by Jackie Ivie
Gil groaned at the memory of that, too.
He’d deserted Helene the moment they arrived in London, and she’d been turning such tormented eyes on him, he should’ve known better. He did know better, damn it! He was a gentleman. But everything he’d been taught - spoken or unspoken – had fled his mind the moment he saw her as Helene.
She’d been standing there, in Grandmama’s hunting cottage grounds, looking so like the perfect English lord’s wife, that Gil went berserk. He called her a whore, labeled her a strumpet, liar, and worse.
He hadn’t given any of his reaction a second thought. Until now. Back then she deserved everything he’d done. She’d committed fraud. Wed under false pretenses. Stolen his good name. He shouldn’t castigate himself for treating her as he had. Any other man would’ve been hard-pressed to keep from hitting the little chit.
If only she’d been lying.
If anything he’d been told by the Binghams was true, Gillian could go about the business of making his wife fall in love with him. He knew she cared for him in the passion of the moment, but he wanted more. He wanted her undying love and devotion—foreign concepts, unheard of in polite society—but that’s what he wanted. And since he’d always gotten everything else he wanted out of life, it hadn’t seemed out-of-hand to gain Helene Montriart Bingham’s heart.
If was only fair, after all…because she had his.
Gil blew out the candle at the first touch of the door handle, sending the room into darkness. He’d loved her before taking her to France. And how had he shown it? Made her face horrors he couldn’t grasp, while placing both of them so well into Napoleon’s hands it was a miracle they’d escaped. And worse.
He was a gentleman. It was time he acted it. Right here. And right now. She wasn’t a whore from the madhouse, steeped on lies and deceit. This was a lady. One who’d survived all manner of evil. She deserved much better than what he’d done to her. She deserved a life. And a choice. And that meant he had to keep his hands off her, as well as be extremely lucky. She couldn’t have an annulment if he gave her a child.
Damn the part of her that wouldn’t let the truth stay buried.
“Gil? Are you awake?”
He toyed with pretending to snore, taking the coward’s way out, but he had to face himself in the mirror every day.
“It wouldn’t be such a stretch if I lay exhausted, would it?” he asked.
She giggled, and his heart squeezed so sharply he felt a tingle through his upper arms.
“After what we’ve been through? I suppose you’re fagged. I admit a bit of tiredness, too.”
She didn’t sound the least bit tired, and he tensed while she approached the bed, wishing for the same blackness of their cubicle aboard the Mighty Gull. Gil wondered how he was supposed to pretend indifference when she insisted on wearing nothing.
They couldn’t get an annulment if he couldn’t keep his hands off her! He almost said it aloud and had to swallow hard as she slid under the sheets. Brandy would’ve known what she was doing to him, but he wouldn’t have felt the least compunction to keep his hands off Brandy. She’d claimed to have experienced far worse, after all.
“Gil? I know...I sometimes haven’t been...a good wife.”
An icy hand touched his side. Gil flinched from the chill, not the contact of her hand.
“Christ, Helene. I’ve been an abhorrent husband, which rather makes us even, doesn’t it?”
If only something could do that. Then he might be able to face her again. What was he thinking? He couldn’t even face himself.
“You can’t do anything bad enough to be even with me, Gil.”
She put chilled, bare flesh against his side, making him flinch again.
“Sorry love,” she whispered.
Oh God. He didn’t know if he could handle her endearments if she suddenly decided to use them.
“Please, Helene. I am...rather tired.”
All his acquaintances, male and female, would’ve expired at that idea. He had a certain reputation. It was earned. He still said it, and stiffened more.
“I’ll try not to keep you awake long, then. Oh. Dear me. What’s this?”
She spread her hands over his chest, sitting up to do so, revealing perfection as the bedding slid from her shoulders. He locked his body tighter, fighting the instant response.
“Why Gil. You...you’re shaking.”
There was a strange, choking note in her voice. She called it shaking? Mild word for how his fingernails dug into his palms fiercely enough to rip flesh.
“I...I rather like it...I think.”
Hot breath touched his flesh a moment before her lips as she kissed his throat. He couldn’t control his reaction as his body jerked and he choked back a groan.
“Nice. Ever so nice, Gillian...beautiful Gillian....”
Her tongue slid down his neck, claiming flesh that startled him with gooseflesh. When she flicked that teasing tongue against one of his nipples, he nearly flew off the mattress. And then his body betrayed him, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“You’re a very lovely man, Gillian Tremayne, but you know that, don’t you?”
She ran a hand over his thigh, making that part of his body he’d sentenced to celibacy into such a riot of tension, it bumped into her cheek. That’s when she laughed.
“Oh look. It’s the tired part of you, dream man.”
He knew what she intended the moment her face nuzzled him. He caught her arms with hands that felt like they belonged to someone else.
“Goddamn you, Helene Montriart Bingham!”
She laughed at his cursing and bowed her back, so that no matter how far he held her aloft, her lips reached his. At the first touch, he lost ground. He knew it, too, because the sudden cry of hunger didn’t come from her throat.
He crushed her to him, reveling in the feel of her breasts smashed against him. She was so soft and willing, except when he tried to turn them both over. That’s when her leg shot out to stop him.
She straightened it so tautly, he was afraid he’d hurt her if he kept rolling, and he didn’t want to cause hurt. So he gave her what she wanted and rolled back, leaving her perched atop him. Straddling his lower belly. Tormenting him.
How was he supposed to keep from this?
“Very good, darling,” she whispered into his ear. “Such a quick learner you are.”
She pressed against him, sending his senses reeling with little kisses around his chin, and then his throat. And then he turned the tables, gulping at her lips, her neck…the little spot behind one ear.
“You cheat! Oh, Gillian! You…always cheat!”
She could call him any name she liked as long as those little moaning gasps kept coming between her words. He would’ve said so, too, if she’d just give him enough air. He was going crazy as she teased him, sliding her moistness along his shaft and then lifting away, and giggling as she did so.
“Brandy...wine!”
He flung the name like a curse as his body reneged on his control. Gil grabbed her hips and slammed her down onto him. He waited a moment before lifting her…and then pulled her back down. He did it again. Ramming into her softness. Lifting her. Again. And again. And as many times as it took for her to cease any words and fill the chamber with little mews of sound instead. Again. Harder. He shoved his hips upward to make each connection deeper. More intense. Faster. While the bedstead creaked beneath them. More. Harder. She tossed her head back and sent a sound of joy into the chamber that made his eyes swim with tears.
Gil almost gave sound to the words on his tongue, but he ground his teeth together to halt them. She deserved much better than him. She deserved her debut. A man who treated her with respect. Deference. Honor. A man who’d protect her, not march her into the bowels of hell and torment her while there.
God. If only she’d been lying…
His avowals of love wouldn’t be something she’d have to deal with. He was a gentleman born and bred. He migh
t’ve forgotten it since he met her, but, by God, he knew it now.
But he couldn’t stop his body. Love was behind every thrust. Every move. Every kiss and caress he used in order to satisfy her. As many times as she wished. This wasn’t for him. She couldn’t have her annulment if he didn’t stop his release. This was for her. Just her. His love.
His Brandywine.
He growled as she squirmed atop him, gifting him with the perfect palpitations of her body. And then she arched backward, shuddering through the throes of her ecstasy, and that’s when the control slipped. Heartbeats thudded through his ears, drowning out her cries. Friction skidded along his shaft, gripping all along him. The world spun out of control, and she was at the center of it, urging him on, telling him in little snippets of words how she much she desired him. How much she longed for him. How much she wanted him. And nothing on his body obeyed what he ordered.
He struggled to halt it, flinging his head side to side. She gripped his hair above each ear and stopped him. And then she brought her mouth to his and kissed him, long and deep, and that sent him right over the edge. Gil shuddered over and over, jolting her body with the power of his release. The one she’d manipulated. The one he’d fought.
Oh damn. He’d failed at this, too.
Tears filled his eyes. Tears he couldn’t weep. And they burned.
***
Oh God. He wasn’t even a gentleman anymore. He was a cad.
Gillian hadn’t been able to look anyone in the eye since he woke. He hadn’t looked at his reflection, he’d greeted the staff with barely a nod, and then he’d ignored his mother’s teary welcome. He couldn’t face anyone, nor could he attend his wife in her bedchamber, even after she begged him to.
He kept hearing her words. Her voice. Her pleading.
Please don’t leave, Gillian? I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t turn from me like I’m something filthy! Do you hear me?
Even in the throes of his personal nightmare, he heard her. He wasn’t fit to grace the ground beside her bed, let alone join her in it. Her tears and pleas only made things worse.
At least his mother was in residence at Tremayne Hall, and his little Brandywine wouldn’t be alone. Mother might make her wish she was alone before long, and that was almost laughable, if anything could reach that state again.
Gil hadn’t even had the courage to tell her he knew she spoke the truth. He’d known it for some time. Deep in his belly. That’s what made him a cad.
He took her innocence in the gazebo as if it were nothing, made her visit the ruins of Chateau Montriart while pretending her reaction meant little, called her a liar almost every day of their marriage and even threatened to beat her when she’d only been trying to learn the truth about Sherry…
Oh Lord. There was no end to his perfidy.
“Do you hear me, Gillian?”
He turned his back on her and strode out so fast he probably left the door open behind him. He hadn’t even had the courage to tell her it wasn’t because of her. She’d be thinking he left because he still harbored some dislike from when he first saw her…or maybe she thought he didn’t care. He hadn’t even possessed the courage to tell her the truth.
That thought nearly made him leap from the carriage and turn it around. Self-hate stopped him. There wasn’t a place in the world deep enough for him to hide.
The road to London had never felt so long, but there wasn’t anything waiting for him at the end, either. There was no succor. Not even drink. Liquor wouldn’t solve anything. It would only mask it. It was time to do the right thing. The gentlemanly thing. The thing he should have done from the beginning. Helene deserved her annulment and he’d give her one, but before that, he had to find out why the Binghams wanted it badly enough to fool him with an imposter named Sherry.
He couldn’t annul anything if that meant Helene would be at their mercy again. Even though he’d made certain the sanatorium was a gracious place to rest, Helene was never going back there, especially for defending her virtue in the only way she knew.
And then, after defending it for so long, what had happened? Gillian took her innocence. And he hadn’t even told her he knew.
He’d never be able to apologize enough, or repay sufficiently. He doubted there was anything he could offer as payment.
Do you hear me, Gillian?
“Yes, damn it! I hear you!”
He howled it over the horses’ heads, glad he’d had the good sense to drive back to London rather than taking the traveling chaise. He didn’t want anyone about to watch him fight tears…especially with how poorly he did it. It was a useless effort. The more he wiped his eyes with his sleeve, the more moisture came.
Oh hell. He was even worse than a cad. This was proof. He was a weak, spineless, blubbering cad.
He’d been fully charged to gird the entire Bingham clan the moment his carriage was brought around, but leaving Helene had drained him, somehow taking his wits, and his strength. With every mile, he felt weaker. Depleted. Tired. Sore. He could blame it on the exertion of the last few days. Lack of rest. Stress of planning and executing the escape. He could blame it on any number of things except the truth.
He was sick at heart, and driving farther and farther from the only remedy in the world.
He decided it was lack of rest. He hadn’t slept much for days now. Having Helene close while they eluded Napoleon’s troops had been too precious to waste hours in unconsciousness. Because he’d known it was all he’d have in the future.
Do you hear me, Gillian?
“God damn it.”
He slammed his hands to his ears, drawing the horses to a standstill by the pull on the reins. He held his head for long moments, trying to keep the self-hatred locked in, and somehow turn it into bitterness. He’d met bitter men before. Loveless. Angry. Hate-filled. The world was full of them.
He’d join their ranks, and then he’d find a way to turn it against the Binghams. He’d make Helen, Gerard, and who knew how many others pay for making it impossible for him to even get down on his knees and beg for his little wife’s love.
He’d given her enough hate and disgust for a lifetime. It was the Bingham’s fault. And they were going to pay. They were going to tell him about Monte Carlo and why they wanted an annulment of his marriage. It wasn’t to get Gillian back into Helen’s clutches. That had been a smoke screen that he’d believed at first. He’d played right into their hands.
It was time someone gave him answers. And past time for him to demand them.
Gillian sucked in air, released his head, and flicked the reins. At the rate he was traveling, he wouldn’t reach London, his townhouse, and some much-needed sleep before daybreak. And maybe…if he was lucky…his dreams wouldn’t be filled with visions of reddish-brown hair and luminous, brandy-colored eyes. He wouldn’t bet on it, though. His every daylight hour was filled with them. There wasn’t any reason to think his dreams would be any different. He wasn’t that lucky.
***
It was more of his rotten luck that Reg had no engagement for the evening, and was at the townhouse. Entertaining. Gil almost drove past, but he’d never shirked his duties before — except those to his lovely wife. He felt more tears start, and while he cursed his debasement, they didn’t stop easily. He’d thought Helen cuckolding him had been the lowest a man could fall. He’d been wrong.
There was nothing for it. Gil entered the drive. He toyed with slopping some purloined brandy from the Mighty Gull on himself and acting the part of the drunkard again. Or he could explain his red eyes by bathing in more of the perfume Perkins had purchased for the night Gil had wanted Brandy to assume her husband preferred Simone to her. He thought maybe if he could make her the tiniest bit jealous, she’d show him she cared.
“Oh. Hell.”
There was no way to avoid any of it. He loved her. And he’d lost her. And he’d just have to live through it. Gil brought the carriage to a standstill, tossed the reins to his groom, and kept his face averte
d. They said time was a great healer. That and distance. He’d just accomplished one. The other would gradually creep by.
“Thank God you’ve arrived, Gil,” Reg met him before he reached the front door. “I’ve spent every ounce of my persuasive power keeping Sir Linden from bolting.”
Gil glared at him through eyes that felt sand-filled. “Who?”
Gil handed his coat to Perkins, and he nearly apologized for its sorry state, before catching it. He was getting soft. That was a bad sign. Hate-filled, bitter men weren’t soft. And he still had the Binghams to deal with.
“Sir Linden! From Ireland,” Reg explained, taking Gil’s arm and leading him along the hall to his study. “It’s a deuced long way to travel, and he wouldn’t tell me anything, despite my digging. Your mother sent word that you’d arrived back and I’ve been on tenterhooks all day waiting for you to get here. Ah. Here he is. Sir Linden. From Ireland. You are from Ireland, aren’t you, Sir?”
“Och. I haven’t been to the Emerald Isle in nearly forty years.”
Gil met the man eye-to-eye, which was fairly surprising. And even if the man was approaching his dotage, he wouldn’t be easy to take in a fight. His handshake reinforced Gil’s conclusion. And he outweighed Gil by at least five stone.
“Gillian Tremayne,” Gil said. “The pleasure is mine, Sir.”
The effort of standing and acting normal made him lightheaded. Another bad sign. There was too much to do for him to become weak now.
“Please. Just Linden. I’ve not earned the right to be called Sir, despite what this addlepated marquis keeps spouting.”
“Addlepated? Why, I’ll have you know—” Reg began.
“Go find something to bet on, Reg.”
Reg’s mouth fell open. Gil waved any complaints aside and strode toward the liquor tray, looked it over, and turned around. “Perkins? Can you see that I’ve water sent in? I’ve taken an aversion to spirits suddenly, and—why the hell am I explaining? Get me some water, and make sure it’s fresh-drawn!”
Reg made a choking sound and Gil dropped into a nearby chair, trying to shield his eyes and take the edge off his headache.