Victorian Dream (26 page)

He staggered backward. Surely he’d heard incorrectly. “I don’t understand,” he managed to utter.

“She’s run off to Gretna Green with Captain Garrison.”

Fury grappled with disbelief, exploding in his brain, blurring the world around him. He could barely suppress the bellow of rage clamoring for release in his throat. Fist clenched, he took a step forward. Penelope reared back, gripped her skirt with both hands, and fled to her waiting carriage.

Inhaling several deep breaths in an effort to stave off complete madness, he watched the billowing clouds of dust erupt in the wake of her coach as it raced down the lane. Married—the bitch. And to Garrison. But he was supposed to be dead. Grimsby had failed again.

He stormed about, first one direction then another, trying to talk himself down from incapacitating rage to mere hateful revenge. If she wouldn’t come to him a virgin, she would come to him a widow. One way or another, he would still have her.

****

Married…she was married. She was Mrs. Walker Garrison. And last night they had made mad passionate love. She was ecstatic, felt as if she had discovered the most well kept secret in the world. No one else could possibly know such joy.

She opened her eyes and peered around the bridal suite. A glimmer of morning sunlight peeked through the curtain lace, promising a beautiful day, surely a good portent for a beautiful life. Shifting her gaze to the sitting area, she spotted an array of food waiting on the nearby table—but it wasn’t food for which she hungered.

She reached for Walker. He wasn’t there. Had it been a dream? She jerked upright and squirmed in discomfort. The space between her legs where last night’s ecstasy had ruled now burned and hurt. Was this the price one paid every time for the delight of coupling? Or was it just because it was her first time? It had better be the latter because she planned on many repeat performances.

Where was her man, her husband, her lover? She pushed aside the covers and eased from the bed. Wrapped in a quilt, she padded across the thick Persian carpet in the sleeping area and glanced through the archway to the sitting room. There he was, standing before the hearth. Dressed only in trousers, he bent to add more wood to the fire. The muscles of his shoulders and back flexed as he performed the simple task, and at the sight of his near naked body, a shock of remembered images and newfound delights feathered through her.

He glanced up, straightened, and smiled. When a knock sounded at the door, his expression turned to a quirky grin. Without a word of explanation, he went to answer the summons. Not wishing to be caught undressed, she scurried to the water closet, leaving the door ajar to watch through the crack.

Two men entered, lumbering beneath the weight of a copper-bathing tub. Several women followed, carrying buckets of steaming hot water.

“Over here, beside the hearth,” Walker instructed. The women filled the tub near to overflowing, all the while giggling and casting sideways glances about the room.

“Thank you. We’ll not be needing anything else this morning.”

Walker followed the little group as they left, handing out shillings as if they were farthings, before shutting and locking the door behind them.

Still ensconced in the water closet, she took the opportunity for morning relief then raked a comb through her tangle of hair. As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, a sudden shyness overwhelmed her. What had seemed so natural last evening in the dark, took on new proportions in the light of day. Would Walker still find her irresistible, still want her as much as she wanted him?

A whisper of a knock sounded upon the door. “Come, Mrs. Garrison, before the water gets cold.”

She peered out. He reached in, took her by the hand, and led her toward the tub. Tugging the quilt from around her body, he left her standing naked—naked and praying not to be found lacking. His gaze meandered the length of her. A half-smile possessed his mouth, and a heated expression flamed in his eyes.

“Marriage agrees with you, wife,” he said. “You look even more beautiful this morning.”

A wave of relief washed over her, and she smiled back. He’d known just the right thing to say. Even though it had been an arranged marriage—a testimony to his honor for saving hers—she had a feeling spending the rest of her life with this man might be the best thing ever to happen to her.

“It’s you that agrees with me,” she countered, “not the institution of marriage.”

Playing her hands across his chest, she delighted in the feel of short dark hair beneath her palms, and renewed hunger for his body pounded through hers. Apparently, raw desire was an emotion requiring frequent feeding.

Their gazes locked, and she wanted to jump headfirst into the blue/gray depths, wanted to see the world from his side. He captured her face between his hands, and swooping forward took her lips by storm, his mouth demanding. His hands slid downward to her arms, now around to her backside. She pressed her hips against his, and felt his hardness through his trousers. He nuzzled her neck, and there was no mistaking his enthusiasm as she rubbed up against him.

As if inspired by her response, he slid to his knees, wedged one hand between her thighs, and dotted little kisses across her belly. His mustache grazed and tickled, and head back, she smiled and held him close, running her fingers through his hair, tousling, twisting, near pulling as she reveled in the spasms of delight racing through her midsection.

When he stroked the tender skin leading to the depths of her body, she nearly lost her footing. Just in time, he scrambled to his feet, cradled her in his arms, and lowered her into the tub. Like a warm ocean, the water sluiced over her, soothing yet invigorating. The soreness between her legs eased, and her nipples hardened as she leaned back and floated in the warm liquid embrace.

Walker knelt at her side. Employing a large sponge, he explored a random path down, around, and across her body. Watching her face, he wedged the nubby fibers between her thighs, massaging and rasping, stimulating the place that now throbbed with desire rather than discomfort.

She floundered, the water reaching her chin, but he slid his free arm beneath her shoulders holding her up, holding her in place. “Be easy, Mrs. Garrison,” he cautioned, nipping at the lobe of her ear and gently tonguing the rim. “Put yourself completely in my hands.” Hands that were doing wondrous things to her body.

She relaxed and her hips rose. Abandoning the sponge, he sought to please her with his touch. For a moment the pain returned then her body responded, opening for him, opening for the pleasure she wanted and remembered. He stroked her gently then demandingly. Leaning over the tub, he sought her lips, plundering her mouth as his fingers slid in and out, conquering her body.

The hot water heightened the pleasure, and his thumb teased on the outside, roughing the point where all delight blossomed and grew. Nothing she’d read in a book compared to the rapture overtaking her now.

Walker eased back, watching her, his breath coming faster as if pleasing her was pleasing him. Hot desire ripped through her from the top of her head to tips of her toes.

Out of control, she gripped the sides of the tub, thrusting her hips upward. Drawing her hard against his chest, Walker brought her over the horizon for which she reached.

Panting and moaning she clung to him as he rocked her back to reality.

“Oh, Walker. I thought for a moment I might die and I didn’t care.”

“That was just the beginning,” he said against her cheek. “Now we shall make proper love.” Liberating her from the tub, he carried her toward the bed.

“But I’m soaking wet,” she sputtered.

“I intend to lick you dry,” he informed her. “Then kiss you wet again.”

He tossed her onto the middle of the bed. She shrieked with laugher, but sobered as he removed his trousers. The sight of him hard and purposeful again took her by surprise. He was magnificent, and just the thought of having him inside of her made desire return full blown.

He eased onto the foot of the bed, and as promised, licked a path along her body. Toes, ankles, calves, knees. Working his way upward, his head between her thighs, he kissed what before had only known the stroke of his hand and the male part of him. This was wickedly wonderful. Would he let her do the same to him? He nuzzled and nipped and nibbled at her, his mustache tickling in the most marvelous way. Then with a growl he covered her body with his. She bent her knees and raised her hips, seeking to draw him closer. The tip of him probed gently, but he didn’t enter her. He kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear.

“To please you is a greater need than my own desire. Does this please you, Trelayne?” Over and over, he nearly entered her then drew back, taunting her with what she knew was to come, tormenting her with anticipation until she begged him to continue.

“Don’t be cruel. You’re torturing me and you know it. I want all of you, now.”

She dug her fingernails into his back and thrust upward. This time he delivered the full length, leaving her gasping, a guttural cry curled in her throat.

Bodies wet with lover’s passion, they caught up the primal rhythm, meeting one another in frenzied enthusiasm. He plunged deeper, pushed harder, adding an extraordinary grinding twist that excited the magical spot between her legs. She screamed in delight. He groaned out his release. Then they collapsed on the bed side by side—sigh by sigh.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The honeymoon was over, but only geographically speaking. After returning to Royston Hall, the love they shared was growing even stronger, and the love they made outshone anything Trelayne ever imagined. This delirium, coupled with the recent news of her parents’ continued progress, wrapped her in happiness.

Upon their return, nearly one week ago, Aunt Abigail had taken one look at them and proclaimed it was obviously anything but a marriage of convenience. As this did not seem to come as a surprise, Trelayne had her suspicions this had been expected all along.

“Have you crossed paths yet with Lucien?” Penelope asked.

“No,” Trelayne admitted, “and part of me wishes I had. It would give me great pleasure to rebuke him for the horrible way he has treated me. He deserves a dressing down of the highest magnitude.”

“What wretched news to learn he had a paramour stashed away all this time. He was so infatuated with you, Laynie, it’s hard to believe he had a trollop on the side.”

“No doubt he is with her now, and I am the furthest thing from his mind.”

“Don’t be too sure. The day I told him you’d run off with the Captain, he looked a man about to do someone bodily harm. There was revenge in his eyes.”

At the memory, Penelope’s fair complexion managed to pale even more. “You’d best stay clear of him,” she added.

“I hardly imagine I will see him anytime soon. Besides, I’m much too happy to dwell on him and the pain he’s caused. Oh, Pen, it’s so wonderful to be in love. We must find you a suitable husband posthaste.”

“I’m all for that idea. But I have only one possibility, and no sure prospects. You must describe your wedding night again. And this time don’t leave anything out. Pretend you’re reading to me from one of our books.” Her friend gave a nod, and an encouraging smile. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, I freely admit I’m living vicariously through your eyes. Or should I say your body.”

Trelayne laughed. “Making love is a beautiful experience. Sometimes gentle and sweet like a meandering stream in a wooded glen, drifting along to a delightful ending. Other times wild and passionate like a roaring river, crashing and thundering down a canyon, leaving one fearful of survival. Either way it’s beyond pleasurable—it’s divine rapture. For those few moments, nothing else matters.” She was breathless at the remembering. “I don’t know why the suffragette material makes it sound like a hideous chore to be borne with martyr-like fortitude.

“He’s so good to me, Pen, and pleasures me as much as he expects me to pleasure him. And I’ve learned a few things that weren’t in the books,” she added, in a whisper. “When you’re married, too, we can compare notes, but I dare not tell you now.”

“I’m near faint with anticipation,” Penelope sighed, gripping the arm of the divan. “I don’t know how much longer I can endure this virginal existence. Every fiber of my being cries out for a man’s touch, a man’s body.”

“Telling tales out of school, ladies?”

At the sound of Walker’s voice, both women jumped. Penelope’s fair skin now flamed scarlet to match the silk rose pinned to the neck of her dress. Trelayne scrambled to her feet, and ran to her husband.

“We didn’t hear you come in,” she said, grinning up at him.

“Obviously.”

He wrapped his arms around her, making sure their bodies touched in all the right places, and although the fire in his eyes said he wanted more, he bowed to social necessity and sweetly kissed her cheek.

“Are you not acquainted with any handsome Americans who would be interested in someone as charming and desirable as Penelope?”

“Not in England,” Walker chuckled, “except for Sam Colt. And he’s a scallywag and a sweet-talker. I’m afraid his intentions might be opposite to what Miss Penelope is expecting in a man.”

“That’s not a very nice way to talk about your friend,” she scolded.

“It’s no news to Sam he’s a bit of a bounder. Don’t get me wrong,” he added at her pout. “I admire him and would trust him with my life. In fact, on several occasions I have.”

“That’s better.” She smiled, splaying her hands upon the lapels of his woolen jacket. When he pretended to be humbled by her make-believe badgering she enjoyed it immensely. “Besides,” she added. “I think Aunt Abigail has designs on him.”

At the mention of his friend, Walker seemed reflective, and she wanted to press him for more information. Their history went back many years, encompassing a large part of his life, a part that remained a void, a missing chapter. After learning he’d been married, and his first wife had died, she hadn’t inquired about Walker’s past, fearing to open old wounds. But a person was the sum total of that through which they had lived, and he had turned out a strong and giving person. To know how he had come to be so was important to her.