by Jackie Ivie
“There’s a summer porch around here somewhere. It’s…a gazebo thing Mother had built. God damn it! It’s not that hard to find!”
“We’re not going…to my room?”
“Hell no. I’m not waiting another bloody minute. You?”
She shook her head.
“There it is, thank God!”
Helene glimpsed a railing, a soft cushion, and then Gil covering her with a smothering weight.
“Oh Helene. Love. Sweeting. How much I’ve longed for this! Seeing my Brandy...blast and damn this dress! Where does it fasten?”
“Hooks?”
“Not what. Where?”
His lips tormented, while his fingers slid along her spine.
“The...side.”
“Side. Oh.”
His hands were instantly beneath her arm, his fingers slipping hooks free more deftly than any lady s maid.
“Brandy. Love....”
The rest of it was murmured against her throat as he eased her arms out of the dress. And Helene helped him, feeling night air that cooled and yet stimulated.
“A corset? You’ve got a bloody corset on?”
He fumbled with the lacing before cursing more as he lifted from her.
“Yes.”
“You’ve not the least need for one, Madame. I’ll thank you cease wearing them. It’s the least you can do for your husband, isn’t it?”
“I...I think I can get it off, Gillian.”
“No time, damn it! I’m ready to burst here, and you’re bound into some medieval contraption!”
She giggled, but it didn’t make a sound, because his lips found hers, silencing everything but moans. And groans. And grunts. She felt him fumbling with his trousers, before shoving at his jacket.
“Ah, Helene. Almost there, darling. Ah…love.”
He was beneath her skirts, shoving aside her starched petticoat, and then stopped when he came to the fine linen drawers under it all.
“I’m warning you now, Helene. I’ll give your bloody maid her walking papers if she ever puts so much clothing in my way again! Ah, Brandy. Love.”
She felt his erection against her thigh through her underthings and instinctively pulsed into it. Him. Sliding her loins along it. And Gil started shaking, making the structure beneath them rattle with it.
“All I want in this world is to be buried as far as I can in your sweet flesh…and you’ve got to wear an entire damned closet!”
He panted through the words, his fingers causing all sorts of sensation as he caressed her through cloth.
“Rip it, Gillian!”
“But—”
“Rip it, or I will!”
More cursing, then the material gave. Heat and rigidity and an amazing amount of heat immediately touched her, and then pain. Fire. Scorch.
“Gillian! Wait!”
“Ah, Brandy love. You’re so tight. So blasted small. Forgive me, darling. I can’t wait. I can’t…oh love!”
“You’re too big. Gil!”
He caught her cry with his mouth, sucking and licking and sending all sorts of sensations that helped mitigate the pain. And Helene helped, clinging to his lips as he arched his back, shoving even deeper.
Why does it hurt? Sherry never said anything about such pain.
“Wrap your legs about me, sweet. We’ll ease it a bit that way. Come on, love.”
His mouth slid along her chin and sucked on her throat after giving his instructions. He was giving her too many sensations, in too many places, in all sorts of degrees. The lips at her throat shot sensation to her breasts, while numbness overtook the pain as he rocked rhythmically within her.
And she started matching it. Pacing with him. Thrilling to it.
“That’s it, love. Move with me now. That’s it.”
His caressing tone filled her ears, helping change the numbness to a flurry of ever-building wonder. A roar started, filling her mind and ears with the crashing of waves. And still he rocked within her, his hands helping move her, then something changed.
“Yes, Brandy, love! Yes. Yes, darling.”
She barely heard him through a rush of sensation that sparked to life within her, and started building. Intensifying. Escalating. Orchestrated by each thrust of his body into hers. Again. More. Harder. His movements hardened simultaneous with his breathing, while she clung, matching him gasp for gasp as he pummeled his body into hers.
Then she did something so obscene, she almost stiffened at the memory—she made the same little moaning noises she’d damned Sherry for, like little pleas for Gil to continue.
He did, thrusting so hard and rapidly that she was sucked into the yawning chasm of wonder that opened up for her. Her mouth opened to suck for air, and keen out the cry while her heart beat within her breast like a caged thing. Ecstasy flashed through her, sent in lightning pulses, emanating from where they were joined to encompass every bit of her. Oh my! Oh heaven!
Someone should have told her about this part.
“Oh, Brandy! Love!”
The words were guttural. Deep. Harsh. They matched his movements as he pummeled his body into hers. The bench beneath them rocked with it. Creaking and groaning with a flurry of movements. Harder. Stronger. Faster.
And then he pushed up, arched his head back, while the deepest, longest cry came from him. His entire frame went solid. Tight. Heavy. His heart hammered viciously against her. And his loins pulsed with powerful surges against her that moved them along the bench.
And then he dropped, his body still twitching in non-rhythmic motions. Helene wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she could, amazed at warmth that filled her heart, while peace claimed her soul.
“I love you, Gillian,” she whispered, smoothing a lock of hair back from his brow.
His body shuddered again.
“And I you, darling.”
Tears fell from her eyes, skittering into her ears, but she ignored them. He might not remember a thing the next day, but she would. As the most cherished of memories. The beauty of it vibrated through her, encasing her, warming her.
And if this was all she ever had. It might actually be enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Well? Did it work?”
Gil ignored the question and continued surveying the street outside his townhouse. It was a bachelor’s residence. Nothing much devoted to frippery and nonsense. He’d have Helene handle that, once they relocated to here. But not for some time. The season was nearly over, and Reg was here more often than Gil, anyway. He couldn’t see turning him out. Of course, if Reg continued to abuse his host’s good nature with pointed questions, continuing hospitality would be the least of his issues.
“Must you be so closed-mouthed about it? I’m of a mind to go visit Helene and ascertain it for myself.”
“You’re not to approach her, Reg! Why the hell do you think I’m staying absent?”
“I’ve no notion. If you’d been listening to me, you would’ve known that. All I know is that you returned to the ball after an unconscionably lengthy absence with your wife, and then turned the entire thing upside down with an impromptu piano concert. Not that it wasn’t the most moving concert of the year, mind you – that’s why we gave you several ovations – but it was a trifle difficult to dance to.”
“I’m beginning to think I don’t like you, Lord Dunston.”
“You’re awkward this morning, Gillian. And close-mouthed. And I’ve a bet riding on this.”
“You bet...on what?” He didn’t say it loudly, but anger still permeated the question.
“The success of your plot, of course.”
“Reginald, you’ll be tossed out very quickly if you so much as breathed a word!” He slammed his fist into the window ledge.
“The wager is registered at White’s, dear boy, and don’t go getting all het up. I’m not that big a dolt. I merely bet Runyon that you’d be welcoming an heir within one year, that’s all.”
“Why would he take you up on that? I’ve a c
ertain reputation, after all.”
“How should I know? He merely asked me last week if I had any intimate knowledge of your marriage.”
“He what?” Gil glared at the teeming street and realized he was shaking.
“He’s a bit out of sorts about this Helen thing, and I’d never have taken him up on it, except, he, well, insulted you. I had little choice.”
“I’m still not answering your question, Reg. I don’t care what’s riding on it. You shouldn’t be so stupid.”
“Stupid, am I? With the way you eye her? Fustian! If she didn’t succumb to your wiles last eve, well, I’ve got almost twelve months left to collect, haven’t I?”
“I’ve nothing to say on the matter,” Gil replied tightly.
“You mean I acted the part of a sot for nothing, after wasting an entire bottle of fine whiskey to practically bathe in? And you call me stupid?”
Gil turned, eyeing his friend with distaste, and then he narrowed his eyes. “Can you get any more information from the Binghams?”
“After asking doltish questions for over an hour already? You must think I’ve the patience of a saint.”
“Can you or can’t you?”
“You’ll place your stable at my disposal again?”
“And my purse.”
“Fair enough. You’ve got your man. What should I ask for this time?”
“The same questions, but couldn’t you try a chambermaid this time?”
“Thank you so much, Lord Tremayne. I may be on my last shilling, but I’ve never stooped to chambermaids. If I did, I daresay return invitations to any residence wouldn’t be forthcoming. Laws, it took all my persuasive abilities last time just to see Lady Bingham. I’m not ready to do that again for a chambermaid.”
“I don’t mean to bed her, Reg, unless that’s how you get your information. Then again…a maid would be easier on the eyes than Lady Bingham.”
“You’re too insulting for words.” Reg opened his snuff can and inhaled a tiny portion.
“And you’re not?”
“I’m simply interested in your peace of mind. While I did try to warn you of the pitfalls of your plan, you insisted. Whatever did you do with your lady, anyway?”
Reginald dusted snuff from his sleeve as if he uninterested in the answer. It was a pose, and not a very good one.
“I need you to get information for me, Reg, nothing else. Someone in this entire affair is lying. There’s got to be a reason. I need to find out what it is. Don’t fail me.”
“I’d best go pack for a bit of a journey, then.” Reg twisted his face into a hopeless gesture.
“Good man.”
Gil turned back to the window. He heard the door shut behind him. He didn’t want to tell anyone anything. The situation was too unbelievable. His own reaction should’ve told him that…and what was he supposed to do with a crying woman in his arms? Admit he’d lied about his drunken state? Beg her forgiveness? She’d probably stick a blade through him if she even suspected.
Damn. He almost wished for Reg’s company again. At least Gil wouldn’t have to watch unseeingly out the window, while continually cursing his own stupidity.
He’d been so sure she’d respond if she thought him foxed. She might not reject him out of hand. It might be just like that aborted session from the hunting cottage. He’d been right about that portion of it. But what happened next exceeded everything. Making love to his wife had been the most perfect experience of his life.
Gil closed his eyes and tipped his forehead to the glass.
She’d been a virgin. Oh, Lord. And he had to act like it was nothing to have his entire world upended? He pretended to be too drunk to notice the difference between a tart and a maid. He hadn’t been able to think, either. Nothing on his body obeyed. He took her without enough preparation, deflowering her as if it meant little when everything on him had been astonished. Impressed. Awed.
She was probably still cursing him. And afterwards, she’d been crying. He’d helped her refasten her clothing and tried to smooth out the worst wrinkles, but it hadn’t worked. And his hands had been shaking the entire time.
He thanked the fates for his aunt. Gillian had carried Helene back toward the house, inventing a dozen plausible stories for his wife’s state. He could say footpads attacked them from the mews, or the poor girl tripped, and Gil, being so drunk, did more damage than good.
His breath would be wasted. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be instantly interpreted as the obvious, especially after his performance on the dance floor.
He’d reached the library window before Lady Bridget caught up with him, and he almost kissed her in gratitude. She’d been laughing, but he forgave her for it. He probably was amusing as he tried the lock while holding Helene with his other arm.
‘The doors work best, Gillian.”
“Bridget!” He’d jumped, and his voice was so high-pitched, he’d sounded almost feminine.
“In the abundant flesh. I suppose Helene likes this mode of transportation?”
“Lady Bridget?”
Helene lifted her head from his shoulder. It was obvious she’d been crying. And Bridget immediately assumed the worst. Her voice projected every bit of it.
“What have you done, Gillian Bartholomew Tremayne?”
Bother. Bridget only used that tone and his full name when she was especially irritated with him.
“Um. Yes. Well. I’ve uh…been taking your advice.”
He’d set Helene on her feet but didn’t let go. It was too special. Too precious. And she might never let him hold her again, especially if she found out.
He refused to think of that. He’d felt as if he’d inhaled a bottle of French champagne, and it was bubbling up his nose. He’d been far too happy to spoil it with negative thoughts.
Bridget nearly gave them away as she laughed aloud. Then she’d smacked his shoulder with her fan. He was getting decidedly annoyed with fans.
“Give her to me, Gillian. I’ve decided my old bones aren’t up to staying late at your mother’s festivity, after all. I’ve asked Helene to my abode for a stay. Go now, Boy. Tell your guests what’s happened…but spend some time fastening yourself correctly. Your jacket’s rather skewed.”
He rarely blushed. This time was one of them.
He didn’t even remember routing the musicians. For all he knew, they could’ve been in the middle of a dance number, but he couldn’t contain it. He had to express it somehow. Immediately. He hadn’t meant to play for two hours, either, but they kept asking for encore after encore, so he must’ve entertained sufficiently.
The euphoria hadn’t lasted. Hell…it was gone when he woke up. How could he have come up with such a plot and not thought through the consequences?
How in blazes was he supposed to approach her now? She might act like it hadn’t happened. What on earth should he do then? Gil watched a chaise tooling before his gates, not bothering to name the crest the coach displayed. Because an answer occurred to him. One that might work. He’d take a page from Brandy. He could conveniently remember bits and pieces of their time in the gazebo.
And there wouldn’t be a damned thing his wife could do about it.
***
“Oh, how could I have been so wanton?” Helene cried. “So horribly loose with my charms?”
“Now, Helene, dear. Please. You’ll be upsetting my household again if you insist on another bout of tears. See? There you go already.”
The manservant who’d entered the parlor turned on his heels and left much quicker than he’d entered, shutting the door behind him.
“I’ll never be able to face him!” Helene wadded a wet handkerchief in her hands.
“Oh, come along, love. He is your husband. That can’t possibly be termed loose, and I’m almost green with envy when you call it wanton. I couldn’t describe anything I did with my dear husband, Dexter, even close to that.”
“But he doesn’t want to be!” Helene mopped her face with the useles
s material.
“I’ll have another handkerchief fetched, dear, although I’ll need to get more pressed at the rate you’re using them. I’ll have you know Gillian is male enough to want to. Lord Almighty, girl. You should know. You were there!”
“I don’t mean that.” Helene knew she was as red as the sofa. “I mean he doesn’t want to be my husband, and I...I told him I love him! Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid?”
“You told him you love him?”
“Yes!”
“What did he say to that?”
“I don’t remember! I’ve been wracking my brains and it’s not clear. It was probably something light-hearted and silly, but he was being that all eve. He was foxed! He’d been drinking all evening just so he could be near me. Don’t you understand?”
“Bully. What I can’t understand is how two sensible people can act such idiots. And I’ll have you know that boy was not drunk.”
“He was.”
“Helene. I spoke with him afterward, remember? And I most certainly know when that boy’s foxed.”
“He had to be! Otherwise, he’d never—uh. He wouldn’t—well…you see…he was still upset at me over his bath.” Helene turned even redder.
“I have the feeling this will be a rather long story. Yes?”
Helene nodded and dabbed at her cheeks, using the cloth to cool them this time.
“In that case, I’ll take my libation a bit early today. You heard me, Mrs. Wright. And you’d best bring two glasses.”
“Mrs. Wright?” Helene looked up.
“That’s right, Mum.” The woman bobbed a curtsy and smiled. “I’d a hankering for town life, and Lady Bridget offered. So here I am.”
“I have great luck with my help, Helene. I’ll tell you my secret, too. I steal them.” Bridget leaned forward and tapped Helene’s knee with her fan.
“Go away with you!” Mrs. Wright laughed as she left.
“So speak up, Helene. You wish to wait for my cordial or start your story? I’m rather intrigued about this bath you mentioned. Come along, girl. I’m all ears.”
“Well…Gillian meant to punish me for the accident in the park.”
