by Nicole Byrd
“Don’t run away, my own true love,” he said, his voice low as he kissed her neck, her lips, her cheek.
The words as much as his touch warmed her. She relaxed against him, allowing his long fingers to ease against her and then—she held her breath for an instant—to slip inside her, touching what must be her very core. Nothing else could feel so exquisite, so intense, so deeply pleasurable.
Louisa found she was making soft noises deep in her throat, and she blushed, not sure if this was proper. But Colin—her husband—smiled down at her, and she saw the love shining in his eyes. And she forgot to worry that she might not do this right.
He stroked her, gentled her, and provoked her until Louisa found herself moving against his hand, wanting something more but not sure what it would be.
And then he lifted himself over her, and before she even could think about his change in position, she felt his body against her, slipping inside her.
And he was large, indeed. For a moment she tensed. He put his arms around her, holding her lightly, kissing her breasts again, bringing back the waves of pleasure that rolled over her until her stiffness faded. Then she felt him push, just for an instant, then again, and suddenly he sank deeper inside her. She gasped at a sharp, quick pain, and then he was kissing her, stroking her, cupping her breasts in his hands, and she forgot the momentary discomfort.
He moved again, and she braced herself for the pain to return, but instead, this time a ripple of pleasure seemed to turn her inside out. She gasped again, but this time in delighted recognition. There was a bigger ache inside her, a pleasant urgent insistent need, and now she was at last able to see what it was that would ease her.
He moved in and out. Her body arched against his, inviting him further inside, and he thrust against her, slowly at first, then faster and harder, falling into a rhythm older than time.
Louisa forgot everything except the circles of pleasure that coiled around her, wrapping her in sensation, lifting her in delight.
There was no one else in the world except she and Colin, no sounds except the rhythm of their bodies moving together and the faint rustle of the bed linen, no feelings beyond the deepest joy that his body created inside hers. They were the world, they were the music, they were the joy.
And still the feelings grew, and she learned how to meet him, move with him, till she found herself rising, soaring like a flute’s highest notes lifting to a crescendo, and someone cried out—she did not know who—when she reached the topmost note of all.
Then she was falling, falling, and he was there to catch her, hold her, kiss her lips while she tried to form words in a language she didn’t know, inarticulate sounds of surprised and languorous satiation.
When at last he lay his head back against the bedsheet, she rested inside his arms. They seemed to be fused into a tangle of damp limbs, sprawled across the bed in a living love knot more pleasing and more potent than any her sewing lessons had ever produced.
One part of her mind wondered why on earth she had not wed years earlier, even as the other part told her wisely that this marvel could not have occurred in such a way until she had met this particular man. It had to be Colin McGregor, with his strange prickly pride and the love he had fought so hard not to confess. No one else but this proud and impoverished Scot, who avowed a greed he did not feel and tried to deny the honor and decency that was part of his soul, could have moved her so.
And while he held her close, while he kissed the tangled fair locks that clung to her moist forehead, he sighed.
“Lass, you could have done better,” he whispered against her hair. “They will say I married you for your money, you know that.”
“I don’t care what they say,” she told him, looking up to meet his troubled gaze once more before the candle guttered in its pool of wax, and the darkness closed upon them. “I know the truth—that I am the one enriched.”
Louisa had supplied the money for Gemma and the maid from the inn, with another male servant engaged as escort, to hire a carriage from the posting house and return to London. Gemma had departed with many mixed feelings, worrying whether Louisa had made the right choice. Yet, when the two women hugged before Gemma made her way out of the inn, Louisa had seemed very confident, and the light in her friend’s eyes was as bright as Gemma had ever seen it.
Louisa loved Lieutenant McGregor—Gemma did not doubt that. And she was nearly positive that the lieutenant returned her friend’s regard. Yet there was always the chance that he had arranged the whole elopement to gain the wealthy bride he had, by his own admission, been seeking. . . .
So traveling once again by moonlight as Gemma made the first segment of her trip, she struggled against her anxiety. Still, Louisa had made the decision, and under the circumstances, what were her alternatives? Go back and reconcile with Sir Lucas? Try to endure the scandal if gossip of the brothel visit leaked into the Ton? Go through with the annulment? And in the end, it was Louisa’s choice to make, no one else’s.
The hired coachman knew this route well, and when the darkness became too deep, they stopped in the next village and took rooms. Although she tossed and turned most of the night, Gemma rose early, eager to complete the trip. When she arrived at Louisa’s rented London house in the afternoon, she climbed out of the carriage feeling both relief and a strong sense of fatigue.
Smelters appeared to take in her baggage. Gemma ignored the inquisitive gleam in the footman’s eyes, but as she spoke to the hired servants, giving them their fee and arranging for their journey back to Brighton, she saw the curtains move in the sitting room.
Oh, dear, Gemma would have the task of breaking the news to Miss Pomshack—not a task she looked forward to. At least she could spare Louisa that ordeal. And, if she could pour oil on roiled water, Gemma told herself, it would be one thing she could do for her friend. Mentally bracing herself, she entered the house.
Sure enough, the older lady was waiting in the sitting room. At least today she was on her feet and seemed to have overcome her hysterics.
But she seemed poised for a scene of high drama. When Gemma entered the room, Louisa’s companion lifted her chin. “Miss Smith, thank heavens! But where is Miss Crookshank? I have been prostrate with anxiety! If I have failed in my duty to keep her from harm, to guarantee her propriety and her good name—”
Gemma smiled and made her tone reassuring. “She is safe and well, Miss Pomshack, and most grieved to have caused you concern.”
“She did not go to that terrible place?” Miss Pomshack looked down her hooked nose, and for an instant, Gemma remembered the cleric cousin who so resembled her.
“No, indeed,” Gemma lied. “We summoned Lieutenant McGregor, who talked Miss Crookshank out of such a precipitous action. However, he had something else to discuss with her, and—this may seem somewhat sudden, but I must explain that Miss Crookshank and Sir Lucas have ended their engagement.”
“What?” The other woman raised her brows in horror. “But Sir Lucas was such an eligible gentleman.”
“And the lieutenant then found himself free to profess his own love and deep feelings for Miss Crookshank. And they have married.”
“What!” This time it was a shriek. Miss Pomshack, who had been standing as erect as a vengeful saint, collapsed into the nearest chair.
“Yes, we came back to pack our bags, and of course, Miss Crookshank would have invited you to accompany her, but you were sleeping deeply after your earlier distress, and we didn’t wish to risk your health. So I went with Miss Crookshank to play chaperone until the wedding was conducted.”
Gemma took a breath, but the other woman seemed still too shocked to speak, so Gemma hurried on. “They were married in Brighton by your cousin, because the lieutenant remembered how highly you had spoken of him. Then I returned home, and Miss Crookshank—Mrs. McGregor, I should say, and her husband will rejoin us shortly.”
For a moment, the other woman struggled between affront and relief, the emotions chasing each other acr
oss her face. At last she seemed to decide upon gracious acceptance. “I am happy to hear that the lieutenant paid such heed to my words. I’m sure my cousin was pleased to be of assistance.”
“Oh, he was, and sorry that you were not able to be there. But Louisa felt a quiet marriage was appropriate.”
Miss Pomshack frowned for a moment. “Since she has just ended one engagement to marry another man, I should think so. But I do hope she has made the right choice. Lieutenant McGregor is quite charming, but he has no great estate. And what Society will say about this—I know that Miss—Mrs. McGregor still had hopes of entering the Ton.”
“True, but I believe they will be happy together, and we must hope for the best,” Gemma was saying when the footman appeared in the doorway. Had he been listening outside? It didn’t matter. The servants would learn the story, or the modified version of it, soon enough.
“You have a caller, Miss. Lady Gabriel Sinclair and a friend.”
Gemma had been so consumed with Louisa’s predicament that for some time she had had little time or energy to worry about her own fate. She stared at the footman for a moment, then jumped up.
“Show her in, of course!”
Was this simply more to do with the foundling home, where Gemma was happy to add her small efforts, or could it be about Gemma’s letter?
“Lady Gabriel Sinclair and Miss Circe Hill,” the footman announced.
When Lady Gabriel—Gemma still found it hard to think of her as Psyche—appeared in the doorway, she was accompanied by a young girl of about thirteen, with straight brown hair and a plain angular face, who nonetheless showed signs of beauty yet to come.
“This is my sister, Circe,” Psyche explained as the ladies exchanged curtsies. “We have been at the park so that Circe could sketch, but I also have something to show you.” Psyche held a small parcel in her gloved hands.
“How nice of you to come,” Gemma said, trying to keep her voice even. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Hill. My friend Louisa is not at home just now, but I am anxious to see what you have found. Bring us some tea, please.” She motioned to the footman, who bowed and left the room.
Lady Gabriel took a seat and unwrapped the parcel she had carried. Inside the brown paper was a small book.
Gemma felt her pulse jump.
“We have been so busy with the foundling home, I fear you must have thought that we—my husband and I—had forgotten his promise to you. But yesterday I received the housekeeping book, which has his mother’s handwriting in it, and I thought we would compare it with your letter.”
“Oh, yes!” Gemma exclaimed. She hurried across to the desk where she had locked her prized letter for safekeeping, opened a drawer and drew out the paper.
The two women sat down side by side—Miss Pomshack sat across from them, but Gemma could tell the older lady peered hard to see the script, too—and compared the two missives.
They looked at a receipt for pear preserves and a list of household linen, which Psyche was sure that Gabriel’s mother had written herself, and then compared the faded handwriting in the book to that in the note.
After a few moments of silence, Psyche said, “The shape of the letters look very alike to me.”
Letting out the breath she had been holding, Gemma nodded. She thought the same, but it was better to let Psyche make the first assertion. “Yes, I agree. Of course, I realize that this may not completely convince your husband, but—”
“But he is a fair-minded man, Gemma, and I’m sure he will weigh this piece of evidence, for we must consider it that. And there is something else.” For some reason, Psyche exchanged a glance with her younger sister. The child had quietly opened her sketchbook and seemed to be doodling.
“Although we have not yet heard from Gabriel’s older brother, who is traveling abroad and difficult to reach, Gabriel remembered some items that John sent to us some time ago.”
She opened her reticule. This bundle was even smaller than the book. Gemma watched as Psyche unwrapped a piece of cloth and revealed a small velvet box, of the kind that often contained jewelry. Inside was a broach, edged in gold, with something painted in the center. It looked like an eye.
What on earth? Gemma blinked at it, and Miss Pomshack leaned closer to see.
“My husband thinks that this must have belonged to their mother. His brother told him last year that after her death, he found a cache of hidden letters—”
“Letters?” Gemma looked up, hope leaping inside her.
“Yes, but John burned them, thinking them too personal to read,” Psyche said. “As it turns out, that may have been an unfortunate—if honorable—decision. But this was one of her other hidden treasures. However, we do not know what it signifies.”
“It seems to show an eye, a human eye.” Gemma noted the obvious. “But I have never seen such an ornament.”
This time, it was the child who answered. Except for a murmured greeting, she had been silent until now, occupied with her pencil and her sketchbook. “The eye painted on the broach is very similar to both your eyes and Gabriel’s. You can observe the shape and the unusual shade of dark blue.”
Gemma gazed at her in surprise. This young girl, who had seemed so quiet and demure, spoke with all the authority of an adult. Miss Pomshack, always a stickler for decorous behavior, looked disapproving.
Psyche said quickly, “My sister is an artist. She has studied anatomy, as well as artistic technique, and is just now returned from several weeks of instruction with a noted portrait painter who was visiting England to fulfill some commissions.”
“And I hope to travel to the Continent myself, soon, to pursue further studies,” the girl added.
Psyche sighed. “Circe, I said we will discuss that later. You are too young.”
Circe frowned in obvious disagreement, but she turned back to Gemma. “Psyche was quite right about you, however. You and Gabriel have many features in common. I do believe you must be related.”
Gemma blinked at this candid assessment. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Thank you. Do you think this broach was painted to show Gabriel’s eye, or even mine? Though I cannot think what the purpose would be.”
The child shook her head. “This is obviously an older person, probably a man if you look at the shape of his brow, though I cannot be sure. Observe the small wrinkles about the eye. It cannot be of a child, and I think from the style of the painting that it is not of recent creation. It could have been painted twenty years ago or more.”
Now that Circe pointed them out, Gemma saw plainly the tiny laugh lines about the eye. What an unusual child, she thought briefly, but she was more concerned with the puzzle of the broach itself.
“Miss Pomshack, have you ever seen such a thing?” she asked the older lady.
Miss Pomshack shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said, with obvious regret.
“If it is an out-moded fashion, I know someone who might be able to tell us more!” Psyche said suddenly. “I think we should pay a call on a friend of mine.”
Sixteen
“Like a wildflower, love sometimes blooms in unexpected places— but its scent is still as sweet.”
—MARGERY, COUNTESS OF SEALEY
They all crowded into Psyche’s carriage. It was obvious that Miss Pomshack would have been devastated to have been left behind, and Gemma felt she owed the woman something. Louisa’s companion had missed the wild elopement journey, and even though she would have disapproved of the whole idea, she was human enough to regret being left out. So this time Gemma invited her politely to come along, and Miss Pomshack eagerly accepted.
Psyche gave directions to her footman. When her groom shut the door and the carriage moved forward, she explained.
“The countess of Sealey is a confidant who was also my late mother’s close friend. She has been part of the Ton’s elite since she made her own debut and her first marriage several decades ago. She is twice widowed and a dowager countess now but still active in Society. She
knows all the gossip, current and passé.”
Gemma must have looked anxious because Psyche added, “And I promise you, Gemma, she is completely trustworthy, with a shrewd mind and a kind heart. She will not betray our secret.”
Gemma nodded, although she found that she had gripped her hands tightly together. She was silent through the short ride as Psyche chatted a little, telling them more about the countess, then even she fell silent.
The atmosphere inside the fashionable chaise seemed tense. Would Lord Gabriel ever accept Gemma as his sister or maybe half-sister? Why had her mother not confided in someone, anyone? Some secrets were too important to be taken to the grave! For a moment Gemma felt a flare of anger at the mother she had never known, then she sighed and pushed the emotion aside. Who knew what her mother had endured? The marchioness had written the letter to be given to Gemma and that was still the lifeline that Gemma held to her heart. In some way, at least, her mother had cared. Lady Gillingham had wanted to reclaim the daughter she had perhaps been forced to put away from her.
But Gemma’s stomach was knotted with anxiety when they arrived at a large and elegant house and were shown inside. Upstairs in an exquisite peach-colored drawing room, they found the lady of the house. Psyche performed the introductions, and the countess was welcoming.
“What a pleasure to see you,” she told them, her tone gracious. Despite her age, Lady Sealey was a lovely woman, with natural silver hair and gently wrinkled skin stretching across a fine bone structure, the wrinkles softened by a light coating of face powder. Her lavender and gray silk dress was as fine and as costly as her surroundings. Her eyes bright with intelligence and curiosity, she waited with well-bred ease as Psyche unfolded the broach with its painted eye and held it out for the countess to examine.
“Have you ever seen anything like this, Lady Sealey?”
The older lady took the ornament and held it up to inspect through a lorgnette she drew from her reticule. “Of course, but not for many years.”