by Holly Bush
Chapter Five
The next week flew by for Gert. She sent a letter to Uncle Fred and stood on a dressmaker’s stool being pinned, prodded and poked for days on end by Elizabeth’s modiste. And then, of course, there was the huge array of fabrics and trimmings to choose. Styles to decide. Matching shoes, purses and cloaks to select. Gert tried desperately to convince the women she needed more fabric than they provided to cover her chest. But to no avail. Gert would die of embarrassment the first time she had to go out in public in these clothes. And the time was quickly approaching. They left for London the following morning.
Gert had never seen such a procession in all her days. Carriage after carriage, hauling trunks and hatboxes with Benson, Briggs and Mrs. Wickham squeezed among them. What a bunch of hooey, Gert thought. But she could not deny the excitement. Melinda supplied an endless list of eligible men with Elizabeth nodding, sometimes shrugging and occasionally shaking her head emphatically. Melinda chattered the entire trip.
“You’re too young to marry this year,” Gert finally said to Melinda
“No, I’m not,” the girl replied.
“You may be allowed to marry but knowing one’s mind at seventeen is another thing all together. You changed hats three times before we left,” Gert said.
Melinda sat back against the black leather of the carriage seat and frowned.
“What Gertrude is saying is that there is plenty of time. I didn’t marry Anthony till I was two and twenty.” Elizabeth cringed. “Thank God I waited.”
“Why?” Melinda asked.
“I’d be married to a pimply-faced redhead with knock-knees otherwise,” Elizabeth replied.
Melinda laughed. “You both think I should wait before accepting an offer. But Father and Grandmamma will be angry if I do.”
“Let them be,” Gert countered. “Aren’t there things you want to do before you have children and a husband to care for?”
Melinda’s eyes widened. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”
“Then take the time to think about it. Do you want to travel or study?” Gert stared out the window dreamily. “Sail with a pirate or dig for gold. Read at a university? Climb a mountain or dance in the sand on a beach?” She turned from her musings to two shocked expressions. “What?”
“Miss Finch, those things aren’t for the daughter of a Duke,” Melinda whispered.
“Would be quite out of the norm,” Elizabeth added.
Gert sat quietly the rest of the trip. Obviously her opinions on some matters were too outlandish for her hostesses. Wouldn’t stop her dreams, though, as a smile came to her lips. Panning for gold in a cold stream somewhere in California, camping above the clouds at the top of the Rockies or sailing on the great seas. A handsome, dark pirate ravishing her after felling enemies with his sword.
Gert’s eyes closed as the pirate came into view. Snug black pants fit into high boots with a white shirt billowing in the breeze above a red satin sash. His face would be rugged and wind-burnt when he bent his head to capture her mouth. Her eyes would be closed, and when her lashes slowly fluttered open, he would declare his undying love. She would stare into his blue eyes and … heaven’s sake, her pirate was Blake Sanders.
They stopped in the drive of a huge mansion, and Gert shook her head to clear her thoughts as she stepped down from the carriage. Her fairy tale had occupied her thoughts more vividly and thoroughly than before.
“Love to, my dear,” Sanders said as he assisted Melinda down the steps the coach man had placed.
“What?” Gert said.
The Duke turned to stare at her as if she had grown two heads. And she stared back. Her fanciful, lusty pirate had emerged as a stuffy, pompous Englishman. Her daydreams were ruined. Sanders was handsome enough to be her pirate and lusty enough to kiss her at will, but he was such a … such an ass.
“Seen your fill, Miss Finch?” Sanders asked. “What term did you use before? Ah, yes, wool-gathering, I believe.”
Gert swallowed. “Daydreaming.” His smug smile riled her. “About … about the day men and women are equal,” she added.
He leaned close to her, blew a breath and whispered, “I think not.”
Gert covered her head with her hand. “Did you just blow in my ear?” A chill went down her spine.
Sanders stood, hands on his hips with his feet spread wide. “I would be happy to repeat the gesture if you were still daydreaming about suffrage.”
Gert pursed her lips as her face reddened. The way he stood evoked a ship under his feet as he laughed at the elements or pursuers. Her favorite fantasy was ruined, and she was angry.
“Do you want punched in the nose again?” Gert asked.
He tilted his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. Rarely do women find my kisses cause for violence.”
Gert harrumphed and swept past him. His words stopped her.
“Should we repeat our moment by the lake and see if the effect is different this time?” he asked.
Gert was shaken when he referred to the kiss as “their moment.” The words held intimacy, history, an impending future and words failed her. She turned to him with no witty barb emerging from her confusion. No repartee delivered with icy hauteur. The pirate, in her head, was blowing in her ear, and she had to escape. Gert stuck out her tongue and hurriedly followed the others through the door.
Anthony and Elizabeth were in the massive foyer with Mrs. Wickham who was directing where trunks were to be taken and which fires to be lit. Gert undid the clasp of her new navy cape and handed it to a servant seemingly only there to receive it. She straightened the new dress and tugged at the neckline. Anthony found something vastly amusing when he looked at her.
“Something funny, Anthony?” Gert asked.
“No,” Anthony said and shook his head.
* * *
Blake ran up the steps to the door, a cocky grin on his face. Although the thought of spending time with Gertrude Finch did not settle well with Blake, he had resigned himself to it during the long ride to London. More arguments would undoubtedly upset Melinda, and this was, after all, her debut. Come-outs were the domain of the females in his sphere, but he knew for a fact she was both nervous and excited. He would be a charming, attentive host and do nothing to provoke his daughter worries.
And he could clearly unsettle the American. It was an appealing thought and somehow soothed his bruised pride and ego. Let someone other than the Duke of Wexford act wholly out of character. The righteous Miss Finch had blushed when he blew in her ear. Where were her thoughts? He smiled triumphantly when he realized he may not be the only one to wake in a cold sweat reliving their kiss. Anthony may be right. This may prove to be a vastly entertaining interlude. She had her back to him, and he rubbed his hands together as he envisioned her shock when he told her his plans for that tongue she held out.
“Miss Finch, never stick your …” Blake stopped mid-stride as she turned. A vast sea of white flesh held his eyes. Big, soft, cream-colored breasts jutted over the neckline of her dress. His lip twitched. He wanted to bury his face between them and not come up for days. He growled and stared.
“Never stick what?” Miss Finch asked. She followed the direction of his eyes.
“Ah, pardon?” Blake asked and looked up briefly.
“You asked me a question about sticking something,” Miss Finch replied. Anthony laughed beside her.
Blake’s head snapped to her face, and he swallowed as he realized what he wanted to stick and where. The thought overwhelmed any other sense in his head. Think, man, think, he said to himself. What was she talking about, and what was the correct reply? In London. Melinda’s come-out. Blake took a weak breath. Dear God. Miss Finch couldn’t be seen at balls like this. Not a soul would look his daughter’s way.
“Cover yourself, woman. Bloody hell,” Blake said.
“Tis the top of fashion, Blake,” Elizabeth said.
Blake’s hands flustered and flew, gesturing in Miss Finch�
�s direction. “Her bosom is hanging out, Elizabeth. Not a man in this town won’t be staring.”
Anthony quivered with laughter until his wife’s looks stilled him. “Anthony would not deny he noticed her décolletage,” Elizabeth said. “But I doubt the men of London would drool the way you are.”
“I am not drooling, Elizabeth.” Blake desperately tried to convey nonchalance as he straightened.
Miss Finch undid the clasp of her reticule and pulled a white, lace-edged hanky from inside. She met Blake’s eyes and patted her chest with the hanky as if to trill, “oh my” as she walked across the foyer towards him.
Blake flinched as she touched the cloth to the corner of his mouth. Naked dancing women could never be as erotic as this act. Never before did he feel so completely undone. Mesmerized by a bit of lace as it flittered to his face, from those vast breasts, his mind thought and his eyes saw, to dab ever so lightly at his now, twitching mouth. He no longer heard Anthony laughing or Elizabeth’s attempts to hush him. Or saw the assembled servants gape. Nor did he hear the clatter of William and Melinda’s steps on the marble staircase. Blake Sanders existed in a private vacuum, consisting of lips, breasts and a hanky. He grabbed the arms beside those breasts and crushed the body attached against his chest. His lips clamped over hers and held on.
“Father! You’re doing it again,” William said from the steps.
Blake and she flew apart. He ran his fingers through his hair as he scanned the faces in the room. He ran up the stairs, past servants and his wide-eyed children.
“Off with everyone now,” Mrs. Wickham said as she patted her flushing face. “Much to be done.” The servants scurried behind her.
* * *
Anthony found Blake in his study, staring. He stood patiently. Finally, he clapped his hands together in front of Blake’s face.
“Come on, old man,” Anthony said.
Blake jumped and righted himself. “Anthony,” he said, bewildered.
Anthony sat quiet for a while, sipping scotch. “Anything you want to talk about, Blake?”
Blake swallowed. “My father would die if he had seen my display today.”
“Your father is dead. Over ten years now.”
Blake nodded blankly. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You don’t?” Anthony asked.
Blake shook his head. All his private, well-guarded thoughts tumbled from his mouth in a flurry. “I couldn’t resist her. I couldn’t see anyone but her. I … I thought I’d die if I didn’t kiss her.”
Anthony harrumphed and looked away. “Consider yourself doomed. A sweet death, perhaps, but doomed all the same. Tis the same way I feel every time I look at Elizabeth.”
“Yes, but you love Elizabeth,” Blake whispered.
Anthony glared over his glass. “And why would you consider yourself immune?”
Blake laughed without humor. “I am not in love with Gertrude Finch. Desire is one thing, love another.” Blake crossed his legs and looked away. “Desire is bad enough.”
Anthony studied his friend. “So you are saying, if Helena had ran a hanky over her bosom you would have kissed her. In front of me, your children and the servants?”
“No, I, no,” Blake stuttered. “Displays of affection of that sort are private. Mistress or wife. It’s why I glare at you when you drape yourself over Elizabeth.”
“There was nothing private about the way you nearly ate my houseguest in your foyer today, Blake. I thought you meant to suck the woman’s lips right from her face,” Anthony growled.
Blake groaned.
“I was waiting for you to drop your pants and take her right there on the steps.”
Blake covered his face with his hand as Anthony repeated his innermost thoughts.
“Throw her skirts up and claim her in front of your children, my wife and Mrs. Wickham, for God’s sake.”
“Enough,” Blake said.
Anthony sat up straight. “She’s an unmarried woman in my protection. Here to help your daughter make her come-out,” he said as he stood. “Fine thing, I’ll be calling out my best friend.”
“I would never …” Blake began.
Anthony interrupted. “Bloody right, you won’t. I’ll not have you under Gertrude’s skirts and wave her merrily away at the docks. She’s not that kind of woman.”
Anthony was right. Blake knew it. The fact did not temper his lust.
* * *
Gert had an idea why Sanders kissed her again. Although not confident in her womanly charms, she was no one’s fool. She knew the hands at the ranch and Uncle Fred himself thought large breasts paramount to sainthood. She had been prepared to make a witty comment about drool and feel victory in his embarrassment. But then he’d stared at her with such intensity; her legs had nearly buckled as if she stood on the deck of her pirate captain’s ship as the wind blew at her back. Sanders had grabbed her arms, focused on her lips and kissed her with a low growl. Red sashes danced behind her closed eyes. None of her fantasy kisses ever compared.
Sanders had run up the staircase as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. She stood in the middle of the marble entranceway, breathless and dumbstruck. Elizabeth had taken her arm, guided her up the stairs and advised her to nap.
Gert looked blankly. “Can’t sleep. I’ll dream of pirates.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Pirates?”
But Gert conceded and woke up a short time later in a strange room. It took her a moment to remember where she was. Everything flooded back. London. Sanders. Their moment. Times two. She shook her head, determined to not let this man make a fool of her. There would be no more kissing, no more arguing, no more fuel to this fire. Gert felt oddly disappointed and rolled over to hug her pillow. “Enough of this nonsense,” she said aloud and jumped from the bed. The man was worse than Uncle Fred’s prize stallion. Didn’t matter which mare. Just the one closest.
Elizabeth knocked softly and came into the room. “Now, at least, perhaps, we can relax with Melinda’s presentation at court over. Thank goodness Lady Katherine sponsored her and I had little to do other than offer my best of luck to her. Did you rest well?” she asked.
“Fine, thank you. What should I wear tonight? What is Melinda wearing?” Gert asked in a rush.
“Is there anything you want to talk about, Gertrude?” Elizabeth asked.
Gert fingered the dress she had pulled from the wardrobe. “No,” she replied.
“Blake’s behavior has been … strange,” Elizabeth offered.
“Strange?” Gert repeated. “I’ve never been so mortified in all my life.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “It looked like you were enjoying his attention.”
“Attention is what you pay to your teacher or your sewing or a book. I thought the man would swallow me whole,” Gert said.
Elizabeth giggled as Gert plopped down on the bed. “Gertrude, what’s wrong?” she asked as she swept around the canopied bed.
Gert shook her head and swiped her hands over her eyes. “Nothing.”
“I’ve gotten to know you well, cousin. If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be crying.”
Gert looked away. “I never cry. It’s just …” her head dropped. “I’ve never been kissed before this. Not really kissed.” Elizabeth picked up her hand and held it. “I always dreamed about it, you know.”
“Terribly personal of me to ask but … how old are you?” Elizabeth said.
“Thirty-two,” Gert said grimly. “I long ago resigned myself to wonderful dreams of kissing, but now, well the reality is not what I expected.”
“Why not?” Elizabeth asked.
Gert hugged herself and wandered to the window. She shook her head in response.
“Do you love him?” Elizabeth said.
Gert turned swiftly. “I’ve only known him a few days, a week at the most. How would I know, anyway? Men have never stuck around long enough for me to know. I’m not the kind of woman men fall in love with. I’m tall and loud and plain. S
anders is certainly not the kind of man I envisioned in my dreams either.” Gert bowed her head and continued. “They were sweet and mild and even-tempered … pirates.”
Elizabeth smiled sympathetically. “Those men would not be the right ones for you. You’re strong and need strength in return.”
Gert shook her head. “It’s a childish fantasy anyway. More suited to Melinda than me. Speaking of Melinda, shouldn’t we be helping her dress? We leave in less than an hour.”
Elizabeth’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, dear.”
* * *
“What takes women so long to get dressed, Father?” William asked.
“A mystery that would compare to the pyramids, and as unanswerable as well,” Anthony said.
“I don’t have the foggiest notion, William. I was ready by half past.” Blake looked at himself in the mirror of the drawing room where he, Anthony and William waited for the women. Blake was determined to put the American out of his mind. “I wonder if Lady Elaine will be in attendance tonight?” he said.
“The Bentmore widow?” Anthony asked. “She’s a simpering fool. Why would you care?”
Blake smiled over his shoulder to Anthony.
“Who is Lady Elaine?” William asked.
“Just an acquaintance,” Blake replied.
“What about Miss Finch?” the boy asked.
“What about her?” Blake said. He could not look at his son’s face and chose rather to pick non-existent lint from his sleeve.
Anthony watched the exchange with interest.
William blustered with the curiosity of a boy becoming a man. “It’s alright then, to kiss lots of different women.” He stared away. “I wonder how many men my bride will have kissed. I don’t like to think about that.”
“It’s different for men and women, William. You will be the first man to kiss your bride and the last,” Blake said.
“Wasn’t for you and mother, you know,” William said in a quiet voice.
Blake gestured for William to sit down. “Your mother and my circumstances are unusual. It won’t happen to you.”