Brandywine: Regency historical romance (The Brocade Series, Book 1)

by Jackie Ivie

  She wiped away a tear. “Dear me, such fustian. Fancy me thinking of him on the eve of my special ball. What’s the world coming to? I suppose Gillian’s already told you of our departure this weekend? I’ll enjoy having another woman about the house again, unless you’d prefer I take up residence in the Dower house? I understand your need for privacy, my dear.”

  She touched Helene’s shoulder with her fan.

  “The nurseries have been so barren, too! Ever since Gillian left swaddling clothes, Nanny hasn’t a thing to keep her occupied. But I’m certain you’ll do something about that, won’t you two?”

  Helene thought of several witty answers but the knot in her throat prevented them from emerging. It wasn’t needed, anyway. The dowager Lady Tremayne had no qualms about continuing the conversation by herself.

  “Are you certain you won’t wear the family emeralds, dear? I know they’re a devilishly heavy, but they were very expensive, and they’d go so well with your gown. Please say you’ll wear them. You really look quite naked.”

  Helene looked to the skirts of her gown and wondered how anyone could consider this nakedness. The gown was at the height of fashion, with a high waistline, small capped sleeves, and a low neckline, She didn’t remotely feel naked — or the least bit attractive, either.

  “Here I go, monopolizing your time, but Gillian didn’t say when he’d join us, did he? I’m so upset with that boy. I can’t imagine what has happened to set him so against my wishes. He knows better than to tag along with that Reginald Dunston. He’s a wastrel to his fingertips, my dear. Did I tell you he has his cap set on Lady Hermione Spencer? No? Well, he has to marry money, and she has plenty, but she’s a trifle dull…not to mention she’s taller than he is.”

  That sent Lady Tremayne into a fit of giggles, which she hid behind her fan while Helene tried to force a smile. Gillian’s mother was quite amusing, and, if Helene had to stand at the edge of the crowd, at least she had company.

  She sighed and breathed slowly and evenly until the tears dissipated. She shouldn’t be crying now! After all, the entire evening’s expense was to show the town how blissfully happy Gil was being wed to her, not Helen.

  At the moment, she sincerely doubted her ability to carry it off.

  Gil had deserted her since the accident. She wasn’t surprised. But he was ruining his own production with his absences. The servants had probably reported it, too.

  “Do you know he even talked me into sending an invitation to that Signora del Casta? Mercy! A faster woman was never born, and I would never have invited her. Men! They seem to think a pretty face makes up for filth under the surface.”

  Helene murmured something and looked for something to do besides watching the vision circling the dance floor in front of her. Signora del Casta’s ball gown was scarlet colored, with black lace. The woman was stunning, and knew it.

  “Just look how she deports herself! I swear, it’s the height of disgracefulness. Don’t you agree, my dear?”

  Helene didn’t bother to answer.

  “I can’t think what’s keeping that son of mine, Helene. He made a point of asking when I’d start the dancing. I thought that meant he might dine with us, but he’s been in such a temper lately. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, because I’m certain he hides his moods from you, doesn’t he?”

  Helene colored at that comment but held her tongue.

  “Oh, look! There he is. See? I told you he wouldn’t disappoint us, and I’m right. Look who’s at his side. It’s Reginald. I knew it. You’d think Gillian would find something better to do today instead of following that boy’s lead. Oh, dear. He appears to be a trifle foxed, doesn’t he?”

  The way she said it spoke volumes, and Helene’s eyes widened at the sight. It wasn’t so much that Gil’s immaculate evening attire was the least bit disheveled, it was the way he moved — almost swaying — as he approached the signora.

  Helene refused to watch them dance again. She didn’t think she could manage to act like it was nothing. She didn’t care how drunk he was. There was no excuse to give the gossips more fodder.

  “I…believe I’d like to try on the emeralds after all, My Lady.”

  The older woman beamed.

  “How nice you’ll look, too! You’ll put a definite thorn in that woman’s designs on my son. Come along, dear. We’ll ask the secretary to fetch them to the blue salon.”

  She said more, but Helene wasn’t listening. She wasn’t even watching where she put her feet. Gil was waltzing with Signora Simone, and the sight made couples leave the floor just to watch. Helene wasn’t a good enough actress to pretend she didn’t care.

  She didn’t care where she put her feet. She didn’t notice how the beautiful skirts swished as she walked. She didn’t even note how much time passed until she was sitting in a chair, feeling the weight of the stones against the back of her neck. And she didn’t even know how she got there.

  “Ooh! Isn’t that lovely? I told you the stones would match, and.... You’re not looking, Helene? Come now, dear. Take a peek.”

  Helene couldn’t think of one good reason not to look in the mirror. So, she took a deep breath, opened her eyes…

  And stared.

  Her hair had been parted in the middle and curls laboriously crimped into it before the hairdresser pinned it up. Her eyes might even be as burgundy-shaded as Gil said, her mouth was still the same…and there was only one little mark under her left eye.

  There was no big scar, no misshapen eye, no redness. Nothing.

  Shock made her heart hammer. Shock and an instant trace of sadness. She looked almost exactly like her mother. And Valerie Montriart had been known as a beauty. While the memory pained, it also fortified. Her chin lifted and then her eyes narrowed. That bastard! He’d lied to her! All those little asides about her scars…and he’d been lying to her? Ooh. Gil had better hope he was still dancing when she returned to the dance. Helene was afraid of the anger flooding her.

  “...best get back now. I vow, the later these things go, the more my feet hurt! But, oh. I shouldn’t complain, should I? Not when there’s plenty of time left for dancing. I look forward to watching you with Gillian. Come along then.”

  She didn’t wait for Helene, but she didn’t seem to ever wait for anything — comment, answer, or companion. She simply kept talking and expected someone would always be there.

  Gil must’ve felt Helene’s eyes boring into his back. He turned as she approached the refreshment area.

  “Darling! There you are!”

  “Gillian.” Oh dear. She should’ve waited. Her voice was taut. Cold.

  He bent one arm around her waist and pulled her right against him. “I’m ever so much happier now that you’re here.”

  “Careful with your performance, love.”

  She went on tiptoe to whisper it into his ear, holding onto his arm as she did. The muscle moved beneath her fingers. And then all of him was moving. Right to the dance floor, with her in tow. It wasn’t going unnoticed. He wasn’t careful where he walked, and their arrival caused more than one couple to stumble. The man was ludicrous.

  “I’d love to dance with you, Helene darling.”

  He had her hand in his, and one arm about her back. And it felt heavenly. No. She mustn’t think that. She was angry at him. Wasn’t she? And she couldn’t stay. Her heart couldn’t handle another rejection. And she knew it.

  “Let me go, Gillian.” She pulled back, but all that happened was the arm at her back flexed.

  “But, why? I made certain there weren’t any swords handy.”

  He chuckled at the end of that statement, and she might be avoiding looking at him, but it was a distinct pleasure to feel his toe under her foot.

  “Oh. After all our practice, I’d forgotten how to dance with you. Stupid me.”

  He shook his head and lifted her feet off the floor. Now she really was against every part of him. It was too intimate. And wonderful. And heavenly. And wrong. And it had to stop.
r />   “You’re drunk.”

  “Not drunk, darling. Foxed. It’s a much better term.”

  She could hear the whispers. And laughter. And intercepted more than one shocked glance. He was inviting comment, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Except…

  “Put me down, Tremayne, or I’ll make a scene,” she informed him

  “You’re a bit angry, aren’t you? But why? I did nothing with the signora, I promise. I’ve been spending time with Reg, I swear. In fact, I don’t even like tea, remember?”

  “I’m not angry about her, Gillian!” She tipped her nose toward his neck and hissed the words at his collar.

  “Of course you are. But you shouldn’t be. I already explained.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you do with the Signora del Casta!”

  “I love it when you lie, Helene.”

  “Put me...down.”

  “No.”

  He demonstrated considerable prowess in the next few steps.

  “Gillian.” She said the name through clenched teeth, and watched his jaw tighten.

  “I love to waltz, don’t you?”

  “You’re impossible to talk to in this condition.”

  “No, darling. I’m just impossible to argue with in this condition. Try to keep your words straight, will you? I’m having a bit of difficulty. Here I am, executing fairly intricate dance steps with your beautiful body in my arms while trying not to fall at the sight of how much bosom you’re exhibiting. And you want to argue?”

  “Gillian!” Her voice sounded strange in her own ears.

  “I love holding you, Helene.”

  No. She mustn’t listen. She lifted her head and looked away. And noticed they were the lone couple on the floor.

  “There isn’t any music, Gillian.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re making a scene.”

  “Well…it was my turn, darling.”

  He waved with their conjoined hands toward the minstrels’ gallery, and another tune started to blend with the renewed sounds of amusement.

  “I’ll die of embarrassment.”

  She put her forehead to his shoulder. She might as well give up. He was impossible to argue with, and she really didn’t want to. Not when he was like this. Inebriated enough to want her.

  “Oh, please, Helene. Call me a brute. Yell your head off, but don’t expect me to believe you get embarrassed. The little nymph in the tree wasn’t embarrassed. Do you have any idea how you looked?”

  “Pray tell,” she said mildly.

  “Like a drowned mouse.”

  He roared with laughter, and she shut her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see everyone’s reaction.

  “That does it. I don’t have to put up with your insults a moment longer. And you know something else? There’s not a thing wrong with my face, either!”

  “I know. Didn’t I just compliment you on it? My memory’s a bit fogged, but I’m fairly certain I said you’re beautiful, and you said...what did you say?”

  Her voice warbled. She couldn’t prevent it. “Gillian, you’ve been using every opportunity to make me think I was scarred. And you know it. There’s absolutely no reason for you to do that.”

  “Yes, there is, darling — a very good reason. I’ll explain…but come. Our dance is finished.”

  He walked out the garden doors with her. She could tell from the sounds behind them that not only was the dance still going on, but their departure caused a bit of entertainment, too.

  “Gillian, put me down!”

  “Not until you stop damning me with your eyes. Do you know what that does to me?”

  “Wh…at?”

  Oh dear. Her voice not only warbled now, but she was stammering? It couldn’t get much worse.

  “You’ve got very expressive eyes, Brandy love. I think I fell for them the moment I saw them.”

  “Gil...lian.”

  She couldn’t breathe enough air to finish his name? She’d been wrong. That was worse.

  “Please don’t interrupt. I...I’m having a bit of trouble with my tongue. Should’ve taken Reg’s advice and quit....what time is it?”

  “Gillian Tremayne!”

  She wriggled and slid from his arm, surprised she didn’t fall the moment her feet touched ground.

  “What now? Blast it, Helene! I’m trying to explain, and you scream in my ear. And it’s all messed up. You’re angry because you’re beautiful. And I—I…what should I apologize for again?”

  “Gillian, don’t play with me. I can’t stand it.”

  “Could we get some light in the garden, damn it?”

  Gil lifted his head and shouted into the night. Helene put her hand over his mouth. He surprised her by licking her palm. She yanked it back so quickly, she almost fell. And then she stared. It wasn’t dark enough to keep from seeing him. And then he grinned. She could tell since his teeth gleamed even in the gloom. Her heart ticked up a notch.

  “What has gotten into you?” she asked.

  “Some fine Scotch whiskey and a bit of cherry cordial the last I recall.”

  She smacked at his shirt front. “That’s not what I meant…and you know it. You hate me, remember? I’ve a lying tongue, and you wouldn’t touch me if I were the last...woman....”

  Her voice failed her. She couldn’t even finish it. Damn everything!

  “I hate you? Where’d you hear that? I’m beginning to think you’re the one who’s foxed, Helene. Why just look. I’ve the biggest, nicest token of my affection...just for you.”

  He grabbed her before she could move, plastered a wet mouth to the bridge of her nose, and held her against his hips.

  “You’re the coarsest, most barbaric man of my acquaintance, Gillian Tremayne!”

  “I missed.”

  He said it against her cheek as he slid his mouth to hers. Helene caught the gasp an instant before his kiss. And then some idiot found lanterns. Part of her noted it, but the rest was solidly experiencing how Gillian breathed with her, his lips branding and owning and caressing hers. He held her right against his loins, too, making it impossible to miss what he’d meant.

  “Helene. Lovely Helene…how I adore you. Did you know that? I adore your mind, your body. Your kisses. Your skin. Bridget was right, blast her. Interfering damned female!”

  He nuzzled words along her chin.

  “Bridget?”

  Was that breathless whisper really her? He lifted his head away from her, and looked to either side of them. And then he narrowed his eyes in a squint.

  “What the hell? What fool lit those damn things?”

  “I believe you ordered it,” she replied.

  “I did? Christ. I’m more foxed than l thought. You will forgive it, though…won’t you?”

  She giggled. His frown reached his mouth.

  “Oh, Helene, please don’t laugh at me tonight. Please? I don’t believe I’m sufficiently fortified for your particular way of rejecting me. And I can’t drink any more to make it so.”

  “Rejecting you? Oh Gillian. I’d never do that.”

  “You always do, love. I come to you, put my male pride on the table, and you hack it to ribbons. And that’s why I teased you a little about your fair face. It was only fair.”

  And then he kissed the scar below her eye and pulled back as if stung.

  “Tears? What the hell are you crying for? Damn it, Helene, just take a blade and shove it through me. But this time, do it proper. I’d prefer a quick death.”

  “I’m sorry, Gillian.” She swiped at her cheeks and sniffed.

  “You’re always bloody sorry. Doesn’t make it right.”

  He was pouting. Oh heavens. She’d never seen anything so adorable.

  “I’m crying because the things you’re saying are so beautiful.”

  She went on tiptoe to whisper it into his ear. He held her away and lowered his head to look at from beneath his brows.

  “You’re not funning?”

  She shook her head.

>   “You cry…over something like that?”

  She nodded.

  “And all this time, I thought you disliked the sight of me.”

  “Oh, Gillian. Never that. I like the sight of you very much. Very much, indeed.”

  “Are you blushing?” he asked.

  “I’m trying very hard not to, since you’ll think it’s another act.”

  He grunted, and moved his attention to something beyond her head.

  “You can release me now. Truly. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’ll release you when I’m good and ready and not one moment before. Blast it, anyway! If I let you go, Reginald will steal you.”

  “What?”

  “He said as much. At least I think that’s what he said. Or inferred. I believe we’re meeting at dawn over it.”

  “You’re...doing what?”

  “You don’t have to take my head off for it, damn it! I’m not even sure what I said. I’m not exactly sure Reg heard it straight, let alone agreed. And now you’re trying to deafen me?”

  “Gillian. Look at me.”

  Helene waited until he looked down. For some reason, he didn’t look the least bit drunk, just extremely wary. He regarded her for a several moments before moving his gaze to her left ear. Or thereabouts. And for some reason, he looked tense. As if preparing for what she might say.

  “You’re not going to remember tomorrow what I say, and I’ll take it to my grave if necessary, but…”

  Her tongue stumbled because he’d moved his attention back to her. And her heart was hitting her throat with an almost painful force. It was arduous to swallow. Impossible to think. Difficult to draw breath.

  “But…?” he prompted.

  “I want you to make love to me, Gillian. Right now. Take me, and don’t ask questions I won’t be able to answer. I know how to do it, but not with someone I—”

  “Someone you what?”

  He stared at her so intently, and the hands holding her shook.

  “Love,” she whispered.

  Hard lips slammed against hers, accompanied by a solid groan. And then he was moving so swiftly through the grounds, she couldn’t believe he could do that while inebriated.

  “‘Where are we going?” she asked, nuzzling her nose along his neck.