by Jackie Ivie
He hadn’t even asked if she wished to partake with him. He simply considered she’d know her new station – that of poor relation. Only hers was beneath that. She was a continual reminder of his brother’s folly and the ‘French rabble’s ignorance for executing an English nobleman when they were supposed to be cleaning out their own blue-bloods’. Or so, he’d continually reminded her.
Boiled beef and stewed vegetables that hadn’t retained their shape, texture, or color after their water bath weren’t tempting, but the freshly baked bread made her nose twitch. She’d have to change her opinion of the kitchen if they were capable of producing such baked goods. The thought brought a smile to her face.
“I’d appreciate a bit of your good humor, Helene.”
Gil stood beside her, helping her from her cloak. Everything shivered at his closeness even as she willed it to cease. She had to send every emotion away and do the best acting of her life. She had to.
Because he was taking her to France!
She’d sworn, when Calais was lost in the early morning fog the last time, she’d never return.
“I’ve a bit of a confession, My...Lord.”
She spoke through stiff lips and gave her voice a touch of shyness. She was rather proud of that.
“I’ve no use for heart-rending speeches on an empty stomach, Helene. Come, join me, although I must say our host could use a bit more imagination with his menu. What do you say?”
She smiled slightly.
“I must beg your apology yet again, mustn’t I?” he continued. “I was so startled by Helen’s revelations that I didn’t consider how to approach you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“For…what?”
“Oh…I don’t now. Ranting at you. Wasting an entire day arguing. Accusing you. Have I left anything out?”
Blanking out the most glorious experience of my life!
She looked away before he saw her eyes. “No,” she whispered, before sitting in the chair opposite him.
“I believe our host is holding out on us, Helene. This cognac is decidedly inferior to what an establishment on the coast should serve.”
He rose to correct the innkeeper’s error. Only an idiot would serve common-room swill to the gentry. Helene heard him say as much outside the door before returning to her.
“It seems the French are having a bit of trouble deciding if they wish to trade with us again,” Gil said. “I must say, if good liquor is at stake, I’d probably find a way to make that happen. I might even change my name. Join the army.”
He smiled at her as if sharing a private joke. It made her heart do such antics, she had to look away.
“According to our good host, there have been several shipments delayed or spoiled by bad corks and rough crossings. I don’t fancy sea water does much good to aged brandy, does it?”
Helene put her fork on the tabletop and tried to keep her hand from shaking. It was starting, and he was too blind to notice. They wouldn’t be safe in France. None of the aristocracy would ever be safe there.
“Eat up, darling. You’ll need the sustenance. I have no idea what sort of food we’ll be facing in Paris. Word is that the new regime’s skills run to culinary pleasures as well as old ones, but I’ll reserve judgment.”
“Please don’t do this.”
“Why not, pray tell? We can say it’s just an extended honeymoon. Paris is for lovers…or so they say.”
Helene glanced at him, stalled at the look in his eyes, and glanced quickly toward the fire. Such warmth in those blue eyes could only be from lack of light. A log fell, consuming the silence for a bit, and she moved her gaze to her hands in her lap. Someone else had control of her body, because the real Helene would be screaming, clenching her fists, sobbing wretchedly. Not simply sitting there.
“Please?” she whispered when it looked like he would stay absorbed in his boiled brisket.
“Ah, Helene, you know what? The entire time I spent preparing for this journey, I asked myself why it was necessary –aside from my curiosity over this Corsican peasant who’s running the country. I came to one conclusion. Do you know what that could be?”
“I lie, and you’re determined to prove it.”
“Not exactly…but I do like your train of thought.”
Helene toyed with answering flippantly, but held her tongue. It wouldn’t do to annoy him if she wanted to go to Tremayne Hall.
“I’ve said some things I...regret, My Lord.” She crushed the urge to make fists.
“Ah, the cognac! Thank you, my good man.”
Gil looked away at the knock, and the innkeeper entered with the promised bottle in his hands. Helene watched Gil tip him while she wanted to throw her plate at the man. It wouldn’t be any easier to force lies through her lips if each time she felt brave enough someone interrupted her.
‘Would you care for a glass, Helene? I find it was a passing desire.”
He set the bottle on the table and folded his arms. She couldn’t force her eyes away fast enough. Two nights earlier, she’d been made love to. She’d known her first man. Him. The memory heated her cheeks worse than any fire.
“Blushes, Helene? If I didn’t know better, I’d be flattered.”
“Please, Gillian. Don’t go,” she whispered, looking up.
“I wasn’t aware it was up for discussion, Helene.”
He looked as stern as he sounded, and she looked away.
“Please, Gillian?” she asked the fire.
“I’m sorry if you’re not up to a little jaunt to France, darling, truly I am, but I’ve a notion not only to visit the gay city, which I’ve heard eclipses the splendor it held before, but I intend to see your ancestral estates, too.’’
“Chateau Montriart?” She choked. “There’s nothing left, Gil, nothing! Just an empty, blackened shell.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“I can’t go there, Gillian, I can’t! Please? You must understand.”
“I’d like to, Helene. Tell me something I’ll enjoy listening to. Tell me the truth about...anything. Tell me about, oh, I don’t know...perhaps we should start at the beginning. Maybe you could enlighten me about the other night.”
He’d gone from sarcastic to serious, and she couldn’t meet his eyes.
“I’ll do anything, Gillian.”
“I’ve heard that before. More than once.”
She took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and looked him right in the eye. Without one bit of blinking.
“I’ve…lied to you, Gillian. I’m ashamed. I’ve told so many stories, it’s almost impossible to sort through the truth, even for me. It’s how I kept myself occupied in the…sanatorium.”
She forced herself to keep contact with his eyes and concentrated on not flinching. It was easier than examining what she said. But he didn’t understand! She’d admit to anything to prevent the journey.
Instead of smiling at her confession, he glared at her and cursed.
“I’ll need more than a line like that, Helene. What do you take me for, the world’s simplest idiot?”
“What part would ye like to hear about, then?” she quipped, shoving her chair away from her unfinished meal so she could stand. It was easier to be inventive if she had freedom of movement, but he wouldn’t know that.
“I don’t want to talk to Brandy, Helene. I want the truth. The real truth. Not some fantasy that’ll prevent us from sailing in the morning.”
She cursed herself for the slip to Brandy. As well as recognized how astute he was to catch it. It was easier to lie if she became Brandy. But he didn’t want that. He wanted the truth from Helene. Very well. It was time to somehow mesh the two. And be believable at it.
“I...I didn’t have it easy at the Binghams, Gil. In fact, nothing I did was good enough. Uncle Bingham took an instant dislike to me, because my mother was French. He felt…she was responsible for his brother’s death.”
“Go on.”
He folded his arms and leaned back to watch her.
> “I was lonely, and nobody cared, so I invented Brandy as a diversion. Unfortunately, my uncle heard my performance. And thought me mad. He...he put me in the sanatorium.”
She almost didn’t get it out and was thankful Gil didn’t understand why she wasn’t looking him in the eye. She’d rather watch the cobwebs on the window valance than look at him.
“What about the other thing, Helene?”
“What other thing?”
“The little episode with your cousin, Gerard. I believe you mentioned a scar the gentleman has on his person. You claimed responsibility for it. I’d like to hear about that.”
She kept him waiting for several seconds, and Gil felt sweat dampen his forehead as he held his breath. All he needed now was just one mention of the gazebo, the ballroom, or that she’d said she loved him. Anything would give him the opening he needed. He’d cancel the trip. He had little desire to visit France, anyway.
He’d heard more than enough already. All that was left was for his confession. And he didn’t blame her, actually. Helene had received a horrid upbringing at the Binghams. It was over. Their misunderstanding was over. As far as he was concerned, the entire family could go to the devil.
He was actually thankful to Helen for being so self-centered that she preferred an earl to a minor baron. He should be on his knees, thanking God, because that change of heart brought Helene into his life.
And that was all that mattered.
He was willing her to talk, to say anything inane enough to allow him to explain his duplicity. All he wanted was to get her into the adjoining bedchamber and melt that panicked expression from her face. He didn’t dare breathe as she turned back to him, but the blank look was back in her eyes. That should’ve been sufficient warning, but it wasn’t.
“I...lied about that, too. I’m…not a maid. I haven’t been for years. I...I gave Gerard what he wanted, what we both wanted. That was the real reason my uncle sent me to Bedlam. Sir Bingham couldn’t have his only son and heir consorting with…me, could he?”
“Stop lying to me, damn it!”
Gil shoved his chair back. And then he was stalking her. And she was flitting about the room. Aimlessly. In a panicked fashion. Senselessly. As if he was some brute and she’d be able to escape. There wasn’t enough room for Helene to run from him.
“I’m not lying, Gil! I swear it!”
“What about the bloody ball, then? What happened there?”
His voice broke, but he couldn’t stop it. He trapped her in the corner, but she still turned away, huddling against the walls as if he might hurt her.
“Nothing happened at the ball, My Lord,” she said flatly. “Less than nothing.”
“Turn around and face me when you say that.”
It took some time before she did as he asked, and he searched her face for a sign. She was pale and looked ready to faint, but she met his gaze squarely.
“Tell me nothing of any significance happened at the ball, Helene. Make me believe it.”
“It was a dance, Gillian. What more could’ve happened?”
“This!”
He held her to him, trying to thaw the stiffness of her lips with his, but she didn’t bend.
“Helene, my darling.” He murmured it against her hair, when he realized he was losing.
“Don’t take me to France, Gillian.” Her voice was so soft he almost didn’t hear it.
“Convince me.”
“How...do you want me to do...that?”
She had difficulty with her words, and Gil noticed she hadn’t moved her palm from his chest. She was clutching his shirt front and didn’t seem to know it. He looked at the ceiling for a moment.
“Gillian?”
She put her other hand beside the first.
“You’re a woman of experience, love. Suppose you figure it out.”
He was watching as she jerked back from him, her fingers pulling out two buttons as she moved.
“You expect me to...to....”
“Make love to me, just like you did…with that Gerard fellow. Honestly, this virginity thing is a bit much to swallow, even for me. You can stop pretending now.”
“Pre...tending?”
He could drown in those brandy-colored depths. They widened as he leaned down, drawing her up simultaneously until she was on tiptoe. And this time, her lips were warm, clinging, and infinitely sweet.
There was no way to fight him. Or this. She knew the instant she moved, drawing close and clinging to him. Hard hands held her from the floor, dangling her toes above the wood as he plundered her mouth, stealing what little breath she had. And she helped, her tongue toying with his, made him chuckle.
“You do it wrong, darling. You should never kiss with that much passion unless you wish your partner to assume the worst.”
He chuckled, and her head bounced with the motion. He lifted his head and caught her expression; eyes half-closed, lips pursed with emotion. She didn’t care. She no longer cared when he lifted her completely into his arms or when the door to the bedchamber clicked shut behind them.
“Gillian?”
He turned up the oil lamp. The bedchamber they’d been given had the same dismal decor, but it didn’t matter. Gil tossed off his shirt with ease, his eyes never leaving her face, and then he nearly ripped off the fastenings from his trousers as he undid them.
He wore fine lawn drawers underneath. Helene’s eyes moved quickly back to his face, then to the wall behind him, and then back, struggling to act like she’d seen it often enough that it didn’t affect her.
“I’m not so ugly that you need to turn aside, love.”
He didn’t sit to pull his drawers off, he simply lifted each leg and tore them free.
“Barbarism is useful at times, isn’t it?”
The cry nearly made sound when he said that. It brought back memories that were too dear. She hid the motion by looking at the floor.
“Helene? Love. I promise I won’t do anything worse than anyone else you’ve bedded. You have my word of honor. As a gentleman.”
He breathed it against her ear, sending shivers through her. She fixed her eyes on the spot of floor his bare feet stood in. Then she felt him unfastening her hooks, sliding his fingers down her back like he’d been born to the chore. She remembered that from the first time, too.
“Sweet Helene…so sweet…”
He traced his lips from her forehead to her cheek and throat, whispering words the entire time. She lifted her chin to allow him access, uncaring of the whimpers she made. Or that he might hear them.
“You’re not wearing a corset?”
“No.”
“Good thing. I’d hate to send some poor working woman to the domestic bureau over it.”
“I...was warned not to wear one.” She didn’t dare look into his eyes.
“Brilliant fellow, that.”
He spoke without a fleck of emotion, then looked up towards the ceiling again. She was beginning to wonder why he kept doing that. There was nothing interesting up there.
“Do you know how much I want you, love?”
He lowered his head again and nearly touched noses with her. She glanced down and gasped.
“I don’t mean just that, although, now that you mention it....”
He slid her chemise straps off, shoving the garment down until it met the petticoats at her hips.
“You wear too much.”
His hand touched her exposed breast, and she gasped. Melted. Swayed. Her back arched, sending more breast to fill his palm. A flash sparked at the contact. Grew. Spread.
He bent his head and caught her kiss, molding his lips about hers, teasing her mouth open. She obeyed easily, longing to drown in the sensation. Needed, too. And the moan she gave demonstrated every bit of it.
“You’re a bit of a tease, aren’t you, sweet? Distracting me when these little nubbins are just begging…for…”
She stiffened as he bent, and demonstrated, suckling at a breast, sending flashes of inte
nsity shooting from the spot. And it wasn’t filthy. Or horrid. Or disgusting. It was amazing. Torrid. Intense. And sensitizing to the point of pain.
“Gillian!”
Her legs trembled before they gave, but she didn’t fall. He’d lifted his head and caught her with one arm, smashing her into his chest. And that sent even more flares through her entire frame. She cried aloud as his free hand yanked petticoat ties open before shoving the garment down her legs. She’d seen his proficiency with the vagaries of feminine clothing in the gazebo. Such skill was almost worrisome.
“They meant nothing, darling. I swear.”
He read her mind so well, she almost panicked, but then the cool feel of bedding met her back, while her front absorbed the warmth and weight and texture of Gillian as he settled easily within the embrace of her legs. And she just opened them for him. Without thought. How well she remembered that. And more. But he didn’t give her any time to think!
A hand slid along her inner leg, along her knee. Higher. Sending shivers in their wake. And her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She should do something. Say something. Initiate something to mitigate the remembered pain.
He wasn’t helping. He plied her lips open with kisses, and then touched minutely with his tongue into her mouth. At the first touch, her entire body reacted, lunging right up against his.
“Oh, love. Oh sweet. So…unbelievably lovely. So…ready.”
Fingers reached her apex and at the first touch, she went stiff as everything in her experience careened to a halt. Time stopped. The world stood still. And for the barest moment, she saw such brightness she slammed her eyes to it. A cry tore her throat and then everything restarted, going to a blinding speed, while he continued manipulating her body into absolute heaven. Somehow orchestrating the bliss. With his motions. His fingers. Even his breath…as he chuckled.
Helene’s body kept lunging toward his, in non-rhythmic surges she couldn’t control. How could she? Lightning had to be behind the sensation coursing through her. Striking her. Crashing through every limb, in harmony with each thud from her heart.