Retreat From Love (6 page)

He realized his breathing was erratic and he glanced at Anne to see if she’d noticed.

The only thing Anne was noticing was Brett’s hand in her glove. And to judge by the pebbled nipples jutting out the tight bodice of her dress she was as aroused by it as 27

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Freddy was. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the tops of her creamy breasts rising above the décolletage of her dress. Freddy had noticed the dress was several seasons out of date, and tight, as if it didn’t fit anymore. Another piece of the puzzle. What was going on in the Goode household? If they had hit hard times, why had they not applied to Freddy for aid?

Freddy’s thoughts scattered as Brett worked another finger into the glove. He had his thumb and two fingers in it already. Freddy’s cock jumped as he imagined those fingers working their way into him. Anne’s hand fluttered involuntarily at her side and suddenly Freddy had a picture of Brett working his fingers inside Anne while Freddy watched. Then Brett would turn to him, pull his hand away from Anne, wet with her cream, and he’d reach for Freddy… Freddy shivered in spite of the sun’s warmth on his back. God, he could imagine how that would feel, Brett’s fingers inside him wet with Anne’s desire. His cock jumped and he forced the image away. This was not the time or place. He was here to bring Brett and Anne together. He would have no place in their bedroom. The thought was enough to dampen his arousal.

Suddenly Anne’s hand reached out and touched Brett’s. They all froze, stopping there in the middle of the road. Freddy felt as if he were watching her touch Brett’s cock, the move seemed so intimate. Brett had all but his smallest finger in the glove. It was obvious the leather would never be the same. It was stretched beyond repair.

Brett’s realization of what he’d been doing brought a blush to his cheeks. “Perhaps I should give this back,” he muttered, trying to peel the too-small glove off his hand.

Freddy nearly groaned. He imagined Brett sliding his cock out of Anne’s sex as it held him as tightly as her glove. He clamped a lid on his imagination before he could fully visualize Brett’s cock sliding out of Freddy in the same fashion.

Anne swallowed audibly. Had her imagination led her down the same path? “Yes, perhaps you should,” she said breathlessly. Then her hands joined Brett’s as they began to pull the glove off. Her hands were small and white, delicate. She had long, thin fingers that ended with beautiful nails, long ovals with bright crescent moons at their tips. They were short, but Freddy imagined they were firm and well-formed when they were long. His back muscles rippled as he imagined Anne digging those nails into him as she came around his cock.

She pulled the glove off Brett’s index finger, and Freddy imagined both sets of hands on him, wrapped around his cock, inside his ass. He turned away abruptly and coughed to cover his moan. They were killing him. Did they know they were killing him?

Brett was mortified. He’d ruined her glove. That was obvious. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been, not with his head anyway. What was it about Anne’s proximity that caused his brain to cease functioning?

Her glove was so soft, so small and fragile, as he imagined Anne would be. So delicate, and he’d wanted to violate that delicate, fragile sheath. God, what was wrong 28

Retreat From Love

with him? But the feel of his over-large fingers pressing the soft, damp leather apart and pushing inside the tight, humid warmth there had mesmerized him. He’d tortured himself with visions of Anne spread out beneath him as first his fingers and then his cock had parted her tight little cunt and ravaged her. He imagined the heat and the wetness of her passage, the texture of her springy, black pubic hair against his fingers and cock.

Anne fumbled trying to get her glove off him, and Brett winced as the scrape of her nail on his skin made his gut clench and his cock grow hotter and harder. He hoped to God she hadn’t noticed how hard he was. He glanced over at Freddy and was met with an identical problem in the other man. His gaze flew up and met Freddy’s hot blue perusal. Freddy knew. Freddy knew what he’d been thinking. At least part of what he’d been thinking. But Brett had worked hard the last five years to make sure Freddy didn’t know that Brett thought about him too.

Because when Brett was torturing himself with visions of Anne, he’d thrown caution to the wind and let his fantasies about Freddy loose as well. He’d imagined those tight finger holes were both Freddy and Anne, and he was pushing into both of them. He’d never wanted to put his fingers in a man’s arse until Freddy had started parading his around Brett, after Brett was recovered and capable of having sex again.

Freddy had offered that gloriously smooth, tight, white arse of his to Brett so often that Brett had worn his teeth down to stubs gritting them against temptation. But he wanted it. Christ, he wanted it. He wanted to shove his fingers—hell, his whole hand—in Freddy until Freddy could take Brett’s cock. And then he wanted to fuck him so hard he cried, and fist that long, hard cock of his. The tempting little bastard.

Brett looked down at Anne’s hands on him again and a new, raw vision assailed him. He imagined Anne on top of Freddy, Freddy’s cock buried in her cunt, Brett’s fingers buried in her bottom while Brett’s cock filled Freddy’s behind. He gasped and jerked his hand from Anne.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a panicked rush. “I was just trying to get it off. Did I scratch you?”

Brett forced himself to take several deep breaths before he spoke. “No, no, I’m all right.” He gently pushed her hands away. “I’ll get it, don’t worry.” He made his hands work slowly, deliberately, calmly as he peeled the rest of the glove off. It was ruined, ruined. Just as he’d ruin them both if given half a chance.

He looked up at Anne ruefully, at her agitated expression. “I’m sorry, Anne. I’ve ruined your glove. I shall replace it when we get to the village.” The glove had been old, Brett could see that. She needed a new pair. Was this her best pair? He inwardly chastised himself yet again. He should have come to see her, to make sure everything was all right. Because it clearly was not. He never should have allowed things to reach this point, where she couldn’t buy a new dress or a new pair of gloves. She was his responsibility, whether she wanted to be or not. He owed Bertie that. And Brett deserved at least that. No more, but at least the right to take care of her.

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“No, really, you don’t need to, Brett,” Anne whispered. She licked her lips and stepped back. “They were old, not my best pair I assure you.”

Brett doubted that. She would have worn her best pair with them to go to the village. “Nevertheless, I shall replace what I have ruined.”

Freddy cleared his throat. “Yes, it will be a good place to start. From there you can take us to whatever other shops your errands require, Anne. We were here a few months ago but didn’t have the time to visit everyone in the village. It is kind of you to take us around.”

Brett gave a half smile at Anne’s consternation. Trust Freddy to make it impossible for her to say no. He really liked that about Freddy.

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Retreat From Love

July 12, 1810

Anne,

I should not write these words to you, but I find I have no one else. Some distant family, I
suppose, who don’t know me and have no care for me. I think, perhaps, you would care. Am I a
fool? The question requires no answer, of course.

I woke to dreams of Talavera last night. I was sweating as if the fires were licking at my own
skin. Then I sat and shook like a palsy victim until, in desperation, I took up pen and paper. And
so here I am. As you can see from my handwriting I am still afflicted. But we both know I will
never send this letter, Anne.

Anne, Anne. Your name has become synonymous with home to me. I must force myself not
to demand Bertie read your last letter again and again. You and Bertie are all that keep me going.

Please write, Anne. Never stop writing.

Brett

* * * * *

Anne was in a pickle. How on earth was she to discuss finances with Mr. Howard with Freddy and Brett standing over her shoulder? The proprietor of Howard’s Mercantile had been a friend to them over the years, and had refused payment for items he sent to them last month. Mrs. Goode was unwilling to let him chance the duchess finding out about his generosity. The duchess had forbidden the shopkeepers here in Ashton on the Green to grant the Goodes credit. It was up to Anne to make him accept payment for the goods and that usually meant an argument. She sighed.

“Are you all right, Anne?” Brett asked solicitously.

His concern warmed her in places she had no business getting warm. But it had been so long since a man had concerned himself over her. It was a delicious feeling. She shook it off. She couldn’t afford to become accustomed to his protection. He and Freddy would leave soon. And Anne would stay. Anne always stayed. She stood there staring mutely at him, and Brett took a step toward her.

“Yoo hoo, Miss Goode!” A woman’s voice called from down the main street in the village, and Anne turned to see Leah Westridge’s mother, Mrs. Northcott, and her two grandchildren, Bastian and little Esme.

“Oh Your Grace!” Mrs. Northcott said in surprise as she reached them. “And Mr.

Haversham. I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

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Freddy and Brett both gave Mrs. Northcott a restrained bow.

“How do you do, ma’am?” Freddy inquired as he bowed over her hand. When he stood he smiled in Anne’s direction. “We are escorting Miss Goode this morning. She has been kind enough to offer to introduce us around the village.”

Mrs. Northcott blinked several times at Anne. “Oh. Well, of course. I didn’t realize you were acquainted. You didn’t mention it the last time you were here.”

Anne was stung by her surprise. Mrs. Northcott had always been friendly to her and her mother. And yet even she was shocked to see Anne in the company of such esteemed gentlemen.

Freddy continued to smile. “As Miss Goode was away at the time, there seemed no point.” It was Anne’s turn to look shocked. She hadn’t known Freddy was aware of her trip a few months earlier. “I have known Miss Goode since we were children. She was engaged to my brother, Viscount Talmadge.”

Mrs. Northcott shook her head. “Of course! I knew Miss Goode was engaged, but I never made the connection that she would naturally be acquainted with you, Your Grace.” She smiled at Anne then, and Anne relaxed. There was no maliciousness there, simply absentmindedness.

“We were planning to call on the Westridges very soon, ma’am,” Brett told her.

“Are they doing well?”

“Very well, sir. Leah is expecting, you know. Mr. Westridge and Mr. Schillig took her to London while she is still able to travel. They won’t be back for several weeks.”

“Did they?” Freddy exclaimed. “Well, we must have just missed them as we were departing. I’m sure we shall hear all about their travels when they return.”

Anne’s jaw dropped in amazement, and she had to quickly regain her composure.

Bastian asked the question that was uppermost in her mind.

“Are you going to stay that long then, sir?”

Freddy looked surprised. “Why, of course. Ashton Park is my home. I had planned to stay indefinitely.”

Anne cast her gaze to Brett and saw him staring at Freddy in astonishment. Clearly he had not expected to be at Ashton Park that long.

Bastian continued the conversation, unaware of the undercurrents around him. “I didn’t know, Your Grace. You have never been here much before.”

Anne looked around as the others continued to chat. She saw Mr. Howard standing at the door of his mercantile watching them and recalled her unpleasant duty here in the village. “Excuse me,” she said quietly to Mrs. Northcott as Freddy and Bastian were discussing the wonders of fishing in The Green, the small river that ran down past the village to intercept the River Trent, and from which the village got its name. She hurried across the street and Mr. Howard held the door open for her as she marched into the mercantile.

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Brett watched Anne hurry over to the establishment across the street. There had been a man standing there, as if waiting for her. Who was he and what was her business there? Howard’s Mercantile was painted on the sign above the door. Was that Mr.

Howard? Brett caught Freddy’s eye and indicated he was going across the street and Freddy nodded with a smile. He quietly excused himself to Mrs. Northcott and waited for a carriage to pass before he carefully crossed the street. He gazed in the front window and saw Anne trying to hand the man some money while he vehemently

shook his head. He said something to her and he was clearly angry. Anne responded in kind.

Brett walked over to the door only to find it propped open on such a warm day.

Their voices carried in the otherwise deserted store. He stopped in the shadow of the door.

“Mr. Howard, it is very kind of you, but we are hardly in need of charity yet. You must take this payment.”

“Now, Miss Anne, you know I won’t take it. Tell your mother that those items were payment for services she’s provided to me over the years.”

Anne shook her head. “Those were simple kindnesses between friends, Mr.

Howard, and do not require payment. Indeed, to offer such would be an insult to Mama.”

“As you insult me now by insisting on giving me this,” Mr. Howard said,

straightening his shoulders and pulling himself up to his full stature. The effect was not as intimidating as he’d hoped since he was not much taller than Anne.

“Mr. Howard,” Anne said, sounding exasperated. “As you say, I must insist—”

“Hello, Mr. Haversham,” Esme said from beside him, and he jumped and looked down, embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping.

Brett cleared his throat. “Hello, Miss Marleston,” he said politely. “I was just about to go in and find Miss Goode. Would you care to join me?” Brett grinned at her and she nodded. “Come along then, Miss Marleston,” he said briskly. He held out his arm and she shyly placed her hand on it.