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

by Jackie Ivie

  He stood and circuited the room, reaching each sconce and blowing out the candle, one by one, until only the area about the bed had light. That’s when he approached her, the fingers of one hand easily slipping his jacket buttons apart. He wasn’t haven’t the least trouble unfastening them.

  “Gillian?” Her voice shook.

  He stopped in front of her.

  “I’ve made a complete ass of myself for hours, Helene. And I hope you forgive it, but I’m not willing to continue.”

  He reached to cup her cheeks with both hands, his touch gentle. And he used the hold to lift her slightly, bending to touch his lips to forehead, then to the tip of her nose, before his breath reached her lips.

  “I’m intoxicated, all right, love. But it’s not from liquor. Can you guess what it is?”

  She shook her head. He slid his mouth to her ear.

  “Brandy would.”

  “Brandy knows...all kinds... of things, Guv.”

  His fingers moved up her spine, slipping hooks, caressing skin.

  “I want to see you, Brandy…see you and worship you.”

  He eased the dress off her shoulders, his regard warmer than any cloth. She wasn’t wearing anything beneath. Not even a chemise. The maid had assured her it was current fashion. At that moment, she could understand why.

  I love you. She almost said it, watching his image shimmer through an instant sheen of tears. She blinked them back.

  “Beautiful....”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. It was obvious what he referred to as he reached for her, one arm behind her back, the other exploring, cupping, adoring. Caressing.

  “Oh Helene. Love. You’re small, but so damned…perfect.”

  He lifted her to him, sending whorls of sensation as her nipples reached fabric and reacted. And that made her whisper harsh as she told him he wore too much.

  “Originality becomes you, darling.’’

  He lowered her to her feet and stepped back, using the distance to shrug from his jacket. It fell to the floor. His cuffs followed, coiling as he dropped them. The purse at his hip got unhooked and fell. He didn’t take his eyes off hers while he worked through the knot of his cravat and unwound it, dropping it atop the rest. Then came his vest, the ruffles of his shirt front. She watched with wide eyes as he pulled off each item and tossed it away, her breath coming faster, while her pulse matched. His shirt was dropped adding to the pile on the floor, and then his inner one.

  And he’d accused her of wearing a closet worth of clothing? She’d no idea gentlemen wore so much. Nor how thoughtlessly they abused it. The French servants would probably have fits at the way he treated his clothing.

  He’d moved to the side buttons of his trousers, opening them enough they slid down his legs, revealing under-drawers he had to peel off.

  And then it was done. It was some time before either moved. Standing at the edge of the light, clothed to the waist in her ball gown, watching her dream man disrobe, did wicked things to her pulse and even stranger things to her breathing.

  “Helene? Please don’t turn from me, please?”

  Turn from him? Was the man crazed?

  “I’m not so ugly…am I?”

  “Oh no, Gil! I...I just—. It’s just—” She gulped and used Brandy to say it. “Oh, go on wit’ ye. You already know you’re a handsome one.”

  “Handsome?”

  “Oh my…yes.”

  Helene answered, and then she was in his arms, molded tightly to him, grazing her nipples along flesh. The contact sizzled. Sparked. Ignited. And then he took it away in order to bend, shoving the rest of her gown down her legs to puddle at her ankles. He lifted her free, brought her right back against his chest, and held her there with arms that trembled. And then he was walking with her.

  “Gillian! The candles!”

  Cool satin met her back as he placed her atop the bed. It felt wrong. Evil. Like a staged set. Easily viewed by any observers.

  “I know, damn it.”

  He lifted, or she let him go. But he moved only far enough away to reach and hold the extinguisher to each flame.

  “It’s not as though you watch, anyway, love. You close your eyes almost the entire time.”

  “I do?”

  The last candle went out, plunging the room into darkness. His weight lifted from the mattress, and while she listened for a clue, she couldn’t place him.

  “Gillian?” she whispered.

  “Come, love. I found a solution to our problem.”

  His hand loomed out of the dark. She reached for it, and got pulled into a berth against cooled skin. Night air caressed their nakedness as he padded soundlessly across the chamber, reached an alcove, and then slit part of a drape open. A cool finger of moonlight reached in, touching on the edge of a wood secretary, the sides of pictures, and the back of a settee.

  “Gillian?”

  “Hmm?”

  The scratchy surface of the tapestry met her back, thighs, and the bottoms of her feet as Gillian settled her atop the back of the settee. It was erotic. Stimulating. Wicked. Illicit. Moonlight touched everything with magic. Highlighting. Displaying. Sculpting. It was like that first morning, when she’d seen him, revealed by the rising sun at the Tremayne townhouse. Helene ordered her eyes to remain open, memorizing each bit of him; the rope-like texture of his abdomen, the thick strength of his arms, the beauty in his face.

  “You’re so lovely, Helene…I want to watch. You may think it barbaric, but I just have to. You understand…maybe a little?”

  He was having trouble with his breathing.

  “You’re so…beautiful. And this is just like—what am I saying? You’ll hate me. You always end up hating me.”

  “Gillian?”

  “So young. So unbelievably brave. Oh, love. I was stupid…and now you’ll never forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?”

  “If only you weren’t so sweet, so unbearably...lovely. So…precious.”

  “Gillian?”

  “Yes?”

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes. And she had the moonlight to thank for knowing it.

  I love you.

  The words almost slipped out, making sound. Helene disguised it by grabbing his upper arms and lunging up, initiating the kiss, and then welcoming the almost instantaneously joining as he filled her, and then lifted her. Her ankles latched behind his back, her hands locked together at his neck, and he was right. She did have her eyes scrunched shut.

  He reached a wall, and balanced her back against it, the position gaining stability. And she helped. Meeting him thrust for thrust, as each one grew quicker. More intense. Stronger. Deeper. Their conjoined panting accompanied everything. Pictures jounced and jiggled along the wall at the hammering it was receiving.

  “You’re…a witch, love. A sorceress!”

  He choked out the words just before his lips met hers, halting her reply. Her breathing. Her heart. And then there was nothing but wonder.

  ***

  A witch, am I?

  Well…if she was, her powers were dismally absent the following morning as she sought something suitable to wear. And quickly. One would think after looking over her trunks of clothing that she wouldn’t have such a problem. There were morning gowns, evening gowns, day dresses, enough lingerie to open a shop, hats. Gloves. Reticules. Shoes and boots to match.

  But not one blasted thing in which she could scale a drain pipe.

  Helene glanced at Gillian’s sleeping form, barely touched by predawn light, and smiled. He really was darling as he slept. He resembled a child, and that led to thoughts of what a child of theirs might look like, and that got instantly dismissed.

  Cor! She wouldn’t be around long enough for that. She couldn’t. Not that she didn’t love him with every piece of her. Her heart grew more entangled with every passing moment. That was the crux of the problem…and the fact that it wasn’t returned. Gillian didn’t love her. He might lust after her. Even in the dusky beginnings of morning, Helene f
elt the blush at just how much he lusted for her, but that wasn’t enough. It was something Reginald, the Marquis of Dunsberry had said. A quip about Gil’s passing fancies. And how quickly they came and went.

  Helene wasn’t willing to be one of them. She didn’t know if she could survive the aftermath. The time that would come when Gillian Tremayne no longer lusted for her.

  And set her aside.

  Helene blinked rapidly on an influx of stupid tears. That’s why she didn’t dare tell him she loved him. When he did set her aside, it would be better that he didn’t know.

  Just as he couldn’t know the reason she looked for clothing that would pass for a street urchin this morning. Helene Montriart Bingham Tremayne might be a touch mad, but she wasn’t insane. She couldn’t roam where she needed to in clothing that reeked of wealth and privilege the moment she went out.

  “You’re up early, love.”

  Gillian stretched beneath the lace-edged sheets, and drat her eyes for being unable to look away!

  “I...I couldn’t sleep.”

  “After all my…effort last night? Your compliments turn my head, darling. As usual.”

  “I...I didn’t mean that.”

  The blush made it suddenly easy to look away, and she did, except everywhere held too many memories. The window with the drapery still slightly parted. That tapestry-covered settee. Even the walls tormented. There wasn’t anywhere in that cavernous room that was safe.

  “Of course you did. I’m under no illusions on that score.”

  “But…I—”

  “It isn’t easy for me, you know. I’ve got a lot of competition,” he interrupted her.

  “It isn’t—what?”

  “Competition. And I’m using every bit of talent I possess toward it.”

  “Toward…what?”

  “Wiping every other man you’ve ever had from your memory.”

  “But, I—. Uh…”

  That time he didn’t need to interrupt. Her voice halted.

  “And just look how greatly I must have failed. You don’t appreciate my skills one bit.”

  He sighed and punched the pillow. She stifled a giggle as feathers flew. It wouldn’t do if she laughed, especially with that pout on his lips.

  “Well. You’ve certainly interrupted my sleep, Madame Tremayne, and I don’t suppose there will be an explanation forthcoming? No? I don’t know why I bother to ask.”

  “If you must know, I’m trying to decide what to wear.”

  “An excellent reason for waking your husband at.... Lord, do you know what time it is? You’ve got me up before the birds!”

  “I didn’t wake you.”

  “Ah, but there you’re wrong, sweet.”

  “But I did nothing. I’ve been tiptoeing around, making no noise at all, Gillian Tremayne.”

  “Which is highly suspicious…now that you mention it.”

  And then he sat up, damn him. He had to cheat in order to argue. She watched him link his fingers together atop his upraised knees as he regarded her.

  “Suspicious?”

  Thank goodness her voice worked, although she had to swallow first.

  “Yes. Suspicious. You. Sneaking around and rifling my trunks. And that’s even more unusual. I don’t have anything in your size.”

  She looked down at the shirt she wore and back at him. And then lifted her chin. “I can explain.”

  “No doubt you can. It’s one of the things I find so entertaining about you.”

  “Well, uh. I...I was cold.”

  His eyebrows rose and he pursed his lips. She made the stupid move of crossing her arms defensively before her chest. And she knew better.

  “I suppose you want me to believe you find it warmer outside the bedding, rather than inside…wrapped in my arms?”

  That was unfair. Reminding her of how she’d awakened. Gil hadn’t let her move all night, and it hadn’t been as conducive to sleeping as it was to letting her mind wander through several fantasies.

  “I had to…uh…visit the...water closet.”

  “Really? And that’s of such distance, you had to rifle my wardrobe and don my shirt, making so much clatter, it woke me?”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Really? You do seem to have failed, then.”

  He leaned back, placing his hands behind his head as he surveyed her, but the sheet didn’t make the move. Oh! That was fighting dirty. She could hardly continue to face him and not note where the lace edge met his stomach.

  “I can’t help it...if you’re such a...a…”

  He waved his hand and waited for her to finish. And then he lifted a knee and the traitorous sheet slid! Helene had to look over his head.

  “If you manage to finish that, it should prove decidedly entertaining. And in the interim, I’ll just fill in the blanks with my imagination.”

  “It wasn’t that!”

  “No?”

  He arched his back in a stretch before relaxing back into position. And damn her eyes for following every bit of it. And worse. He knew it. His next words were proof.

  “Why, Helene. The sight of me still bothers you? Fancy that. And here I thought you so bored, you not only rise from my side even before daybreak, but waken me as well. And for what? To rifle my clothing.”

  “I can’t help it if you’re a light sleeper.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ. I can sleep through almost anything. Normally.”

  He stretched again, and she gasped and actually backed a step. If Gil had just one scar on him, one deformity, one misshapen portion, anything that might alter how the sight of him locked her tongue, quickened her breathing, and scrambled her wits, it would be fair. One tiny little imperfection. Anything.

  He finished the motion and snagged the sheet, veiling what was impossible to forget, and then rolled to his side to face her, propping his head on an upraised arm. And all she did was stand there. Rooted to the spot. Watching.

  “Well, sweeting…looks like we’ve eliminated your first lie today,” he said. “Let’s see if we can make it two, shall we?”

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  “My shirt?” He gestured with his free hand.

  “I told you — I was cold.”

  “And I’ve already pointed out the impossibility of that, considering how warm I kept you. Please don’t try to bluster your way out of it, either. I’ve almost got you figured — finally.”

  “You haven’t a clue!”

  “Is that a challenge?” He tossed the sheet off.

  “No!”

  Of all the horrid things to happen. Her voice even squeaked. He grinned before replacing the covering.

  “I do believe I’ll have to hand it to my aunt, Bridget. She really was right,” he commented.

  “You said that before. I didn’t know what it meant the first time. I still don’t.”

  “I did? When?”

  Helene held a quick flash of pain close and did her best to keep it from her voice. “You said it at your mother’s ball, My Lord.”

  A glance showed how unsure he looked of a sudden. She watched him slide a fingernail along the bed linen before him. He addressed his words to the invisible swirls he was making.

  “I’ve been told I said quite a few things. I have no way to ascertain the truth. I might’ve been barbaric and rude, or I could’ve been a perfect gentleman. But you wouldn’t admit it, would you? Because you’d be without ballast to your argument.”

  “You weren’t the least bit gentlemanly, My Lord.”

  He frowned in thought. “I wasn’t? Now that I think on it, I recall a bit of a turn about the dance floor. I was dancing with you, wasn’t I?”

  “Perhaps.” She shrugged and watched his frown deepen.

  “You stepped on my toes, too. I remember that! You did, didn’t you?”

  “I step on everyone’s toes when I dance.”

  “Did I rip your gown?”

  Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. No
thing came out for a bit.

  Helene?”

  “I already said how ungentlemanly you were, and here you go, mucking up the particulars.”

  “Would you give them to me if I asked?”

  Give him the truth about the gazebo? She shook her head.

  “Not even if I ask…especially nicely?”

  It was her turn to lift an eyebrow, and she did, trying to ignore the distinct pout on his kissable lips. She wondered if there was ever a time when Gillian Tremayne didn’t get his way.

  “What if I just toss aside all caution and confess I wasn’t quite as drunk as I could’ve been, Helene. What would you say to that?”

  If she didn’t know better, she would’ve sworn he’d altered. Changing from an indolent posture to one that was tense. Locked in place. Unmoving. Not even to breathe. But it couldn’t be. There was a glint in his light blue eyes as he snagged and held her gaze. And then she capitulated.

  He didn’t play remotely fair.

  “Oh! All right, you win.” She tossed her hands up. “I was trying to find something to wear so I could visit Brandy’s old lodgings. That’s the reason I was up and that’s the reason I’m in your shirt. But you’re the reason I have to lie in the first place. I can’t possibly tell you what I’m doing, because you don’t believe any of it exists.”

  Helene began undoing the buttons as she talked, not daring to look at how he took the news. Gil didn’t make a sound as she shed his shirt and pulled on her under-garments until she couldn’t pretend anymore that his silence wasn’t bothering her. She glanced at the bed, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he gazed at his locked hands. The knuckles were white with the pressure he exerted.

  Was he angry? But why? He didn’t truly expect her to stick to the lies she told at Dover, did he? After dragging her to what was left of Chateau Montriart? Surely he didn’t think that reaction had been an act?

  “I’m sorry I lied to you at Dover, Gillian.”

  “What?”

  “I’m telling the truth now.”

  “Truth seems to have an entirely different definition for you than the rest of the world, Helene. And I’ve tired of asking. I don’t need any more stories. If you like wearing my shirts – and I don’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate the view – then you have my permission to wear as many as you like. Who knows? You might even shock a Parisian or two.”