Chapter 25
Swanthorpe Manor was the most beautiful house that Juliet had ever seen. Nestled on the fertile banks of the River Thames and surrounded by manicured lawns, meadows, and acres of young wheat, it was built of lovely pink brick, with quoined stone and spectacular views over the river and distant green hills to the south. As the carriage they'd hired at Abingdon's Lamb Inn brought them down a drive bordered by budding roses, carefully clipped yew hedge, and damson, peach and cherry trees in full blossom, Juliet could see the spire of St. Helen's, one of the town's two ancient churches, thrusting above the trees a mile away. A cuckoo called from a nearby sycamore, and beyond, sunlight dappled the water where swans, mallards, and coots paddled lazily in the current.
"What a lovely home," she murmured as the carriage came to a stop just outside the front steps.
Gareth smiled a bit ruefully. "Yes. Too bad my fool grandfather lost it over a game of cards." His gaze met hers, and in it she saw something like regret before he looked out the window once more. "They say I'm just like him, you know. Looking at what he had — and what he so carelessly threw away — I begin to understand what a life of debauchery can cost."
"Oh, Gareth … surely you're not as debauched as you think you are."
"Put it this way. Not as debauched as I would have become, had I not met you." He gave her a teasing wink. "And, of course, Charlotte."
"You mean to say we've had an influence on you already?"
"My dear lady, you had an influence on me from the moment I saw you bravely facing that highwayman's pistol."
The door to the manor was opening, and in the shadows beyond it, Juliet could just see an elegant chandelier and a graceful wooden balustrade leading upstairs. Then a footman was opening the carriage's door, and Snelling himself was coming down the steps toward them, his smile as false and overly-wide as it had been when Juliet had seen him last.
"Ah, Lord Gareth, Lady Gareth! You've had a pleasant journey, I trust? You'll be happy here, I know you will. We've prepared the dower house just for you. Come, come. I'm eager to show it to you!"
Gareth inclined his head in what might have been a nod and got out of the carriage. He stood just outside, the sun lighting up his hair as he, ever the perfect gentleman, assisted Juliet and Charlotte out. His intense dislike of Snelling was almost palpable. Juliet could only wonder how humiliating it must be for him, a duke's son, to be relegated to the dower house of this magnificent home that had once belonged to his family while its new owner, a self-made man of the lower orders, slept in the master's bedroom. As much as she'd loved Charles, she couldn't imagine him tolerating such a humiliating arrangement.
She certainly couldn't imagine Lucien or Andrew tolerating it, either.
A wave of respect and admiration for her husband came flooding over her, overwhelming her with its intensity and bringing a sudden lump to her throat. And as they crossed the lawn — Snelling carrying on a one-sided conversation about the grounds, the estate, and the weather — Juliet tucked her hand in the crook of her husband's elbow and gazed up at him with warm, glowing eyes. Her heart thrilled to his nearness. It was a wonderful feeling, one that put a bounce in her step and a flush on her cheeks and made her feel like a young girl all over again.
My goodness, what am I feeling?
But she knew. For the first time since she'd met him, she was allowing herself to recognize and examine her desire for this man she had married, without letting guilt — or her so-called better judgment — move in to steal it away, and it felt good. Liberating. Wonderful.
"And this is the dower house," Snelling was saying, fitting a key in the lock and triumphantly pushing the door wide. "What do you think, my lord?"
Juliet flinched. Addressed as it was to a down-on-his heels aristocrat accustomed to living in one of the most magnificent homes in England, the question in itself was an insult — and something in Snelling's wide smile and watchful eyes told her he knew it, as well.
Was he deliberately provoking her husband?
But Gareth didn't move, didn't step over the threshold, didn't deliver a swift reply of cutting rudeness. He merely stood outside for a moment, his hands on his hips as he tilted his head back to look up at the house with lazy, unhurried detachment.
"It will do," he finally said. "You may leave us."
Snelling had been grinning; now, his mouth opened and closed like a landed fish in response to this abrupt and autocratic dismissal in his own home. For a moment he sputtered helplessly, before retrieving his too-wide smile and gushing flattery and laying a hand across Gareth's shoulders in a false gesture of friendship — a gesture that caused Gareth's pale eyes to glitter with warning beneath their lazy sweep of lashes. "Of course, my lord, of course! You've had a long journey, you're tired, it is perfectly understandable that you both wish to rest. Good day, then, Lord Gareth, and I shall see you at seven o'clock tomorrow morning, in the barn just beyond the stables."
"You shall see me at nine o'clock," Gareth countered easily, still coolly assessing the house, "for I do not keep such early hours."
"Lord Gareth —" Snelling no longer looked amused — "you work for me now. You shall do as I say."
"I shall do as I please" — Gareth smiled benignly — "or you may find someone else to fight for you. Do you understand me, sir?"
"I — " Snelling's face went a dark, ugly red, and his mouth thinned as he bit back an irate retort. Then he managed to recover his false smile, though Juliet noted he had his fists clenched at his sides. "I understand perfectly," he said with sudden, fawning brightness. "Nine o'clock. Till then."
He bowed to Juliet, then strode off, anger radiating from him like stench from a skunk.
As soon as he was out of sight, Gareth threw back his head and let out an amused guffaw. "What a buffoon!"
"If you keep irritating him so, you'll be out of a job before you even start."
"If he keeps irritating me, he'll be out of a fighter before I even throw the first punch."
"What?"
"Nothing." He grinned and took her arm. "Just an expression, my sweet. Come, let us have a look round the grounds, shall we?"
She eyed him narrowly, but he merely gave her his innocent dimpled smile and, plucking Charlotte from her arms and ruffling her blond curls, led her back down the steps.
Viewed from the grounds, the dower house mirrored the manor house, with the same pink brick, graceful stone quoining, and lovely views over fields of young wheat, barley and rye. A small plot for gardening was to one side, and to the rear of the house a border of brambles, bulrushes, and trees choked with bright green ivy stood between the lawn and the Mill Stream, which branched off from the River Thames and paralleled it all the way into the town proper. Sunlight filtered through the trees, creating a sleepy, peaceful effect, and birdsong filled the air.
It was too good to be true.
Juliet gazed at the moving shadows the trees threw across the dower house's roof. "Gareth," she said slowly, "as pretty as this place is, I have a bad feeling about all this."
He swung Charlotte up in his arms and laughed. "There you go, worrying again!"
"No, really, I don't trust — or like — that man."
"Well, neither do I, but so far he's done nothing wrong except subtly needle me. He's offered me work, Juliet. Easy work. What is the problem? If we're not happy here, we shall simply leave." Grinning, he bent down and kissed her full on the lips, laughing at her sudden flush. "Come, let's go inside."
But as they stepped over the threshold, disappointment greeted them. The place smelled of damp stone and smoke from fires long since dead. The curtains needed washing, the floors wanted sweeping, and the place had a general unkempt look about it. Snelling had told them the dower house had been made ready for them — but obviously it had not been.
"Ah, well," Gareth said at last, shrugging and mustering a cavalier smile, "better than Mrs. Bottomley's, eh, Juliet?"
"It's not so bad," she returned, trying, like him, to pretend t
hat the place was nicer than it really was.
"A bit of cleaning, a spot of paint, some new rugs on these floors, and we'll have a nice, happy home."
"Yes ... I'm certainly not afraid of a little hard work."
"Neither am I — however I shamefully confess the very idea is alien to me. I'll give it a go, though. You just tell me what to do, Juliet, and I swear I'll do it."
They stood together, gazing at the few pieces of furniture that had been left in the house, the rising damp on the walls, the grimy windowpanes. At last, Juliet gave a heavy sigh. She was not very good at keeping up pretenses.
"I am sorry, Gareth. You shouldn't have to live like this."
"What are you talking about? This is a fine little house."
She shook her head. "It's not the house. It's Snelling. Swanthorpe. You. You're trying so hard to make this work, to care for Charlotte and me, but all I can think of is Blackheath Castle and what you had there; all I can think of is what you were born to, what you're accustomed to." She shook her head. "And here you are, reduced to living in the dower house of an estate that once belonged to your family ... I cannot imagine how humiliating it must be."
He was leaning down, examining the soot-stained fireplace, holding Charlotte protectively as he did so. "Not as humiliating as crawling back to Lucien with my tail between my legs — which, I am afraid, is the only alternative." He straightened up and looked directly at her, and in his eyes she saw a fierce determination to succeed, a vow to show the world that he was not the useless creature that everyone thought him to be. "I will do whatever I must to avoid that."
Her heart went out to him, standing there holding the baby. She pulled Charlotte from his arms and set her, still swaddled in her blanket, down in the nearest chair. Then, stepping close to her husband, she put her hand in his, looked up into his face, and said quietly, "I believe in you, Gareth."
He gave a pained smile and bent his head so that his forehead just rested against hers. "Believing in me could be dangerous."
"Believing in you is all that Charlotte and I have."
"And you and Charlotte are all that I have."
She smiled.
He grinned.
"I guess we're in this together, then," she said.
"Yes. And do you know something, Juliet? There is no one else I would rather have at my side."
They moved closer, their clothes just touching, their body heat mingling.
"You'll prove Lucien wrong, I know you will, Gareth. You'll prove all of them wrong."
"I do not know if I'm worthy of such blind faith."
"I think you are."
"Do you?" His brow was touching hers, and he was beaming now, obviously pleased and flattered.
"I do." She looked up at him through her lashes, enjoying this light, challenging banter even as a blush crept over her cheeks. "If I thought otherwise, I would have left you and gone back to America."
"Juliet!" He drew back, pretending to look genuinely horrified. "What if I fail you both?"
"Whether you fail or succeed doesn't matter. It's the effort that counts — and as long as you make it, I shall always stand by you." On impulse, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Gareth. Thank you for — well, for being a hero all over again."
The delight and gratitude on his face made her ashamed to think that there had ever been a time — albeit brief — when she had not believed in him. And then he took her hand and lifted it to his lips, gazing at her from over the top of her knuckles. "And thank you, Juliet. I must admit that I am not accustomed to having anyone place such confidence in me."
And therein lies the root of your problem.
His gaze was darkening now with something deep and gentle, and Juliet knew, as women throughout time have always known, that he was in love with her. The knowledge both thrilled and scared her. Thrilled her because her body had come alive at the brush of his lips across the back of her hand. Scared her because she knew that he, if anyone, could make her forget Charles, was already making her forget Charles ... and for Charles's sake, as well as his daughter's, she did not want to forget Charles.
Passion and guilt warred.
And now his lips were grazing the crest of one knuckle while his eyes watched her from beneath their veil of lowered lashes. She felt each hot little puff of breath against her skin. Felt his mouth moving over the next knuckle and down into the hollow between her fingers. Faint tremors pulsed through her, but she did not pull away.
Could not pull away, for she was transfixed by the invitation in those lazy blue eyes.
Still watching her, he nuzzled aside the lace sleeve of her chemise where it fell across the back of her hand and brushed his lips over her inner wrist ... the base of her thumb ... the warm cup of her palm, where he planted a deep and penetrating kiss with the hard point of his tongue.
Juliet blushed. "Gareth!"
But he merely smiled, holding her gaze with his own as he made little circles in her palm with his tongue. Juliet's body caught fire. Squirming, she clamped her legs together against the gush of desire that suddenly flared between them.
"G-gareth, I think we'd better —"
"Go upstairs?" he prompted in an inviting drawl. "What a fine idea. I think I would like to ravish you."
"Oh!"
"Unless" — he reached out, brushing his fingers over the suddenly frantic pulse at her throat, and found the chain that held the miniature — "you find yourself unwilling to betray the man you still love?"
The words were said without rancor, jealousy, or anger. It was simply an honest question, with none of the emotion she knew he must feel, attached.
And Juliet felt terrible. In that moment she realized he had not been sleeping in the coach when she'd examined the miniature with such detached and puzzled longing. He had seen her take it out, caress it with her thumb, and talk softly to the man whose image it held. Shame and mortification blazed through her.
"You saw," she said, red-faced with guilt.
"I saw. But I do not condemn. I told you I would give you all the time you need, Juliet. I shall never, ever push you."
"I know you won't, but Gareth, although I like you, am very, very fond of you, I ... I may never be able to love any man the way I loved Charles, and that is unfair to you."
"Juliet." He smiled with gentle tolerance, his hand caressing the side of her face. "My dearest Juliet. I knew when I asked you to marry me that you still loved him. I knew where your heart lay, where your thoughts lingered. I have always known, and I do not suffer any delusions that you may ever come to think of me in the same way that you did Charles. I accept that. Do you not see?"
"Oh, Gareth..." She shook her head, guilt twisting her heart. "What about you? What about how you feel about me?"
"My dear," he said gently, "I should think that that is painfully obvious."
She gulped and looked away, unable to face the blatant love in his eyes. How guilty she felt at her inability to admit as much to him. And yet, how she wanted him, ached for him, lusted after him, like a budding rose straining toward a spring sun. How could she feel so torn?
And as she stood there in that small, spartan room with this man who had so selflessly married her despite the fact that she might never love him as strongly as she had his brother, her choices were suddenly clear: she could retreat back into her prison of sadness, or make a thrilling leap out into the liberation she had tasted earlier — a liberation that could open the doors to a loving, shining future for both herself and Charlotte.
She seized what courage still fired her and made her decision.
"Make me feel, then, Gareth." She pressed close to him, her eyes almost pleading. "Open my heart again, so we can have something of a life together."
He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against each knuckle, studying the myriad of pain and hope and confusion that moved across her face.
"Are you certain that is what you want, Juliet?"
"How
can I know if it's what I want unless I muster the courage to find out? I hurt so badly inside, Gareth. I hurt because on the one hand I still feel loyal to Charles — but on the other, I find myself having ... wifely thoughts about you. Not him, you." Her eyes pleaded for understanding and forgiveness. "Can you make me forget him, Gareth? Can you?"
"I honestly don't know." And then he smiled, slowly. "But I can promise you this; I shall enjoy trying."
She nodded and shut her eyes, trembling with sudden anticipation. Measuring each long, loud breath that went into, and back out of, her lungs. And now, his tongue was probing each pad of flesh at the base of her fingers, his breath whispering over the back of her hand, and Juliet, her heart pounding furiously, was as stiff as a sapling after an ice storm.
"Juliet?"
"Yes?"
"I am trying," he murmured playfully.
She opened her eyes. He was silently laughing at her, his eyes twinkling. And in that moment, Juliet's trepidation faded because it was awfully hard to take yourself seriously when someone you trusted, someone you knew cared about you, probably even loved you, was teasing you so.
"Oh, Gareth!" she said with a little laugh.
"Oh, Gareth!" he mimicked, grinning. And then, gazing down at her, he raised her hand to his face and painted his cheek with her fingers. "Touch me, Juliet."
Shyly, she pulled free of his grasp and let her hand move over his face. His cheek was slightly rough beneath her fingers, his skin warm against her own. Everything inside her began to heat up, and she suddenly found it hard to breathe. She ran her hand down the side of his neck and then out over his shoulder, feeling the shape of his body beneath his clothes: the bulges of his upper arm and then the solid breadth of his chest, the bumps that were each rib, the flat, taut belly beneath the loose, white shirt. She shut her eyes, trembling, knowing that she had to be the initiator if only to prove to herself that she was not afraid of letting go of the past, if only to prove to herself that she was indeed capable of loving another man. Her hand dipped, lower. He tensed and caught his breath. And now her fingers were hesitating at the waistband of his breeches as she fought both flight and desire. And then, bashfully, Juliet touched him through the cloth.
He sucked in his breath and went rigid.
And Juliet bent her head against his chest and looked down at where her hand was.
"Is this ... all right?" she said. What a foolish thing to say to one's husband.
"I am enjoying it."
"A lot?"
"Mmmm.... Yes."
Her hand shaking, she ran her fingers over him once again. He was hard beneath her touch, and she could feel every throbbing inch of him through the flimsy barrier of his breeches. Heat suffused her blood, her face, broke out all over her skin. She had forgotten how very large a man actually was, and the knowledge both excited and emboldened her. She wanted more.
Much more.
She wanted him inside her. Not Charles, not a fantasy that Gareth was Charles, but Gareth himself.
Her husband.
As lightly as a butterfly, she ran her fingernails over the warm, cloth-covered bulge and looked up at him. He gave her a satisfied smile, inspiring her confidence. She bore down harder upon him. His breathing changed and his eyes drifted shut, almost on a grimace. He took a step backward, leaning against the wall behind him. "Oh ... oh, Juliet."
Charlotte was still in the nearby chair.
"Put the baby over there on the sofa," he said in a strained voice as she continued to stroke him. "Put her where ... she won't be able to see us."
"She's asleep, Gareth."
"Regardless ... I don't want her to wake up and see... I —"
And now she was laughing at him, amused by his modesty. She left him only long enough to do as he asked, then returned, picking up where she'd left off.
"That's better," he breathed, his eyes half-closed, his hand running up and down her arm, and the back of his head resting against the wall as she touched and explored and caressed him through his breeches. He had not so much as even kissed her, but already he was making her forget, simply by allowing himself to be seduced by her femininity — a femininity that held him hostage in her hand and brought a singing excitement to Juliet's slowly awakening heart. She had forgotten how wonderful it felt to seduce a man. She had forgotten this hot, blood-to-the-cheeks sensation of growing arousal. She felt strange and shaky and not herself, her skin afire where her clothes lay against it. A tendril of hair fell from its pins to cling damply to her neck. And now she could not help herself. Could not stop herself from running her hand all over and around him, cupping the twin sacs that lay between his legs, palming the swollen, straining bulge that pushed to break free of the breeches.
She sank to her knees and kissed him through the warm fabric.
"By God!" he gasped, nearly collapsing against the wall behind him. His hands were on her head, stroking her crown, pulling the other pins free until her silken tresses tumbled down her neck, her nape, her back. She rubbed her cheek against him. She shaped the hard contour of his thighs and buttocks with her hands and kissed and nibbled the length of him through his breeches, until he was groaning with pleasure. Then, her fingers shaking, Juliet began to work on the flap of his breeches, pushing the buttons through their holes one by one until the fabric fell loose and he sprang out against her cheek, huge and hot and engorged with desire. She took him in her hands, rubbed the warm length of him against first one cheek, then the other, and began planting gentle kisses up and down his rigidity.
"Juliet ... oh, God! ... I ... I am sorry ... I don't know if this is ... is a good idea ... I mean, I ... want to make it last."
She parted her lips and touched him lightly with her tongue.
"Oh! Juliet, please!"
But as she took the swollen head into her mouth, he gasped, braced himself against the wall and began making helpless sounds of defeat. His hand clenched a thick swatch of her hair with a despair that almost pained her as she licked and sucked and pulled at him. He stood it for only so long, before finally hooking his hand around her damp neck and urging her back to her feet. She slid her hands up beneath his shirt as she rose, thrilling to the hard-muscled feel of his torso, the warmth of his skin, the splendor of his physique. His mouth, fierce with passion, crashed down on hers, his tongue thrusting between her teeth. And now he was pushing her steadily backward, his breath pulsing against her cheek as he kissed her, her fingers still stroking the hard, hard muscles of his inner thighs, the rigid tumescence between his legs.
"Juliet ... by God, Juliet, you are driving me beyond wild ..."
Yes, she had done the right thing. She would never regret this, not ever, not in a million years. Her lips clung to his, her hips grinding helplessly against his swollen shaft. Her hand, closed around him, was crushed between their bodies as he curved an arm around her waist and bent her nearly double over it, still kissing her, still driving his tongue against hers. He broke the kiss, breathing hard, and she gasped as his lips grazed her exposed throat, his fingers smoothing the silken skin of her neck, her chest, and finally dipping beneath the lace-edged neckline of her chemise.
"Oh, Gareth ..."
His hand was big and hot and wonderful against her skin. He pulled down both chemise and bodice, cupping one plump breast in his hand and popping it free. His thumb flicked over the nipple, and then his mouth was against the soft white swell, suckling her, nipping around her nipple, licking, kissing and loving her.
Juliet gasped as she felt the first violent waves of climax building within her. She moaned and pushed herself against him, wantonly grinding her hips against his, even as her lips blindly sought his mouth, and her fingers slid up the back of his nape and into the soft waves of his hair.
"Oh, Juliet ... " He was cupping her breast, feverishly kissing it. "You are so beautiful ... so very, very beautiful."
She moaned, lost in the haze of mounting passion.
"Say my name, dearest," he whispered hoars
ely, his mouth moving to the other breast even as he slid his hands beneath her skirts and began to pull them up, "say my name so that I can hear it on your lips and know that I am the one who fires you."
"Gareth!"
He laughed.
"Gareth, Gareth, Gareth!"
This last came out as something of a breathless cry, for his hands had framed her outer thighs, clasping and lifting her straight off the ground. Caught by surprise, her feet dangling, she grabbed at his shoulders to brace herself as he held her, poised, just above his stabbing hardness. His fingers kneaded her bottom, cool air swept up between her open legs to kiss her most intimate flesh. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed his brow, his temples, even the loose hair that clung to them. Kissed his lashes, the bridge of his nose, his slightly roughened cheeks, his hard, demanding mouth, even as she opened her legs as wide as she could, instinctively seeking him, desperately wanting him. And then there was only the hot, probing head of his manhood, poised at her entrance.
She tensed.
He went still, refusing, as was his word, to coerce her into doing anything she didn't wish to do.
And then Juliet, aching for him, wanting all of him inside her with an intensity that threatened to blow her apart, dropped her lips against the top of his head and squirmed toward him.
"Oh, Gareth — please! ..."
It was all the encouragement he needed. Holding her effortlessly, he slowly lowered her onto himself, his engorged shaft completely filling her, spreading her, touching upon wet, intimate walls and moving deeper and deeper inside of her. He was huge. He was wonderful. Her head fell back in mindless ecstacy. A last pin tumbled from her hair and tinkled to the floor, the heavy mass of mahogany hair rippling down her neck, down her back, swinging sensuously against his hands. Still clasping her at the hips, he lowered her until she fully sheathed him, her legs resting atop his hard thighs, her feet dangling; then, when she thought she might explode from the exquisite torture of it, he slowly lifted her up, sliding her up and off each long, delicious inch of himself.
"Oh, Gareth!"
Back down he slid her. Her head fell forward, her fingertips driving into the rock hardness of his shoulders as she fought to delay the brilliant shards of feeling that were already whirling her up and into their spinning vortex. Her breasts were level with his mouth now, and she cried out as he took first one, then the other, into that hot wetness, to be kissed and loved even as he began to slide her back up his rigid length once more.
Back down.
Back up.
Faster now, their breathing growing hoarse and ragged and strained, his breeches falling farther and farther down his legs, and her skirts and hair lashing her back, her bottom, with each savage, mighty thrust.
"Oh, Gareth ... Gareth!"
He whirled her around and they fell across a table behind them. Hard wood behind, hard body above, her hair hanging over the edge and her husband pounding into her. His mouth hot and hungry on hers, his hands everywhere, the table squeaking and shaking and bumping with every thrust. Juliet felt climax rushing toward her as each savage thrust sent her body inching down the table's smooth surface, cried out as her name burst from his lips and his seed burst from him, exploding into her and sending her spinning out over the edges of reality. She bucked and arched, climaxing not once but twice, three times, tears of joy and fulfillment running down her face as the fierce, rapturous waves rocked through her.
Presently, their breathing returned to normal. They realized they were lying on a bare table, he atop her with his weight on his arms, she with her legs spread open and her feet dangling over the sides — and, spontaneously, both of them began to laugh at the total ridiculousness of their positions.
For Juliet, everything inside of her still rang like air around a reverberating bell, free and joyful and alive. And everything inside of her knew that her carefree, loving, rakehell of a husband had finally banished the ghost that had claimed the last year of her life.
"Gareth?"
"Yes, dearest?"
"I think ... that there may be hope for us after all."