The Earl Claims His Wife

by Cathy Maxwell

  “I do like you,” Gillian said. She sounded offended that he would doubt the fact.

  But that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted something more. He wanted something Gillian obviously wasn’t going to ever be able to give him.

  “I’ll need to find a valet,” he said, changing the subject. “Then perhaps I’ll have decent starch in my neck cloths again.” He shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was speaking of such mundane matters. Everything he’d thought he could accomplish, every goal he’d set seemed to have turned to dust. He really had believed Gillian would stay with him.

  And he dealt with his shattered expectations by talking about starch and neck cloths.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Gillian, I’m going upstairs for a moment.”

  “Dinner will be served soon,” she said as if uncertain he would return.

  Brian attempted a smile. It didn’t feel comfortable on his face. “I’ll be down then.”

  He escaped.

  Something was wrong with Brian. He wouldn’t look at her and Gillian didn’t know why.

  He didn’t return downstairs until Kate took the baby up for bed. Over dinner, his spirits seemed to have improved slightly or perhaps he was behaving that way to relieve her suspicions.

  Kate’s sister Alice and Ruby, the scullery maid, had done an admirable job of finishing the dinner preparations and the service was excellent. Of course, with Mrs. Vickery being asked to leave, everyone would be on their best behavior.

  “I mentioned earlier I saw Lord Liverpool today,” Brian said shortly after they’d sat down at the table. “He said he and his wife would be honored to come for dinner.”

  Gillian grabbed hold of the topic of conversation and gradually, the tension she’d sensed from him began to ease. She promised to pay a call on Lady Liverpool on the morrow and personally deliver the dinner invitation.

  “You may not be able to pay calls tomorrow if the weather is bad,” he said as if he, too, was willing to force conversation.

  “You said you thought it would snow?”

  “It may be already.”

  Gillian left her half-finished meal and rose from the table. She opened the heavy drapes to peer out. A full moon cast a silver light over every flat surface on the street outside. “You are right. It will snow. Already the world is hushing down.”

  “Hushing down?”

  She smiled at him over her shoulder. He sat with his wine glass in hand, so incredibly handsome in the golden glow of candlelight it stole her breath. His good looks were enhanced by her knowledge of his character. She’d made the right choice between Brian and Andres.

  “Hushing is my word,” she explained. “I started using it when I was very young for those times when there is a stillness in the air. It’s as if the world is preparing for what is to come, whether it is a storm or a harvest or snow. Everything seems to hush.” She raised her fingers to feel the coldness of the windowpane. “And during a hushing, anything is possible. Like magic.”

  “Magic?” Brian laughed. “Are wishes granted?”

  “Not that I know of,” she admitted. “But they could be.”

  “Then what would be your wish during this time of ‘hushing’?” he challenged.

  Gillian decided to take him seriously. She thought a moment, looking around the room—and then discovered something. “I have nothing to wish for,” she said quietly. “I am happy.”

  “With what?” he wondered.

  “Everything. This house that I didn’t think I would like so much is becoming a home. My home. Then there is Anthony. He’s the sweetest child. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished here…and what we will accomplish.”

  He sat forward, setting his empty wine glass on the table. “And what is that, Gillian? What do you see for us?”

  His soft emphasis on the word “us” brought her focus to him.

  She leaned back against the curtains, one hand holding the thick material for support. She wasn’t certain how she wanted to answer that question.

  And a part of her wanted him to take the first step.

  For a long moment they faced each other. Gillian wanted to speak, and couldn’t. She had no idea what she would say. What she felt, what she wanted had not fully formed into words yet—and the risk of saying the wrong thing was very great.

  Brian broke the spell between them first. He shook his head. “That was unfair. I shouldn’t have asked.” He pushed his chair away from the table and came to his feet. “Perhaps there is only so much magic one can expect during a hushing. I’m up to bed. Are you ready?”

  Gillian, too, found it easier to retreat.

  “I will be in a moment. I need to have a few words with Alice and Kate about the morning.”

  “Kate has already brought up Anthony’s pap if that is a concern,” he said. They were having a mixture of goat’s milk and porridge prepared each night for Anthony, although the baby had been sleeping for a good, steady six hours at a stretch and not waking for it. Gillian had also started him on mashed foods like peas and stewed dried apples.

  “I need to leave instructions for breakfast,” she said.

  He nodded. “Well, then, good night.”

  “Yes, good night,” she echoed.

  Brian seemed to hesitate a moment. She waited, wanting more from him. He smiled, and then left the room…and she was alone.

  Gillian sank into her chair at the table. For a long moment, she watched the reflection of the flickering candles on the table in the window panes. She had no one to blame for the state of affairs between herself and Brian but herself. He, who usually did exactly as he desired, was being respectful of the boundaries she’d established.

  It was almost as if he’d let her go. He wasn’t even waiting for the end of the thirty days.

  As she sat in dark contemplation, snow began to fall. Small flakes at first that grew larger and heavier with each passing moment. An indescribable sadness settled over her. She fought it off by diverting herself with responsibilities.

  Down in the kitchen, Kate, Alice, and Ruby were rightfully proud of the dinner they’d served. Kate spoke up and let Gillian know that for the past week, it had been Alice who had been doing the cooking, not Mrs. Vickery.

  “Are you saying you’d like the position of cook?” Gillian asked.

  Alice, the shyer of the sisters, nodded.

  Gillian debated for a moment. Their guests would expect wonderful food. The current rage was for French chefs but they cost a fortune. The meals Alice had been preparing had been simple but well seasoned.

  “I shall give it some thought,” Gillian conceded. “Let us talk in the morning.” She gave the young women their instructions for breakfast and then, taking a candle, went in search of her bed.

  Upstairs, the door to the nursery was closed. Gillian hesitated a moment in front of it. She could hear no sound of movement. She had no choice but to walk to her room.

  When she’d been up earlier, she’d left the drapes pulled back. Now she watched the huge, damp snowflakes falling from the sky, hushing all sounds except the beating of her heart. The snowy light bathed her room in a silvery blue. It was the kind of night one wanted to spend cozying up under the covers.

  On a night like this, one didn’t want to be alone.

  Gillian looked at her huge, empty bed. The covers had been turned down and a warming pan placed beneath them—but the bed looked cold. Lonely.

  It was the time of the “hushing,” when the world seemed ready for anything to happen.

  This was her home. It had taken years to arrive here but now she knew, it was where she belonged.

  And Brian was her husband.

  She’d held back, fearful he would steal her heart—and he’d done so anyway.

  Did pride matter any longer? She’d made her choice when she’d written Andres. If she was going to stay with Brian, she must be a wife to him in every way.

  She wanted to be a wife to him in every way.

  Gillian turned, threw op
en the door—and was startled to see Brian standing there. He wore his breeches and nothing else.

  He was as surprised to see her as she him.

  They stared at each other. Words Gillian could have said stuck in her throat.

  And then he solved the problem of communication by reaching for her, pulling her to him, and bringing his lips down over hers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brian hadn’t been able to sleep. Not with the letter Gillian had written to her lover down in his desk. He didn’t need to read it. His imagination was having a fine time toying with all the possible things she could be saying to that silver-eyed Spanish bastard.

  Over the past few weeks, she had become more precious to him than gold. She’d proven herself a helpmate. She’d honored him with the grace of her presence—and he wasn’t going to let her go. Not without a fight.

  And because he couldn’t sleep, because he’d heard her footsteps out in the hall…because it was what she called the “hushing” when anything could happen, he’d risen from his bed and come after her.

  Now, here she was in his arms.

  It was his dream come to life and Brian had no desire to wake.

  He kissed Gillian fully and deeply and she kissed him back, all but melting into his arms. He could have drowned in that kiss. Instead, he swung her up, kicked the door shut, and carried her to the bed.

  Gillian’s hands came down on his shoulders. “Help me undress,” she whispered.

  Brian could have groaned with the pleasure of hearing those words. Setting her on her feet, he tore at the laces of her dress while he nibbled at her throat, kissed her ears, her eyes, her nose. His fingers became tangled and she laughingly grabbed his hands and pulled them forward.

  “Let me.”

  He wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly until she gently pushed him down onto the bed. She removed the pins from her hair so that it fell in a shining curtain around her shoulders. Brian reached out to capture a lock of it but she stepped back, smiling at him.

  She reached behind her back and quickly untied the laces that had been eluding him. She pulled the dress down over her shoulders. Whatever shyness Gillian had once possessed had disappeared.

  Was it wrong to want a woman this much?

  Every muscle, every fiber of his being was tense with desire.

  She slipped the straps of her chemise down over her shoulders, revealing first one bare breast and then another. Bold, firm, luscious…Brian could hold back no longer. He had to touch her. Coming up on the mattress, he greedily placed his hand over one as his lips sought hers.

  He drew her back onto the mattress on top of him. After that, undressing was a speedy business, and once they were both gloriously naked, Brian didn’t waste time making love to his wife.

  Did it matter that she loved another? Not if he could convince her to love him more.

  She was so graceful, so lovely, so giving. She met him stroke for stroke. He whispered all the things he feared saying in the daylight. He told her she was beautiful, that he worshipped her, that he needed her.

  And she replied in kind, their words growing lost in their kisses.

  He did not tell her he loved her. He showed instead, taking his time, deepening each stroke, watching the expressions on her face and experiencing her pleasure as his own.

  She repeated his name, her fingers stroking his skin, his hair—

  Her body tightened. She held him. Her legs came up around his waist. She gasped. Her arms hugged him close and he rode with her through the first turbulent, wonderful moments before thrusting himself deep and hard and finding his release. It was like being struck by lightning or being touched by the hand of God.

  A sense of peace, of completion settled over Brian. This was where he belonged, where he wanted to be. He was with this woman, heart and soul.

  Slowly, the world came back to what it was.

  He reached for the bed covers and flipped them over their naked bodies. He cradled her close.

  She smiled, a lazy, satisfied-as-a-cat-in-cream smile. Her hand stroked up and down his arm. Her eyes were shining in the dark.

  Brian pressed his lips to her forehead. “Is this the magic of a hushing?”

  “It’s better,” she answered and stretched herself out alongside him. “We do this well, don’t we?”

  “Very well,” he agreed. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips.

  She turned toward him. They were nose-to-nose, their bodies intertwined beneath the covers.

  “Why did you come to me?” she asked.

  Was now the time to speak what was in his heart? Did he dare?

  And then he thought of the letter.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he answered. “And there is nothing better to do on a snowy evening than make love.”

  Her eyes searched his. He could feel the questions in her mind. Could she read his as well?

  “Is that all?” she asked, her voice edged with disappointment. “Did you really come to my room for lust alone?”

  “I came out of desire, Gillian. There is a difference.”

  “And what is that difference?” she prodded. “Explain to me because I know no other than you.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Lust drives all of us. But desire…” He rolled her over to his side. “Desire means that we don’t want anyone other than the one we hold. It means only one person can satisfy us. One person we hold dear.”

  “And am I that person?” she asked.

  Brian thought of the letter, of all the ways he could answer her that protected him—and said, “Yes.”

  “You no longer think of Jess?”

  He had to laugh then. “Gillian, Gillian, Gillian—since you and I clashed in Holburn’s stable yard, you have consumed all my thoughts and all my actions. I meant those vows I traded with you in the coach.”

  Her gaze lowered to his chest. She snuggled against him. “Good,” she whispered.

  And it was enough.

  They made love again. This time, Brian took all the time in the world. He loved every inch of her, saying with his lips, his fingers, and even his toes, what he dared not speak aloud. He didn’t quit until she was begging for release.

  They did not leave the room the next day. London was covered with fresh, downy snow. It was not the sort of day to pay calls. And so, they stayed inside, enjoying their household, playing with the baby, and spending another night making love. He was beginning to know her body better than his own. Gillian was as unselfish in bed as she was in life, and for a span of time, he could pretend there was no world other than the one of their own making.

  Gillian didn’t speak of leaving.

  He didn’t mention the subject.

  Gillian didn’t say she loved him.

  He didn’t ask.

  All too soon they had to join the rest of the world. The snow covering the streets melted under the traffic of thousands of horses, of carts, of stomping feet. There was shopping that had to be done and arrangements to be made for the dinner parties they had lazed in bed and planned.

  While Gillian saw to the house, Brian made his rounds again of White’s and the War Office. He renewed more acquaintances and pressed his desire for a position on Liverpool’s staff.

  Knowing now that his own father had been gossiping about him, he made a point of being everything good a gentleman and officer should be.

  Later, he returned home to find the silver salver by the front door full of calling cards and invitations. Brian discovered that a married man received different invitations than a single one did.

  Before, when Gillian wasn’t around and few seemed aware of her existence, he’d been invited to balls. Now, the invitations were for dinner parties and more private affairs. That was good. He was anxious for all of London to meet the beautiful woman he’d married. In that way, he’d stake his claim.

  Handing his hat and coat to the new maid, he walked into the sitting room and calle
d out his wife’s name. Kate was the one who answered him. She held Anthony as she came down the stairs. As always, the baby reached for Brian who took him up in his arms.

  “Lady Wright isn’t here, my lord,” Kate said. “She is out making calls. The house has been so busy with visitors coming and going and then she must respond. It makes me dizzy to think about it. She should be back shortly. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I’m fine,” Brian said. “Let me keep Anthony for a bit.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Kate said. “I’ll be up in the nursery tending to a few things. Call me when you wish me to take him back.”

  Brian nodded and she left.

  “Come on, my fine man,” he said to Anthony, whose face at the moment did resemble that of an old man beneath his head full of black, stick straight hair. “Let me write down a few of my thoughts from this afternoon.” He spread a blanket on the floor before the hearth the way he’d seen Gillian do and placed the baby on his belly in the middle.

  Anthony immediately lifted his head and looked around, his bright eyes a far cry from the defeated child of several weeks ago.

  “When you do that, you remind me of a turtle,” Brian said to his son. Anthony grinned at him and Brian was surprised to see a little white tooth. He’d not noticed it before.

  “Every day you change,” Brian said in admiration and crossed to the desk for writing paper.

  It was a testimony to how intensely he and Gillian had been involved with each other that Brian had actually forgotten about the letter she’d written to Ramigio—until he pulled out the desk drawer and saw it missing.

  He studied that empty space and thought about the woman who had slept so contentedly and peacefully in his arms that morning.

  Perhaps she had torn it up. Certainly she wouldn’t have mailed it.

  Brian wanted to trust her. He told himself he did.

  Still, a short while later when Kate came to take the baby, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Did Lady Wright post that letter? The one to Huntleigh.”

  God, he hated himself for being so weak as to ask.

  “To Huntleigh, my lord? Yes, she posted one a few days ago. I delivered it to the mail myself.”