by Jenn LeBlanc
“I apologize for any appearance of impropriety,” Mr. Shaw said, attempting to break the silence. “It was only out of fear of being marooned in the labyrinth that I accompanied Miss Francine. I should have requested we leave directly, but she was charming and I— I beg pardon for the transgression.”
“I understand how you could be taken with her. She is…exceptional. I appreciate your candor and hold no fault against you. I trust any meetings with my charge have since been properly chaperoned?”
“Actually, I haven’t seen her since. I’ve been quite busy with the measurements and plans, and I imagine she had no interest in rescuing the likes of me again, even though the conversation was refreshing.”
“You spoke with her?”
Shaw nodded. “My sister is profoundly deaf, Your Grace, and she studies at the Braidwood Academy for the Deaf and Dumb in Hackney. I endeavored to learn the language for her and, although it’s terribly unfashionable, I enjoy it.”
Gideon was dumbstruck. He thought of the motions she’d made with her hands. He’d thought she was just trying to convey something; he hadn’t realized she was actually using language. He should have known better. “So this”—he motioned with his hand—“means what, thank you?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Shaw seemed to ease a bit.
“And this, what does this mean?” he asked as he lifted his hands and imitated the sign she’d made from the window when he quit the estate.
Mr. Shaw paused. “I believe it means to convey a deep sadness, Your Grace.”
Gideon thought for a moment. “I’d like to learn a few more phrases, if you have the time.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Francine rested at a small table on the terrace overlooking the gardens. The cloudless sky was a clear, bright blue, almost lilac. She enjoyed the peacefulness here, but longed for some distraction. When would she see him? She’d missed the duke at breakfast, and Mrs. Weston said he was currently meeting with Mr. Shaw. Then, of course, there was the brother. When would she meet him?
“Well, hello,” Perry greeted her.
Francine’s heart skipped a beat as she looked up the staircase that went to the upstairs parlor to find an impeccably dressed, younger version of Roxleigh leaning arrogantly against the balustrade. She waved at him nervously with just the tips of her fingers as she braced herself. This man wasn’t like his brother, she could see that much from the way he carried himself. This man was the quarterback, the prom king, Mr. Popular, the ever-elusive crush who didn’t know you existed, and here he was with her, giving her all of his attention.
He spoke quietly. “No doubt you are Miss Francine, my brother’s… houseguest.”
She studied him warily from beneath her eyelashes and he returned a grin so blatantly satisfied it curled her toes.
“I am most honored to make your acquaintance.” He descended the final stair and bowed before her, one leg thrust forward, sweeping his arm to the side with great fanfare. “I am Lord Peregrine Trumbull, Viscount Roxleigh. You may call me Perry,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. He straightened, and as an afterthought then added, “When you are able to call me, that is.” The sound of his words came more from his chest than his throat. Like Gideon. Gideon. The name sounded strong and safe in her her mind.
“I understand your voice is injured. I am terribly sorry, as it does leave you at quite a disadvantage, particularly since I love to talk.” He approached the table.
Francine smiled bashfully. The quarterbacks of the world had never paid much attention to her before, and she felt terribly overwhelmed with this one.
“It’s true, he does love the sound of his own voice,” Gideon said. Francine stood abruptly, toppling her chair. The defensive lineman had arrived.
She was quite effectively pinned to the spot as she looked from one man to the other; they were both dressed in crisp white shirts with black trousers that pulled sharply to the bridge of their black shoes. Though the viscount was finished with a dove grey cravat and waistcoat, whereas Gideon appeared to have foregone them both at some point.
“Please, Miss Francine, sit. I insist you finish your tea. For your voice,” Gideon said as he righted her chair. “Please,” he implored again, looking into her eyes.
Francine’s breath hitched as she gazed back at him. She sat down and he lifted the teapot, warming her tea, while she motioned to the chairs at the table for the brothers to join her. She felt quite like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Perry was grinning like the Cheshire Cat and— She wasn’t sure who Gideon was. Perhaps the handsome prince Lewis Carroll forgot to include. Such an oversight, she thought with her own Cheshire grin, before it occurred to her that Mrs. Weston was much like the easily startled White Rabbit, always running off as if she were late.
Gideon and Perry—no, Trumbull; she didn’t feel right using his name. And how odd was that?—exchanged glances, pulling two chairs next to each other opposite Francine as she reached to pour tea. She frowned, realizing only one cup had been brought out, and glanced up apologetically. She wanted to pull her feet up on the edge of her chair and hide behind her knees. She was generally beset by the sight of one Gideon, but two— Now she felt downright conquered.
She stared, wide-eyed, into her cup of tea as they watched. She willed her legs to steady and her feet to remain on the ground, pretending to blow across the tea to cool it. She cupped it with both hands while attempting to hide behind the tiny piece of china. What she wouldn’t give for one of her giant lattés from St. Mark coffee house. Certainly there was more of a cup to hide behind.
She glanced from one man to the other. Trumbull was focused on her eyes, but Gideon was focused on her—mouth. She squeaked and placed the teacup on the table with an audible clink. This must be what it feels like to stand before a firing squad. Something has got to give or I’m going to pass out. Are they oblivious to their effect? She twisted her skirts in her hands.
Gideon’s concerned gaze and Trumbull’s curious stare held her fast. She could tell that Trumbull was, in fact, not oblivious to their effect on her as his grin kicked up on one side of his mouth. She started to tremble.
“Miss Francine, I beg your pardon, as I wasn’t here to introduce you to my brother,” Gideon said.
“Why on earth must you beg pardon for that?” Trumbull asked. “It’s not as though the girl needs protection from me. As it is, she’s probably the safest girl in all of England where I’m concerned,” he said with a laugh.
Gideon grimaced and cast him a sideways glance.
Francine smiled, then reached across the table to pat his hand gently. She saw her error when a flash of discomfiture crossed Gideon’s features. She pulled her hand back and signed I’m sorry.
Gideon shook his head. “No, no, wait,” he said, reaching for her. She looked up to the deep, emerald pools of his eyes that held the most sincere of gazes.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mrs. Weston screeched as she appeared on the terrace. The brothers stood quickly and penitently, like two boys caught in the mud before Sunday school.
Francine watched as Mrs. Weston turned on them. “What are you two rakes doing out here with Miss Francine? It’s a bit like an inquest! The two of you should be ashamed,” she admonished. “You,” she said in her most stern mother-voice, pointing at Trumbull. “Your breakfast grows cold. You get in to the table, and leave the miss be.”
“Why, yes, of course, Westy. I do apologize for such untoward behavior with regard to your charge,” he said jovially, with a slight bow.
Mrs. Weston only twitched her head toward the breakfast room with a wink, then with hands on hips she turned on Gideon. “As for you,” she said, lifting her chin as she looked at him. “I have some goods to fetch from town since we’ve more guests than planned.” Gideon’s brow creased. “You watch over Miss Francine while I am away,” she said with a stout nod.
Gideon was taken aback. Had he just gone from being a scolded scoundrel to a suitable chaperone in the
space of a minute? He was the Duke of Roxleigh, and Mrs. Weston had managed to shame him into feeling like a young child.
He straightened, squaring his shoulders and clasping his hands behind his back. He widened his stance a bit and stared down at his housekeeper.
Mrs. Weston froze, averting her eyes. Grabbing at her apron and twisting it, she continued, stuttering, “I will t-t-take my leave, Your Grace.” She backed away quickly then pushed through the door.
Gideon turned to Francine, whose eyes were round as she watched Mrs. Weston scurry away. She glanced back to him, and he slowly relaxed his posture.
He took a deep breath and smiled. He pulled his chair over in front of Francine and sat down, gazing at her. “I have something to say to you.” He took his right fist and put it to his chest, making a circle over his heart.
Her jaw dropped, and she shook her head.
Gideon raised his hand to stop her. “I’m not finished. When I left, you made me aware you were upset. I could feel the intent in my bones and I am most remorseful that I didn’t trust my understanding. I did not stay. I understand now.”
Unshed tears glistened in her eyes, they that were the sweetest pools of light, iridescent blue. He looked down and saw her hands shaking. He reached out, taking them in his. “I am so sorry,” he whispered, and with that her tears spilled.
They sat in silence for a while as he stroked her hands, wiped the tears from her face, and tucked an errant lock behind her ear. She trembled with his every touch.
She must be an innocent to react to a man’s touch in this manner. He drew back slightly, then lifted her chin so she looked into his face. Putting the fingers of his right hand together and touching his chin, he moved his hand in a circle around his face, his fingers spreading wide as his hand passed his forehead. Beautiful.
He stood, pulling her with him, and strode toward the maze. “So,” he said, turning to her at the entrance, “I understand you’ve discovered the key to my maze.”
She looked at him dubiously.
“Mr. Shaw informed me of your service to him in delivering him from certain danger,” he said wryly.
Francine’s eyes lit up and she lifted her skirts, moving swiftly toward the labyrinth. He was surprised when, after several determined turns, they arrived at the fountain. She dropped her skirts and turned to look up at him.
“How did you— I mean, when did you learn, or who— I. Humph.” He stood with one hand on his hip and the other reaching toward her. Her presence calmed his addled brain. “Where did you learn the key?” he asked, bewildered.
She smiled and reached for his hand, but he pulled away as though he were ice, and she fire.
This was a mistake. “We really shouldn’t—” He started. But then she pleaded with her eyes. “It…isn’t proper,” he said nervously, trying to deflect her questioning glance, even though he desperately wanted to talk with her. She took a step toward him and he backed away a pace. She stopped and looked at him, shaking her head, then pushed her lip out in a pout. That was another mistake, he thought with a sigh.
She held her hand out to him and he winced as he yielded, placing his in hers, feeling the cool touch on his heated palm.
He breathed deeply and she moved to stand beside him.
She held his hand up in front of them like a blackboard and traced the letter A into his palm.
His breath caught, a shiver coursing his spine from the tingle her small finger caused, tracing over his skin.
She then made the sign for the letter A.
His mouth turned up at the corner in understanding. Then he lifted his other hand and signed the letter A in return.
She smiled her broad smile and they went on exchanging the written letters of the alphabet for the silent ones until Francine, with a mischievous grin, decided to quiz him and spelled a word.
“Francine.”
A giant grin brightened her face and she jumped at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. The movement startled him and he stumbled back from the force of her crashing against him, coming up against the high edge of the fountain, his arms flung wide.
She let go, sliding down, but he caught her up against his chest with one hand spread at the small of her back, not letting her move. Her body was drawn taut against his, her toes barely touching the ground between his feet, his strong thighs embracing her soft ones.
She spelled a second word.
His composure shattered. “Gideon,” he ground out in a throaty whisper.
She looked up into his face and this time, her breath caught.
The quiet sound was his undoing and he raised his hand to the back of her neck, placing his thumb at the hollow below her ear as he slowly lowered his mouth to hers, covering her sweet, soft lips with his own. He kissed and nibbled, making her gasp. The moment her mouth opened he took advantage, tasting her, dipping his tongue gently.
He stroked her jaw with his thumb from her ear to chin, urging her mouth to open wider for him. Desperately in need, he delved further, searching for the spring that fed her sweetness. She sighed into his mouth, driving his heartbeat faster and harder.
His hand moved from the small of her back to the cleft between her shoulder blades, feeling the shudder travel her spine in his wake. He bent his knees, allowing her to catch her feet on the ground, and he curved his back, giving his arms more length to surround and envelop her.
Her hands fell from his neck, down his back, and across the breadth of his muscles. He felt them respond to her: tightening, strengthening, stretching, and rolling beneath his skin. Her hands fluttered to his waist and he straightened as the heat of her palms sank through his shirt, into his sides.
He broke away with a guttural moan. His head fell back as he pulled her hips to him tightly, his manhood pushing against her belly. She wriggled and he hissed in a breath, gazing down at her through the veil of his thick eyelashes, trying to control his rampant passion.
“Don’t.” He held her hips firmly, trying to stop her wiggling. “Stop moving, or neither of us will make it out of this maze anytime soon,” he said gruffly.
Her skin flushed, a heated blush rolling from her toes to the top of her head. He couldn’t bring himself to release her as the heat soaked into his hands.
“Just a moment, I—” He broke off, gasping for air. He looked into her eyes and watched the fever of her blush blossoming over her face, forcing another rush of blood toward his groin.
Francine froze, her arms held between their chests. His eyes smoldered, like the ebb of a fire. Her hips were still pulled solidly against him, and she could feel his turgid shaft against her. Her eyes grew wider as she felt it move against her belly and she drew in a breath as their bodies melded. She let it out slowly, hoping that the wild beating of her heart would never subside, and she sank into the feeling.
“Just…let me,” he whispered again, lowering his head over hers and sliding his other hand around her waist, effectively melting her nerves and removing the last of her inhibitions. He held her fast against his muscular form as his mouth met hers again and she fell against him, her hands pressing into his chest while her knees went weak.
“Oh my,” she breathed against his lips, without a sound.
He laughed, sobered by her enervation. He leaned more comfortably against the fountain, pushing one of his thickly muscled thighs between her legs. He had one arm wrapped around her waist and he smoothed the other hand up her abdomen, resting it against her rib cage just below her breast. He was telling himself he shouldn’t, but his hand wasn’t listening, and neither was she.
Francine pushed forward, gently forcing the roundness of her breast into his palm.
He stroked her nipple with the pad of his thumb through the thickness of her dress, feeling the peak harden between the whalebone stays of the corset.
Francine rested her head against his chest, breathing heavily, and he caught a fresh rush of her scent, lavender and rain.
He moved his hand
around to her nape, softly stroking the hollow beneath her ear again. She let her head fall backward into that hand and he kissed her with more fervor.
Suddenly brazen, Francine dropped her hands to his hips, her thumbs caressing the matching ridges of muscle that framed his hardness like an arrow, from his hip to his loins, as she pressed herself down on his thigh. She felt a jolt of passion from the contact with his rigid thigh and she threw her head back, arching into his chest.
The adamantine length of his body clenched violently in response.
She heard a low growl that started in his chest and moved upward as he swiftly stood and moved her away from him.
As soon as there was a measurable space between them, he clasped her worried face in his strong, warm hands. “Are you all right?” he asked, slowly tracing her cheeks and eyebrows with his thumbs.
She grasped his wrists with her own small hands and nodded. She was unsure what had happened. Everything had been fine and then—then he just stopped.
He gave her a gentle smile. “I’m sorry, but we cannot do this.” He closed his eyes as he ran his thumb over her pouting lip. “I mean to say that I want you, every part of you, but it’s not right. Not until we learn where you came from, and where you are supposed to be.” He paused. “I will not be your ruination.”
She broke away from him, shaking her head. She started to sign What if, but her hand dropped and she looked down, unable to finish.
“What if…we never learn?”
She nodded, her eyes stinging with the threat of tears. She’d never imagined she would be refused when she finally tried to give it up.
“I have to try,” he said slowly. “I simply must. It’s the proper thing to do.”
But we’ll never learn because I don’t belong here, she thought, frustration tensing her features. She shook her head in resignation, feeling more lost than she ever had.
He pulled her back into his embrace, stroking her face and hair, imploring her to calm. “Francine, look at me,” he said.