Authors: Compromised
His hands, his mouth, took in every plush curve, every lean, long muscle, every sensitive bit of flesh, content to lazily feast. But inside, low in her belly, the desire, the need for more built a hunger she could not ignore.
Her hand reached for his trousers.
“What are these called?” she asked shyly as her fingers undid the top buttons.
His hand grabbed hers with such a fierce grip she thought fleetingly she hurt him—and by the look on his face, maybe she had.
“Not yet,” he mumbled, and again kissed her, but she would not be deterred. Her deft fingers flicked the second button open before he could stop her.
Max groaned and he lifted himself on his elbows, staring down into her face.
There it was, she thought. His own little war. She had given him permission, and was about to give him everything, but still his honor demanded he question it.
Softly, and with infinite gentleness, she asked again, “What are ‘trousers’ in Italian?”
“Pantaloni,”
he said at long last, and in the space it took her to repeat the new word, they had joined the pile of clothes on the floor.
“Oh,” she breathed, taking him in wholly with her eyes.
He was beautiful.
He was magnificent.
He was at full attention.
And he was far too large for this to be even remotely feasible.
He saw the fear, the uncertainty cross her face. Goddammit. He knew it was too soon—he didn’t want to scare her. Now all he could do was allay her fears.
A predatory smirk lit his eyes. Good thing he knew exactly how.
She cleared her throat nervously, as she struggled to sit up, causing him to smile all the wider. “Um, ah…Max, I’m not…that is…how…?”
“You at a loss for words is the best compliment I’ve ever received,” he replied, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
Her mouth formed an
O
of outrageous shock. He was laughing even as his hand snaked up her thigh and began to caress her in a way that made her eyes go dark and dreamy.
“I promise you—and I always keep my promises—this will work. And quite well, too.”
As he touched her intimately, that hunger that had been building began to burn. When a finger slid inside her, she burst into flames. When he slid down her body and replaced his thumb with his tongue, the fire consumed her.
It was rather fortuitous that Max had given her leave to cry out, Gail thought dazedly as a torrent of shudders wracked her body in waves. For surely, she was making noise enough to wake the neighboring county.
She was exquisite, he thought, watching her in the throes of passion. And he was the one to do that, he grinned with relish.
Before the little spasms of pleasure had ceased, Max angled her for his entrance. And found himself at the gates of paradise.
“What was that?” Gail asked between heavy breaths.
“That was the beginning.” He grinned down at her.
“There’s more?” Her eyes went wide as he nodded. He pushed himself forward, just a little, sliding so easily into her slick, welcoming entry.
“What is this?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Everything else,” he replied, easing himself forward more.
The long eyelashes fluttered closed, as she gave herself up to the feel of him.
This was the tricky part, he knew. In theory, anyway. Having never deflowered anyone, he had to go on what he had been told about the process as a lad.
He really should have studied up more recently, he thought grimly.
Slowly, gently, he made his way. When he finally reached the barrier of her innocence, he lifted his head from their current distracting ministrations.
“Gail, love.” Her eyes fluttered to meet his. “I, ah…I’m told this part hurts a bit.”
“Told?” Gail said sharply. “You haven’t done this before?”
“Of course I have!” he replied indignantly. “But, well, not with anyone who hasn’t also done this before. So if it does hurt, I apologize in advance.”
Again, before she could voice one word of question, remark, or protest, Max plunged forward and broke through.
He stilled above her, desperate to see if she was all right, if she was in pain, if she was going to kill him for this. He watched as she took a series of slow, steady breaths, keeping her eyes closed. And then she opened those eyes.
And smiled.
Feather-light kisses rained down upon her face. And when he kissed her deeply, so deeply she felt it in her soul, she tilted her hips up, inviting him in farther.
That was all he needed. Her hands roamed over his strong back, his buttocks as he moved himself within her, holding her to him. Every time he pulled away, he came back, faster, deeper, until that pressure, that hunger, that fire built within her again. She matched his pace, his passion. He whispered words in her ear,
“Caro mio, amoré.”
Words she didn’t know but somehow understood. He took her thighs, her hips, lifting her to him, all the while caressing, feeling, feeling her to his goddamn toes. When she burst, she said his name.
And when her climax shook about him, he took one last plunge, and fell.
IT
was a good time later that they finally decided to move. Not terribly far, however. Reluctant to quit that contact that had proved so powerful, Max simply rolled over, taking his lady with him. The sun had yet to peek above the horizon, so it could not account for the light in either Gail or Max’s eyes.
“I confess,” Gail said, breaking the lazy silence that cocooned them, “had I know Italian was so interesting, I’d have taken care to learn earlier.”
“Perish the thought!” Max replied. “It is my estimable pleasure to teach you.” He leaned up and kissed her damp brow.
“Is there any other subject you require instruction on? I should be happy to oblige,” Max asked cheekily, as he wrapped Gail still tighter in his arms.
“We-ell…” she began, toying with a lock of hair near his ear, “I’m afraid I don’t sing or play well.”
“Hence your atrocious disregard for Beethoven as the musical genius time will prove him to be, but go on. Ow!” he exclaimed, as she tugged hard on the aforementioned lock.
She grinned and continued, “And I don’t have a hand at painting. And I have never been able to make a single piece of embroidery that resembled what it was intended to. I cannot play chess to save my life. And I am absolutely abysmal at higher-level mathematics. Calculus completely escaped me.”
“Lord, woman. That’s quite beyond me. Who can do all that, honestly?” Max replied with a small laugh. Gail, however, was not laughing. She was regarding him with a furrowed brow and a quirk of her head.
“Evangeline.”
Max stilled quite suddenly. “Really?” he asked, mildly perplexed.
“Yes.” She nodded. “She’s actually quite accomplished.”
“But, er, what young lady is not accomplished?”
“She’s not simply accomplished—she outstripped our tutor in mathematics by the age of fourteen. She’s sold paintings to galleries in Paris.” With a small, disbelieving laugh, Gail leaned up to look him quizzically in the eye. “Didn’t she tell you she loved art?”
Max, more than a bit disgruntled to be discussing his intended bride with her sister with whom he had just made love, frowned in discomfort.
“Er—ah, she might have mentioned it, I suppose I wasn’t paying much attention. Gail”—he began stroking the soft skin of her back in smooth, calming motions—“You shouldn’t think that because your sister can do these things she’s better than you. It’s impossible.”
Gail smiled nervously. “You asked me if there’s anything I’m not. I’m not many things, Max, things that every lady should be. I know it. Evangeline outstrips me in many ways.”
She paused for a moment, clearly awkward in her confession of her various lacks.
“Darling,” he began, but Gail regrouped, clearing her throat.
“However, that’s not the reason I was frowning. Max, it has just occurred to me that you didn’t get to know Evangeline at all, did you?”
A moment of disbelieving realization passed in front of Max.
“No, I don’t suppose I did. I was too busy falling in love with you.”
Max’s confession fell from his mouth with surprising ease.
“I have long since come to the realization that one evening, nay, twenty minutes, in a moonlit garden bespeaks nothing more than infatuation,” he said, “which doesn’t last beyond a real conversation. I confess, I never thought of Evangeline as more than a beautiful girl in a garden. I fell in love where and with whom I least expected. And, my darling girl, it took longer than twenty minutes.”
The object of his affection looked down into his face, openmouthed with shock and wonder. Fortunately, she did not drool.
“Then again, maybe falling had only taken an instant,” he whispered, warmth flowing from him.
For many moments, Gail could not speak. Then, “You love me?” she squeaked.
“Yes,” he replied with a grin and a squeeze round her waist. “And you love me.”
“Well, of course I love you, but trust you to take the upper hand in the conversation!” And with that, Max laughed loudly, kissed her soundly, and forgot himself enough to mumble more words in Italian. For which Gail insisted on translations.
SOMETIME
later, night still cocooning Weymouth Street and its occupants, Gail lifted her sleepy head from her beloved’s chest.
“Max…” she whispered.
“Hmm?” was the lazy, sated reply, which elicited a small smile from Gail.
“How is this going to work?”
At that he opened his eyes, met hers. “We’ll make it work.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” He ran a hand over her long dark hair, easing her to rest on his chest again.
“Don’t worry so. Everything will be sorted out.”
Right before Max’s eyes closed, he saw Gail’s lashes flutter down.
“You’ll see, my love. You’ll see.”
IF
logic were rule, Max and Gail would have lived happily ever after from this point on. However, it’s sadly true that logic and love rarely have anything to do with each other.
Max had departed for Longsbowe Park a few hours later than planned, and Gail had kissed him good-bye with longing. They murmured promises for the future and speedy returns between their kisses. And then he left.
Gail crept up the servant’s staircase of Number Seven as dawn began to lighten the sky. Polly led her to her chamber, where a blissfully dazed Gail fell into bed, too exhausted to contemplate the night before, too happy to avoid doing so. She drifted to sleep, certain that life was, if not perfect, then full of perfect moments.
Of course, that sense of contentment quickly dissolved into confusion upon Gail’s arousal from slumber.
She awoke much later than usual. Bleary-eyed, Gail blinked at the clock on the mantel, certain she read it wrong. Eleven! Impossible—Romilla would never let her sleep so late! ’Twas past tea!
Hurriedly she dressed and thrust pins into her hair while running down the steps. Oh, Romilla would have her head, she knew it. There was, however, one silver lining—if anyone had guessed what she’d been doing or where she’d been doing it the previous night, they would have hauled her out of bed by her ears. The fact that she’d been allowed to sleep meant that most likely, she had been forgotten.
That impression was reinforced when Gail entered the drawing room and was assaulted by the voices of a dozen chattering women and the scent of every variety of flower the London hothouses provided.
None of the ladies looked up at her arrival, save her sister, who flanked Romilla in the middle of the hubbub.
“Gail!” Evangeline cried, parting the sea of feathered bonnets and flowered bouquets to take her sister’s hand, giving it a hearty squeeze. “You’re awake at last. Polly said that you had danced yourself to exhaustion last night. I hope it wasn’t the noise that roused you.” Evangeline’s voice spoke all innocuous pleasantries, but her eyes pleaded for sisterly support. Gail was more than ready to give it, but…
“Evie, what’s all the to-do? I didn’t know we were expecting so many callers,” Gail inquired as Evangeline pulled her back to the couches. The ladies burst into a gale of titters.
“La, child, didn’t you know?” Romilla said as the girls took their seats. “The announcement was put in the papers yesterday, and ran just this morning.”
“And we are all agog! ’Tis an excellent match,” Mrs. Fortings said.
“Quite,” said a tight-lipped Lady Hurstwood.
“Announcement?” asked a bewildered Gail, and found Romilla’s hand close over hers, squeezing rather tightly.
“Of your sister’s engagement, of course,” Romilla said very clearly. She beamed a smile at Gail, who could only smile weakly in return. “Gail’s known about it for ages of course, the only surprise to her is that it’s a surprise to anyone else,” she said with an eager grin to the group.
“Indeed,” said Lady Hurstwood. “I find it terribly surprising given that Lord Fontaine—I’m sorry, Lord Longsbowe now—that the announcement occurred so close to his father’s demise.”
“But Fanny, we discussed that before we got here,” Mrs. Fortings piped up. “The paper’s deadline for announcements and the like is five o’clock the day before it’s to run. The announcement was placed before he knew of his father’s death.”
The whole crowd murmured in agreement as Lady Hurstwood’s lips grew tighter.
“Yes, yes, quite the sad affair,” Romilla broke in. “Had we known earlier in the day of the late Earl’s demise, we would certainly have asked Lord Fontaine—I’m sorry, Lord Longsbowe—to wait until a more proper time to place the announcement. But what’s done cannot be undone, and I know, had the old Earl met my darling Evangeline, he would have found no fault in the next Countess of Longsbowe.”
Evangeline smiled and received the accolades that followed of her style and beauty with the grace befitting a future Countess. Gail, on the other hand, felt certain that the floor had given way beneath her.
“Ma—er, Lord Longsbowe placed the announcement?” she asked softly of Romilla.
“Well of course, dear, who else should?” Romilla replied quickly, then returned to Mrs. Fortings’s description of St. Paul’s as a likely place for a wedding as grand as surely this one would be.
What’s done cannot be undone.
The phrase echoed in Gail’s head, the merry chatter that surrounded her reduced to an ebb and flow of squawking likely to drive her mad.
Oh God, what had she done—what had he done? Max wouldn’t…wouldn’t announce the engagement to Evangeline and then spend the night whispering words of love in her ear…teasing her body with his…making her belong to him in every way. Max wouldn’t do that…would he?
And Evangeline looked so beautiful, so perfect in her grace and future position. She practically glowed with every renewed good wish and congratulation. It made Gail crave to be alone, so she could cry and scream all the cries and screams building within her.
Suddenly, Lady Hurstwood’s clipped tones broke through her deep reverie.
“I do wonder where Lord Longsbowe is. One would imagine he should call on his bride the day the engagement is announced.”
“He can’t,” Gail murmured before she could think better of it.
Lady Hurstwood regarded Gail with a fixed eye. “Why ever not, child?”
“Because he’s in Sussex,” replied a masculine voice from the door. The group of ladies turned to see Mr. William Holt, looking particularly fine in a morning coat and buckskin breeches. Evangeline was the only one who did not greet him with a smile.
“My friend Lord Fontaine…good gad, it’s dashed hard to call him Longsbowe, but we must get used to it, I suppose—bade me come and tell you that he had to repair to Longsbowe Park, for obvious reasons. He left directly after the ball last night.”
Much shuffling occurred to make room for Mr. Holt on the couches, but he held up a hand.
“I’m afraid I cannot stay long, ladies. A tradesman’s work is never done, it seems.” A few mouths pinched at the mention of Mr. Holt’s occupation, but the moment passed quickly.
“Miss Alton,” he said, bowing, “I understand I am to wish you joy.”
Evangeline, her smile faltering for the first time that morning, never let her eyes leave Will’s as she asked, “Do you mean that?”
A moment fell between them before Will replied, “Of course. I hope you are happy, Miss Evangeline.”
“Of course,” she repeated, a small frown creasing her brow.
“As I hope for all ladies to be, on this most glorious of mornings,” Will said cheerily, smiling at the group. The not-so-easily smitten matrons of the Ton smiled back in appreciation of Mr. Holt’s good looks and charm. He tipped his hat to them and started for the door.
“Wait!” Gail cried out, extricating herself from the group. “I’ll see you out.”
As she left the room on William Holt’s arm, Mrs. Fortings leaned across Evangeline to whisper to Romilla that the Altons might have cause to plan two weddings this season.
Evangeline, who for a moment seemed slightly green, smiled at Mrs. Fortings, and returned to the topic of lace veils.
OUT
in the hall, Gail and Will discussed the peculiarities of the last evening for a few short moments, until Gail came to her decided topic.
“The announcement this morning was a bit of a surprise.”
“Yes,” Will replied on a cough. “I admit it was.”
“Did Max…er, did he mention his intention of placing it in the papers to you?”
“No, he did not. But he rarely discusses his actions with me until after he’s acted.” Will regarded Gail quizzically for a moment. “We were expecting this, you know. It was simply a matter of time, and time was up.”
Gail managed to smile at Will. “Yes, of course. But even the expected can seem sudden.”
“Miss Gail, I could not agree more heartily.”
“I…I think my sister will be a perfect countess,” Gail stammered. “Don’t you?”
Will’s brows came together for a moment. “Your sister has no claim to perfection, Miss Gail. Sometimes it seems she’s too easily led. Also, she’s too short for fashion, and…and one eye is slightly bluer than the other…she has those two freckles on her left earlobe…”
Gail’s eyes slowly grew wider, as his ramble trailed off.
“Oh, Will,” she sighed. For what else could be said on the subject?
Will leaned into a bow, kissing Gail’s hand. He was nearly out the door when Gail caught his arm.
“Mr. Holt, do you happen to have Lord Longsbowe’s direction? Evangeline, we, may wish to contact him while he’s at his estate.”
“Certainly,” he replied, a small furrow on his brow, but provided Gail with the exact address of Longsbowe Park. He then said his farewells, leaving Gail in the foyer. She did not linger, nor did she return to the drawing room. While she felt for William Holt, she had her own difficulties to address. So instead she ran upstairs, and with a deep breath and a shaky hand, began to pen a letter.
LETTERS
written in a shaky hand are notorious for their ability to be misdirected. Therefore, since he had not chanced to see a copy of the
Times
before he rode out, Max was fated to remain unaware of all of London’s happenings, even those regarding himself.
He became so deeply entrenched in the estate, the home he had not visited in seven years, that an extra week went by before Max realized he had stayed longer than he predicted to Gail.
That’s not to say he never thought of his lovely, fire-eyed Gail. Quite the contrary. He found his mind flitting to her randomly. He sensed her presence while sorting through papers in the library with his father’s secretary, Mr. Merriot; while riding Jupiter hard over the land; and especially at night, when his mind freely wandered to the loneliness of his large bed and how well she should fill it.
When his father was put into the ground, only Mr. Merriot, the vicar, and a few local gentry were there. Baron Rentworth was among the attendees, of course, but he had been too distraught to do much more than blubber. As he watched the first clump of dirt hit the coffin, Max had the strangest notion that Gail was standing right by his side. It was the most peculiar sensation, a wisp of wind, of warmth. He turned, but saw no one.
He almost left for London that day. He needed to see her. To hear her voice tell him he was a complete nob and that she loved him for it. But he couldn’t—not yet. It tore at him, but Max had the unconquerable feeling there was still something left undone at Longsbowe Park.
And so it was that he found himself in his father’s study, his study now, going through old correspondence with Mr. Merriot.
“Your father never threw so much as a scrap of paper away,” Mr. Merriot said, as he set down two more bundles of papers on the desk with accompanying thuds. Mr. Merriot was a portly, hearty gentleman, at least ten years Max’s father’s senior. It amazed him that the old gentleman was so robust, that his memory was wholly intact. A little too intact, actually. The man could tell stories for hours about great aunts Max had never met, and he never missed an opportunity to do so.
“I remember a time that Timmons—you remember Timmons, don’t you, my Lord? He was underbutler when you were a lad—Timmons was about to use a bit of paper that had a list of old dinner menus written on it as tender for the fire. Suddenly, your father pounced on him—never thought the Earl could move that quick in my life! He grabbed that paper out of Timmons’s hand and cried, ‘Don’t throw that away! How will I know what I ate last week?’” Mr. Merriot finished with a great guffaw, happy in his memories, but Max wasn’t listening. He had happened on a letter that perplexed him greatly—a letter addressed to Maximillian Fontaine.
“Mr. Merriot, would you be so good as to tell me what this is? It is addressed to me but is dated whilst I was in the cradle.” Max handed over the letter to Mr. Merriot, who looked over the tops of his spectacles at the missive.
“Not you, my Lord; your uncle. This was written to your Uncle Maxim from your father.” Mr. Merriot flipped the envelope over. “Was returned undelivered.”
“I have an Uncle Maxim?” Max asked, bewildered, taking the letter back from the secretary.
“Had. He died, oh, you couldn’t have been more than three or four at the time.”
Max’s heart thudded in his ears. “How is it I’ve never heard of him?”
Mr. Merriot’s face turned grim. “When he died, your father…he told us not to speak of his brother. Even took his portrait down in the gallery.”
Max’s mind flitted to the long gallery above stairs, which held portraits of the Fontaines at Longsbowe for generations. There was a space, he recalled, near his father’s portrait. It was large enough for a medium-sized picture, and in Max’s memory, nothing had ever filled the vacancy.
“What happened to my uncle?” Max asked quietly.
Mr. Merriot frowned, obviously debating his words. He let out a great sigh and removed his spectacles, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not a particularly happy story—nor is it particularly sad. Time has passed enough to make it only what it is. The same thing happened to your uncle that happened to too many Englishmen. He was a good ten years younger than your father, but they were the best of friends. You were named for him, my Lord.