by Erica Monroe
He nudged her chin up, so that he could look in her eyes, realizing he’d made a fatal error. Whatever hope he’d had of reeling himself back disappeared, for in those eyes he saw the haze of desire, the headiness of encouragement.
Kissing her would be madness. Not a slow slide, but a skipping, damn-near-galloping tumble into a bout of insanity fit for Bedlam.
He did not care.
His lips came down upon hers, all those wasted nights without her searing into this one powerful, passionate embrace. She was exactly as he remembered—lush, vivacious, smelling of summer and tasting of everything sweet and good. His arm fell naturally around her, pulling her to him. Needing her close to him, needing to feel her warmth.
As he angled her mouth to take her deeper, her arms wrapped around his neck. One kiss blended with another until it became impossible to distinguish the beginning and ending of this rhythmic, desperate dance. He drank her in with an almost feverish intensity, marveling at the little sounds she made in the back of her throat, the softness of her body against his own harder proportions, the way she returned his kisses with the single-minded determination in which she approached everything in life.
She was his.
Finally.
For now, at least.
He did not let himself think past this moment, though promises bubbled at the seams of his consciousness, endless vows he wanted to make to her. It was not the time. There was no forever for them. Nothing but this moment together, her fingers tangled in his hair, his hand at the sensuous curve of her hip.
Her lips parted to release a breathy moan. He seized upon the opportunity, his tongue stroking hers, playing with her, eagerly studying the lessons of her body he’d been introduced to that night in Vauxhall.
That kiss had been enough to torture him for years, but this one was something more. Not the furtive, guilty rush of two young fools who knew damn well they ought to keep their hands off each other. In the darkness, enveloped in each other’s arms, they explored each other, committing the secrets of each other’s passions to memory.
It was a kiss of learning, of accepting, of coming to terms with the mistakes they’d made and the separate lives they’d had, for everything had led them to this one point.
He plundered her mouth, claiming her as his, wishing it could be more than this moment. His fingers strayed, stroking her breast, feeling the eager pebbling of her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. She was fire in his hands, singeing his fingers wherever he touched, a temptation he’d never been able to resist.
The only woman he’d ever loved.
The only woman he’d ever felt right with.
“Jemma.” Her name came out in a harsh gasp, as she scooted closer to him, her breast pushing into his palm again. “You’re everything, you know that? All I ever wanted.”
She kissed him, fiercely, scorching him with her mouth, her fervor. He held onto her tightly, never wanting to release her, never wanting to part from this moment.
Until a noise from the house next door shattered the still of the night, bringing him back to reality swiftly. They were outside, at Wolverston Hall. Though the courtyard had a fence, and tall hedges, they could still be seen from the back windows of the house. Gossip spread like an entirely different sort of wildfire than the one he’d felt with her in his arms.
He forced himself to pull back from her, though the sight of her with her lips reddened from his kisses, her chest heaving with each shaky breath, her hair mussed and her dress wrinkled from his hands, made him crave her all over again.
“I should—” He did not want to finish that thought, for he knew it would only end with him leaving, and a return to their separate states of being. “Go. Shouldn’t I?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice still thick with honeyed desire.
He turned to go, but she grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“You should go, but I do not want you to,” she clarified.
His heart leapt. A hundred different fantasies spilled out in front of him, and she was naked in all of them. But when he’d pictured their first time together, it had been special—not with her being a widow for only a week.
“Jemma,” he tried again, reminding himself that he owed her something more than a tumble out of grief. “I want to, God I want to, but not like this.”
Her jaw dropped. She blinked up at him, mouth opening and closing before she finally settled upon a response. “Oh, no. That is not what I meant. I mean—I can see how you would think that—given the kiss—but—” She stopped, taking a moment to compose herself, so that she spoke in more than fits and pauses. “No. I may not have loved Philip, but I still believe in mourning him. He was my dearest friend, and he deserves that.”
“But you want me to stay?” He was not sure he understood.
She gifted him with a smile, the one she’d always used when she found his confusion adorable. “To keep me company. I do not want to be alone, not tonight. Seeing that godawful place, watching those people go about their lives in such conditions, it’s shaken me. And then hearing Mauly Jives confirm that David pawned those buttons…I knew it was true, Gabriel, but it still stings like someone is pricking my heart again, and again. Won’t you stay with me, just until I fall asleep?”
Gabriel’s drumming heart beat slowed to normal, his breaths coming easier. That sounded simple enough—though the thought of sitting so close to her, on her bed, and not being able to touch her was a torture in itself. But he would do it, for her.
“All right,” he agreed. “As friends.”
“No.”
That was the most beautiful negative he’d ever heard.
She took his palm in hers, closing her fingers over his hand. “We have never been friends, Gabriel. We have always been something more. I was so scared of it before—I still am scared—but it is inevitable, this thing between you and me. And I want to explore it, so badly. I just…need time.”
“I can give you time.” A smile spread across his lips so wide it stretched from ear to ear. “You know I’d do anything for you, and I’ve never been the impatient one. Glad to see you’ve finally come around to my way of thinking.”
“Good things take time, don’t they?” She laughed as she quoted one of his favorite sayings.
“Yes, they do.” He squeezed her hand. Together they walked to the house, sneaking up the servant’s staircase and slipping into her quarters. He turned his back as she put on her nightclothes, determined to keep his promise to her. As she slid underneath the covers, he sat beside her, holding her hand in his. When her breaths finally relaxed into the deep rhythm of slumber, he dared not stir. He stayed, for once in the right place, keeping watch as she slept.
She was his to protect, and he’d keep her safe.
CHAPTER NINE
Another “accident” has occurred at Wolverston Hall. We have it on good authority that the Earl of Wolverston’s valet took a tumble down the stairs just last night. But this isn’t clumsiness—the valet claims he was pushed down the stairs by a ghost! How many more supernatural occurrences must happen before the Forster family vacates this vortex of evil?
-Whispers from Lady X, February 1811
Wolverston Hall
Thirteen days after the death of the Earl of Wolverston
A fortnight ago, Jemma would have said that it was impossible to die from impatience. Now, after three agonizing days of waiting for news from Gabriel, she imagined her obituary in Whispers from Lady X would read something like: Jemma Forster, Countess of Wolverston, passed away yesterday morning when she spontaneously combusted. Her manners were only passable, her candor was not in agreement with polite tastes, and her temper was far too fierce for anyone to really mourn her.
“When I said I wanted to wait, I wasn’t talking about this case,” she muttered under her breath, glaring out the window in the old countess’s drawing room, which faced the street.
“What’s that, dear?” Claire asked from the sapphire brocade settee,
where she sat with Felicity.
“Nothing,” Jemma replied, a bit too quickly, for when she turned around Claire regarded her suspiciously.
But to her credit, Claire did not request she repeat herself. Her friend’s tact was one of the many things Jemma loved about her. Instead, Claire waved at the ice blue armchair next to the settee. “Won’t you come sit with us? If for no other reason than to save your carpet, for I fear you will wear a hole in it soon.”
“You have walked the length of this room twenty-two times in the last quarter of an hour,” Felicity added, pouring a splash of cream into her teacup.
“It can’t have been that much,” Jemma objected half-heartedly, knowing that when it came to mathematics or science, Felicity’s reasoning was impeccable.
“I counted,” Felicity insisted. “I am never incorrect when it comes to counting.”
“I know.” Jemma sighed, coming over toward them. She didn’t take a seat—she couldn’t stay still for more than a few minutes at a time, even though she was exhausted from a restless night.
“Are you feeling all right?” Claire asked, concerned.
Jemma pursed her lips, debating if she should tell her friends what she was feeling. “I’m fine. Just tired. I did not sleep well last night.”
She’d awoken to an unexplained creaking, as though someone was on the stairs. Philip had always said that was the house settling, but this time, it didn’t sound right to her. With her candle in hand, she’d crept out to the staircase, but no one had been around. Still, she couldn’t shake the sensation that someone was in the house—someone who definitely shouldn’t be.
In the past, she’d dismissed the skitter down her spine as her overactive imagination remembering all the various stories about this house.
“That’s to be expected,” Claire said. “You’ve had a very trying two weeks.”
“After Elizabeth died, I didn’t sleep well for months,” Felicity said. “Of course, I was doing my experiments on reanimation well into the night, so none of the servants would know what I was up to.”
Jemma pushed the curtain shut, turning around to face them. As usual, Felicity had eased the way—her news couldn’t possibly be as strange as her friend’s past unsuccessful attempts to create a Sorcerer’s Stone. “I’ve been feeling like somebody is watching me.”
Felicity sat up straighter, her curiosity piqued. “How so? When?”
“Whenever I’m in my quarters alone, and sometimes when I’m in the dining hall or in the library.” She walked back over to them, but she didn’t sit down. “At first, when I found his letter in my trunk, I thought it was Philip’s ghost, trying to guide me. I know that probably sounds absurd. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me, right?”
“Jemma, a witch once cursed my family with madness. Nothing sounds too strange to be true to me,” Claire reminded her. “And I like to think my mother’s spirit is watching over me.”
Felicity shrugged. “I can’t find empirical evidence to support ghosts, but I’ve always thought the supernatural was just science we haven’t reasoned out yet.”
“Thank you both for understanding,” Jemma said, their easy acceptance one of the many things she loved about them. They often trusted her judgment more than she did. “But this time, it doesn’t feel like it’s Philip. It feels…malevolent, somehow. Like somebody’s watching my every move.”
“Has there been any sign of entry?” Felicity asked.
“No. I checked the rooms, and nothing was astray.” No matter how many times she confirmed that all was well within the house, the feeling remained—a tingle at the back of her neck, as though an intruder’s eyes were brushing against her skin, tracking her every movement.
“Then perhaps it’s nothing.” Claire took a sip of tea, considering. “But still, let’s have Teddy change the locks later.”
“That would be good,” Jemma agreed. Even now, safe with Claire and Felicity, that eerie sensation remained. Her mind was too raw; her body, coursing with too much nervous energy.
“Would you like some tea?” Claire asked.
Jemma shook her head. She wanted to keep moving, for at least then she felt like she was doing something productive. The chair Claire had indicated held too many memories, for it was there Jemma had sat the first night she met Gabriel. In her mind’s eye, she saw the room as it had been then—a large assortment of cheese set up on the pier tables by the front of the room and a translucent French jelly next to that platter, the golden candlelight reflecting off it merrily. The flip top card tables had been pulled down from the walls and set up in the center of the room for the guests to try their hand at vingt-et-un, whist, and loo. To clear space, the settee and armchair were pushed off to the corners of the room.
She’d sat in the armchair, idly observing the players. None of the dowager countess’s party-goers wanted to associate with her. All throughout dinner, she’d heard them whisper, watched them point at her.
“Did you hear about her sister?”
“What was Lady Wolverston thinking, inviting her?”
“Blood will out, you know. If one sister is a harlot, the other will be too.”
She ran her palm across the arm of the chair. There, so scant no one else would have noticed it, were the divots in the fabric she’d made that night. She’d dug her nails in, funneling her rage into the thin fabric until the tips of her fingers ached.
The marriage settlement hadn’t been worked out yet, so she couldn’t publicly announce her engagement to Philip. She’d born the ton’s scorn silently, swallowing down the harsh replies that bubbled up in her throat, threatening to choke her.
She’d been alone. Adrift. Angry.
Until Gabriel started talking to her, and soon they were laughing together over hands of piquet. He didn’t care about her sister’s scandal. Hell, he didn’t even think Rosie had done anything wrong.
Claire’s voice broke into her thoughts, returning her to the present. “Let me see that letter again.”
Claire had already read the letter three times, so Jemma suspected her friend’s request was more to give her something productive to do than any interest in the text. Jemma gave her a grateful smile before heading over to the pier table. She plucked up the letter and brought it back, her nerves settling somewhat at being able to move freely.
Claire took the letter from her. “And you said a patrolman brought it?”
“Wilcox,” Felicity supplied helpfully, looking up from the alchemical journal she’d spread out across her lap. Jemma had glanced at it when she’d first arrived, but all the various symbols and notations made no sense to her.
Jemma nodded. “Patrolman Wilcox said Gabriel asked him to bring me the letter.”
“Hmm,” was all Claire said in response, as she read the letter again. It was not a long letter. Gabriel said he’d been called in on a big case, and might not get to see her for a few days, but he’d arranged a meeting with his superiors to discuss the new evidence.
Jemma crossed to the window again, turning to watch both women on the settee. Felicity with her bright red hair, tall and lanky, her movements always rigid and precise, reminding Jemma of one of Henri Maillardet’s automatons. Claire, with the sunlight highlighting her blonde locks, her vibrant blue eyes sparkling as she turned around to say something.
“What does this last line here mean? When he says he hates not seeing you, but ‘good things take time?’”
“Ah, well.” Warmth splayed across Jemma’s cheeks, as both women looked at her expectantly. She knew she might as well confess now, as neither of them would allow her to keep a secret. “The other night, after we went to Jacob’s Island, Gabriel and I kissed again.”
“What!” Claire exclaimed.
Which was shortly followed by Felicity saying, in a very proud tone, “I actually predicted that, so I must be getting better at understanding people.”
Felicity’s glee made both Jemma and Claire laugh, putting Jemma more at ease than she’d been these l
ast three days. Standing here in the room where she’d met Gabriel, surrounded by the friends who never judged her and loved her for who she really was, she couldn’t help but feel that maybe the sorrow of the last two weeks would fade into a brighter future.
She missed Philip fiercely, but she was starting to think that mourning him and happiness were not mutually exclusive. She could still remember him while finding joy in life.
Philip’s last letter to her had told her to pass on his regards to Gabriel, and he’d left it in her box of clippings. She couldn’t help but feel that was Philip’s way of giving his approval.
“We agreed to wait. To explore our relationship slowly,” Jemma said. “Philip and I may not have had the marriage of love you both have, but he was still my husband and Gabriel’s childhood best friend.”
“I think that is wise,” Claire said. “It’s best not to rush into things. Just don’t wait seven years, all right?”
Claire and Teddy had spent seven seasons as dear friends, both too scared to tell the other how they felt. It was only when they went to Castle Keyvnor for a will reading, and were able to break the curse of madness on Claire’s family, that they’d been able to commit to each other without fear.
“Full mourning lasts a year.” Felicity tapped her chin thoughtfully. “That seems like an adequate time to me.”
“Agreed.” Jemma made one more loop around the room, her pace more leisurely this time, her mind finally starting to calm. She was glad she’d asked Felicity and Claire to have breakfast with her. They always made her feel better.
The conversation turned to the dinner party Georgina was hosting next week. Because Georgina was her sister-in-law, Felicity had to go, much to her discontent. Begrudgingly, Georgina had extended an invitation to Claire, not daring to cut the Countess of Ashbrooke because her husband was one of Marlburg’s political allies.
Funny how people’s opinions changed when one married into good ton.