinion.

  “Perry.”

  “Yes?” he replied carefully, feeling the tension coursing from Gideon.

  “How much do you remember of Mother?” Gideon stood and leaned against the mantel.

  Perry grew silent, then set his snifter aside and stood before his brother. “Is that what has you panicked?”

  Gideon added a warning note to his gaze so Perry understood he would not tolerate any glibness.

  Perry cleared his throat. “Gideon. You suffered much more than I when we were young. You protected me from much of the reality and didn’t speak on the circumstances thenceforth. I’m not sure that I’m able to aid you with anything you must feel about our mother. What I do remember of her is that she was the very light and air to me. The embodiment of love and spirit.”

  Gideon searched his brother’s green eyes earnestly and knew his words were genuine. “Yes, she was that,” he agreed, choking on the last word. He cleared his throat. “Do you remember the end?” he whispered, looking away.

  “No, Gideon. I only know what others tried to explain, which wasn’t much to a seven-year-old boy. I understand that she was ill and had to be taken away, but her illness didn’t show itself to me—at least not in ways I could understand at the time. To me, her illness manifested itself as a playmate, someone I related to easily. Beyond that, well, I’ve no idea.”

  “You were well protected.”

  “I was…by you.”

  “Yes, I—I still do not know whether that was in your favor or not.”

  “I believe it was. And I would have it no other way, other than to share your burden, to ease your pain in any way I would have been able,” Perry said.

  The corner of Gideon’s mouth turned up slightly in acknowledgment before he went on. “She was very truly ill. I only wish there was something else I could have done.” They had never spoken of her. Not like this. The only words shared previously between them before were inconsequential.

  “You were twelve. What could you possibly have done?” Perry examined him, then his spine straightened. “Wait— Is that what this girl is? An attempt at redemption?”

  “No!” Gideon argued, then paused to consider. “Maybe. I don’t honestly know. All I know is that I cannot relegate another person to that fate. I know that after our mother was taken to Bedlam, she was never the same and— Well, and she never did come home,” he finished quietly.

  Perry looked into Gideon’s eyes, wishing only that his offer to share the burden could somehow be managed. He studied his brother; he was slightly taller with traces of worry and age in his face, but beyond that they could have been twins. Perry knew his sometimes flippant and irreverent humor toward life was as unlike Gideon’s singular intensity as any perspective could be, and it was because of their divided experiences as boys.

  Perry placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders, giving him a stout shake and forcing him to meet his eyes. “This isn’t the same,” he said. “In this instance, in this moment, in this place, you have to judge the situation without regard for the past. If she is a danger to you or anyone else—including herself—then something must be done. You cannot expect poor Westy to handle her if she’s a loon.”

  Gideon’s eyes blazed momentarily before Perry tightened the grip on his shoulders and continued. “Listen to me, just hear me out,” he said. “It doesn’t sound like that’s the case. She may be flighty, but she doesn’t seem to be unhinged, and I trust that Westy would ably judge her state before allowing this woman to remain in your home. You know how much that old woman loves you,” he finished with a wink and a weak attempt at lightening the mood.

  Gideon looked at the floor. Mrs. Weston was the strong sensible mother to him that his own mother was never able to be. When his mother was taken and father irreparably broken, Mrs. Weston served in her stead. He trusted her, probably just as much as he trusted Perry.

  Perry cocked a wicked grin. “So, tell me more about these ankles that have you all ensorcelled.” He waved one hand about and winked.

  Gideon laughed and knocked his hand away, downing the rest of his brandy. “Not tonight, you irreverent rake. I have traveled far too long. I’m going to sleep.”

  “Fine. Tomorrow, then. We’ll break our fast at six-thirty, shall we?” Perry didn’t wait for a response, shouting for Sanders as he walked confidently toward the door.

  Gideon shook his head, knowing full well there was no avoiding his beloved brother now that he’d come to London. But then the entire point of his trip was to see him. To attempt to gain some insight into his current predicament. His intention upon leaving Eildon may have been to get away, but somewhere in his mind he knew why he was coming here. Placing the snifters on the sideboard, Gideon went directly to his bedchamber, a weight lifted.

  Meggie was in a terrible way after Stapleton read the missive from Dr. Walcott. Francine heard her weeping in the garden after Mrs. Weston set Francine up for tea on the back terrace, and she went to find her. It took a while for Meggie to calm down enough to speak, but after a bit of silent pleading on Francine’s part she told her what had happened to her sister. Francine sat with her, holding her hand and comforting her until she quieted.

  Mrs. Weston found them on the bench before the labyrinth and quietly watched Francine’s attentions as Meggie sobbed. Francine held the poor girl’s shaking frame to her as though, if she let Meggie go, she would fall to pieces on the lawn around her.

  When Mrs. Weston walked over to them Meggie stood abruptly, holding out the communication Dr. Walcott had sent.

  “Oh my, we must get you home, Meggie. Come, I’ll have Davis ready one of His Grace’s carriages.”

  “Oh no, ma’am, I cannot! If His Grace were to find out—”

  “If His Grace were to find out I sent you home afoot, he would have my neck stretched. Davis will take you so you can tend to your family straight away.”

  Meggie whimpered nervously and turned to follow Mrs. Weston. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Francine followed as far as the table on the terrace. She felt horrible for Meggie, and for her sister. From the letter, she wasn’t sure if she should pray for a recovery or a quick end. It just didn’t seem like something anyone would wish to recover from, or suffer through.

  Her stomach turned. She sat back and drew her knees up, holding back tears for the girl she knew, and for the one she didn’t. Her mind turned to her own situation. What was she doing here? She suddenly felt very lost and alone and didn’t know if her life up to the accident had been the dream or the reality. Unfortunately, she had a great deal of time on her hands lately, and it was time she truly considered what was happening.

  She certainly felt as though she was present where she was. Of course, if it wasn’t a dream that left only the improbable as an option: it meant her father’s journals weren’t lunatic ramblings. It meant the unnamed lineage in her father’s journals was her own. It meant she had taken the place of one of her ancestors.

  Francine supped in her room even though she was presentable enough for the dining room. If her foray into the garden the other night had upset the duke so greatly that it sent him away, she wasn’t willing to push any more boundaries regardless that Mrs. Weston said it would be acceptable. He was right; she didn’t know
the first thing about manners here. Wherever here was, she was going to have to relearn how to behave. How had it come to be that her foremost thought was to please him—or was it more to avoid his ire?

  She pecked at her dismal supper for a while before giving up and heading for the only other room he had ever allowed her to enter, the library. She poked and prodded around the bookshelves, looking for a hidden gem. She wandered past the drafting table and spied a few old books in the corner. She pulled them out and shuffled through them. The Girl’s Own Book, Children’s Manners and Morals, and Ladies’ Book of Etiquette: Fashion and Manual of Politeness.

  She thumbed through the books, thinking about how these titles would compare to more current titles like Skinny Bitch or My Horizontal Life. She shook her head—“current” wasn’t exactly the correct term. She decided the Cliff’s Notes on etiquette might come in handy and she settled on the third book, then headed to her suite where Mrs. Weston would have her evening cup of tea and a warm compress for her throat.

  She hadn’t spoken all day and didn’t want to tempt fate because she was feeling better. Logically, though it was painful, she knew she’d merely strained her vocal chords, probably from screaming. It was certainly worse than when she screamed her way through the last U2 concert, and they seemed to get so worked up every time she opened her mouth, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to allow them this primitive care.

  She wanted to be able to speak, to apologize to the duke for her behavior, to explain that it hadn’t been Mrs. Weston’s fault that she was out in the garden. She wanted to tell him— What? Everything. She wanted desperately to tell him everything; how her parents died, why she didn’t speak French, how much she would appreciate a comfortable t-shirt and a pair of underwear. God. Underwear. She’d never felt this need to communicate with anyone since her parents were killed. Tonight, though, she wanted some peace. Her mind, body, and soul were overtaxed.

  “Gideon,” Francine said, awakened by the weight of his knee parting her legs and pressing her into the soft, thick mattress beneath. “You’ve come back,” she whispered.

  “I have,” he said, the words rumbling forth. “Say it again,” he commanded, his hands on either side of her head as he lowered himself over her, favoring her with slow, sweeping kisses.

  “Gideon,” she breathed into him as he took advantage, allowing his tongue to taste her, then search her depths.

  He broke from her, igniting the skin on her cheek with the edge of his teeth.

  “Gideon,” she cried as he slid his mouth down her chin to her throat. The sensations sunk past her senses and into the channels of her heartbeat. He slowly parted his lips over her pulse, touching the tremor with his tongue and sucking. He kissed his way beneath her chin, her head falling back as he lifted her to his mouth. She melted, the fire in her veins flooding her chest, setting it alight.

  Her moan was a low guttural sound that escaped her before she could capture it, and the vibration against his lips stoked his passion. Her hands fluttered, then came to his broad shoulders as he gathered her nightgown to her hip, skimming across her naked flesh. The heat of his fingertips burned as his hand slid from her thigh to hip, then to the steady rise of her breast.

  His mouth returned to hers, brushing her, warming her, preparing her, nipping and licking and tasting until she yielded to him fully and he took, sweeping, plunging, surging and driving her.

  He spread his fingers at her nape, curving her smooth, white neck toward his mouth. Lifting her from the pillow, he let her hair spread between his fingers as his other hand searched her soft curves and circled her nipple with his thumb.

  She arched into his chest when he sat back on his knees, pulling her onto his lap. He took advantage of her squeal to cover her mouth and reach deep within, then placed heated kisses on the outline of her lips. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed, spreading her thighs and draping her over his lap, letting her warmth stroke his erection as she moved.

  She could feel the strength of his passion pulsing against her, and she slowly, cautiously started moving, feeling the intensity of his kiss rising with the intensity of his need. She threw her head back, her hands tangled in his hair.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist like iron shackles then felt her tense as he moved his hands up, holding her shoulders and pulling her against his rigid strength. She cried out and he teased her nipples through her gown with his teeth.

  “Your Grace,” she said.

  “Say my name,” he responded with a moan, pulling her hard against him.

  “Your Grace!” she said more sternly.

  He looked up at her questioningly.

  “Lord Trumbull has arrived, Your Grace,” she said, frowning down into his face.

  “The— Who?” he asked, confused.

  “Your brother, Your Grace.” The lips were hers, but the voice was Ferry’s.

  Gideon’s hands fell to his sides as Francine dissolved before his eyes and he found himself lying naked and alone in his bed, tangled in his sheets with a painful cockstand.

  “Bloody hell!” Gideon yelled, twisting himself further in the sheet that barely covered his naked form.

  Ferry finished laying out his clothes and filled the basin next to the bed with hot water. “I’ll be outside, Your Grace.”

  Gideon grunted his reply, not wanting to move.

  Perry had hardly slept after leaving his brother’s town house the previous day. Waking before dawn, unable to spend another minute in bed, he bathed and dressed, taking as much time as he could to avoid being too early.

  Gideon had found a girl who rendered him insensible. After all the years of his brother taking care of him, their mother, and ultimately their sire and the business of the dukedom, Gideon deserved this bit of happiness.

  Perry’s only concern was where she’d come from; they knew naught but her name. No matter, he thought, if she isn’t marriageable, Rox can certainly take her as a mistress. He left his own town house which was smaller and not at all prominent on the square as Roxleigh House. That they held two properties in this exclusive bit of London said as much as their joined titles. He arrived at his brother’s just as the sun peeked over the horizon behind him, earlier than warranted, but the servants were certainly up and he could wait.

  He stood at the entrance, smiling up at Sanders‘ disgruntled gaze. If he hadn’t known the man for years, he would certainly be filled with terror at the glare dispatched against him. Sanders stood as tall as both he and Gideon, if not slightly taller, and held an ominous countenance, his long wrinkly face perched atop the tall, lanky figure like a pebble precariously balanced on a toothpick.

  “Lord Trumbull,” he drawled, opening the door wide.

  “Sanders, old boy! Beautiful day, is it not?” He walked into the entry.

  “Is’t? I wasn’t aware we had ended the night—as of yet,” Sanders said, clearly enunciating each word.

  Perry laughed at the irreverence, handing off his greatcoat and hat. “Wake my slumbering brother, won’t you? There is much to be done, for he must return to Eildon Hill as soon as possible.”

  “Truly?” Sanders asked, with one stiff, bushy eyebrow raised. “I understood His Grace to be staying in residence for several days.”

  “Oh no, no, no. We will be off as soon as Sunday, if I have any say.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Sanders strode smoothly from the entrance, leaving Perry to find himself a place to hover until Gideon awakened. He walked to the breakfast room, where a footman was preparing a pot of coffee. They soon heard what sounded like a captured tiger upstairs.

  The well-trained footman’s eyes widened, but he showed no other outward sign that he had heard anything. Perry simply smiled to himself as he settled at the table and the footman rushed over with a cup.

  “Milk and sugar, thank you.”

  Gideon groaned, then rolled over in the bed and growled. Then he let out a veritable roar and kicked his way out of the tangle of sheets around his legs. He sat at th
e edge of the bed, trying to remember the last time he’d had such a vivid dream. He couldn’t, not like this. He could still feel her silky skin across him, the very scent of her caught in his breath. He shivered.

  “Ferry!” he boomed, as he looked down at his naked body. The door opened swiftly.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Cold water,” Gideon bit out.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The door closed and Gideon fell back to the bed.

  Moments later, Ferry returned with an ewer of cold water that he left next to the basin. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” he asked.

  “My brother.”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “My brother is to be drawn and quartered. Please inform him directly.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Ferry closed the door and went down to the ground floor to notify Lord Trumbull of his pending execution.

  Perry laughed heartily at the news.

  “That is fantastic! I must have interrupted him with a woman,” he pondered aloud, glancing at Ferry.

  Ferry gave no quarter.

  Perry threw his head back and laughed again.

  Ferry left the younger man to his musings and returned to attend His Grace.

  He stood outside the door until he heard his name. Roxleigh sat with a warm towel over his face to soften his night beard. “Lord Trumbull is in the breakfast room,” Ferry said as he walked to the dresser and prepared the spicy soap His Grace used for his shave. “He is aware of the sentence and appears to look forward to the execution.”

  “He would,” Gideon said curtly.

  Francine tossed in her dream, the sheets wrapped around her ankles and her nightgown twisted around her thighs. She gasped and bolted upright in the bed, almost slipping off to the floor in the tangled sheets.

  Mrs. Weston woke with a start. “Miss Francine, are you all right?” she asked, tottering over to her.

  Francine nodded, her face flushing wildly.

  “Oh miss, have you taken a chill? You are a might bit flushed. Let me fetch some cool water.”