The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (16 page)

Perry cocked a wicked grin. “So, tell me more about these ankles that have you all ensorcelled.” He waved one hand about and winked.

Gideon laughed and knocked his hand away, downing the rest of his brandy. “Not tonight, you irreverent rake. I have traveled far too long. I’m going to sleep.”

“Fine. Tomorrow, then. We’ll break our fast at six-thirty, shall we?” Perry didn’t wait for a response, shouting for Sanders as he walked confidently toward the door.

Gideon shook his head, knowing full well there was no avoiding his beloved brother now that he’d come to London. But then the entire point of his trip was to see him. To attempt to gain some insight into his current predicament. His intention upon leaving Eildon may have been to get away, but somewhere in his mind he knew why he was coming here. Placing the snifters on the sideboard, Gideon went directly to his bedchamber, a weight lifted.

Meggie was in a terrible way after Stapleton read the missive from Dr. Walcott. Francine heard her weeping in the garden after Mrs. Weston set Francine up for tea on the back terrace, and she went to find her. It took a while for Meggie to calm down enough to speak, but after a bit of silent pleading on Francine’s part she told her what had happened to her sister. Francine sat with her, holding her hand and comforting her until she quieted.

Mrs. Weston found them on the bench before the labyrinth and quietly watched Francine’s attentions as Meggie sobbed. Francine held the poor girl’s shaking frame to her as though, if she let Meggie go, she would fall to pieces on the lawn around her.

When Mrs. Weston walked over to them Meggie stood abruptly, holding out the communication Dr. Walcott had sent.

“Oh my, we must get you home, Meggie. Come, I’ll have Davis ready one of His Grace’s carriages.”

“Oh no, ma’am, I cannot! If His Grace were to find out—”

“If His Grace were to find out I sent you home afoot, he would have my neck stretched. Davis will take you so you can tend to your family straight away.”

Meggie whimpered nervously and turned to follow Mrs. Weston. “Yes, ma’am.”

Francine followed as far as the table on the terrace. She felt horrible for Meggie, and for her sister. From the letter, she wasn’t sure if she should pray for a recovery or a quick end. It just didn’t seem like something anyone would wish to recover from, or suffer through.

Her stomach turned. She sat back and drew her knees up, holding back tears for the girl she knew, and for the one she didn’t. Her mind turned to her own situation. What was she doing here? She suddenly felt very lost and alone and didn’t know if her life up to the accident had been the dream or the reality. Unfortunately, she had a great deal of time on her hands lately, and it was time she truly considered what was happening.

She certainly felt as though she was present where she was. Of course, if it wasn’t a dream that left only the improbable as an option: it meant her father’s journals weren’t lunatic ramblings. It meant the unnamed lineage in her father’s journals was her own. It meant she had taken the place of one of her ancestors.

Francine supped in her room even though she was presentable enough for the dining room. If her foray into the garden the other night had upset the duke so greatly that it sent him away, she wasn’t willing to push any more boundaries regardless that Mrs. Weston said it would be acceptable. He was right; she didn’t know the first thing about manners here. Wherever here was, she was going to have to relearn how to behave. How had it come to be that her foremost thought was to please him—or was it more to avoid his ire?

She pecked at her dismal supper for a while before giving up and heading for the only other room he had ever allowed her to enter, the library. She poked and prodded around the bookshelves, looking for a hidden gem. She wandered past the drafting table and spied a few old books in the corner. She pulled them out and shuffled through them.
The Girl’s Own Book
,
Children’s Manners and Morals
, and
Ladies’ Book of Etiquette: Fashion and Manual of Politeness
.

She thumbed through the books, thinking about how these titles would compare to more current titles like
Skinny Bitch
or
My Horizontal Life
. She shook her head—“current” wasn’t exactly the correct term. She decided the Cliff’s Notes on etiquette might come in handy and she settled on the third book, then headed to her suite where Mrs. Weston would have her evening cup of tea and a warm compress for her throat.

She hadn’t spoken all day and didn’t want to tempt fate because she was feeling better. Logically, though it was painful, she knew she’d merely strained her vocal chords, probably from screaming. It was certainly worse than when she screamed her way through the last U2 concert, and they seemed to get so worked up every time she opened her mouth, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to allow them this primitive care.

She wanted to be able to speak, to apologize to the duke for her behavior, to explain that it hadn’t been Mrs. Weston’s fault that she was out in the garden. She wanted to tell him— What?
Everything
. She wanted desperately to tell him everything; how her parents died, why she didn’t speak French, how much she would appreciate a comfortable t-shirt and a pair of underwear.
God. Underwear.
She’d never felt this need to communicate with anyone since her parents were killed. Tonight, though, she wanted some peace. Her mind, body, and soul were overtaxed.

“Gideon,” Francine said, awakened by the weight of his knee parting her legs and pressing her into the soft, thick mattress beneath. “You’ve come back,” she whispered.  

“I have,” he said, the words rumbling forth. “Say it again,” he commanded, his hands on either side of her head as he lowered himself over her, favoring her with slow, sweeping kisses.

“Gideon,” she breathed into him as he took advantage, allowing his tongue to taste her, then search her depths.

He broke from her, igniting the skin on her cheek with the edge of his teeth.

“Gideon,” she cried as he slid his mouth down her chin to her throat. The sensations sunk past her senses and into the channels of her heartbeat. He slowly parted his lips over her pulse, touching the tremor with his tongue and sucking. He kissed his way beneath her chin, her head falling back as he lifted her to his mouth. She melted, the fire in her veins flooding her chest, setting it alight.

Her moan was a low guttural sound that escaped her before she could capture it, and the vibration against his lips stoked his passion. Her hands fluttered, then came to his broad shoulders as he gathered her nightgown to her hip, skimming across her naked flesh. The heat of his fingertips burned as his hand slid from her thigh to hip, then to the steady rise of her breast.

His mouth returned to hers, brushing her, warming her, preparing her, nipping and licking and tasting until she yielded to him fully and he took, sweeping, plunging, surging and driving her.

He spread his fingers at her nape, curving her smooth, white neck toward his mouth. Lifting her from the pillow, he let her hair spread between his fingers as his other hand searched her soft curves and circled her nipple with his thumb.

She arched into his chest when he sat back on his knees, pulling her onto his lap. He took advantage of her squeal to cover her mouth and reach deep within, then placed heated kisses on the outline of her lips. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed, spreading her thighs and draping her over his lap, letting her warmth stroke his erection as she moved.

She could feel the strength of his passion pulsing against her, and she slowly, cautiously started moving, feeling the intensity of his kiss rising with the intensity of his need. She threw her head back, her hands tangled in his hair.

He wrapped his arms around her waist like iron shackles then felt her tense as he moved his hands up, holding her shoulders and pulling her against his rigid strength. She cried out and he teased her nipples through her gown with his teeth.

“Your Grace,” she said.

“Say my name,” he responded with a moan, pulling her hard against him.

“Your Grace!” she said more sternly.

He looked up at her questioningly.

“Lord Trumbull has arrived, Your Grace,” she said, frowning down into his face.

“The— Who?” he asked, confused.

“Your brother, Your Grace.” The lips were hers, but the voice was Ferry’s.

Gideon’s hands fell to his sides as Francine dissolved before his eyes and he found himself lying naked and alone in his bed, tangled in his sheets with a painful cockstand.

“Bloody hell!” Gideon yelled, twisting himself further in the sheet that barely covered his naked form.

Ferry finished laying out his clothes and filled the basin next to the bed with hot water. “I’ll be outside, Your Grace.”

Gideon grunted his reply, not wanting to move.

Perry had hardly slept after leaving his brother’s town house the previous day. Waking before dawn, unable to spend another minute in bed, he bathed and dressed, taking as much time as he could to avoid being too early.

Gideon had found a girl who rendered him insensible. After all the years of his brother taking care of him, their mother, and ultimately their sire and the business of the dukedom, Gideon deserved this bit of happiness.

Perry’s only concern was where she’d come from; they knew naught but her name.
No matter,
he thought,
if she isn’t marriageable, Rox can certainly take her as a mistress
. He left his own town house which was smaller and not at all prominent on the square as Roxleigh House. That they held two properties in this exclusive bit of London said as much as their joined titles. He arrived at his brother’s just as the sun peeked over the horizon behind him, earlier than warranted, but the servants were certainly up and he could wait.

He stood at the entrance, smiling up at Sanders‘ disgruntled gaze. If he hadn’t known the man for years, he would certainly be filled with terror at the glare dispatched against him. Sanders stood as tall as both he and Gideon, if not slightly taller, and held an ominous countenance, his long wrinkly face perched atop the tall, lanky figure like a pebble precariously balanced on a toothpick.

“Lord Trumbull,” he drawled, opening the door wide.

“Sanders, old boy! Beautiful day, is it not?” He walked into the entry.

“Is’t? I wasn’t aware we had ended the night—as of yet,” Sanders said, clearly enunciating each word.

Perry laughed at the irreverence, handing off his greatcoat and hat. “Wake my slumbering brother, won’t you? There is much to be done, for he must return to Eildon Hill as soon as possible.”

“Truly?” Sanders asked, with one stiff, bushy eyebrow raised. “I understood His Grace to be staying in residence for several days.”

“Oh no, no, no. We will be off as soon as Sunday, if I have any say.”

“Yes, my lord.” Sanders strode smoothly from the entrance, leaving Perry to find himself a place to hover until Gideon awakened. He walked to the breakfast room, where a footman was preparing a pot of coffee. They soon heard what sounded like a captured tiger upstairs.

The well-trained footman’s eyes widened, but he showed no other outward sign that he had heard anything. Perry simply smiled to himself as he settled at the table and the footman rushed over with a cup.

“Milk and sugar, thank you.”

Gideon groaned, then rolled over in the bed and growled. Then he let out a veritable roar and kicked his way out of the tangle of sheets around his legs. He sat at the edge of the bed, trying to remember the last time he’d had such a vivid dream. He couldn’t, not like this. He could still feel her silky skin across him, the very scent of her caught in his breath. He shivered.