She remained still, peacefully unmoving, taking comfort from the maid’s presence. Finally she stirred. Her dreams had been turbulent, filled with remembered passion. The kind of memories she had forced from her consciousness long ago. Having Gabriel there physically in front of her brought back the full recollection of their love. She knew what lay beneath his costly lawn shirt and moleskin breeches. Flushed and restless, she rose from her bed and allowed Ivy to help her with her ablutions.
She changed for dinner, leaving aside the black dress. Instead she chose a lavender gown, edged with black lace. The last thing she donned before leaving the sanctuary of her chamber was the impenetrable veil.
He was waiting for her, resplendent in hues of black and gold brocade which highlighted the depths of his long wavy brown hair and reflected the golden flecks within his irises. Knowing that her gaze was screened from him, she allowed herself the luxury of studying his crotch, remembering with clarity the deceptive serpent that slept within his breeches.
Heat prickled, and perspiration trickled between her breasts. She knew she was torturing herself. It had to stop before she revealed her true identity. So what? An insidious thought filtered through her resolve. Again, she conjured an image of her son, but that was quickly overshadowed by the powerfully vivid memory of the night he had been conceived.
Gabriel, as he had reared up over her prone body. She’d laid beneath him, writhing with need, the image overwhelming as she recalled how it felt to have his thick girth enter her slick, hungry channel. She gasped.
“My lady, are you unwell?” he asked, immediately concerned.
“No. I am exhausted, and perhaps a little hungry,” Which was no lie, after all.
He came over to her, waving the footman away, and pulled a chair from the table, indicating that she should sit. “I think your sojourn here may be longer than you’d anticipated, for the weather shows no sign of a thaw.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “I am sorry to inconvenience you so close to the Yuletide.”
“It is no bother. The guests who attend the masquerade ball are mainly local friends and acquaintances who know that it will be cancelled if the snow is too deep.”
They continued to make small talk until the food was served, and then unusually, he ordered the footmen from the room.
“Since we are family and alone, I ask that you remove your veil. I am made of stern stuff and I assure you that your injured face will not repel me in any way.”
Angele panicked. She knew her husband to be a stubborn and insistent man. She must convince him that she could not possibly reveal her face.
“That is most kind and thoughtful, my lord, but I do not know you well enough as yet to feel comfortable without the security of my cloth shield.”
He chuckled politely. “Perhaps in a few days hence, once we are better acquainted?”
She breathed a sigh of relief at his nod of understanding.
Slowly, she fed herself beneath the fabric covering her face. Eating under her veil was something she had become adept at over the intervening years.
They ate their first course of trout in silence. She watched him covertly, hidden from his gaze. Her fervour for him grew as she studied him. It was exquisite torment to have him this close to her, seated near enough for her to breathe in his body scent. Her appetite for food deserted her. He asked if she had eaten her fill, and she nodded.
He rang the bell for their plates to be removed. It wasn’t until the main course of honey-glazed venison had been served that they actually conversed.
He began by asking her about her journey. She explained that they had bypassed France, crossing the English Channel from the Netherlands. He lamented the rising in France and the deaths of King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette. They discussed the cruelty of the guillotine and the loss of the young dauphine and the princesses, talking in hushed tones of the ongoing terror that gripped the country. Angele had not heard that Robespierre and his government had fallen or that Robespierre himself had met the kiss of the guillotine at the end of July. She expressed fervent hope that the savagery that swept the country of her birth would soon dissipate along with the tyrant’s death.
Angele slipped up only once when she declared herself glad that her father had not been alive to see the horrors perpetrated against his family and friends. Gabriel obviously presumed she’d meant Marie’s own father, because he made no comment to her untimely remark. She recalled that her uncle had passed away the year before her father. They had not travelled to Italy for the funeral because her own father was failing, and she was already spending large amounts of time travelling between England and France.
When dessert was served, he began to tell her of his regret at leaving Paris two days before the rising occurred. Immediately her mind returned to that fateful day.
They had arrived in Paris mid-afternoon. Gabriel made her promise that as soon as she had seen her father and spoken with her mother, she would rest. He worried about her, and she loved him for his concern. The truth was, she’d felt exhausted. Receiving the shocking news that her father was dying, followed by the scramble to prepare for the journey had been bad enough, but the uncomfortable three day journey, worrying the whole time about her father, had left her utterly worn out.
Gazing upon her haggard Papa as he’d lain upon his death bed, she’d wept. His pale skeletal hand had crept across the counterpane to cover hers.
“You are here.”
Angel noted how weak his voice sounded, the illness having robbed him of all his previous joie de vivre.
She’d dropped to her knees beside the bed. “Of course I came, Papa.” She pressed his hand to her lips and kept it clasped in her own to warm it.
“Why did you not allow Maman to write to me sooner?” she’d asked, tears filling her eyes.
“I did not ask her to write this time, ma petite choux. Your mother took matters into her own hands. I shall have to have words with her later!”
His brave words were followed by a distressing bout of coughing. Blood spattered across his chest. Angel stood and turned a distressed gaze upon her mother who came forward and gestured for her daughter to move aside. The nurse and her mother began to remove her father’s nightshirt and so Angele slipped from the chamber followed closely by Gabriel.
It was at this point a manservant had brought the letter from England with the news his mother was at death’s door. The letter had gone to Michaelmas Hall only an hour after their departure to France and had been forwarded, chasing them all the way to Paris.
“Marie? Madame, I did not mean to burden you by recalling that dreadful day. It is just that I blame myself entirely for Angele’s demise and...”
She stretched out her hand and placed it on his wrist to halt the bitter stream of words. They both jumped at the current that flowed between them. Quickly, she snatched her hand away.
“You were not to know any more than I that the people would rise up on that particular day. Unrest had been rife in Paris for many months, but until then the troubles had come to nothing. No one could have predicted what occurred. You cannot continue to torture yourself this way, Gabriel. Think of your son and the future. I beg you to leave the past where it belongs.”
She sighed ruefully.
Fine words; if only I could take my own advice.
He nodded. “You are right, of course. Tell me about my son; tell me all about Christopher, from the moment he was born to the moment you left him in the care of my sister.”
Angele smiled, with no further prompting, she told him of Christopher’s sweet nature, his questioning mind and endearing ways. She shared all she could about their beloved child.
That night, she dreamt she lay naked in his arms again, passion burned brightly between them. She awoke covered in perspiration despite the chill in the room. The twisted sheets attested to her frustrated unrest, as did the hand lying betwixt her thighs, her quim slick with need. She circled the nub of throbbing flesh at the a
pex of her sex as she recalled the steamy dream.
Gabriel kneeling between her thighs, his manhood heavy, swollen with desire for her, head bent in order to pleasure her folds with his mouth.
Her finger worked faster, rubbing and circling her hardened pearl. She imagined him entering her wet sheath, picturing the look of intense lust mixed with love upon his face, while the remembered feeling of fullness when he thrust home brought on her implosion. She spent, gasping aloud, shuddering with the power of her completion.
Afterwards she wept. She wanted her husband, needed him, Gabriel, the other half of her aching soul. Once again she wondered how she’d thought she could spend time with him only to walk away, back into misery and isolation.
That jolt they’d both experienced when she’d touched him at dinner. That was something they’d felt from their very first moment. It had occurred the first time he’d asked her to dance in Paris. He had visited the city after completing his grand tour of Italy and France. The stimulating spark had startled them both when he had taken her hand to lead her onto the dance floor. They’d known at once they were destined for one another, joking that with their Christian names they were ordained to meet. Six months later, just after she’d turned nineteen and he twenty-three, they’d wed. In the three years following their marriage, the heat between them had flared to an even greater level, their lust never once waning or diminishing.
Then tragedy had struck their families, and they’d been forced to part. Her father and his mother had both lain on their deathbeds simultaneously. Gabriel had left her in Paris at her family’s home in order to return to his mother’s bedside. She had not seen him since—not until now.
Wide awake, she arose, pulling a shawl about her. She shivered in the frigid air of her chamber. Going to the window, she drew back one of the heavy brocade curtains and peered into the night. Yet more snow had fallen covering the ground. Soft contours and smooth hillocks fully hid angular walls and shrubs. Moonshine lit the crystalline snow, and starlight gave the world a sparkling blue haze. There was no way she would be able to travel tomorrow. Sighing, she let the drape fall and padded to the fireside. A few red coals still glowed; she added a log and used the poker to stir the embers back to life. It was too cold to stay up, and so she crawled gratefully back into the warmth of her bed where she slept restlessly, troubled by nightmares.
The following day she chose to break her fast in her chambers. She did not trust herself around her husband. Ivy pottered about tidying while humming beneath her breath. Angele found her presence both soothing and reassuring. She was glad that Mary had insisted the maid accompany her.
She rose and sat at the dressing table while Ivy pinned up her hair. Standing she moved behind a screen and washed while Ivy fetched her clothing for the day. Once dressed the two women settled before the fire and Ivy took up a needle and threat and began to mend some torn lace on the cuff of one of her mistress’s gowns.
Restless, Angele moved to the window to stare at the beautifully stark world of white. She saw her husband walk away from the house followed by his hounds. It was safe to venture forth into the house.
“I am going to take a stroll about the house, Ivy. Help with my veil, please.”
“Take you shawl milady, ‘tis chill in the house.”
Gratefully Angele allowed the maid to wrap her warmly. Knowing her smile of thanks was concealed by the heavy cloth obscuring her face she touched the girls hand and was rewarded by a bright smile. She was becoming fond of the maid.
As Ivy had warned, it was chilly in the corridors. She drew her shawl tight about her with a shiver; she’d forgotten how cold England could be in the winter months. Arriving at Gabriel’s chamber door she hesitated. Supposing his valet was within? Why then she would act as though she was lost and ask his help in locating her own chambers. Turning the handle the door swung inwards.
The room was as she remembered. She stared at the huge canopied bed which she had once shared with him and where so much pleasure had been shared. Moving across the room to his armoire she opened the door and ran her hand lightly over his shirts. Locating his banyan she withdrew it and pressed her nose to the open gown he wore before dressing and late at night after disrobing. She inhaled the heady scent of him.
A male voice sounded in the passage outside. Quickly Angele shut the doors on the cupboards. Spinning around her gaze searched frantically for somewhere to hide. The only place she could get to quickly was beneath the high bed. Thankfully she had left off her cumbersome hoops that morning and was able to scramble under the heavy oak frame just in time.
“I dare say ‘twill be a good thing when his Lordship marries. A man needs a wife in ‘is bed.”
“Aye well, I won’t disagree with you there. An’ from what I seen of her, she be a right pert little thing! I wouldn’t say no to a plump little partridge like her to ride every night.” Deep and dirty chuckles reverberated around the chamber and further lewd conversation followed.
“’Tis about time the master thought about siring an heir. ‘T’would be nice to have some young life about the house.”
“That widder woman gives me chills. I’ll be more’en happy when she’s gone. The master don’t need the likes of her ‘ere reminding ‘im of the past.”
“I agree, he needs young blood to put some colour in his cheeks.”
“Don’t you mean in his cock?” Lewd laughter filled the room.
Angele froze. She watched the valet and manservant’s stocking covered calves move towards the door.
After they’d left she clambered out from under the bed and dusted down her skirts. Leaving the chamber she headed to the little used stairs at the far end of the house which she knew led to a room in the turret where she used to go to be alone. The small circular chamber was unchanged. It was clear that no one had been up here in a long time. The room smelt musty and dust lay thick upon what little furniture there was.
Angele dusted off the settle with the end of her shawl and sat. The view from the small mullioned window was superb. She could see for miles over the frozen landscape. It had been clear from overhearing the servants’ conversation, that the household was of the opinion St. Nicolas should marry Noelle. Even though it tore her heart to contemplate her husband with another woman, she knew this was the right thing for him. She needed to conclude her business with him regarding Christopher and leave Michaelmas Hall as soon as possible. The longer she remained here the weaker her resolve became.
Movement on the ground caught her eye and she watched as Gabriel returned. She craned for a last glimpse of him before he disappeared from her sight.
Burying her face in her hands she wept.
Chapter 6
He awoke, instantly alert. A sudden scream, followed shortly by another shriek echoed eerily from somewhere within the house. Throwing back the bedcovers, Gabriel grabbed his banyan, and hastened out into the corridor, thrusting his arms into the robe as he went. He followed the sound until it cut off abruptly. Concerned, he quickened his pace toward the bedchamber where he knew Marie slept.
He knocked once and stepped immediately inside the chamber. Her maid rushed over to him looking flustered.
“Milord!”
She curtsied low so he was able to glimpse over the maid’s head and saw his guest, lying prone upon her bed. He attempted to step around the woman, but she side-stepped awkwardly into his path, thus blocking him.
“’Tis naught but a bad dream, my lord, nothing for you to concern yourself over. My lady is settled now with a draught; she will soon sleep. T’would not do for you to be found here inside the countess’s bed chamber, Milord.”
He realised the maid had the right of it and withdrew, relieved to find the screams were caused by nothing more sinister than a nightmare. Gabriel pondered over Marie’s dream as he walked back to his own chamber, guessing the reason for her disturbed night was their conversations surrounding the horrors of Paris, the day her aunt and cousin had both been killed.
He snuffed out his candle. Almost instantly the recollection of Marie recumbent on her bed filled his mind. There had been an abundance of fair hair shimmering in the flickering candlelight; it spilled in golden waves across the pillows. He suddenly recalled an image of the count and his countess, Marie as they had stood in line waiting to congratulate them on their wedding day.
Finally the reason for his unease and nagging doubts about the woman became clear. The facts which had niggled at his subconscious from the moment the countess had arrived at Michaelmas Hall. The Marie he had met at his wedding had been tall with an abundance of dark hair. This veiled creature was slight and what’s more she was astoundingly…blonde. The woman, who proclaimed to be Marie, could not be his wife’s cousin at all! If she was not Marie, then who the devil was she?
He tossed and turned all night, rising before daybreak. If the woman claiming to be Marie was a fraud, then it followed that the boy she claimed to be his son could also be one. His heart sank at the thought, but after all, it had seemed a highly unlikely tale, one that now proved too good to be true. She must be a charlatan, perhaps after his title and wealth for her own son. He determined to get to the truth of the matter as soon as the imposter awoke.
He went to his study and lit the fire himself. Pouring a brandy, he sipped thoughtfully, jolted from his reverie by the arrival of the maid come to tidy and set the hearth ready for the new day. She hovered in the doorway, uncertain of her welcome since she saw the flames already dancing. Gabriel called to her.
“Would you fetch me some muffins to toast and a pot of coffee, if you please?” Toasting muffins would sooth the disquiet he felt upon discovering the woman upstairs was practicing a deception upon him. It would also keep his hunger at bay until the breakfast hour.
The Master Of Michaelmas Hall Page 4