| |
A week later
––––––––
HEAD BENT, BRONTË BRUSHED the edge of her pencil in a long sweep down the paper. Laughter, teasing arguments over who’d made the better shot in the croquet game nearby filled her ears but failed to cut through her concentration. She added several more lines, smudging them with the tip of her finger until they became soft shadows. Glancing up, she took in the panorama once again.
Couples strolled here and there, parasols held high. Others gathered in small groups talking. At intervals across the lawn, more partook of different games and activities like those Tris had listed the previous week and that she’d taken part in herself. In the backdrop from this angle, a colorful garden complimented the rainbow of gowns. It might have been the inspiration for a Monet painting.
She’d trade it all in for a nice Monet oil hanging over a big, comfortable bed and some private time to explore the solitude with Tris.
God, she would’ve thought she’d gotten enough of him by now. Instead the need to explore every inch of his body obsessed her. Every crook and hallow. Muscle and sinew. Undeniable urges that had once been foreign to her governed each moment with him. She wasn’t ready to relinquish his company and go home yet. Which was fine. She had all the time in the world.
All the time to take part in a constant game of cat and mouse. Each time she distracted him from his curiosity, he always came back around. His inquisitiveness faded with each passing day however, until the days spent by his side had become free of interrogation and the nights filled with the most delicious sorts of torture.
Hazel continued to think he was courting her. Brontë had the sneaking suspicion Abby persisted in situating them both with other people for no other reason than to irritate her son. Or compel him with a simple case of wanting what he couldn’t have.
They couldn’t know he was having it anyway.
No matter how she enjoyed her Edwardian vacation and the man who thrilled her in so many ways, the commitment they were hoping for wasn’t going to happen. Even if Tris were interested, which he wasn’t. Had he given a clue that led her to think otherwise, she would have left this place already.
It was an affair. A fling. Nothing more.
Yes, keep telling yourself that.
“Oh, I love that detail there.” Hazel leaned close to her shoulder and pointed. “The way you’ve gathered it up in the front? It’s lovely.”
With a smile, Brontë concentrated on that part of her drawing and added a medallion she imagined with silk flowers and crystal beads to the center of the upswept skirt she’d sketched out.
“Yes!” Hazel sighed as she saw it coming to life. “You really are so talented, dear. I can’t imagine how you can come up with something completely different when I thought there were no new dress designs possible.”
“Years of intense training,” Brontë half-joked.
She’d taken to sketching out the dresses and gowns she liked over the past few days. The two dozen ladies in attendance were all fashionable and their styles varied. Rather than continue to bemoan the constant costume changes, she’d decided to embrace the opportunity for a more in-depth study of period clothing. The entire semester of twentieth century costume design she’d taken hadn’t provided such a visual array of popular styles. Bringing her favorite features and details together, she’d begun creating original pieces as well.
Hazel had caught her and taken to the sketches with enthusiasm. Through her efforts, Brontë had been supplied with a large sketchbook, pencils and pastels to complete more new designs. Hazel already had plans for them as new additions to her wardrobe. Her attention and frequent observation of the process had prevented Brontë from indulging in another more secretive activity. She’d almost caught Brontë with her phone in hand one afternoon, snapping pictures to capture the rich colors.
And images of the people she’d eventually leave behind. She wanted, needed something to remember them by other than the memories she made each day.
All around, she was becoming too attached in general. To this place. To the people. Not only to Tris and her ancestors, but to others like Hannah. The young woman had begun life tragically with an abusive father before her mother had run away from him. Though most of the intervening years had been kind to her, the most recent two had not.
Unlike Henry and Tris who’d been spared the trauma of the Titanic’s sinking, Hannah had been on board with her American grandmother. While both women had been among the survivors, a young beau of hers had not survived the calamity. Hazel had mentioned it in her diary. Like other references, however, the impersonal connection had only struck Brontë with sadness. Now, there was the drive to fix yet another thing for someone she’d come to care for. A friend.
Yes, it was going to be hard to leave them all. Most especially Tris. She was growing to like him more than she should. The more she came to know him, his interests and passions, the more difficult leaving would be, but leave she would before things had a chance to go south on them.
“In pink do you think?” Hazel asked. “Henry thinks I look lovely in pink.”
“Henry thinks you look lovely in everything,” she corrected.
“He prefers nothing the best,” Hazel confessed under her breath, a blush blossoming on her cheeks.
Brontë bit her lip and cringed a little. “I bet he does.”
Becoming friends with her great-great-grandmother was incredible. Becoming girlfriends had a few awkward moments. And she’d always thought people from this time were so prudish. The joke was certainly on her. How Granny would laugh.
A sigh lifted her chest before expelling. She missed her grandmother, too.
What you want isn’t always what you need.
The sage advice given to her by both Violet and old Donell echoed through her mind. She might want to stay here longer. She didn’t need to. It might be best if she didn’t. A smart woman would have left already. After the sex, of course. Before the rest of it.
Before it became too complicated.
“Tea, ladies?”
Maybe it already was.
Brontë looked up at Tris with a smile and set her sketchbook aside. “Thank you. That was thoughtful.”
That was Tris. Not that she had him whipped by any means. He pushed back when she pushed too far and debated issues from politics to the war giving no quarter. Occasionally he continued to offer opinions that suggested he was a member of a superior gender. It only led to more arguments that left her to wonder why the hell she was still here.
Given the course of her past relationships, so much arguing and aggravation should have pulled them apart already. Yet here she was. Ready for another round. Why?
Because they made up so nicely?
It was more than that. There was an attractive, primal masculinity in his consideration and solicitude. He was a man who cared for the women in his life, and she liked being one of them.
“You know, I think I might take your sketches and show Hannah, if you don’t mind.” Hazel took the stack of paper and slipped away with a wink.
“She’s not very subtle,” Brontë said, stretching her arms over her head.
“I don’t mind. There’s something I wanted to show you anyway.” He tweaked her chin and offered a hand to help her up from the chaise. “Come.”
The command didn’t chafe at all. She let him pull her up and slipped her arm through his with familiar ease. Depending how you looked at it, this whole escort business was merely another excuse to be close to someone without actually hugging on them.
They strolled at a leisurely pace through the crowds dotting the lawn toward the east wing of the house. Tris opened the door and followed her through after she passed him then took her hand in his. The instant they entered the gallery, her eyes were drawn up as they were each time she came into the room.
“This really is the most magnificent space.”
“Aye, I recalled you saying so and decided I needed to prove you wrong.”
“Because proving me wrong is so much fun?” She smirked at him as he pulled her to a set of double doors at the far end of the gallery.
“Absolutely.”
His smile carried her down a long hall between the morning room and drawing room she hadn’t ventured down yet. It extended past the manor with windows on both sides and ended at a pair of glass and iron doors. With a bow, he swept them open. “Voilà.”
“What...? Oh!” Wonder seized her as he towed her across the threshold. Similar to the squared tower in the central portion of the mansion that housed the main staircase, buttresses between each of the high-arching sets of windows curved up to form a quadripartite vaulted ceiling, like those often seen in gothic cathedrals. Except here, not only were the windows crafted of stained glass, the many bowed domes of the ceiling were as well. The noonday sun beamed through them splashing a kaleidoscope of color across the room. “Oh, my God! It’s amazing!”
The windows weren’t the sole source of dazzling color. The room was filled with flowering plants and fruit trees. Pots and planters covering most of the painted tile floor.
“My aunt calls it the Winter Garden. I thought you might enjoy it.”
Brontë stepped forward, tracing the spiked petal of a stargazer lily in full bloom. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Nor have I ever seen anyone quite like you.”
She shook her head at his romantic nonsense and wandered farther into the room, absorbing the vibrant sights and fragrant scents. Warmth and humidity closed in on her the further she explored, until she felt like she was in the tropics. Exploring the interior of Jamaica maybe. Brontë didn’t know, she’d never been. The thought was pure fantasy. As was this place. The splash of water reached her ears, like a playful tune and she hurried toward it. A massive marble fountain sat at the far end of the room, centered beneath a massive arched window depicting fairies in a lush garden.
“It’s from A Midsummer’s Night Dream,” Tris said from behind her, pointing over her shoulder. “The one with the purple flower is Puck. He makes a juice from the flower that makes people fall in love with the next person they see.”
“Oberon’s revenge,” Brontë said. “’The course of true love never did run smooth.’”
“You know Shakespeare?”
From years of going to and working in the theater, her familiarity was in depth to say the least. She shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone to some extent? And the fountain?”
The marble sculpture bordered on erotic. Naked lovers entwined together with nary a strategically placed fig leaf to cover anything. Not that the male had been endowed with much to conceal.
“Demetrius and Helena,” he told her.
She clicked her tongue sadly. “Poor Helena.”
Tris fell silent for a moment, then his huff of amusement brushed her neck.
“Ye think he failed to satisfy his lass?”
She studied the statue again where the gods frolicked within the spring of rushing water. “I can’t see how he wouldn’t.”
Tris’s chest rose and fell a hairsbreadth away from her back, and she jumped as he grasped her hips and pulled her back against him. Swatting his hand away, she turned her head to glower at him. “What are you doing?”
“Honestly, I dinnae ken.” His rough brogue tickled the nape of her neck as he pressed behind her. “’Tis no’ what I brought ye here for. Every time I’m near ye my good intentions seem to fade away.”
“You don’t just get to touch me anytime you want, you know. You need to make sure I want you to first. You need to ask.”
“I have.” He pushed her hair aside.
“Each time.” The brush of his lips sent a quiver of longing through her and her voice wavered. “My answer might be different. Saying yes once doesn’t imply universal approval.”
“I’m listening to ye, lass. The tilt of yer head when I kiss yer neck. The hitch of yer breath when I touch ye.” He slid his hand down the curve of her hip. “The way ye’re pressing yer bonny arse against my hand as ye are. All of it says ‘Aye, I want ye, too.’”
When had he learned to read her so well? “It’s the middle of the day.”
“Ye said ye’d do anything if I saved ye from Wyndom’s company.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve paid off that debt in full over the past week.” His hand slipped over her belly and up over her breasts. A gasp of delight swallowed further protest. It wasn’t enough. She was beginning to think it never would be.
He nipped at her earlobe. “I’ve always had a particular fantasy about making love by this fountain.”
“In it or on it?” she breathed then blinked. “Wait. You can’t be thinking of doing this right now.”
“Why no’?”
“Because!” Pulling away from his intoxicating nearness before she was too drunk on him to argue, she turned to face him. “Anyone could walk in here at any time. And...and it’s...it’s...”
A wicked grin creased that undeniable dimple into his cheek. “Why, my sweet lass is proving herself to be something of a prude.”
Her arms found their way around her waist in a defensive self-embrace. “We both know that’s not true. I’ve done things with you I never imagined.”
“If ye think what we’ve done thus far is unusual, ye’re more innocent than I believed.”
She wasn’t innocent, he had to be well aware of the fact. Granted she’d always been a little vanilla, in Aila’s vocal opinion, but it got things done pleasingly enough. For her, anyway. God, had she bored him already?
A memory stirred along with the sting of mortification. She’d been right. She should have left this place already.
“Was this your plan all along?” she asked him, hugging her arms tight. “To lure me with stained glass and flowers, and have your way with me?”
“Nay. Honestly I brought ye here wi’ the best of intentions. Now that we’re here though and the subject has...er, arisen so to speak...” He sat on the edge of the fountain and took her hand. Kissing her knuckles, he drew her between his knees. His green eyes danced with wicked desire in the summer sun. “Will ye explore the possibilities wi’ me, my love?”
He ran his hands up the back of her legs and cupped her butt. Pressing a kiss to her abdomen he smiled up at her, the personification of temptation.
Brontë traced her fingers over his cheeks and raked her nails along his roughened jawline. Heaven help her, he was gorgeous. The changing light played with the color of his hair as she buried her fingers into the thick locks. Helpless against him, she bent to kiss him then jumped with a squeal when his hands slid down and his fingers slipped between her thighs. “Tris!”
“Blame yerself,” he told her. “I cannae keep my hands off of ye nae matter how I try.”
“Do you have to try?”
“Aye. Otherwise we wouldnae hae left yer bed since Tuesday.”
His words were playful, teasing, yet they struck a chord. “Then you’re not bored with me?”
The smile slipped away. “Why would ye think that?”
A shrug denied the depth of her anxiety. “I thought wanting to do it here instead of...” She rolled her eyes up with another lift of her shoulder.
“Ye barmy female,” he exclaimed. “Aye, I can think of a hundred places and ways to hae ye in this room alone. Nevertheless if I were to only hae ye beneath me in yer bed between dusk and dawn, I’d be equally content. What jackanapes ever let ye think otherwise?”
She shifted in embarrassment, but he wouldn’t release her. How could she tell Tris, of all people, about her failings in Jake’s eyes? The core problem in their relationship hadn’t truly been that he’d cheated on her, it was what had driven him to it. Not only her nagging, constant disapproval but her inadequacies in bed had led him to find satisfaction with someone else. The pain and humiliation born from that complaint had been more devastating than the cheating itself. She failed to satisfy.
If she were honest with herself, that was why she hadn’t given another guy a chance over the past year. Fear of failure in so many ways. Fear of not living up to another man’s expectations. Of him not living up to hers. Thus, the ideal of the perfect man. The one who’d...
Shit, she should really see a therapist someday.
“I’ve never been particularly adventuresome,” she admitted quietly, aware that Tris was waiting for an answer. All kindness and caring. Though smoldering desire lingered in his eyes and...well, his hands were still on her ass. She wiggled her hips. He held on, his fingers digging in. Her pulse accelerated a fraction. She swallowed back a smile and ran her fingers through his hair again with a thoughtful sigh. “Honestly, I suppose I’ve never really been inspired enough to venture beyond the usual three positions.”
“Three?” His expression lit with mischief once more. “I’ve counted six or more already. I’m happy to make it seven if it pleases ye. Or waiting until the clock strikes midnight again if it disnae.”
Something split deep in her chest and spread with a poignant ache. Bending over him, she kissed him. Long. Slow. Deep. Each caress of his mouth, every stroke of his tongue sent the sensation radiating outward. Down her limbs to pool into a delicious throbbing between her thighs. “Thank you,” she whispered against his lips.
“For what?”
“Inspiring me.”
“I hae a care for what is mine, lass. And ye’re my own.”
Yes. She was deeply afraid that she was.
Fighting back the panic the thought aroused, Brontë gathered her skirts around her hips and straddled Tris where he sat on the edge of the fountain. His rough hands immediately clasped her bare thighs above her stockings, thumbs tracing a path inward. Kissing him again, she reached between and ran her palm down his rampant length before finding the buttons of his trousers.
“I’m warning you,” she said, biting on his lower lip. “You better not get me wet.”
Tris rubbed a finger around her pulsing nub and slid between the damp folds. Testing her, then retreating. Teasing her again. She threw back her head with a throaty cry of surrender and his warm chuckle caressed her cheek.
“No’ get ye wet? Och, lass. I cannae make that promise.”