Brandywine: Regency historical romance (The Brocade Series, Book 1) (27 page)

“I say…Fontenelle, this sauce is excellent. What do they call this dish? I must find
a way to describe it for my cook in London.”  Gil held up his spoon and spoke loudly enough
for anyone in the vicinity to overhear.

“Colonel
Fontenelle, My Lord.
Colonel!”

The colonel spoke through
clenched teeth, and glared at Gil.

“Oh. Pardon. So, speak up, man. What is this dish?”

Gil was absolutely priceless as he goaded the colonel and then listened
as the man described the garlic, butter, and cream mixture burned with a dash of cognac. Gil’s expression of shock
and expostulation of, “Surely not!” made a bubble of mirth rise in her
throat.

“Waste of good spirits if you ask me. Cognac? What will they do next?”

“You did ask,
Monsieur.” 
The colonel smiled in a patronizing
fashion and turned back to Helene. “I apologize for inconveniencing you with such questions,
Madame.
I hope it does not dull your
pleasure of our fair city. I must advise you however, that you may be contacted about this. I am to be kept
informed. You understand
?
”

She nodded.

“Listen to you both. Keeping this running chatter up for so long, your sup grows cold. And I say, Colonel…this newest dish is most tasty. What is it called?”

Gil waved at Helene’s plate, and she tried to eat some
of the
boeuf bourguignon
that just arrived. She tasted onions, mushrooms, and cubed beef that had been simmered in red wine, while listening
as the colonel described the ingredients. And then he turned back to her.

“There’s just one more thing,
Madame…
before I escort you back to the Peacock Palace.”

Helene set her spoon down. The broth made her throat
ache while the lump in it made swallowing nearly impossible.

“What would that be?” she asked.

“Did you enjoy Monte Carlo?”

Helene’s eyes went wide, but she was saved by the
crash of silver against Gil’s plate. He actually looked ill. It
took all the colonel’s efforts to make certain the Englishman
wasn’t expiring from something in his dessert - the newly named Napoleon pastry
.

Helene wasn’t listening. Her body sat perfectly calm and still while her mind raced through several
possible scenarios, her newly widowed cousin starring in each
one. The new regime didn’t even want her. They were after Helen!

And she was really tired of taking Helen’s place
.

CHAPTER THREE

“Can’t we have any privacy?”

Gil muttered it as the colonel accompanied
them to a carriage and invited himself along. She sat beside Gil, arranging her skirts, while the colonel took the opposite seat with his back to the horses. This wasn’t a normal hired carriage. There were bars on the aperture behind the colonel’s head from which a small lantern hung. Candle flame sputtered from behind its glass enclosure, putting flickers of light on the occupant of this bench, while shadowing where the colonel sat. It wasn’t bright, but enough to check nuances of expression. It wasn’t romantic. It was frightening.

“I’m certain Colonel Fontenelle has our best interests at
heart, darling. Don’t you, Colonel?”

Helene tried to sound weary, yet comforting; irritated, yet loving. Gil hadn’t resembled the buffoon he’d been portraying. The colonel hadn’t missed it. The measured look he gave Gil was sharper than it had been all eve. They needed to reach the Peaco
ck Palace. They could work it out there.
There might be a totally logical reason why Helen was involved. And Monte Carlo. But the longer she pondered it, the less sense it made.

“Is there something else I can show you,
Monsieur?
” the colonel finally spoke. “I’m
passing proud of our fair city. I’m certain we could find entertainment that would be appreciated by a...shall we say, a man of cosmopolitan tastes? I believe I could even find a blond or two, should you wish.”

Helene held her breath, not only for Gil’s answer, but the manner in which it was voiced. She shouldn’t have fretted. Gil was back in character and as pompous-sounding as before. And twice as arrogant. He even forgot to address the colonel with the man’s rank. It was probably on purpose.

“Another night, my good man. Another time. Normally, I’d
take you up on such entertainment, but I’m feeling a bit…under the weather
suddenly.”

“
Colonel
, Lord Tremayne.”

Gil yawned before replying. “Just so.”

“I hope it wasn’t something you ate.”

She couldn’t tell if the colonel’s expression matched the smug note in his voice. He was in shadow.

“Perhaps just the quantity, Fontenelle.”

Gil belched amid
his chuckling, and Helene wondered how he’d managed that. He
was every bit as good as Brandy. Maybe someday, she’d tell him. They reached the Blouet’s former residence. The coach stopped. All three exited. And as a unit they entered, crossed to the magnificent staircase, and started up them to their rooms. The colonel accompanied them the entire way.

“I hope you can trust us to find our apartments without
assistance?” Gil asked. “No? Very well, Man. Come along, but mind yourself…
my wife likes to hog the covers. Why, I barely have enough
.”

Gillian staggered a bit on the stairs, and Helene sent a glance at their escort
. It would be wise not to anger the colonel, but he didn’t seem anywhere near that emotion. He actually seemed quite rushed as he gestured them across
the threshold to their suite before closing the door.

“Do you suppose they’re locking us in?” Gil asked in a low voice.

“They have their reasons. Don’t you realize
what’s happening?”

“I had a passing interest in your conversation, My Lady, but
you had to show off and talk so fast even a scholar would’ve had
trouble. Why don’t you explain it for me?”

He sat on her pink coverlet and slipped off his shoes as if
she weren’t thirty feet away, watching.
“I’m listening, love. You can start any time.”

“Gillian, this is my room.” She moved closer
.

“Just so, love. Just so. And aren’t we on a honeymoon?”

“Gillian! The walls have ears!”  And if she whispered any louder,
they’d be overheard.

“Really? Well,
I’m of a mind to give them
something to listen to. Come closer, sweet. I believe I’ll be having trouble with
my buttons.”

“You didn’t drink overmuch…
did you?”

“Am I acting foxed to you, darling? If so, it’s your fault. I
had to eat courses designed to frighten the mouth, and the only
thing I had for salvation was a bit of brandy. And I do love brandy.
”

He stood and circuited
the room, reaching each sconce and blowing out the candle, one by one, until
only the area about the bed had light. That’s when he approached
her, the fingers of one hand easily slipping his jacket buttons apart. He wasn’t haven’t the least trouble unfastening them.     

“Gillian?”  Her voice shook.

He stopped in front of her.

“I’ve made a complete ass of myself for hours, Helene. And I hope you forgive it, but I’m not willing to continue.”

He reached to cup her cheeks with both hands, his touch gentle. And he used the hold to lift her slightly, bending to
touch his lips to forehead, then to the tip of her nose, before his breath reached her lips.

“I’m intoxicated, all right, love. But it’s not from liquor. Can you guess what it is?”

She shook her head. He slid his
mouth to her ear.

“Brandy would.”

“Brandy knows...all kinds... of things, Guv.”

His fingers moved up her spine, slipping hooks, caressing skin.

“I want to see you, Brandy…see you and
worship you
.”

He eased the dress off her
shoulders, his regard warmer than any cloth. She wasn’t wearing anything beneath. Not even a chemise. The maid had assured her it
was current fashion. A
t that moment, she could understand why.

I love you
. She almost said it, watching his image shimmer through an instant sheen
of tears. She blinked them back.

“Beautiful....”

He didn’t finish the sentence. It was
obvious what he referred to as he reached for her, one arm behind
her back, the other exploring, cupping, adoring. Caressing. 

“Oh Helene. Love. You’re small, but so damned…perfect.”

He lifted her to him, sending whorls of sensation as her nipples reached fabric and reacted. And that made her whisper harsh as she told him he wore too much
.

“Originality becomes you, darling.’’

He lowered her to her feet and stepped back, using the distance to shrug from his jacket. It fell to the floor. His cuffs followed, coiling as he dropped them. The purse at his hip got unhooked and fell. He didn’t take his eyes off hers while he worked through the knot of his cravat and unwound it, dropping it atop the rest. Then came his vest, the ruffles of his shirt front.
She watched with wide eyes as he pulled off each item and tossed it away, her breath coming faster, while her pulse matched. H
is shirt was dropped adding to the pile on the floor, and then his inner one.

And he’d accused her of wearing a closet worth of clothing? She’d no
idea gentlemen wore so much. Nor how thoughtlessly they abused it. The French servants
would probably have fits at the way he treated his clothing.

He’d moved to the side buttons of his trousers, opening them enough they slid down his legs, revealing un
der-drawers he had to peel off.

And then it was done. It
was some time before either moved. Standing at the edge of the light, clothed to the waist in her ball gown,
watching her dream man disrobe, did wicked things to her pulse
and even stranger things to her breathing.

“Helene? Please don’t turn from me, please?”

Turn from him? Was the man crazed?

“I’m not so ugly…am I?”

“Oh no, Gil! I...I just—. It’s just—”  She gulped and used Brandy to say it. “Oh, go on wit’ ye. You already know you’re a handsome one.”

“Handsome?”

“Oh my…yes.”

Helene answered, and then she was in his arms, molded tightly to him, grazing her nipples along flesh. The contact sizzled. Sparked. Ignited. And then he took it away in order to bend, shoving the rest of her gown down
her legs to puddle at her ankles. He lifted her free, brought her right back against his chest, and held her there with arms that trembled. And then he was walking with her.

“Gillian! The candles!”

Cool satin met her back as he placed her atop the bed. It felt wrong. Evil. Like a staged set. Easily viewed by any observers.

“I know, damn it.”

He lifted, or she let him go. But he moved only far enough away to reach and hold
the extinguisher to each flame.

“It’s not as though you
watch, anyway, love. You close your eyes almost the entire time.” 

“I do?”

The last candle went out, plunging the room
into darkness. His weight lifted from the mattress, and while she listened for a clue, she couldn’t place him.

“Gillian?” she whispered.

“Come, love. I found a solution to our problem.”

His hand loomed out of the dark. She reached for it, and got pulled into a berth against cooled skin. Night air caressed their nakedness as he padded soundlessly across the chamber, reached an alcove, and then slit part of a drape open. A cool
finger of moonlight reached in, touching on the edge of a wood secretary, the sides of pictures, and the back of a settee.

“Gillian?”

“Hmm?”

The scratchy surface of the tapestry met her back, thighs,
and the bottoms of her feet as Gillian settled her atop the back of the settee
. It was erotic. Stimulating. Wicked. Illicit. Moonlight touched everything with magic
. Highlighting. Displaying. Sculpting.
It was like that first morning, when she’d seen him, revealed by the rising sun
at the Tremayne townhouse. Helene ordered her eyes to remain open, memorizing each bit of him; the rope-like texture of his
abdomen, the thick strength of his arms, the
beauty in his face.

“You’re so lovely, Helene…I want to watch. You may think it
barbaric, but I just
have
to. You understand…maybe a little?”

He was having trouble with his breathing.

“You’re so…beautiful. And this is just like—what am I saying? You’ll hate
me. You always end up hating me.”

“Gillian?”

“So young. So unbelievably brave. O
h, love. I was
stupid…and now you’ll never forgive me.”

“Forgive you?”

“If
only you weren’t so sweet, so unbearably...lovely. So…precious.”

“Gillian?”

“Yes?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. And she had the moonlight to thank for knowing it.

I love you.

The words almost slipped out, making sound. Helene disguised it by grabbing his upper arms and lunging up, initiating the kiss, and then welcoming the almost instantaneously joining as he filled her, and then lifted her. Her ankles latched behind his back, her hands locked together at his neck, and he was right. She did have her eyes scrunched shut.

He reached a wall, and balanced her back against it, the position gaining stability. And she helped. Meeting him thru
st for thrust, as each one grew quicker. More intense. Stronger. Deeper. Their conjoined panting accompanied everything. Pictures jounced and jiggled along the wall at the hammering it was receiving.

“You’re…a witch, love. A sorceress!”

He choked out the words
just before his lips met hers, halting her reply. Her breathing. Her heart. And then there was nothing but wonder.

***

A witch, am I?

Well…if she was, her powers were dismally absent the following morning as she sought something suitable to wear. And quickly.
One would think after looking over her trunks of clothing t
hat she wouldn’t have such a problem. There were
morning gowns, evening gowns, day dresses, enough
lingerie to open a shop, hats. Gloves. Reticules. Shoes and boots to match.

But not one blasted thing in which she
could scale a drain pipe.

Helene glanced at Gillian’s sleeping form, barely touched by
predawn light, and smiled. He really was darling as he slept. He resembled a child, and that led to thoughts of wh
at a child of
theirs might look like, and that got instantly dismissed.

Cor!
She wouldn’t be around long enough for that. She couldn’t.
Not that she didn’t love him with every piece of her. Her heart grew more entangled with every passing moment. That was the crux of the problem…and the fact that it wasn’t returned. Gillian didn’t love her. He might lust after her.
Even in the dusky beginnings of morning, Helene felt the blush
at just how much he lusted for her, but that wasn’t enough. It was something Reginald, the Marquis of Dunsberry had said. A quip about Gil’s passing fancies. And how quickly they came and went.