Brandywine: Regency historical romance (The Brocade Series, Book 1) (36 page)

Oh my!

She couldn’t stare him down if she blushed from
her own thoughts.  He was too virile, too self-confident, and too arrogant. And now she added self-righteous. He’d
proved to himself that she lied and managed to escape
capture simultaneously. That was quite an accomplishment if she stopped to think about it.

He’d never think her unsoiled. He’d never trust her. Oh…if only he’d been there when she found out about Sherry! Maybe that would’ve been worth something. Or…
if she could have discovered why the new regime was so obsessed with Helen. O
r....

She’d find herself in tears if she continued to ponder
, and it was time to be brave again. She’d never visit France again. She might never have a chance to get Gil to
listen. He’d contacted Tremayne Hall. That was their next destination. And he’d leave her there. That had been the
plan before he tried to make her prove her tongue false, and she
doubted he’d changed it.

Gil hadn’t wasted time thinking. He stood,
indecently attired as too many maids for Helene’s liking filled the
tub. She knew he enjoyed the attention, but he didn’t have to
stand at the damn door, holding it open! And then it was done. The tub beckoned. The door was shut. Sealing them in.

“Gillian, there’s something I have to say.”

“Now?”

It should be easy, but then he cheated again, removing t
he last of his clothing and stepping into his tub.

“I won’t be put off again!”

“Can’t it wait?”

He bent forward, ducking beneath the water, only to emerge, looking akin to a damp statue. And then he shook his head, sending droplets at the fireplace where they made little hissing noises.

“If I ask nicely, will you consider washing my back?”

He
lathered his face until all she saw was his eyes.

“Will you listen to what I have to say first?”

He ignored her, reaching for the strop razor beside him. She couldn’t resist watching. She caught her lower lip in
her teeth, finding it more and more difficult to breathe each time
he slid the blade across his skin. He did it by feel. Not once did he break their eye connection
.

She was trembling before he finished and wiped his face, and he
probably knew it. He was very aware of his effect on her. He always had been.

“Are you going to say anything I wish to hear?”

The
iron-hard note was in his whisper again, and she looked at the
floor before he saw how she reacted.

“Probably not,” she admitted.

“Then I’ll be suitably deaf.”

He scrubbed unconcernedly at
his forearm, while his words brought her head up.

“You took me to France for a reason, Gillian.”

“Did I?”

He was working at his chest now, lathering that span of flesh that made her fingertips tingle.

“I want to make
sure, before I’m banished to Tremayne Hall…that you get what you went for.”

“You’ve read too much poetry, darling.” He rinsed off.

“Everything I told you last time we were here was a lie,
Gillian. Everything.”

“Oh. I already know some of that.”

“You do?”

“Of course.”

She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. Which meant she had to, despite the knot in her throat that closed it off. Swallowing didn’t even help. In fact, it was particularly painful when she tried.

“I
really was there, Gillian. In Paris. I watched my Grandpapa
led...to the platform. Furthermore…he saw me. I’ve never
been so proud in my entire life as when he simply inclined his
head toward me, almost like a salute. And then....”

She tried not to become
emotional, but her body wasn’t cooperating.

“I’m sorry, darling. Did you say something?”

He was
washing his ears. If she’d been closer, she would’ve bruised her
other fist against his thick skull.

“Yes, I did. I’m telling you that my entire family was
executed and I saw it! I wasn’t at
the damned Bingham estate! I was orphaned and alone and in danger. And that’s why I acted
insane. I’ve never been, nor will I ever be, mad! It’s
Helen and Gerard, and my oh-so-illustrious uncle, who are the
liars, not—”

“That’s very nice, Helene. Could you hand me that towel?”

He used his iron-hard whisper to interrupt and probably didn’t notice how it clashed with his words. Her jaw dropped.

Helene
whirled and approached the door, but was
unable to open it. She could barely make it out.
Finally, the wood came into focus, but she exerted every
ounce of determination to send her tears back. The effort left her weak. And that’s when she knew.
He’d never listen to her,
because he didn’t care either way. He’d done what he set out to do. All that was left was to see her ensconced at
Tremayne Hall and resume the life she had so rudely interrupted. And
there wasn’t one thing she could do to stop him.

“Helene?”

He’d managed to sneak up behind her easily,
because she’d closed out everything to regain control of herself. And if
he was intent on leaving her to her own devices at Tremayne Hall, the least
she could do was appreciate it. Wasn’t that their bargain, after all?

Gillian Tremayne had
changed her life in a very short time.
Not only had he rescued her from hell, but in forcing her to face the past, he’d banished the
nightmares. And now she knew what Grandpapa had been telling her. Chateau
Montriart may be destroyed, but the Montriarts lived on. Through her.

For all that, Gillian Tremayne deserved the best acting of her life, and maybe…if she ceased arguing, he’d
find her attractive enough to help her fulfill the
comte’s
last, unspoken request.

“Yes?”

She turned around. He was wearing the towel, while dark locks of wet hair curled beneath each ear. Her heart stumbled. Again.

“Your bath awaits, love.”

“Oh.”

She watched him walk through the door to their bedchamber. And couldn’t think of one way to stop him.

PART FOUR

Brandywine

CHAPTER ONE

Gillian Bartholomew Tremayne was the twelfth baron in a long line of
indeterminate lords who hadn’t distinguished themselves for their monarch enough to grant them a larger title. However, each baron seemed to know that his duty in life was to gain more ground and money without staining the family name. Land
accrued at an amazing rate, mostly due to marriages, but there had
been ancestors willing to fight, gamble, or, possibly cheat to
obtain more prime land, adding to the coffers simultaneously.

In direct contrast, Reginald Dunston’s impoverished estates
stood nearer Brighton, and none of his forebears had done much
for the entitlement except drain it, which was why Reg had to
marry into money. That the young marquis was looked on as a
fortune hunter was well-known, and he was often chided for it,
never losing his good humor.

Reg had once mentioned his true feelings to Gil, and he’d
been hard-pressed not to laugh at Reg’s insistence that he
wouldn’t put up with just any pock-faced heiress. His wife must
be elegant, poised, and even-tempered so as not to cast a bad light
on the titles and estates of the Marquis of Dunsberry — such as they were. The fact that Reg had passable looks, charm, and was
only twenty-six years old stood him in good stead for his quest.

No man should have to marry before he was ready. Gillian
had long decided he’d be ready when he was near forty — not
before. He would marry to beget an heir and add to the family
coffers in some way, too. And until then, he was free to enjoy the
favors of any woman who caught his eye.
No one needed to tell
Gillian his role.

He’d known since he was in swaddling clothes that he could
marry wherever he chose. Being the younger son gave him that
freedom. He’d lost it, however, when Broderick was killed in 1795. His older brother
hadn’t the mentality for warfare, even if his commission was
purchased. He wasn’t even supposed to see active duty. As heir to
the Tremayne estates, Broderick had been brought up knowing of
his responsibilities while the younger Tremayne, Gillian, enjoyed all the freedom. None of
those strictures were placed on him. He’d been spoiled from the day he was born, and he knew it.

That his older brother was felled by a stray bullet was
markedly the single worst experience in young Gillian’s life.

Helene’s words during his bath were decidedly the second.

He was a gentleman. He’d been raised as
one, obeying a strict code of honor even in the matter of
light-skirts. A gentleman could go outside the pale, taking almost
any woman who offered, as long as there wasn’t any gossip. He’d
known since the age of thirteen how he affected ladies. The
chambermaids had flirted with the young lord back then, and he’d been the
object of feminine admiration ever since.

He was blessed with the Tremayne looks, his mother’s
family’s height, and had towered over Broderick since his
thirteenth birthday. Once Gillian inherited, he became the darling
of society. Reginald often compared their lots in life — Gil had
invitations scattered about the foyer, while the marquis could
count his engagements on one hand. Gillian was an available
man in every sense of the word, while Reginald was a fortune
hunter.
That didn’t change the facts. Gillian was a gentleman. He wasn’t to stain the family‘s name.

Most definitely, he
wasn’t supposed to do what he’d just done to his wife.

She undoubtedly still looked at the door to the bedchamber,
her eyes full of hurt and disillusionment. She’d been raised until
the age of eight as a
comte’s
granddaughter, for pity’s sake!
Marriage with a minor baron
would never have been possible before the French revolution, even if, a
ccording to Helene, her father might have allowed Gil’s suit. Her grandfather would never have agreed. No
comte’s
only heir could wed so ignobly.
As
soon as Gil’s mother found out Helene’s lineage, his mother had been ecstatic.
It was all the Dowager Lady Tremayne could do to keep it secret long
enough for Helene to make her debut on Gil’s arm.

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. A
nd 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 h
er…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.