Absolute Pleasure (26 page)

Bending nearer, he appended a decisive wallop. "And I'm poor as the dickens—by your standards. Except for those rare days when I'm lucky enough to sell a painting, I seldom have two pennies to rub together. I could never support you in the lofty manner to which you've been accustomed."

Straightening, he regarded her strangely, and she wasn't sure if he was being facetious or not. His impudent stare seemed to inquire:
Well? What say you to all that?

He was challenging her to offer a rejoinder, to state her opinion as to his antecedents, or to deny that her elevated status made them such a mismatch, but she couldn't utter a single retort that wouldn't come across as horrid or vain, as though she considered herself far above him.

Her confidence wavered as she frantically replayed all he'd just said. Every word was correct—when she didn't want any of them to be—and her optimism sparked and fizzled out, as she recognized how ludicrous and foolish she was acting.

If she'd told herself once, she'd told herself a thousand times: They had no future! He was larger than life, a bright star in her dull universe. His days—and nights—overflowed with illicit romance, amorous artifice, and torrid trysting.

What man would be insane enough to abandon such carnal latitude and liberty for the prospect of staid, monotonous, stable domesticity?

While he might currently be enamored of her, she could never keep his interest. She'd witnessed the sort of female with whom he typically consorted, and she didn't compare. He'd tire of her, and she could think of no other, more painful eventuality than having to suffer through the awareness that Gabriel was no longer enticed, that he was weary of her and chafing to break it off.

She couldn't survive such a wrenching circumstance, and she declined to put herself into a position where it would inevitably happen.

Any extended affiliation was unattainable, and daydreaming for a different finale was a waste of effort and energy. She needed to focus on the present, on what lasting memories she could build with him.

"You're right; we would never suit"—she regained her equilibrium, and smiled flirtatiously as if she'd simply been joking—"but I don't have to like the fact."

For the briefest second, his eyes narrowed and he tensed, as if he'd taken a hard blow, and she was overcome by the absurd notion that he'd been testing her, that he'd been fishing to ascertain her precise inclinations. His disparaging observations about himself and his father, and about what she'd have to forgo in order to be with him had been but an experiment or a trial that she'd failed. Miserably.

Which was preposterous. He didn't want to settle down, to forsake his freedom and bachelor's lifestyle. Did he?

She blinked, and just that quickly, whatever she'd momentarily beheld had vanished, leaving her to surmise that her mind had been playing tricks. Regrettably, she was so desperate to win Gabriel's love that, apparently, she was beginning to presume and infer deep emotion where none existed.

He liked her very much, but he'd done naught to indicate a stronger partiality, had never intimated that he desired her for more than occasional companionship that ultimately led to improper intercourse. He'd certainly never hinted that he was predisposed to change his habits, to rearrange his life, or relinquish his independence, just for her.

Like a fatuous girl, she was waxing on over impossibilities, chasing after windmills in the sky, and it was high time she came back down to earth.

Resolute, she spun away, not wanting him to perceive her visible distress, and she went to the lewd pictures he'd produced of the two of them.

"These are quite something. What motivated you to draw them?"

For a hesitant moment, he didn't respond, then he let out a ponderous sigh, one that was heavy with disappointment, as though he couldn't credit her nonchalant attitude, and she was left with the distinct impression that she'd hurt him grievously, when she couldn't fathom how or why.

Yet just as she noted his dolor, he shook it off and cuddled himself behind her, his hands on her waist. "I think about you every second."

"Really?" She smiled at the unanticipated confession and peeked at him over her shoulder.

"Yes, and
my
reflections are not always chaste."

"So I gather."

He nestled his loins against her, and immediately his cock stirred and hardened. "When I'm here alone, I get these images in my head of how you look, of how I see you, or how I
hope
to see you, and next thing I know—"

"You're creating indecent pictures?"

"Yes."

"You have a very vivid imagination."

"So I've been told." Aroused, he flexed against her.

"If you could pick any of these renderings, and bring it to fruition right away, which would you select?" She pointed to an illustration where she knelt and sucked at him. His hand was fisted in her hair, an expression of exquisite pleasure on his face. "This one?"

"That's definitely a favorite." His inhalations increased, his grip tightened.

"How about this?"

She gestured toward the drawing where he was taking her from behind. Her thighs were braced, and she was splayed wide, his patent enjoyment evident by his posture and demeanor.

"It's so difficult to choose."

"This one tickles my fancy." In it, he was lying on the fainting couch, and she was on top of him. His tongue leased her nipple, his palm stroked her flank. "I'd like to—"

"Elizabeth?"

"Hmm?" She turned as much as she could with him clutching her so tenaciously, and hot desire flared in his eyes. His lust for her was at a severe level. At least for now.

"Come back to bed."

"I thought you'd never ask."

He twirled and lifted her, moving so fast that he made her dizzy, and she squealed with delight. Holding her to his chest, he carried her to the small bed, cradling her as if she weighed no more than a feather, as if she was delicate, or terribly fragile.

Gently, he deposited her on the mattress then followed her down, and as his lips joined with hers in a tender, loving kiss that swiftly animated, she closed her eyes and irrationally prayed that—just this once—all her dreams could come true.

Chapter Sixteen

Mary accepted a final hug—for courage and support— then she scooted off John's lap and leaned toward the carriage door.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come in with you?" he asked for the tenth time, but she was determined to do this on her own. Besides, in light of John's history with Findley, his presence would likely make matters worse.

"I'm positive."

"I'm afraid he might hurt you."

"I'm not," Mary insisted. John scoffed, and the sound brought a smile to her lips.

"The man's an ass."

"That he is," she agreed, "but he'd never stoop so low as to physically abuse me. Despite what I said or did."

"There's a first time for everything. Losing you"—he took both her hands in his and stole a kiss-—"would provoke any man to new heights of outrage."

"You are too sweet, my darling husband," and her heart did a flip-flop as she referred to him as her spouse.

She couldn't figure out how he'd worn her down so rapidly, or why she'd acquiesced. He'd been so persistent, and before she'd had much of a chance to consider what she was about, she'd been standing at the altar in the small chapel near his home and repeating her vows with only Gabriel and the minister's shy, young wife as their witnesses.

The past two weeks had been a whirlwind of panic and indecision, as she'd vacillated and fussed, wondering how to terminate his tenacious pursuit without damaging his manly pride, of which she'd discovered he had a huge amount.

But late one night, in her lonely bed, as she'd desperately wished he was there with her, or that she'd had the courage to sneak out and be with him, it had dawned on her that she was being foolish.

Why deny herself? Why forsake the opportunity John had offered?

Her entire, wretched life, she'd craved a home of her own, a family. While the worldly, sophisticated John Preston and the flamboyant Gabriel Cristofore weren't exactly what she'd ever envisioned for herself—a woman she perceived as quite plain and conventional—she had tossed aside her misgivings.

Lack of confidence had been making her feel unworthy and unsuited, so she'd decided to forge ahead, to form a kindred unit with the two dynamic men.

During the prior, bliss-filled fourteen days, they'd loved and talked and listened, and she'd learned that he had suffered great trauma and survived. A devoted father, he'd raised a magnificent son, but he saw his job of parenting as finished. He wanted more for his elder years than to grow old alone.

Funny, kind, smart, interesting, he was possessed of all the traits she admired, and he had a flair and a zest for living that she'd never seen matched in another—except, perhaps, in his son. He'd gone places and done things about which she could only fantasize. His view of the world was much larger than her own, and she'd worried that he might become bored with someone as reserved and unassuming as she pictured herself to be.

Yet at the same juncture, she liked to think that she had valuable qualities to render to him in return. Her steady influence and her balanced existence, her seeking of routine and simple pleasures, would introduce a dimension and a stable harmony that he clearly needed.

John Preston had withstood a series of excessive swings—joys and sorrows, fortune and hardship—and he would profit immensely from her constancy.

That's not to say there wouldn't be gales of tumult and melodrama. The two rogues who now comprised her family had a definite knack for creating chaos and instigating turmoil, but after her years of repressive obligation at the Norwich household, she didn't regard a little sporadic upheaval as a bad thing.

No, life with the Preston men would never be dull. She was excited, ready for her future, but before commencing it, she had to tell Findley what she'd brought about How that horrid conversation would proceed was anybody's guess.

She was geared to go in and terminate the whole, sordid business, but she couldn't help but pause first, to admire her handsome husband. A rush of tears clouded her eyes, and even in the dark confines of the carriage he could observe them. He soothed her by rubbing her shoulders and arms.

"What is it, my dear?"

Gulping down a swell of emotion, she murmured, "Thank you."

He was exceedingly surprised. "For what?"

"For having me."

"Oh, Mary—"

"You've made me so happy."

"And I plan to make you happier still. Each and every day."

She hugged him as tightly as she could, then she moved away, and he could readily infer that she was distraught and unenthused about their parting, so he delayed it further. As if she was a child, he bothered with her suit, her hair, straightening and adjusting, until his fussy ministrations had restored her composure.

"I shouldn't be too long," she promised.

"I'll wait a half hour," he said, "but if you're not back, I'm coming inside, and I won't hear any objection. I'm totally against your handling this by yourself."

"All right," she agreed. How marvelous to have a champion!

"And if he says or does anything inappropriate, leave immediately and fetch me." Gleeful at the prospect, he said, "I'll thrash the living daylights out of him for you."

"That won't be necessary." At least, she hoped it wouldn't be. Findley was a vain, narcissistic individual, so she couldn't see him stooping to insults or threats. His excessive pride would prevent him from debasing himself. "Anyway," she teased, "you look as if you'd enjoy pummeling him far too much."

"I'm sure he's overdue for another trouncing."

"Well, I'm not about to give you a second opportunity. Especially not on my wedding day. I want you in good condition for tonight."

He chuckled. "Hurry back, love."

"I will."

Their footman assisted her in maneuvering the steps, and as the door was closed, John peeked out from behind the curtain. He flashed a thumbs-up, extending his silent encouragement and support.
  
She. returned the gesture, then faced the imposing residence.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the front door and entered. And why shouldn't she come in the front? She was no longer
just
a housekeeper, but a respectable gentlewoman. Who had wed the fourth son of an earl! The gilt had definitely faded from the golden ring John had once gripped as a younger man, but the fact remained that his birth status was extremely high, and she stood imperiously, braced to eagerly pronounce her good fortune to whoever crossed her path.

Taking in her surroundings, she assessed the immaculate foyer. From birth, she'd been groomed to manage and care for the extensive properties of the Earl of Norwich. The job was an enormous burden and an incredible honor that she'd cherished and treasured.

Diligently, she'd seen to her duties to the best of her ability, and she was pleased with how she'd carried on, with what she'd achieved for the renowned family.

Yet, her success hadn't been enough. Cold marble and polished wood had been her sole companions, and they glimmered back at her. The tiled floor, the sweeping staircase, sparkled in the brilliant lamplight, and she realized that the satisfaction once gleaned from scrutinizing their upkeep had vanished.

Throughout her arduous toil, she'd been lonesome, pining away for love and affection, contentment and fulfillment. John had given them all to her on a silver platter.

Initially, she'd wondered if she would miss her position in the palatial manor, but she hadn't needed to fret.
 
Nothing she was forsaking in the luxurious pile of bricks could begin to compare with what she'd gained in exchange.

With a perceptive smile, she climbed the stairs to her unpretentious room, not encountering a soul on the way. She retrieved her portmanteau from under the bed and, in minutes, she was packed. Her tiny pile of belongings was pitiful.

What a meager amount she had to show for her investment!

After a conclusive, nostalgic inspection, she descended to the ground floor, intending to head toward the rear of the house where Findley would be sequestered in his library and awaiting the butler's call to supper. Unfortunately, just as she reached the bottom, Lady Norwich was advancing down the hall.

"Where have you been?" the juvenile woman angrily barked.

"Milady." She replied politely while secretly celebrating that she'd never have to see the horrid termagant again.

"I've been searching for you all afternoon."

"My apologies." Of an equal height, she stared the girl down, not contributing a word in her own defense, or an explanation as to her absence, which caused the lady to bristle with outrage.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Nothing, actually. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"I do not excuse you!"

The countess's cheeks were mottled purple, her inhalations fast and irregular, an inevitable sign of a pending temper tantrum. Any abominable disturbance might shortly occur. Valuable objects could be smashed, food thrown, people slapped. Mary had witnessed many untenable incidents, and she was heartily glad that this would be the concluding episode. She'd never be required to protect herself or others from undue injury, or have to spend innumerable hours after a fracas, calming the waters and cleaning up whatever mess Charlotte Harcourt deigned to incite.

"I have an appointment with the earl"—Mary stepped around the countess—"and for once, I'm relieved to point out that I don't have time for your nonsense."

"Why ... you disrespectful, insolent harridan!" She was sputtering, incapable of forming words that sufficiently clarified her affront.

"Good-bye, Lady Norwich."

"Of all the nerve! How dare you speak to me so contemptuously! I'll have you whipped, then thrown out on the street with only the clothes on your back!"

"I'm trembling with fear."

She was baiting the girl, and she should have kept her mouth shut, but she'd stomached so much that she couldn't seem to remember her place. Besides, hadn't her
place
been drastically altered since eleven o'clock that morning? She wasn't about to be servile before the despicable brat.

Still, she had every intention of avoiding a confrontation, so she took another step just as Lady Norwich grabbed her by the wrist and whipped her around. Holding her in a crushing grip, she swung her other arm to deliver a slap to Mary's cheek, but Mary swiftly reacted, blocking the assault and preventing contact.

"Don't even think about it!" Mary quietly warned.

Footsteps sounded above them on the landing, and Mary glanced up, embarrassed to discover Elizabeth who was absorbing every detail of the deplorable scene.

"Charlotte!" she ordered, aghast. "Unhand her this instant!"

Astoundingly, the countess complied. For some reason, she usually bowed to Elizabeth's influence, and she jerked away as Elizabeth rushed down.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth chided. "One of the other servants might walk by! Imagine the gossip should they witness you in such a state!"

"Ask her where she's been!" Charlotte seethed.

"I will." Impeding further strife, Elizabeth situated herself between Mary and the lady. "Go upstairs. I'll send for you when supper is served."

Charlotte hesitated, as if contemplating refusal, but she was intimidated by their advanced ages and loyal association. Mary and Elizabeth both scowled at her, an impenetrable bastion of combined offense and condemnation.

She stomped off, stopping to hiss over her shoulder, "I'll have you jailed, you witch! Just see if I don't."

They watched the countess's retreating backside as she stomped up the stairs and disappeared. Momentarily, a loud crash ensued, as if she'd snatched one of the priceless vases in the corridor and had shattered it on the floor.

They tarried in the silence, then Elizabeth turned to her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Mary answered, although she was trembling. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't keep a civil tongue in my head."

"I don't blame you."

A maid scurried toward them, investigating the commotion, and Elizabeth directed her to return to her evening meal, then she practically dragged Mary into a nearby parlor and shut the door.

"Where
have
you been?" Her concern was elevated and authentic. "I've been hunting for you for days myself."

"Come. Sit." Mary led her to a sofa by the fire, then tugged off her glove and held out her left hand. The wedding band John had recently placed there glowed thrillingly. "I've gone and married John Preston."

"So ... he was correct," she murmured.

"Who?" Mary kindly inquired.

"Mr. Cristofore had mentioned you might wed."

"Really?"

Amazed, Mary raised a brow, tickled that Gabriel had been talking about her. She'd been debating how to become friends with him and sought any approach that might bring them closer.

"I've been dying to ask you if it was true," Elizabeth said, "but you haven't been home."

"I've been busy with decisions and arrangements."

"When was the ceremony?"