by Jackie Ivie
“Oh…hell. Can’t you just get a sword and hack away with it, Helene? I wouldn’t fight it. Really. I’ll help you.”
His voice was hoarse. Weary. Helene reached for his chin to lift his head, but he turned his face, putting his nose right against his shoulder.
“Gillian, look at me.”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“What the hell do you want, Helene? What will it take? How much? And for how long?”
“Very well, let’s summarize, shall we?”
She could’ve sworn he caught his breath. She didn’t know if that was a good sign, but delay was for the faint of heart, and she had too much to lose.
“For starters,” she began, “I’d like you to quit abusing your wardrobe. I’m a fairly rich woman, but at the rate you tear clothing, my purse will soon be stressed. Secondly, I’d like to name our firstborn son Gillian Montriart Tremayne. You may name our additional children. Thirdly, I’ve designs on my devastating husband, but he’s devilishly difficult to coax into my bed at the moment, and I’d appreciate your help.
“Next, I’ve tired of these constant reminders of the past…although the gazebo was quite wonderful. Wonderful is the right word, isn’t it? No answer? Very well, I’ll continue. I love you. I’ve been in love with you since...I believe Reginald informed me of my feelings at Almack’s. Yes. That was it. I’ve loved you at least that long. I didn’t want to love you. I fought it. But I have to tell you. I failed.”
Bleary, light-blue eyes peeked at her, and she grinned.
“You’re wondering when my demands will cease? Oh. Sorry. It’s a rather long list. Where was I? Oh, yes. I don’t like the frost bitch moniker . You’re to discontinue using it. I prefer Brandywine, but, in polite company, I’ll accept Helene, or…you can use any of your endearments. They will suffice quite well. Now what?”
“You’re a minx.”
“Glory! A smile! I was beginning to think I’d have to call you the ice warlord or some such nonsense.”
“You can call me anything you like, love.”
“Oh, yes. That endearment is my favorite. Do you realize you’ve never said it, Gil?”
“Said what, pray tell?”
He turned toward her, and opened his arms, and the next moment she was wrapped in an embrace that trembled. And it wasn’t just his reaction.
“You never said you love me,” she said.
“You pout like that, and I won’t be responsible for my actions, Brandy love.”
“Gillian!”
“I told you I loved you every time I touched your body. Surely you could tell?”
“With my vast experience? Sadly, no. I’ll need you to tell me occasionally, too. Add that to the list.”
“Now. Wait. I told you in the gazebo. I did. I remember.”
“I love you, Gillian. Immensely. Reginald was wrong. I’ve loved you probably since I clapped eyes on you at the wedding. You’re a handsome devil, but you know that. Now it’s your turn.”
He had to cheat again, but she couldn’t complain as lips softened by emotion and warm with desire touched her, pulling on her heartstrings and moving worlds.
It was a good thing he hadn’t gotten dressed, because he tore more of his clothing off than he removed easily, murmuring how lovely his Brandywine was and how he adored her, stopping only to assure that his son wouldn’t be harmed.
She giggled at his foolishness. While the warmth of blue eyes met hers, she reassured him that she wasn’t laughing at him — the very idea!
And if she had to wait for him to say it, so be it. Meanwhile, she added the appropriate use of floors to her list for future reference.
EPILOGUE
Bridget Helene Montriart Tremayne made her appearance amid a lot of screaming by her mother and a good deal of masculine fretting by her father. Not that her namesake, Great-aunt Bridget, let her father off easily. She continually reminded him it was her matchmaking that brought the event about.
She was in luck he didn’t banish her from the estate for giving advice. Instead, he suggested she raid the kitchens and give her tongue something constructive to do. All he remembered was that his little Brandywine was suffering, and he was the cause, all for such a little red-faced bundle that he almost fell over the cradle when he first saw her.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Gil?” Helene asked. “She looks just like you.”
His Brandywine sounded exhausted but proud, and the bald infant did bear a decided resemblance to him. It was enough to make any new father’s heart warm even more.
Gillian toyed with a sarcastic rejoinder, and then he did what he always did when his emotions became too much for him to bear — he gave a piano concert.
About the Author
Jackie Ivie lives in Alaska with her husband and three pets. She started her writing career with hot Highland historical romances from Kensington. Her eleventh, LAIRD BALLANCLAIRE, is set for publication October 2013. Keeping her head in the clouds most of the time, Jackie spends most of her time researching, developing, and writing her paranormal series - Vampire Assassin League -because there's just something about a hot vampire with a mate fixation. Jackie loves to hear from fans at http://www.jackieivie.com/
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
PART ONE Brandy
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
PART TWO Helene
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
PART THREE Lady Tremayne
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
PART FOUR Brandywine
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
EPILOGUE
About the Author