The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance)

by Jenn LeBlanc

  He smiled down at her, touching a finger to her chin and lifting her head to meet his gaze. “I would like nothing more than to be locked away with you for the rest of our days—”

  “Well, then.” She stared into his eyes, silently imploring him to kiss her. “What exactly are you waiting for? Take me, lock me away,” she whispered as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  He lifted his head after kissing her soundly. “Hmm. You do look like a proper lady, but you sound—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, you sound a bit like a strumpet.” He shifted one hand to hold the back of her head while the other stroked her neck tenderly.

  “Do I?”

  He released her and walked around her, inspecting her gown. She wore one of the ready-to-wear dresses she had purchased at Harrods.

  He surveyed the simple design, noting the lack of corset.

  “And what of your rather unseemly behavior?” she asked. “I mean, here you are in my bedchamber, not to mention the rather unconventional way you relieved me of my virginity,” she added with a wicked grin.

  He smiled. “I do find it humorous that my sense of propriety has rubbed off on you, while your sense of recklessness has managed to invade me.” He stopped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, gathering her long skirts up into his hands. His breath caught and he groaned as he bent his legs, his thighs surrounding hers as he stroked the smooth exposed skin at the tops of her stockings. He loosened the ties at her sides, letting her drawers fall to the floor.

  Her mouth dropped open. “I have never been quite so reckless as when I am with you. Have you nothing to say for that?” She felt him grin against her neck.

  “Talking is overrated. Let me instead show you.” She felt the strength of his voice rumbling through his chest and into her soul.

  He shifted his hands, trailing his fingers up the backs of her thighs to her buttocks, then grasping her hips and pulling her back against his arousal.

  “Gideon,” she protested weakly.

  The myriad of ways his name escaped her lips astounded him. At times a curse, a prayer, a request. But it was here, the supplication, the want pervaded that word, that gave him chills.

  He moved one hand around her hip, cupping the curls at the juncture of her thighs. He massaged her gently, sending one dexterous finger deep into her womanhood and, despite her surprised cry, he found her ready for him.

  The discovery made him groan as she arched her back, the valley of her buttocks stroking his length. He moved her toward the bed and she stepped out of her drawers. He placed her hands around one of the bedposts, just above her head.

  “Hold on.” He trailed kisses along the back of her neck, from one ear to the other.

  Her surrender pushed him over the edge, and he loosened his trousers and leaned back. Bending his knees, he tilted her hips. Then, in one strong, upward movement he impaled her, grasping both of her hips as he pulled her down tightly against him, shifting slowly, teasing her gently, grinding their joined bodies together.

  She felt the crisp fabric of his grey trousers rubbing the backs of her bare legs, and the friction raising gooseflesh on her thighs. Her breath quickened.

  She tilted her hips back and forth against him, his shaft burrowing deeper in her as she tensed and released.

  He lifted his hands to her breasts, teasing her nipples through the soft cotton of her dress, relishing the feel of her body with no corset to confine her. He groaned, the sound rumbling against her, and she arched her back again, forcing their bodies together. His rhythm increased, his breath coming fierce against her back between her shoulder blades as the heat from his hands sank through the gown’s fabric, warming her ribcage. The feel of his breath dragged a shudder first down her spine, then from each of her limbs, coming together then spreading and gaining force as it coursed through her veins.

  He ran his hands down her ribcage to her thighs, gently working her, and her passion unfurled, crashing violently through her body in waves of breaking tension. He wrapped his arms around her torso, pulling her tight against his body as she kept her hands clamped around the bedpost, holding them upright. She clenched around him, her muscles drawing him further inside and his release deeper, closer to her womb.

  They stilled. He bent his knees and slowly withdrew from her. She mewled a complaint. Her acclimation to his intrusion was becoming more insistent. She was beginning to prefer the feel of him within her, as opposed to without. He fastened his trousers quickly and turned her to him, taking her hands and massaging the red impressions from the bedpost with his thumbs while he kissed her.

  She collapsed against him and he lifted her, sitting on the bed with her in his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head against his cheek.

  His breathing slowed, the passion fog clearing slowly, and he held on to her without complaint, even as the flowers in her hair tickled his skin.

  “I will ring for Mrs. Weston. We will dine here.”

  “But what abou—”

  “We will dine here.” He tightened his hold.

  “Gideon, I need to breathe.”

  “Sorry, I—” He relaxed a bit, but did not loose her. “I still fear I will let you go, only to find you gone once again.” He was suddenly tense with the realization of how much he could not bear to lose her again. The fear infested him, spreading like tendrils through his mind until he couldn’t quite concentrate on anything else.

  “Gideon, I need to know you are safe as well. I’m happy to dine wherever you wish.”

  He knew that wasn’t what she meant. He knew she was conceding because she felt the sudden terror as it bolted through him. He wasn’t familiar with having his deepest emotions laid bare, out where others could touch them, poke at them, but at the moment he didn’t much care.

  He hid his face in her hair, taking in the very scent of her. “We will dine here.”

  And so they did.

  The next morning, Mrs. Weston and Ferry walked upstairs through the passages from the kitchens after sharing breakfast. “I’m glad to have them back, are you not, Ferry? Well, I guess you travel with His Grace, so for you it’s a bit different. But I haven’t seen hide nor hair for entirely too long,” she said with a laugh.

  Ferry smiled as they reached the main hallway where they would part.

  “I expect I’ll be seeing you in a bit,” she said, then called “Good morning” as she walked into Francine’s room with a grand smile. She hummed a quiet summer song while she threw the drapes open across the windows and strolled toward the bed.

  “Francine?” she cried out. She panicked as she looked around the room. “Oh, what will I tell him… What will I say?” she fretted. “She’s gone again.”

  She bolted from the room and nearly ran into Ferry, who was striding briskly down the passageway. “Ferry,” she cried, “is His Grace yet awake? Lady Francine is gone!”

  Ferry took the stout woman by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. He was pale as a ghost, his face drawn. “She is not gone,” he said simply.

  “What are you about, Ferry? She’s not in her bed, she’s not in her room, she’s gone!” she yelled at him, her panic quickly rising.

  “Shh.” Ferry shook her shoulders. “Milady is not missing, Mrs. Weston. She is…unavailable, but she is not…” He cleared his throat and squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. “She is with His Grace,” he ground out through clenched teeth, the last word a shocking pitch, then stormed off down the steps.

  Mrs. Weston flinched and stared after him for a moment. Ferry was indeed a man of few words, and she had never once heard him raise his voice. Her jaw dropped. “Oh,” she said quietly, finally understanding. She followed him.

  She caught up to him in the servants’ hall, pouring a cup of tea. “Ferry, you know His Grace and Lady Francine intend to marry.”

  “Intentions and actions are two entirely separate matters, madam, as you well know. If that were my child up there, I would call him out at once a
nd demand reparations.”

  “For what? He’s already come to scratch,” Mrs. Weston said, desperately trying to defend the duke.

  Ferry stood. “There are actions that are acceptable for a married couple, and there are— There is no excuse for subjecting a household staff to such impertinent behaviors. I cannot carry out my duties if I have no idea when and where I can be, and at what times, and I certainly don’t appreciate walking in on— Well. You can inform His Grace that I am taking the day. I will return, but I would appreciate knowing exactly how to complete my tasks to his approval. I will not be held lacking.” He turned and walked out.

  Mrs. Weston frowned. She would have to speak with Gideon. For now, she needed to figure out the same as what Ferry was concerned with—how to go about her duties without knowing when and where she could be.

  As she climbed back up the stairs she ran headlong into Perry, who was leaving his suite for breakfast. He lifted her in his arms as though they would waltz, even gave one good spin, but she didn’t smile. “What ails you?”

  She looked away, then back up at him with a huff as she hung there in his arms. “Lady Francine wasn’t in her bed and I thought she was gone again, but Ferry found her.” She paused. “And he was quite upset. Now he’s gone off.”

  “Will he return?” he asked as he set her down.

  She straightened her skirts and nodded.

  “I will speak with Gideon. He should be more aware of his actions as they pertain to Lady Francine, and I will see to it that he doesn’t offend his staff, lest he lose them.” He grinned. “However, Ferry would be a grand addition to my personal staff,” he said delightedly.

  Mrs. Weston smacked his shoulder and laughed. “If Ferry can’t manage this situation, he would not fare well in your employ,” she said before walking down the hall to attend to her duties.

  He smiled a broad smile, but it faded quickly once Mrs. Weston left.

  At eight o’clock precisely supper was served. Gideon and Francine hadn’t been social since they returned to Eildon Hill, so when the two entered the dining room at five after, everyone was stunned.

  Perry nodded to the footmen, who shifted plates and trays around to accommodate the late arrivals.

  Shaw talked about the work on the manor and the work yet to be done.

  Gideon agreed with the idea of the children’s suites, but might have agreed to just about anything as his mind was actually on Francine’s shaven legs underneath her silken skirts. He had seen from the way she walked down the steps that she enjoyed the smooth fabric caressing her bare legs, and his mind wandered at every opportunity. He stared intently at Francine and she blushed. He smiled, then cast his gaze about the room to let her settle.

  She gave him a vengeful grin and slipped her foot out of her shoe. She furtively raised her foot, tracing Gideon’s leg up to his thigh. She watched his face, saw how his eyes widened almost imperceptibly as her foot lifted higher and higher still. She smiled triumphantly.

  Perry noticed the comfort levels of their guests dropping and turned to Francine. “My lady,” he began softly, but she didn’t turn. “Francine,” he said stiffly.

  Startled, Francine jumped, digging her toes in and drawing a tense expression across Gideon’s face.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Perry asked gruffly as Francine turned away. “Because we could all quit the dining room and leave you to it.”

  “Trumbull!” Gideon boomed, standing and knocking his chair over. “You will not speak in such a common tone toward Lady Francine. Is that understood?” Nothing about the words was questioning, yet he waited for a reply.

  Perry pushed his chair back slowly, then stood. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, if you find my words overly common. Perhaps you could explain the nature of your behavior as it pertains to my ward here at the supper table?”

  “There is nothing I need explain to you or anyone else within the confines of my manor.”

  “Oh, but there is, especially when you behave in such an inappropriate fashion in proper company.”

  “And you believe this conversation is rather more proper?” Gideon ground out.

  Perry thought for a moment, then bowed with deference. “I beg pardon, Your Grace, my lady. I seem to have forgotten my senses. I will take my leave.” He threw his linen on his plate, then turned and walked determinedly from the room without a backward glance while the rest of the supper party watched uncomfortably.

  Francine glanced at Gideon, silently pleading with him to follow. When he didn’t, she kicked him in the leg. “Go!”

  It seemed to break his reverie and he rushed out.

  He found Perry in the study, pouring a glass of whiskey. “What was that?” Gideon yelled, slamming the door behind him.

  Perry shook his head, downed the glass of whiskey, and poured another.

  “You’ve no right…” Gideon started, letting the words trail away when Perry cut him off with a glare.

  “Don’t I?” he asked. “Really? All your stalwart morals and rules of propriety, and I don’t have the right to protest when my ward behaves in an untoward fashion? Indeed.”

  “Who are you? And what have you done with the brother who has spent years complaining and harassing me for my stringent sense of propriety?”

  “Gideon, we have all looked away from your behavior in consideration of the ordeal that Hepplewort forced upon Francine, but there is a point at which you must return to the present and conduct yourself in an acceptable manner.”

  Gideon took Perry by the lapels, looking him in the eye. “I finally loosen a bit, and you come down on me like the Maharaja demanding my blood for indiscretions,” he railed. He released him with a push, spilling Perry’s whiskey as he turned away.

  Perry wiped his hand and set the glass on the sideboard. He shook his head. “I have— I’ve goaded you for years, but I never thought for a moment that you would actually—” He turned and walked toward the tall windows that looked out over the south meadow, the land now dusted with moonlight. “You are supposed to be the strong one, the dependable one. And now that you’ve changed, where does that leave me?” He turned to Gideon, who remained near the entry. “I have never been interested in donning that particular cap. Yet here I am, saddled with two French chits—and not at all the way I prefer—until I can marry them off.” His shoulders fell and he rested his hands on the desk. “You don’t seem to understand,” he mumbled. “This isn’t the bullet I expected to take for you.” He collapsed in the chair behind the large, paperwork-laden desk.

  Gideon watched silently, then moved to the sideboard to pour a fresh whiskey. He took a sip before walking to the desk. “I should have known better. I didn’t think that you would become just as resolute in your beliefs as I am.” He set the glass of whiskey on the desk in front of Perry. “And you’re right. You have turned your way of life over entirely, for the sake of my propriety and in the name of the dukedom, and I have been callous with that action.”

  Perry glanced up, surprise registered in the set of his brow at his brother’s self-admonition.

  Gideon sat down. “My affairs are not your responsibility and I have taken your efforts for granted.”

  Perry shook his head, drinking the whiskey. “The tables have turned a bit, haven’t they? Only two months ago I was the one with a gentle foot in my lap at dinner,” he said with a wry smile. “Yes, brother, it was that obvious.”

  Gideon dealt him a warning glare.

  “I just— I cannot fathom the responsibility you have with your title,” Perry said. “Mine is only courtesy, or at least it was until you signed over Westcreek. But even that isn’t much of a responsibility. These two girls have me in a bind. Every time I look at them they giggle, and I should be enjoying it, not terrified of it. But they are my responsibility, Gideon, not my pleasure. I suppose I wouldn’t feel so desperately obligated if I didn’t know what they had been promised to, but— Rox, I cannot comprehend this, I cannot wrap my mind around it.” Perry shook his
head. He appeared entirely defeated, and something in Gideon’s chest broke loose.

  “Go back to London,” he said quietly.

  Perry looked up and his jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Go back to London. I hadn’t even considered where your head was in all of this, but it obviously isn’t where it should be. I won’t force anything on you, even under the guise of it being your demand. Go back to London,” Gideon commanded. “Go live your life. The girls are safe here. Shaw will see to Westcreek. Eventually, you will take your place.”

  “But the house party and your wedding, I should be—”

  “I don’t expect you to,” Gideon said. “I want, more than anything, for you to be here for my wedding. But not like this, Perry. If what you need is to get back to London, back to your life, I understand. Just as I need to be here. We are brothers, but as much as we are alike, we are just as different, and I need for you to be sound.”

  Gideon watched as Perry relaxed incrementally and sat back in his chair. He looked stunned.

  “Go back to London. I am not the only one deserving of happiness. Do what it is that you do, and then return. Hopefully before the wedding, but if not, know that I understand,” Gideon said with great emphasis.

  Perry nodded and looked away. “Still the strong dependable one,” he murmured quietly.

  “And you are still the brave and loyal one,” Gideon said. The brothers stood from opposite sides of the desk then both went to the end, meeting in a strong embrace.

  Moments later, Perry left without another word.

  The guests in the dining hall remained silent and pensive, waiting to be apprised of the situation by one of the brothers. Gideon returned only after hearing the carriage depart. His movements were deliberate as he perused the guests, from Shaw to the sisters. They all looked hopeful that he would enlighten them without prompt, but he didn’t. He waited, giving his brother time to get away from Eildon.