A great stone hearth dominated the single room. From a rack above it hung pots and pans and a big, blackened kettle. A table and a couple of shabby chintz armchairs stood at right angles to the hearth, and a small bed huddled in the corner. Everything was faded, but the cottage was neat and airy, the floor swept clean of dust.
Gemma turned to Sebastian, a question on her lips.
“I came here to get away from him,” he said.
She stripped off her gloves and lowered herself onto the bunk, never taking her eyes from his. “Tell me.”
Exhaling a long breath, Sebastian sat on a tattered armchair and leaned forward, clasping his hands together between his knees. A tangle of dark hair skimmed over his brow.
He stared at his hands. “This was my old nurse’s cottage. I used to come here to escape. She always took me in, though she could have lost her pension and this cottage for her pains. Eventually, she did lose them.” He looked up at her. “What a selfish young cub I was, Gemma. I endangered her by being here and yet I could not stay away.”
“What happened?”
“The earl found me. If it had been one of the servants, they would have lied for her. But he found me, and that was the end of it.”
Gemma’s heart clenched to hear Sebastian speak of his father as “the earl.” “What happened?”
“He evicted her on the spot. I had concocted some tale explaining my presence, but he brushed me off like a speck of dust from his sleeve. He sent her away with only the clothes on her back. I never saw her again. He made sure of that. No one dared tell me where she was, and when I grew old enough to make my own enquiries, I discovered she’d died in a workhouse.”
Gemma’s eyes pricked with tears. “Poor little boy.”
“No. Don’t feel sorry for me, Gemma. It was my fault.”
“Oh, Scovy, you were a little boy. How could it have been your fault? What had you done to make the earl so angry?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. I did not have to do anything to incur his wrath. At the time, I thought he hated me. Looking back, I think he was merely irrational and a bully— perhaps a little mad.” His eyelids flickered and he drew a ragged breath. “My mother had given me a volume of poetry. Pope, you know.”
Gemma waited for more. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would that make him angry with you?”
Sebastian shook his head. “As I said, he was irrational. He never paid any heed to me at all when we were small. Andrew was the heir. Fanny and I were nothing. But as I grew older, he seemed to become resentful of my very existence. He took all of his resentment out on my hide. And when I turned to my mother for help, she sent me away.”
“Perhaps she thought it best,” said Gemma softly.
There was a long pause while he looked down at his hands. Then he met her gaze and his dark eyes burned with loss and anger. “I would have suffered a thousand beatings, just to know she loved me.”
“Oh, Scovy.” Gemma knelt before him and reached up to touch his cheek. “She does love you. I know it. She always did.”
He clasped her hand and held it. “It’s too late, Gemma.”
“It can’t be. While you both still live, it can never be too late.”
“It is too late for Andy. He will never come back.”
Bewildered, Gemma stammered, “But your brother’s death was an accident.”
Sebastian’s grip on her hand tightened painfully. “No. Andy killed himself. He left me a note.”
Shocked, she searched his face, and the raw pain in his eyes was too much for her to bear. Her tears spilled over and rolled down her cheek. He wiped them away with his thumb and made a pathetic effort to laugh. “Don’t cry, princess. You weren’t to know.”
He reached for her then, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world when he drew her onto his lap and into his arms. He stroked her hair with a tenderness that made her throat ache, as if she were the one who needed comforting. And his strong, masculine warmth was a comfort. He smelled clean and fresh, with a faint, pleasant hint of hops.
“Why did he do it?” she whispered.
The hand stroking her hair stilled. At first, she thought he would not answer, then his voice spoke softly to the night.
“My brother was a sensitive youth. We did not have much in common growing up. The fact that my father favoured him made me keep my distance, and in later times I saw him rarely. He was at home with tutors, while I was sent away to school. But there was a bond between us, nevertheless.”
He shifted, gently pressing Gemma’s head to rest on his shoulder. She settled against him, and felt the words vibrate in his chest.
“I should have realised what a strain it was for him to always please my father. I should have realised it was too much—the weight of responsibility, of the earl’s ridiculously high expectations. He was determined to groom Andy to be the next earl, but he was impossible to please. If Andy showed eagerness, he was accused of wishing my father dead so he could step into his shoes. If he displayed indifference, the earl harangued him for his poor attitude. Laidley and his position here obsessed my father. He would have taken them to the grave with him if he could.”
She looked up. “Is that what the note said?”
Sebastian leaned his head back against the chair. She watched the ripple in his throat as he swallowed. “He wrote that he would never be good enough. That he despaired, and could not go on.”
“And when Andy died, the earl turned to you.”
Sebastian gave a hard laugh. “Yes, but by that time, I was old enough to tell the old fellow to go to hell. Saving your presence, princess.”
Gemma remained silent. She saw it all now, the reason Sebastian despised his position at Laidley. His father’s obsession had driven his brother to his death. The business had given Sebastian only unpleasant memories of his home and a supreme reluctance to take up the duties his father prized so highly—prized above life itself.
Sebastian cleared his throat and pulled away a little. “I vowed at Andy’s graveside that I would never marry, never continue our father’s precious line, never fulfil his overweening ambition by taking an interest in the estate. But I realised tonight that I have not been hurting my father by failing in my duty. The only ones I hurt were Wilks, my people, and perhaps myself. Andy would not have wanted that.”
He fell silent for a moment. “You were right about Wilks. I must make up to his family for my neglect. And Gemma, I’d be grateful for your advice about the estate.” His hold on her tightened. “I would rather not do this alone.”
She marvelled at the courage it must have taken to admit that to her and ask for her help. Slowly, she said, “You do not have to do things his way, you know. Just be the kind of landlord you want to be. Change will take time, but it will be worth it in the end.”
She smiled up at him and stroked his cheek. “I am so glad, Scovy.”
He stared deep into her eyes, and when their lips met, the kiss seemed inevitable, overpowering, endless. She sank into him and his arms tightened around her, and still she could not get close enough to all that hard, masculine strength. His tongue stroked into her mouth and she tangled hers with it, drunk on his intoxicating heat.
With fumbling fingers, he loosed the strings of her cloak and smoothed it away. His hand slipped over her breast and she gasped, and the gasp turned into a long, low moan of pleasure. A faint, inner voice said this was wrong, an outrage to convention and morality, but she ignored it. Her conscience had no place here tonight.
“Gemma, please,” Sebastian whispered against her lips. She had no clear idea what he wanted, but she kissed him hungrily and rode the deep dark wave of sensation. His fingers stroked and squeezed one tight nipple until she grew mindless with need. Just as she thought she couldn’t bear any more, his hand slipped down her waist, down beneath her skirts, and skimmed up her stockinged calf to trace the garter above her knee.
The heat spread low in her belly, and lower, and thrills from his fingertips b
rushing her thigh shot straight to her loins. “Oh, what are you doing to me?”
“Gemma, let me. Say yes.”
“Oh! Yes.”
His fingers circled higher and his mouth drifted lower, and a hot current ran between them. His lips trailed down her throat and skimmed above the line of flesh along her bodice, making her shiver with desire.
He raised his head and murmured hot words into her neck. “Gemma. Open your legs for me.”
Utterly shameless, throbbing with need, she opened to him, and he teased the throb to a pound and shimmer and rush. There was a hiatus, where it seemed she floated on a cloud of rapture, and then a storm of hot sensation took her, wrenched and shook her, overwhelmed her in shudders and gasps.
As she sank back to earth, he gripped her face between his hands and kissed her fiercely. As if he, and not she, had just touched heaven and he was thanking her for it.
Gemma drew back from his kiss and tugged at his cravat. He helped her rip it away, and she kissed his jaw, and then his throat. He groaned, and she unbuttoned his waistcoat and opened it, slid her hand beneath his shirt and spread her palm across the muscles of his chest.
A fine sprinkling of wiry hair rasped under fingertips. When she found his flat nipple, she circled it with one experimental finger, and his throaty gasp and hot eyes emboldened her to continue. How wonderful to do this for him, to return the exquisite pleasure he had given her. She trailed her lips down to his collarbone, splaying her hand over his heaving chest, and relished the effect of her touch.
He gasped and shifted his hips. “God, that feels so good.”
Gemma felt the hard bulge in his pantaloons beneath her thigh and hesitated. She knew what that meant. Sybil’s discussions had always been frank. She turned her forehead against his shoulder, breathing hard. “Scovy, I’m not sure . . .”
A hand stroked her hair. “Hush.” His deep voice was strained and husky. “This was for you, Gemma. No consequences.”
He bent to her again. His lips burned, sliding over hers, his tongue stroked possessively into her mouth, but she sensed the hard tension in his body. He trembled with it, so she stopped again.
“Is there nothing I can do for you?” she whispered in his ear.
“Oh, Lord!” He shuddered. “No!” Quickly, he rose, lifting her with him and set her on her feet at a distance.
Without looking at her, he snatched up his cravat and hastily retied it. If she did not know better, she would have thought she’d done something wrong. With a small sigh, Gemma picked up her gloves and cloak.
After a moment, she said, “Thank you, Scovy. That was a precious gift.”
He laughed without the slightest vestige of mirth. “You should not thank me, Gemma. The last thing you should do is thank me.”
NO consequences. Gemma groaned under her breath as she eased open the rusty-hinged door, pushed tendrils of ivy aside, and slipped into the house. How could he say that when he had just turned her whole life upside down?
Grateful for the lamp she’d left burning on the small landing above, she set her hand on the iron rail and slowly climbed the stairs.
Until now, she had believed she could live a contented, full existence without a man. And the truth was, she still believed that. She did not need a man to complete her.
But she wanted Sebastian.
Not as a master or guide, but as an equal, to share happiness and sorrow, to give each other comfort, warmth and passion, as they had done tonight.
But how could she have Sebastian and Ware, too? And did he really care for her—want her to be part of his life—or did he see her merely as a convenient object for dalliance?
Sebastian had said he’d held off seducing her out of regard for her honour. He could have taken her tonight. She had not been thinking clearly. She had wanted him to make love to her. With the slightest persuasion from him, she would have succumbed. But he had retained enough sanity for both of them and stopped.
She should be glad of that.
But her heart, ridiculous organ that it was, was not glad. In her heart, she knew what she wanted, and the mere idea was scandalous enough to steal her breath. She paused at the top of the stairs, gasping, and contemplated the path her foolish heart urged her to take.
The primrose path, they called it. Following in her mother’s footsteps, her aunt would say. Well, perhaps she was her mother’s daughter after all.
Voices in her bedchamber roused Gemma from her thoughts. The voices were muffled. She could not discern what they said or who was there, but she had a fair idea.
Panicked, Gemma clutched her cloak tighter round her throat and flew back down the narrow corridor. Without knocking, she eased into Fanny’s room.
Bedclothes rustled. “What? Who’s there?” said Fanny. “Oh, Gemma, is it you?”
“Yes, it’s I.” Gemma hurried forward to set her lamp on Fanny’s bedside table.
Fanny squinted against the light. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Gemma whispered, “Listen, you must help me. I went out tonight. To the crying of the neck, and when I returned just now, I heard voices in my bedchamber. I think my aunt has discovered I am missing. Can you say I was with you all this time?”
“I could,” said Fanny, “but—”
“Oh, thank you, dearest!” Gemma stripped off her cloak and bundled it under the bed. She began to tidy her hair, and Fanny watched her, owl-eyed and blinking.
“But Gemma, you don’t understand. She has already been here. Your Aunt Matilda, looking for you.”
Fifteen
FANNY dragged herself up on her elbows. “Oh, dear! If I’d known what you were doing I might have been able to make up some story, but—”
“I am sunk.” Gemma plumped down on the bed. Her stomach pitched sickeningly. Her mind refused to work. She was trapped. She had never been good at lying, and in any case, she could not think of an excuse for her absence that would be acceptable to her aunt. The best she could hope for was to keep Sebastian’s part in her escapade quiet.
Fanny gripped her wrist. “What will you do?”
Gemma gazed up at the moulded ceiling, fighting despair. She took a shuddery breath and blew it out.
“Tell the truth, I suppose. I am of age. Aunt Matilda cannot punish me for going against her wishes.” Her lips twisted. “There will be an unpleasant scene, but I suppose I’ve brought it on myself.”
Fanny threw back the covers. “I’ll come with you.”
Buoyed though she was by Fanny’s support, Gemma put a restraining hand on her arm. She managed a smile and shook her head. “You are a dear, but there is no point in you suffering my aunt’s scolds. I shall go and face her.”
She gathered her cloak, pressed Fanny’s hand and left by the conventional door.
Gemma made her way to her bedchamber, her steps weighted by dread. Why had she not stopped to consider the consequences of her actions this time? Had the evening been worth the coming disgrace?
She paused outside her door to gaze at a candle still flickering in its sconce, throwing its soft glow over the crimson Spitalfields silk that covered the wall. She thought of Sebastian and how much he’d needed her tonight, to be with him when he fought those dark, bitter memories, to hold him and listen and comfort him. She remembered how much she had craved his warmth and his touch, the way he had brought every part of her alive, set every inch of her alight, and the memory burned inside her like the glow of that lone candle. She might never experience such a wealth and force of feeling again.
Yes, it had been worth it. So whatever came now, she would not repine, but bear it, secure in the knowledge that she had given what Sebastian needed her to give.
Taking a deep breath, Gemma squared her shoulders, put up her chin, and opened the door.
Matilda whipped around to stare at her with narrowed eyes but Gemma kept her head high. Let Matilda screech. She refused to be ashamed of what she had done.
Suddenly, she noticed they were not alone. Before sh
e could speak, Lady Carleton rose from a wingback chair with a serene smile and glided forward. “Ah, there you are, my dear. I was just telling your aunt what a lovely time we had at the party in the village. To be sure, it was very naughty of me to prevail upon you to accompany me, but I was persuaded you would enjoy it.”
Gemma tried her best to mask her shock. “Oh, er, yes. I did. Thank you, Lady Carleton, for inviting me.”
Approval flashed in those dark eyes. “And did you ask Gertie to warm me some milk before bed? Thank you so much, my dear.” To Matilda, she added, “Milk always helps me sleep, you know.”
Gemma cleared her throat. “Gertie will be up with your milk shortly, ma’am.” She forced herself to speak calmly, though she could have whooped with relief.
Matilda’s tightened lips conveyed her scepticism, but she could not openly brand Lady Carleton a liar. No doubt she would have something to say to Gemma when their hostess retired.
Perhaps Lady Carleton sensed it, too, for she linked arms with Matilda and drew her towards the door. “Now, we must all get our beauty sleep. Time for chatter in the morning. Come along, Matilda, dear.”
And with a twitch in her eye that might, in a lesser person, have been construed as a wink, Lady Carleton shepherded Matilda from the room.
SEBASTIAN tossed back his third bumper of brandy and cursed himself for a blackguard and a fool.
What had he said to Gemma when she arrived at that party? Your trust in me is humbling.
He smacked his brow with the heel of his hand, slid his fingers through his hair, and laid his head back against the chair. He could still smell her, feel her, taste her, even through the brandy. How could he have resisted? And yet, how could he have done that to her, robbed her innocence, left her with no assurance of his intentions or his regard?
Even his mistresses fared better than that. At the very least, they knew where they stood. He had never, not once, pretended he cared.
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