by Holly Bush
Blake’s grin dropped. “Those skirts belong to me. Make no mistake about it. I don’t hide behind them. They’re mine.”
Luke Matson glared. “We’ll see about that.”
Chapter Fifteen
Gertrude was watching the sun set in a ball of orange fire from the rocker on the porch when Blake approached. “Gertrude. Are you up to taking a stroll?” he asked.
She nodded and stood to accept his hand. He tucked it in the crook of his arm and set a leisurely pace away from the house.
Finally, he was close enough to Gertrude to smell the tantalizing scent of lemons. He was still terribly attracted to her. Her arms were still slender. Gertrude’s face was the same other than an elusive quality he’d yet to name. But her breasts were larger. Blake groaned. Her stomach stuck out as if a massive pumpkin were under her skirts. She was magnificent.
“You told Luke Matson you’re staying. Why?” she asked.
“Why did I tell him?” Blake countered.
“No. Why are you staying?”
“You are expecting my child, Gertrude. There is unfinished business between us,” Blake said finally.
“I told you before you needn’t feel obligated.” She turned her head to the prairie. “I was well aware of what I was doing. I accept the consequences.”
“So will I,” Blake said. He stole a look at Gertrude. Tears rolled down her face. “Why are you crying?”
“I won’t let you take this baby from me,” she said as she shook her hand free of his arm.
“Do you think so little of me that I would rip a child from its mother’s arms? Have I been so cruel?” Blake asked.
“No,” Gertrude said and began walking. “But I do know you are arrogant and high-handed and used to getting your own way.”
“True enough,” Blake replied. She made the comment as if he wasn’t supposed to be. He was actually feeling much better. More himself. The Duke of Wexford. After scares and births, near-death and honor grudges he felt as if he were a young man again. Blake’s talk with William had gone well. He told McDonald he’d not ask for Gertrude’s hand again because his pride had been sorely wounded. But now, here, after all he’d faced, with her beside him, his confidence soared.
“Why did you come yourself for Will?” she asked. “He was sure you would send someone else.”
“Will and I needed time to sort things out,” Blake said. “And I very much wished to see you again.”
“I can hardly believe that,” she said.
Blake turned Gertrude to face him. He’d best proceed slowly in her state of mind yet he wished to make clear his feelings. “I have thought of you constantly since we parted at the dock. I kept thinking it would cease. But it hasn’t.” His eyes dropped to her lips. “I cannot for my life forget how you felt in my arms. Or under me.” Blake bent over her stomach and touched his lips to hers.
* * *
Gert’s shoulders dropped with a sigh. He dropped his hand to her stomach and spread his long fingers wide. The kiss was tender and sweet. When she opened her eyes, his lips were inches from hers, and his eyes were still closed.
“We can be married here with your Uncle and Will in attendance,” Blake murmured as he stroked her cheek.
Gert stepped away from the circle of his arms and propped her fists on her missing waist. “What did you say?”
“You heard me, Gertrude. We will marry here before we return to London.” Blake straightened his back. “You are the perfect duchess for me, and I long to start afresh with our child.”
Blake Sanders was still handsome, even more so in his American clothes. He still took her breath away when he kissed her. He was still a horse’s ass. “I am not marrying you. I am not going to London. I have no intentions of playing second fiddle to any woman named Helena.”
“I’ll have no mistress, Gertrude. I have done a fair amount of thinking while being robbed, playing midwife, and being nearly beaten to death. I was wrong in my marriage. I told Ann as much. I never gave my union with her a real chance.” Blake dropped his head with the confession. “Regardless of society’s opinions I see now those accepted practices are wrong.”
“It took you forty years to figure this out?” Gert asked.
“Your lack of respect is astounding. Have you no understanding the crisis of conscience I’ve experienced to reach this conclusion?” Blake asked.
“Your son figured it all out at the ripe old age of fifteen.”
Blake grabbed Gertrude’s arms and pulled her as close as her stomach would allow, claiming her mouth with an intensity that shocked her. Her pirate had returned. Come back to claim her and drop her sensibilities like a coat she’d shrugged off. The smell of horse and leather met her nose. Demanding lips met her mouth. He angled his face to plunge deeper. Gert’s fingers wandered soft fabric around arms too wide to circle. This pirate was solid muscle from climbing masts and felling foes. Her pirate. Blake Sanders. She shuddered to realize the depths she’d missed this. How easy it would be to fall under his charms. Gert kicked at him awkwardly, desperate to put space between them.
Blake caught her leg and caressed the back of her thigh with his hand. “Have a care, Gertrude. My reactions are faster now than when we stood by the lake.”
She stilled when he released her and bit out her reply. “Women all over London would thank me if I gelded you.”
“Let us have no discussion of that subject, Gertrude” Blake said. “It is over and will not be repeated as I have said. ‘Tis private, in any case.”
“From what I’ve heard, there’s been nothing private about that,” Gert said evenly as she dropped her eyes to the buttons of his pants, “in the last twenty years. Probably so common, London ladies sketch them from memory when they’re done with their needlepoint.”
“If they viewed them now, their paintings would make the lowliest whore blush.” Blake said. “I have fought Indians, blackguards and delivered a child with a rod as stiff as a board. I fear if your blow had landed, it would have exploded in a thousand pieces like a vase that had been dropped to a tile floor.”
Gert’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
Blake looked out over the range. “I’ve had no woman since you, Gertrude. Tavern wenches in lace and no bodice make me wilt briefly. Other than that, I’ve had not a second’s peace from my urgings.”
Gert’s thoughts passed her lips before she could stop them. “Sometimes a stallion must be put down if he’s unable to, well, find a mare.”
“On occasion I believed a bullet to the head would be kinder than the torture I’ve endured.” Blake stared at Gert intensely. “But, thankfully this old horse has found his mate.”
Gert watched Blake retreat to the house as a shiver trailed down her arms. She could not decide what to do. She had a powerful hankering to beat him senseless. Or strip naked in front of him. For her life she could not decide which.
Gert lay in bed and counted stars in the clear black sky. Blake Sanders was the most infuriating, confusing man she’d ever met. He calmly announced their marriage as if she hadn’t refused him already. And in the next breath, told her he wouldn’t have a mistress, contrary to everything she knew of his past. Through some miraculous crisis of consciousness the Duke of Wexford had concluded that he’d wronged Lady Anne and the habit of keeping a mistress was unacceptable. That, in itself, was shocking.
But what brought a little smile to her face was not Blake’s change of heart. What forced her mouth from grin to frown and back was Blake’s claim he’d been with no woman since her. And that he was highly uncomfortable. Serves him right, she thought to herself, with a tilt to her head. La de, as Elizabeth would say, and no bar girl hanging out of her dress had eased him. And even with a stomach that stuck out a yard, he’d kissed her. Passionately. Gert closed her eyes with a smile on her face.
The following morning, she awoke to a beautiful summer day, feeling better than she had in months. Gert dressed quickly, determined to resume the chores she’d left behind when she w
ent to London. A cup of tea in her hand, she seated herself at the desk in Uncle Fred’s small study. The stack of mail took Gert till noon to open. She opened the account books just as Blake found her.
“What are you doing? I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” Blake announced from the door.
Gert’s fingertips were covered in ink and she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand as he spoke. “Catching up on correspondence and the books. Very little was done after I left for England. I’ve been working on it here and there.”
“You look tired. Have you eaten? Surely there’s someone else that can see to this,” Blake asked.
Gert shook her head and her unbound hair swayed. “No. Aunt Mavis taught me how to do it all before she died. Uncle Fred has a head for horses but not business.”
Fred walked in and up to the desk. “Want to start fencing in the south range before winter, Gert. I’ll need supplies.”
“Not until I figure out all that you’ve spent since I’ve been gone. How much will you need?” Gert asked.
“Mr. Hastings. I fear you’re overtaxing Miss Finch,” Blake said.
Gert smiled up at them both. “Actually I feel better than I’ve felt in months. Good to be back in the saddle again.”
Blake’s mouth dropped. “You’ll do no such thing. Riding these wild beasts in your fragile condition. I won’t stand for it.”
Fred turned to Blake exasperated. “She don’t mean the saddle of a horse, you nitwit. She means doling out the money two pennies at a time.”
“If Aunt Mavis and I didn’t dole out the money, we’d be living in a shack eating beans,” Gert said. “What do you think you’ll get for this new string of ponies?”
* * *
Blake watched their haggling in astonishment. Gertrude quoted bank accounts, mortgage payments and interest percentages. Fred shouted there’d be no bank accounts if they didn’t start breaking more horses; competition was fierce he’d said. Ann Sanders had no idea if her new dress cost two pence or five hundred pounds. No lady he knew of did. Gertrude did not back down, not an inch. Conceding only to consider the expenditure after the sale of their latest stock. Fred harrumphed and growled but did not argue any longer.
Blake stood near shelves loaded with books. Gertrude had apparently forgotten his presence. Her head dropped back to her scribbling. “Seems you keep your Uncle on a short leash.”
Gertrude smiled. “This ranch is profitable. I have no intentions of allowing all our hard work to be for nothing. Uncle Fred will get his supplies. But not without remembering who’s in charge of the money.”
“So this was merely negotiation?”
“I suppose so. We’ll come to an agreement. But my tight fist will make Uncle Fred get every penny those ponies are worth. He’ll be smug and smile and think he’s won when I draft a check for that fencing.”
Watching her smile in triumph was unsettling. His Gertrude was formidable. He may have been approaching her the wrong way all along. She was smart and capable of out maneuvering her uncle. If he weren’t careful, she’d sidestep him as well.
“Your eyes look tired. And you must be hungry as well,” Blake said.
Gertrude sat back and stretched with a yawn. “I am tired and hungry. I have one more column to finish before I see what Cookie’s made up. I’ve come up with three different figures so far.”
Blake dropped his hands from across his chest and stepped forward. “Would you like me to take a crack at it?”
“Have you ever done this before?” she asked.
“My dear. I handle an estate ten times the size of this ranch. Wexford wealth is invested in a diversified manner.” Blake said stonily. “And after all, I am a graduate of Cambridge. We can add.”
“Please do. My eyes are nearly crossed.” She stood and allowed Blake to sit at the desk and sat down in the chair across from him. When his hand moved down the column twice and he entered a figure, she asked, “How are you diversified? I assume you mean your holdings?”
Blake looked up, clearly surprised with the question. “Traditionally, peers of the realm have maintained their monies in their estate only. I handled mine the same way much of my life. Friends of mine, acquaintances really, lost their family homes, as land played its self out and tenants moved to the cities for work. As a result of that, I’ve invested in a wide range of companies. And the market as well.”
“From what Anthony says, anything other than traditional investments in estates is unacceptable.”
“You had this conversation with Anthony?”
She shrugged. “I was curious. I didn’t understand how these huge mansions supported themselves. No one makes anything to sell as far as I could see. Excepting a fuss.”
Benson delivered a tray with small sandwiches. They continued their conversation well into the afternoon. Gertrude had moved to the small settee under the window to stretch out. As Blake finished rambling about one particular investment, he realized her eyes had closed. The sun glinted off of the curls in her hair. She had kicked off her shoes long ago. Her head tilted awkwardly, and her mouth was open just a bit. Black stared at her. She was clever and understood quickly as he’d explained his strategies. Her challenges to his decisions were well thought and Blake found himself reconsidering a few. They’d argued, discussed, agreed on some and differed on others. Blake tapped his finger to his mouth. He would never be bored. That was for certain.
Blake understood now what Anthony had tried to tell him so many years ago. After Anthony had married, he and Blake’s outings and long nights over brandy had diminished. Sir Anthony Burroughs had claimed his wife suited him fine for conversation. He claimed they sat up long hours, planning and discussing or just silent. Blake had not understood at the time. Now, Blake conceded, he wouldn’t miss the evenings at his clubs with his peers. They would be unnecessary except as an occasional diversion. The person he wanted to confide in, to convince or to debate with now slouched before him in slumber. Blake picked up a wool blanket from the back of the chair and draped it gently over Gertrude. He turned to the door and saw Fred. One finger came to his mouth, begging quiet.
“She’s an angel when she sleeps,” Fred whispered. “And a handful of sass when she’s not.”
The two men walked to the kitchen. Uncle Fred poured himself a cup of coffee and asked Blake if he’d join him. Blake readily agreed. There was more, much more, to this woman than he’d imagined.
“None of the coffee. Thank you. But if you don’t mind, I wish you’d tell me how Gertrude came to live here,” Blake asked.
Fred sat down and grimaced. “Gert never told you, huh?” Blake shook his head. “My Mavis’s brother, the lying piece of shit that he was, lived in Ohio. Mavis tried to talk his wife Ethel, Gert’s momma, into coming to live with us and bringing Gert along.”
Blake raised his brows in question.
“Yeah, I weren’t too happy about the notion of getting between a man and his wife, but I went along with it for Gert’s sake. And it was Edgar that was Mavis’s blood kin. Ethel and Mavis wrote each other all time. Seems Edgar couldn’t keep his peter in his pants, no how. And ‘cause it was usually his bosses’ wife or daughter he’d diddle with, he didn’t keep a job too long, neither. The last couple of times Ethel wrote, she asked Mavis for money.” Fred lifted his eyes to Blake’s. “Seems they weren’t eating too good.”
“How old was Gertrude when this happened?”
“I’d be guessing eleven or so. Her ma, Ethel, died when she was twelve. Consumption got her. Mavis was in a fine fit when she got the letter from Gert saying her Ma died. She had me off buying train tickets to go fetch the girl when ole Edgar stopped by the ranch.”
Fred stood to refill his coffee. The water Blake heated for tea was boiling, and he brewed the leaves while Fred continued.
“Put the girl down out of the wagon with a bundle of rags he called her clothes. Told Mavis he’d be back to get her when he struck it rich, out California way. Mavis said he’d just hawed a
t his nag and drove off. Leaving Gert in the middle of the yard balling her eyes out. Probably best all-around I was in town that day. I’d a shot the son of a bitch.”
“Has Gertrude ever heard from him, the son of a bitch?” Blake asked.
“Not so much as a howdy-do in a letter. Nothing. That girl waited every night for her Pa to come. Mavis made up stories that he was busy making a new home for them. That he’d be back soon. My patience done expired with that nonsense. I sat Gert down one night and told her the truth. Mavis made me sleep in the barn for a week.”
“Was telling a young girl the facts the right thing to do? Looking back, would you do the same thing?” Blake asked.
Uncle Fred winced. “Can’t rightly say. I thought so for a long time. No use having this sweet thing sitting and watching and waiting for something that’d never happen.”
“What did you say?” Blake asked. He tried to imagine a dark haired twelve-year-old Gertrude hanging on every word her uncle said.
“I told her that her Pa was never coming back. When she was older, I told her that good men don’t go around sleeping with somebody else’s wife. Told her I never strayed from her Aunt Mavis, and I never would.” Fred leaned in to chuckle. “Didn’t tell her Mavis would’ve killed me if I did.”
“But you had second thoughts about what you’d told her later?” Blake asked. No wonder Gertrude adored this man. He’d fed her and clothed her and loved her enough to be honest. Even if he knew it would hurt.
“When Gert was older, she decided men in general didn’t treat women too good. Imagine ‘cause of how her ma ended up. That’s what got her wrapped up in “her cause.” Don’t think the girl ever wanted to risk marrying someone like her Daddy. So she troops around with the ugliest, fattest group of womenfolk you ever seen.”
Blake chuckled as he recalled his similar words. “I described them the same way. Gertrude took none too kindly to it.”