Gabriel: Lord of Regrets (23 page)

“She had nothing to fight with, Beckman,” Sara said softly. “She was exhausted, heartbroken, dependent on me, and enough my sister to know how much I wanted a baby. I made a suggestion that we present me to the world as Allie’s mother, and Polly couldn’t very well refuse her child legitimacy, could she?”

Beck was quiet for a while, holding his wife and considering what she said, and what she did not say.

“We all want what is best for Allie,” he said, “much as it pains me to think of losing her.”

“We lose our children,” Sara replied, smiling sadly. “If we’re lucky, we lose them to a happy, meaningful adult life with families of their own. I think of Polly, who will lose her daughter without ever really having had her.”

While Beck had not wanted to let that thought into his mind. “Not for a few years, at least. Can we take some time to consider this, my love? I wouldn’t propose we ask Allie what she wants at this point, but North—his lordship—is amenable to a visit from family. Perhaps we can take Polly’s measure and see if your intuition is accurate.”

“Part of me can’t believe we’re even discussing this,” Sara said. “Another part of me knows we need to at least discuss this. Allie hasn’t painted much of anything since Polly left, and that scares me.”

She hadn’t painted, she hadn’t named any of the fall lambs, she hadn’t done much of anything but stare down the driveway. “I’d noticed, but I thought Allie stopped painting earlier, when North left and we didn’t know where he’d gotten off to.”

“Good lord. You’re right. This is worse than I thought.”

And wasn’t it a fine thing, when a man heaped worries upon his gravid wife? “Not worse, maybe more complicated. Let’s show Allie the letter. She’ll be so pleased that she’ll read the thing to that pig North doted on so.”

Beck followed up his suggestion with a protracted kiss to his lovely wife’s mouth. No more work was completed on the dumb waiter that afternoon, and Allie did indeed read the letter twice to that quarter-ton of porcine maternal pulchritude known as Hildegard, and to the eleven piglets who called the fair Hildy mama.

***

Polly had gone to bed with almost as much relief as disappointment, for Gabriel hadn’t come to her. Maybe those broody looks over his wine glass at dinner had been about reconsidering his options and coming to his senses.

Yes, she was a likely candidate for a dalliance, but as a woman under the Hesketh roof, she was arguably, if temporarily, under his protection as well. Gabriel had a scrupulous sense of honor, and it might be catching up with him.

Polly had a scrupulous sense of honor too, but not so scrupulous she had to alert Gabriel she was still awake when he silently padded into her room and locked the door behind him. She remained quiet under her covers as he disrobed, methodically folding one piece of clothing after another over a chair.

He paused when he was down to only his breeches, and poked up the fire. To Polly’s artistic eye, he was moving more fluidly than at any time in their previous two years’ association. When he tossed his sleeve buttons into her vanity tray, there was a hint of dash about the gesture, a grace he hadn’t displayed before.

He was truly coming back to life, coming back to the titled aristocrat he’d been before going to Spain, and while she rejoiced for him—who wouldn’t be pleased for him, knowing how badly he’d suffered?—she was a trifle broken-hearted for herself.

Gabriel North, grouchy, tired, hardworking steward of Three Springs, had been a man she could dream about. This fellow, with the airs and graces of a title in addition to the brawn and nurturing heart of a land steward, she couldn’t allow herself to build dreams around.

Except, her scruples pointed out, it was too late. The dreams were built, fully assembled in her heart and resistant to her every effort to dismantle them. Watching him shed his breeches then stand for a moment before the fire, all muscle and lean, virile male, Polly stopped trying to wrestle her heart under the control of her common sense.

She would not have much with Gabriel, a few nights, maybe, but what they shared, she would enjoy to the fullest.

“You can stop peeking.” Gabriel addressed the darkened corner where the bed stood. “And why haven’t you let down the bed curtains, Polonaise? The nights are getting beastly cold, and you’re all by your lonesome in there.”

“I wouldn’t be alone if you’d cease lecturing and come to bed. Or you can stand there, scolding and catching your death.”

“You’ve warmed up both sides of the bed?”

“Oh, of course.” She gave a huge yawn.

“Then I suppose I’d best capitulate to your carping.” He poured a glass of water, tossed his handkerchief on the night table, and climbed onto the bed. “If I leave the curtains back, there will be more firelight, the better to see what you’re about. If I let the curtains down, we’ll be warmer.”

“I was warm enough by myself.” Polly subsided onto her back. “Suit yourself.”

“Do you know what would suit me?” Gabriel reached across her to let down the curtain on the side of the bed facing the windows.

“Spring?”

“Spring means endless work.”

“For George,” Polly said, “or his replacement, though my guess is you haven’t confronted him yet.”

“He’s not acting at all like a man who tried to do me harm.”

For Polly, it was impossible not to stare at the muscled expanse of chest stretched inches above her face. After a small, frustrating eternity, Gabriel got the damned curtains untied, and she could breathe again.

“George isn’t about to lurk in corners and announce his guilt. Did you come to this bed to tell me your steward is innocent of wrongdoing?”

“I did not.” Gabriel leaned back against the headboard. “I was all but chased out of the billiards room, where I think my little brother is teaching his wife how to play the equivalent of ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’”

A fine game between consenting adults, particularly if they were married. “So you’ve repaired here, where you needn’t bother coaxing me to get my clothes off.”

Gabriel peered over at her. “You’re in a mood, Polonaise. Shall I leave?”

She shook her head, but as seductions went, or dalliances, this one wasn’t launching properly at all, now that the moment was upon them.

“Are you having second thoughts, my love? A last-minute attack of virtue?”

“My virtue and I parted ways years ago. You know that.”

“Were that not the case,” Gabriel said with curious gentleness, “I could not be here. You know that.”

“I do. But I wish…”

“Tell me what you wish, Polonaise.” He hefted her against his side. “And stop being coy. It undermines my confidence.”

“Your… right.” Bless him and his insecurities. “Your confidence. Mustn’t undermine that.”

“What do you wish?”

She wished she could fall asleep every night for the rest of her life with a whiff of cedar and tooth powder wafting across her pillows.

“I wish that for you, tonight, I could have some of my virtue back. Enough innocence to make this new, not enough to remind you this is folly.”

“This bothers you?” He stroked a hand over her shoulders even as his chin came to rest on her temple. “That you aren’t a dewy-eyed, blushing virgin?”

She should keep the moment light, because theirs was going to be a brief dalliance. Brief but memorable.

“It bothers me. I am not a blushing virgin, though I hardly bring enough experience to the situation to merit a mention. I will not impress you.”

“Good heavens, you’ll not impress me,” Gabriel murmured. “I suppose I’d be better off beating my brother at another game of billiards, then. But tell me this, you sorry excuse for a strumpet, how would I impress you, had you all this experience you lack? Hmm? Do you know how many years it’s been since I allowed myself the pleasure of congress with a willing female, and how all that abstinence is weighing against my own efforts to be impressive?”

“Years?” She twisted around to assess the veracity of his statement, because she wasn’t always sure when he was teasing. “Years, Gabriel?”

“Years, Polonaise,” he assured her solemnly. “I cut one hell of a dash when I came down from university, as all the young idiots do. I soon learned that swanning about with a merry widow or some other fellow’s straying wife is a damned lot of work and has consequences nobody really discusses.”

“Consequences?” Polly knew all about consequences and the havoc they could wreak.

“Life gets complicated in a hurry.” He worked himself down farther under the covers. “Between the gifts and flowers that must be sent, but discreetly, and the dance cards that must be kept straight—and then you find half the women were merely inspecting you intimately for some niece or goddaughter, to whom they want you to propose marriage… ye gods, it was scarifying to a mere lad.”

“You were never a mere lad.” But the idea that he, too, at one point had lacked sophistication was comforting. “So are you here to swive me?”

“Of course not.” He crouched over her. “I’m here to make love with you, if you’ll have me.”

Thank God. “I’ll have you.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “Aren’t you going to make me beg and plead and wheedle a bit?”

“No.” She stroked a hand through his dark, silky hair. “Else you’ll feel justified in making me beg, and I’m not so inclined. Begging would give you a surfeit of confidence and spoil my mood.”

She realized she’d just mentally set him a challenge he wouldn’t refuse, though some of her earlier melancholy had lifted. He’d called it lovemaking, and that was something. “How does lovemaking differ from swiving?”

“Were I swiving you, we’d be about done by now.”

“Oh.”

“There’d be no begging involved at all,” he went on. “No newness whatsoever, none of this petting and cuddling you seem so fond of.”

“I’m so fond of—not you?”

He kissed her cheek. “I’m a man, Polonaise. What use have I for displays of affection?”

“I’m tattling on you to Hildegard,” Polly said just as Gabriel shifted to kiss the side of her neck. “I saw you scratching that pig’s ears more often than Allie pet Heifer, and you got in your share of affection with that cat too, Gabriel. Discretion alone prevents me from naming the sentiment you attach to your horse.”

“I’m caught out, a closet fiend for affection, exposed to the ruthless light of day—or night.” He sighed, and she felt his breath against her skin. “You like that, though, don’t you? That I have a high tolerance for affection in the right circumstances?”

“A tolerance?” Polly shivered as his tongue traced her ear. “You are reduced to petting a pig and her piglets, and you call it a tolerance. You are a sad, sad case, Gabriel Wendover.”

“Hush, you.” He settled more closely against her. “You’re trying to distract me with your insults, and while I appreciate it, the effort isn’t necessary. The night will be plenty long enough to see to your pleasure.”

“You aren’t worried about all those lonely years undermining your impressiveness?”

“They were lonely,” he said, oddly serious, “and that will inspire me, Polonaise, not undermine my resolve. Now kiss me, and we’ll see about impressing you.” He settled his lips onto hers, and the teasing was over, just like that. He’d coaxed her out of her self-doubt, though, and made her smile—made her shiver, in fact, and when was the last time she’d shivered with pleasure?

“None of that.” Gabriel lifted his head and brushed Polly’s hair back from her brow. “You’re thinking, Polonaise, and now isn’t the time for it. Kiss me.”

Polly levered up and kissed him, because it was an entirely worthy suggestion. When she would have sealed her mouth to his and started in with the plundering, he drew back and denied her, insisting on a slower pace.

Begging was apparently on her agenda, though she’d enjoy it, and they both knew it, too.

Gabriel’s hands and mouth flowed over her, magically relieving her of her nightgown, and of her fears and insecurities. He inspected every inch of her with his kisses and caresses, until Polly couldn’t lie still beneath him but had to let her hands roam his skin in retaliation.

She lingered at his back, sketching not just the muscles and bones, but also his scar. When she raked her nails lightly over the puckered flesh, he sighed his pleasure. When she sank her nails into the taut musculature of his buttocks, he started whispering to her in purring, naughty murmurs.

She counted his ribs and counted his nipples, often, coming back to explore his chest between forays down his sides, over his lean hips, and back up to his overlong, thick hair. While he waited patiently above her, she traced his features, bit his shoulder, and took his earlobe into her mouth.

Every bit as much as a cook anticipates enjoying the dishes she prepares, Polly wanted to consume
him.

“You’re deciding which spices would go best,” Gabriel rumbled in her ear. “I do the same thing, you know. On the hotter days, something bracing, like lavender, peppermint, or lemon suits you. On cold, windy, wet days, you put me in mind of cinnamon and nutmeg and tropical sweetness.”

“Of cloves?” Which she occasionally wore because cloves symbolized dignity.

“I have always been fond of the fragrance of cloves.” He kissed her nose then lapsed into his whispering.

“You torture me with the tenderness in your touch, the innocent curiosity, and the possessiveness of your hands. You make me want to hear you claim me as your own, only and always your own, for you are mine, and mine alone.”

She kissed him to stop that nonsense, because the way he touched her left her all too willing to believe his words. His caresses were deliberate, as if he were determined to monitor her response to every touch and kiss.

And Polly realized between one sigh and the next, that for them both, there
was
newness here. True, they both had experience, but this luxurious learning of each other, this leisurely exploration of what pleased her and aroused her, it was new for Polly. And precious. Gabriel’s care with her provoked a wealth of tenderness toward him she hadn’t felt toward another, not ever.

“Gabriel?”

He grazed his nose along the upper curve of her breast, where Polly had indeed dabbed a drop of oil of clove. “My dear?”

“You don’t need to linger over this part,” she said, threading her fingers through his hair. “I know what comes next, and I’m not concerned with being impressed.”

Nor was she concerned with being impressive, which was surely a symptom of a woman besotted.

“You have such confidence in me,” he mused, then gathered her breast in his hand and covered her nipple with his mouth. “Is this what comes next?” He settled in to draw on her. “You must tell me, Polonaise.”

“Mmm.”

She felt him smile against her skin, but didn’t care that her dignity had gone begging. The sensations he aroused were different from before, more intense, and both local to her breast and diffused into all the secret corners and depths of her body. This wasn’t what had come next, not in her few, awkward couplings with Reynard, and not in the very few encounters she’d attempted thereafter.

What typically came next was grunting, poking, and panting for the man, and enduring for Polly, while she wondered what was wrong with her that she couldn’t enjoy passion the way a sophisticated, experienced female was supposed to.

“Stop thinking,
my
love
.”

“I can’t think. You steal my wits when you do that.”

“I don’t steal them.” He switched breasts, dragging his nose across her sternum in a slow, teasing slide. “I put them in a safe place, where they won’t do themselves an injury. You aren’t begging yet, though, so I must exert myself further.”

“Not much further,” Polly assured him, because she struggled to get out even three words as she arched her back and tangled her fingers in his hair. “I won’t beg, Gabriel.”

“Perhaps not.” He left off teasing her breast. “You might be incoherent with pleasure, though you could beg me without words.” He shifted off her, and she nearly commenced begging that moment. She preserved her pride by hiking a leg across his hip when he settled on his side next to her.

“You are so delectable,” he murmured, running his hand down her sternum. “I could spend the entire night touching you with one hand.”

She struggled to take an even breath. “You could not. Not if you value your life.”

Gabriel leaned in and swiped his tongue over her breast. “A threat. That’s encouraging.” He made a little threat of his own, gliding his hand down to linger over her ribs and belly, then teasing his fingers through the curls over her mons.

“I believe you grow interested, Polonaise.” He let her feel the press of his erection against her hip, and she wrapped her hand around him to indicate the accuracy of his surmise. He laughed quietly and cupped her sex with his hand while she ran her fingers over his cock. “I certainly grow interested.”

“You mustn’t encourage me.” Polly ran her thumb over the velvety head of his cock, then over and over that spot right under the tip, the one that made him hiss through his teeth with pleasure.

“I’ll distract you,” he challenged, sliding his fingers slowly, slowly down, over curves, through curls, and into soft, damp folds of intimate flesh. He stroked gently while Polly’s knees fell open and her hips rolled toward his touch. “Be still a moment, love, let me learn my way a little first.”

She tried to comply but soon realized this was one of his tactics to provoke begging, and it was working wonderfully. “Let me move,” she pleaded. “When you do that…”

He circled the little bud of flesh at the apex of her sex again, slowly, watching her face by the firelight.

“Not yet,” he whispered, leaning in to draw on her nipple. “Soon.”

“Gabriel…” Her hand landed in his hair, to hold him to her, while the urge to move against his touch was building, overwhelming pride, dignity, wit, and any remaining vestige of modesty. “Gabriel, you make me want…”

She heard the bewilderment in her own voice, because this kind of wanting was torment. It wasn’t a craving for a hot cup of tea on a cold day, or for bed when exhaustion threatened. This kind of craving trumped the desire for her next breath and her next sunrise. “Oh, please, Gabriel…”

“Then yield to your pleasure,” he rasped, intensifying the pressure of his touch. “Yield to me, Polonaise.”

With a slow, groaning inhalation, she thrashed out her need against his hand, all pretense of thought abandoned as pleasure washed her mind clean and rendered her body his to delight and torment and delight yet more.

“Be easy,” he whispered, shifting to again cage her body beneath his when she was reduced to a panting, pleasured, witless thing. “That was to raise your expectations a mite.”

“Raise my expectations?” She whispered her incredulity into his neck, wrapped her legs around him, and tried to steady her breathing. He settled himself over her, not pressing her down, but giving her something solid, warm, and wonderful to anchor herself against.

“You are worth every patience and sacrifice a man can make with a woman in bed, Polonaise. Did you command it, I should willingly roll over and go to sleep, having seen to the first hint of your pleasure. Hold still.”

He kissed her, and she felt his erection kissing at her sex at the same time, soft nudges with that smooth, blunt, warm tip of him, right against her sex. She turned her head, away from his mouth, so she could focus on that one splendid feeling. He seemed to sense what she needed, for he laid his cheek against hers and let her have the first hint of penetration.

“Gabriel…” His name was a prayer of thanksgiving as Polly gave a slow roll of her hips and rejoiced until her body met his, and from nowhere, her sheath was clutching at his cock in renewed paroxysms of pleasure. And this was worse, far worse than what had gone before, because he was inside her, filling her, and focusing her pleasure right
there
, until it rebounded and ricocheted through every particle of her being.

“I can’t do this.” She hadn’t meant to speak out loud; she’d merely thought the words endless moments later as Gabriel held still above her, his hand cradling the back of her head while she pressed her face to his shoulder.

“Do you know how profoundly you please me, my heart?”

She burrowed against him, afraid to move lest her body visit more excesses of sensation upon her. “But, Gabriel, I can’t bear this…”

“Shall I withdraw?”

“I couldn’t bear that either. Please… let me catch my breath.”

As he kissed her cheek and gathered her closer, Polly had the sense he’d wait all night, all week, or the rest of her life if she asked it of him, and that realization let her relax a little.

“You do this,” she suggested. “I’ll hold still.”

“Do this?” He gently pushed into her, and Polly felt a lightning strike of pleasure right up her spine.

“Slowly.” She fought for a breath. “I’m not usually like this. I’m never like this.”

“I hope you’re always like this with me, Polonaise.” Though to Polly’s ears, there was a slight harshness in his voice. He advanced so slowly, not a thrust at all, more a glide.

“I like that.” Polly relaxed a little more. “When you move like that, it’s almost soothing.”

“We’ll go slowly then, until you say otherwise.”

“Can you pause a moment?”

He went still.

“Now try a single, slow… yes, like that. Oh no…” She was off again, unable to stop her hips from bringing their bodies closer. “Gabriel… Not again, oh, please…”

“Be still,” he whispered. “Let it wash over you like a spring shower. Breathe in the pleasure, Polonaise.” He inhaled slowly, and the pressure of his chest against her breasts reminded her how to breathe even as the pleasure came for her again. It wasn’t so voracious this time though, not as terrifyingly intense.

“That wasn’t as overwhelming. Can you be still for a time again?”

He became her slave in truth, giving her one-half a slow thrust, then one-quarter, as she experimented with her own limits and pleasures. When she’d relaxed enough to let him rock her from one slow, sizzling peak to another, she brushed his hair off his forehead and wrapped her legs around him more securely.

“You’ve impressed me,” she assured him. “Much more of an impression, and I doubt I’ll be able to walk tomorrow.”

“You might be sore.” He kissed her brow. “You should start the day with a hot bath.” He made as if to withdraw, but Polly stopped him by locking her ankles at his back.

“I’m not going to be that sore,” she said, though in truth, she had no way to gauge such things. They’d been joined far longer than her previous experience indicated was possible. “You are worth every patience and sacrifice a woman can make in bed with a man, Gabriel. This woman at least.” Also out of bed, which was why she’d soon be leaving him.

“You’re sure?” He braced above her. “If you give me leave to seek my own pleasure, I’m not certain I can be a gentleman about this, Polonaise.”

“You mean, you’re not sure you can minutely manage your behaviors at my every whim?”

“Not now. Not very impressive of me, but I’m ready to go off like a primed cannon.”

She smiled, and he saw that smile and must have taken courage from it.

“You’re on your own then, my girl. Try not to scream the house down.”

It was a short march off a very high precipice, but as Gabriel set up a slow, relentless rhythm, Polly gained insight into how much restraint he’d shown her. By the third deep, hard stroke, she was coming again, but this time, she didn’t tell him to stop, nor did she go still herself.

She tried to ride out the pleasure, but he kept driving into her, until her sense of her own skin dissolved and she was wrapped around him in a desperate embrace, and still she clutched at him, internally, externally, mentally, emotionally. She was wrapped so tightly in his embrace, she heard a roaring in her ears, then a hot, screaming pleasure seized her, more intense than before. Her vision went dark, and Gabriel was all around her, inside her, and
with
her
, even as Polly’s sense of her physical limits evaporated into pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure.

“Ye heavenly hosts.” Gabriel tried to raise himself off her several lifetimes later, but Polly held him close.

“Not yet.”

He complied, but didn’t let her have half the feel of him she needed.

“Closer. Need your weight, or I’ll fly to pieces.”

He snugged his body back down over hers. “Better?”

She nodded, having used up her spare breath through at least the next week. They breathed in counterpoint with each other, a novel intimacy, with Polly’s body hitching as aftershocks shivered through her.

“Did I hurt you?” Gabriel’s lips slipped over her eyes some moments later, and Polly realized there were tears on her cheeks.

“Not hurt. The opposite of hurt.”

“My love”—Gabriel’s voice was bewildered—“you are in tears. What is the opposite of hurt in this situation?”

Polly wrapped her arms around him out of sheer excess of emotion. “You’ve made some hurts better. Hurts that can’t be seen.”

He kissed her eyes and took some of his weight from her, and she let him. They lay like that for a long, long time amid clean linen and the scent of cloves, the only sounds the fire crackling in the hearth and their gradually steadying breathing.

“Will I set you off if I withdraw?”

“Likely, you will, but, Gabriel, having done this with you, you’ll likely set me off if you look at me.”