Here at Windgate, at least, she would have no rival save Windgate itself! Smiling as they tied up at the pier, she gave Brett her hand and together they walked up the grassy bluff toward the big gray stone house that was to be her home. Behind her, tethered on the River Witch's capacious deck, Floss gave a soft approving whinny as she sniffed the air from the meadows behind the house.
The servants were lined up in the hall to greet them but that did not daunt Georgiana—as former mistress of Mirabelle, she was used to being in command! But accustomed as she was to the much smaller houses of Bermuda, Georgiana did find herself awed by the enormous heavy front doors of thick black oak, by the great entrance hall stretching dimly away, by the wide heavily carved stairway that seemed to lead endlessly up, and by the magnificent wallpaper with its hunting scenes of lords and ladies riding to hounds, which rose above the intricately carved wainscoting.
“This hall is lovely by night when the moonlight streams through that window,” Brett remarked with a careless nod of his head toward a Gothic window set high above them. Georgiana noted the richness of his tone. He loves it here, she thought wistfully. So I must learn to love it too!
Proudly, he took her on a grand tour of the house. He led her through the handsome drawing room with its furniture of rare Oriental woods and large gold Chinese rug that seemed to glow softly where the sun struck it, on into the adjoining ballroom with its several dozen matched gilt chairs, which lined the ornately paneled walls, through all the main bedrooms with their views of the Hudson and the opposite bluffs that took her breath away—and at last they reached the office, where a tall thronelike chair of black oak, heavily carved, frowned from behind a massive oaken table. Both pieces of furniture dwarfed the small beamed room.
“That chair looks like—a throne,” she blurted.
Brett frowned. “I know. I think that was what my predecessor intended, but I don’t use it myself.” He paused and glanced at her uneasily as it came to him that his lightly referred to “predecessor” was Georgiana’s father, but she seemed not to notice. Nevertheless, he thought it best to explain. “I generally see my tenants out in the fields, in their bouweries—no need to drag them all the way in here when I make the rounds anyway.”
Brett is kind to his tenants, she thought, turning to smile at him. And had a sudden chilling view of what it must have been like when Windgate was Wey Gat and a violent young Dutch patroon lorded it over the land from that oaken throne. She had had time to read her mother’s journal now and it had made her shudder. She envisioned Verhulst as hard-faced, leaning across that enormous table and meting out justice—she had no view of the tormented man Imogene had known, a man whose thin body had been dwarfed by that massive chair, who had seemed diminished rather than enobled by it.
But it was the dining room that disturbed her most of all. For at one end of the long handsome room, facing the light, was a portrait of Imogene, looking incredibly young and beautiful and light of heart.
“Your mother,” Brett told her gently. “I understand Verhulst van Rappard had it painted in Amsterdam. And that”—he turned to nod at a haughty painted face above a frothing white lace collar and black velvet doublet that frowned down from another gilt frame— “is your father.”
Tears filled Georgiana’s eyes and sparkled on her lashes as she studied that carefree young likeness of Imogene,'her lost lovely mother. The sunlight struck the golden hair of the woman in the portrait, caressed the peachbloom of her delicate skin—but here was more than beauty; here was spirit, here was pride. Those delft blue eyes were alight in a reckless face—and she had a heartbreaking smile.
Georgiana dashed the tears from her lashes and recoiled as she turned to consider, opposite, the portrait of Verhulst. A pair of dark, almost fanatical, eyes gazed scathingly back at her from that sallow, oversensitive face. His dark hair gleamed as if it had been waxed, every hair precisely in place, and there was a cruel look to that thin patrician mouth. The artist had done his job well, he had captured on canvas those characteristics of the young patroon that had made him feared throughout Wey Gat.
Georgiana stared fiercely at the painting. Her heart was pounding so loudly she feared Brett must hear it. This was the man who had driven her mother to her doom, who had set dogs on her that terrible night on the ice!
“I wish you would take it down!” she cried in a choked voice.
Brett looked startled. Quickly Georgiana realized what she had said, how strange it must have sounded for a daughter upon arrival in the home her father had built instantly to demand that his picture be torn from the wall.
“I mean,” she amended lamely, “I think it looks—gloomy here. His portrait. After all, this is the dining room and he is so thin I cannot think he could have cared much for food—I think he would be far happier hung opposite that big throne chair he must have been so proud of.”
Her husband’s dark brows elevated. He shot a look at Verhulst’s dark portrait—and opposite, Imogene’s, that woman of light. “As you like.” He sounded mystified. “After all, they are your parents; you may do what you please with their likenesses—as with the other furnishings here.”
Georgiana yearned to tell him this man was not her father, but she forbore. Someday perhaps—but not now, not when as a new bride and great heiress she was his checkmate to Nicolas van Rappard’s claim to the property.
“I think I would like to change my dress for dinner now,” she said in a muffled voice.
“I have had prepared for you the bedchamber they told me was your mother’s,” Brett told her as they climbed the wide carved stairway. “It is the loveliest room in the house. Imogene selected all of the furnishings herself, I understand, in Amsterdam.”
It was not always her bedroom, thought Georgiana bitterly, remembering Imogene’s journal. Sometimes she was locked away on the other side of the house, away from her baby, away from her only friend—Elise. It was from a room on that other side of the house that Imogene had made her tragic escape, a room that overlooked the fields and forests stretching away toward Connecticut. The last entry in the journal—the last entry made on the very night she died—had told Georgiana that. But Brett was not to know that—not now, perhaps not ever.
But upset as she was, Georgiana could not help being enchanted by the big bedroom with its delicate blue and white French wallpaper and blue drapes and fluffy white cambric curtains. Her toes tested and sank in the thick blue Chinese rug and she smiled, thinking that this room was a perfect example of what money and taste could do when brought together. What a pity they could not have loved each other, Imogene and Verhulst—they had had such an idyllic setting for it.
Supper was an event. Although Brett explained that it was but a hastily prepared feast to welcome the patroon and his bride, Georgiana exclaimed that she had never seen such gigantic oysters, and the size of the river eels amazed her.
“We dine well here at Windgate,” Brett told her, leaning back expansively over his wine at the end of the long table after they had finished. “You grace this table well, Georgiana.”
That name, she felt, would ever be strange to her, but she was trying to become accustomed to it.
“My mother sat here,” she said, looking down the table’s long polished surface and imagining the terrible dinners Imogene had so vividly described in her journal—dinners when her young husband had taunted and threatened and frightened her.
“And she gazes over this board still.” Brett smiled at the beautiful portrait smiling down from the wall.
“Yes, she does,” said Georgiana soberly. “I wonder what she thinks of us, Brett.”
“I hope she approves.” His tone was jaunty. “You’re a credit to her and soon, I don’t doubt, will be the toast of the river, for we’re invited to a ball this coming Friday at the ten Haers’. They’re our neighbors to the south. You remarked their house as we passed it.”
"Rychie ten Haer?” Georgiana was somehow surprised that Imogene’s old enemy, who had been de
scribed at length in the journal, should invite them to a ball.
“Yes. How did you know her name? I don’t remember mentioning it.”
Georgiana caught her breath. “You must have,” she said hurriedly. “Else how would I have known it?” And not to show too much knowledge, “Does she live there alone?”
“No, she is married to her cousin, Huygens ten Haer, a decent enough fellow who has proved to be a good neighbor.” He chuckled. “She browbeats him.”
“Do they have a family?” wondered Georgiana.
“One daughter—Katrina.” He spoke the name very cautiously and Georgiana gave him a sharp look.
“And what is Katrina ten Haer to you?” she asked tartly.
Brett’s laugh was a little uncomfortable. “You’ll hear rumors about her, so I may as well tell you now. All the river gossips had us married off.”
“Was there any truth to the rumors?”
“Some,” he admitted reluctantly.
“You mean you were betrothed?”
“No, it never got that far. I never asked for her, but she’s a determined wench, is Katrina ten Haer. She may be a little cold to you at first.”
That, thought Georgiana, was probably putting it mildly. Katrina ten Haer would undoubtedly hate her. “What does Katrina look like?” she asked.
“Ah, she’s a showy piece. She has her mother’s coloring but a little less blatant. They’re a striking pair, with their saffron hair and bright blue eyes—the older version and the younger.”
A showy piece... striking....Georgiana felt jealousy surge through her like the twist of a knife. “I doubt if I’ll see much of her,” she told Brett airily. “I can see that I’ll have more than enough to occupy me here at Windgate.”
“Well, you’ll certainly run across her at every ball we attend, for Huygens is a patroon and invited everywhere, and Katrina is very fond of dancing.”
She’ll dance to another tune if she tries again for Brett! Georgiana promised herself grimly. She set her glass down with rather more force than was necessary. Brett watched her narrowly over his wine. “There’s no reason to be jealous of Katrina,” he said.
Georgiana flushed to the roots of her golden hair. “I’m not jealous!” she protested.
He shrugged. “Anyway, I tell you now about the ball because I’m sure you’ll want time to plan what to wear and I’ll be leaving before you’re awake tomorrow. I must see to the mill upriver and have a look around the outlying bouweries. Gerdt tells me there’s some talk of Indian trouble there. I’ll be away three or four days but,” he grinned, “don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time to take you to the ten Haers’ ball!”
“Oh, no, Brett—take me with you!”
He shook his dark head. “If there’s really Indian trouble—and I hope there is not—then I wouldn’t want you with me. Here at Windgate you’re as safe as anywhere on the river and there are strong men to guard the house. I won’t expose you to any narrow Indian trails leading up into the tamaracks.”
Although she argued, she could not shake him. They strolled outside on the bluff and stood under one of the big chestnut trees that dotted the lawn, looking out over the broad expanse of shimmering water that flowed past them from the high Adirondacks down to the sea.
“I can understand your loving it here, Brett,” she told him soberly. “I think I’ve never seen anything so beautiful as this river.” He looked about him and she could feel his air of proud proprietorship. “I’d never thought to settle down,” he murmured, “until I saw Windgate. I saw it and suddenly I wanted to raise my sons here—the sons we’ll have together, Georgiana. This is the land I want to leave them when I die.”
“Oh, Brett...” her fingers gently caressed his forearm at this confidence. “There may be daughters too. What will you leave them?” she asked teasingly.
“Some other great estate—for I’ve my eye on several along this river. And with the mill going—and other mills I’ll build, with the ships I mean to have one day that will carry my goods overseas, there’ll be more than enough for daughters, no matter how many you give me, Georgiana! And now it’s time for bed.”
He swept her up and carried her, laughing, over the dark lawns, back up the bluff. A smiling servant, who must have been watching their progress, threw open the big front door.
“You can lock up now, Wouter,” Brett flung over his shoulder.
“My lady and I are for bed. But mind you wake me early in the morning, for I’ll need to spend all day at the mill.”
“I don’t like having separate rooms,” Georgiana protested as Brett carried her into her big square bedroom. “Even if they do adjoin!”
“You’ll grow to like it, for I’ll be getting up earlier than you do and you wouldn’t like being disturbed. Most mornings I’ll join you for breakfast.”
“In bed?” She was curling herself luxuriously into his arms as she spoke, feeling the buttons of his doublet bite into her soft breasts and trying to settle herself more comfortably against him. She felt wonderfully relaxed after their stroll. She felt she would like to spend her life in those arms.
“Anywhere you like,” he said in a soft rich voice, and his ardent mouth clamped down on hers. She was thrilling to the hard masculine feel of him through his doublet as he laid her gently down on the big square bed.
He caressed her hair for a moment and then straightened up, smiling down at her. “Undress now,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute. My nightshirts aren’t unpacked.”
She gave him a bold enticing smile, and stretched. “It’s too warm for a nightshirt.”
“So it is. I’d forgotten that Wouter built a fire in the fireplace earlier to knock the damp off the room.” He went over and latched the door, began stripping off doublet and shirt.
Georgiana kicked off her shoes, hurriedly rid herself of garters and hose and let her petticoat fall in a careless heap around her ankles. As she hurried out of her dress and chemise, she stole a look at Brett. What a handsome animal he was! Lithe as a sword blade, strong and light-footed, possessed of a magnificent physique. Had she fallen in love with him for that? No, it was for something she sensed in him, something she could not quite define that made her his. . . .
Now she was divested of her clothing and she saw that he stood across the room from her, a naked giant, hands on hips, studying her with admiration in his gray gaze. She blushed and reached for her night rail. But before she could put it on, in two strides he had reached her. Gently he took the night rail from her and as she looked up wordlessly, he reached out and ruffled her hair, ran his hand from the top of her head down her shivering spine all the way to its base, cupped one buttock in his hand and grinned down at her.
“Brett—my night rail.” She reached out for it.
But he held it beyond her reach, tossed it away. “Ye’ll not be needing this tonight,” he said carelessly.
"Brett!” she protested.
“ ’Tis plain you’re not in such a hurry as I am,” he chuckled. “Perhaps I can entice you to bed by these methods!”
She squirmed and struck laughingly at his hand as he tweaked her breasts and patted her bottom, urging her toward the big four-poster. “Anyone would think I were your doxy instead of a respectable married woman,” she protested. “And that you were in a hurry to bed me because you must needs be shortly gone!”
“You are my doxy, wife or no!” Brett gave her a boost that tossed her breathless onto the big bed, to sink deep into the feather mattress that threatened to close over her naked body. “And ’tis true I’ve little enough time for loving, if I’m to catch any sleep—for if I’m to do any good at the mill tomorrow, I’ll indeed be shortly gone!” Georgiana laughed and tried to evade him as he plunged toward her. She was half turned over, near suffocated by the enveloping feather mattress that seemed to have swallowed her up, when she felt his big warm body close over hers and felt her blood race at the contact.
It was the most playful night they had ever spent t
ogether: a night of whispers and sighs, of ticklings and mock tormented groans and tumbling about. Georgiana’s long hair got tangled around his arm, and between them, they could hardly extricate her. And once, with her slender legs trapped between his strong ones like a vise, she made a mock lunge to evade him and ended up with her head entirely enclosed by the deep goose-down mattress, crying to him in a muffled voice that she was smothering. Brett rescued her with alacrity, releasing her legs from between his own and turning her back to face him, grazing her naked breasts with his lightly furred forearm as he did so.
“So you seek to escape me, wench?” he demanded with mock ferocity. “Ah, but in this bed I promise you I’ll find you!” Georgiana, “saved” from being smothered by the mattress, collapsed against him, laughing until she was weak.
It was then he took her, exciting her to frenzy with his skillful fingers, holding her close as they rolled over and over and back again in the mattress’s downy depths. Their hair tangled and twined and spilled over their faces and got into their mouths as they exchanged wild laughing kisses. And Georgiana felt her passions shiver and mount as her body was moved skillfully up and down so that her flesh rasped sweetly against him and a thousand little soft explosions of feeling seemed to assault her all at once.
And then abruptly she was his, welded to his body, her back arching, hidden wells bubbling up inside her, reckless thoughts filling her mind, hot blood coursing through her veins.
“I fear me you’ll think me as hot as any trollop,” she gasped when it was over. She was leaning on one elbow, studying him with sparkling turquoise eyes as he lay on his back. One of his outflung arms pinioned her soft hip.
“Then, thank God for trollops,” sighed Brett and rolled over, sat up. “ ’Tis plain I’ll get me no sleep here, my girl. I’m off to my own room.” He bent and pressed a kiss on her smooth stomach, chuckled as her muscles sharply recoiled.
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