Diary of a Painted Lady (20 page)

Chapter Thirty

Ireland 1890

Dunleavy House was a slice of heaven. Gina strolled along a path where birds of infinite variety sang from the trees. Sweet-scented wisteria ranged over a fence with blossoms like pendulous bunches of purple grapes. The soporific hum of bees reached her from the flower garden. She picked up her skirts and crossed the lawns to where Blair sat watching the sun kiss the blue waters of Lough Leane.

“Where’ve you been since lunch?” He reached out to her, smiling lazily.

The look in his sleepy, blue eyes made her want to touch him, if just to stroke his hair. They had not yet made love and she yearned for it. “I went for a walk. We’ve been here for days and I haven’t seen the gardens.”

She bent down and kissed him. “I think of nothing but you.” He stroked her hair. “And making love to you.”

Gina laughed, as a delightful shiver of anticipation passed through her. “I’ve been thinking of your mother, coming today to look me over,” she said. “She may well accuse me of getting you shot.”

“Rubbish, my love.” He pulled her down on the bench beside him. His good arm around her he drew her close and kissed her again. Laughing, she struggled out of his hold. “You must be getting better.”

Just being near him filled her with yearning, she wanted him so. But if the servants told his mother, it would make for a very bad beginning.

Gina had nightmares about Blair’s mother. A baron’s daughter. Well, she was a baron’s daughter too, if from the wrong side of the blanket. She made Blair promise never to tell his mother the truth of her parentage. She was to be Milo’s legitimate daughter for all intents and purposes. She owed more to Milo than she ever did her father. After all, he’d done nothing to ensure her and her mother’s future before he died.

Gina swallowed nervously when later in the day, a carriage stopped in front of the house. Blair winked at her, took her hand and squeezed it. “My mother is quick tempered, but always fair.”

“She may not like me.”

“How could she not?” he said, and went outside to greet his mother.

Gina waited in the hall. She’d paid careful attention to her appearance, choosing her most sober outfit. She fiddled with the collar of her high-necked, hazelnut crepe dress. Her clothes were a little loose. She’d lost weight worrying about Blair during those last difficult weeks. After Garrick helped them reach London, they’d stayed a month in Blair’s townhouse while he slowly recovered. She was glad her new clothes had been returned to her, for it gave her confidence as his fiancée when his friends and acquaintances called to see how he fared. His injury had even been mentioned in Parliament, and in the press. Speculation about the true story was rife, but she and Blair were determined it would never be made known. Gina had begged Blair to protect Jarred.

Gina had visited Fredrik Leighton, and sat for him one last time. The Pear’s poster she had done appeared on walls and in the underground. The company expressed a wish for her to do more in the future, but it wasn’t the right time. Blair was agreeable, but now people stared at her wherever she went. She would prefer to stir their interest for a better cause than to sell soap. Blair ignored the gossip, but she hated to think she caused scandalous talk, for his sake. He cleverly swayed the journalist’s opinion, convincing them she was a heroine who saved his life when he was attacked by a robber. Even so, she was relieved when his health improved and they could undertake the journey to Ireland.

A frail, middle-aged woman entered on her son’s arm, her gown exquisitely embroidered at the cuffs and hem, a fringed shawl decorated with peonies on her shoulders. She had been a beauty, with a fine boned face, but ill health ravished her fair skin, and dark shadows lay beneath her brown eyes. Gina saw no sign of fragility in those eyes, however, as she met her challenging gaze.

Gina lifted her chin. She planned to be the best wife in the world to Blair. She would fight for the chance, if she had to.

Blair ushered his mother toward Gina. “Mother, this is Gina,” he said simply.

“How do you do.”

“It is good to meet you at last,” Gina said. “Blair has told me a lot about you.”

With a curt nod Maeve turned back to Blair. “Are you better today?” She patted his cheek as they walked into the parlor.

“I’m getting stronger every day.” Blair propped his walking stick against the sofa and sank down.

Gina placed a pillow behind his head. She turned to his mother. “You’ve had a long journey. Would you care for tea?” She’d discovered the Irish were just as keen on their tea as the English.

“I’m sure Sarah has already seen to it.” Maeve sat beside Blair studying him with a worried frown.

Aware that this was Maeve’s home too, Gina said. “I’ll go and see.”

“No need for that, surely,” Maeve said. “Just ring the bell.”

“You don’t know Gina, Mother,” Blair grinned. “She has spent many hours in the kitchen since we came here. She’s taken cook in hand and the meals are superb.” He patted his flat stomach. “If I don’t get out of this chair soon, I’ll be as fat as farmer O’Leary’s prize sow.”

Maeve’s delicate brows rose as she turned to look at Gina. “You cook?”

“I enjoy it.” Gina met her gaze unflinchingly.

“She can ride like the devil and drive the trap,” Blair said. “Took a meal out to John Talbert, this morning. He’s been poorly.”

“On her own?”

“Couldn’t talk her out of it,” Blair said despairingly.

“You are finding your way around then, Gina,” Maeve said, her tone softening.

“I enjoy it. Ireland is so beautiful.”

Blair told his mother how Gina had persuaded Jarred to take him to a doctor. And how, after he’d recovered sufficiently, she’d tended to him on their journey home. “Saved my life. No question,” he said with a warm smile at Gina.

The critical expression faded from Maeve’s eyes. “I plan to stay until the wedding,” she said. “Now that Blair is recovering; you shall need a chaperone. After your wedding, I intend to make my permanent home in Dublin. Young people need time to be alone. Do you know,” she said, studying Gina’s figure, “Your figure is similar to mine when I was married. You might be able to wear my wedding gown with little alteration. If you would care to, of course. I kept it for the daughter I never had. It’s made of fine Venetian lace.”

“How lovely! I would be honored. Thank you.” Gina, never able to hide her feelings for long, rushed to hug her.

The woman’s slim body felt fragile in Gina’s arms. But she relaxed and her eyes grew misty. “Call me Mamma, I don’t hold with modern ideas.”

* * *

The wedding was to be held in the small stone village church, attended by a few close friends and relatives, and some of the parishioners and tenant farmers. Blair had not wished Gina to be intimidated by a society wedding held in Dublin, he shared her desire for a small country wedding and surprisingly his mother agreed.

He was inordinately pleased when she expressed a fondness for Gina. “You have chosen well,” she said when they were alone. “Gina will make you a good wife.”

“I had a good model.”

“Surprisingly, she is a little like me when a young woman. She has spirit.”

Fully restored to health, Blair discarded his cane. He and Gina enjoyed their first ride together. He proudly showed her about his estate.

They reined in beside the lough and dismounted, and he held his bride-to-be in his arms. “I want you so much, Gina,” he said into her hair. It was torture seeing her every day and not being able to make love to her. He wanted her with every fiber of his being.

“I want you too, Blair, but….” Gina hesitated. “I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

He drew back in amazement. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“The only knowledge I have of making love is the advice my friend, Mabel gave me. And I’ve forgotten most of it.”

He gave a peel of laughter. “Thank God you have forgotten it.” He kissed her so soundly until they drew away breathless. “I shall delight in teaching you, my love, but I feel you have much to teach me.”

The day of the wedding dawned sunny and warm. Blair was overwhelmed with emotion as he watched Gina walk down the aisle. She was stunning. His mother’s lace wedding gown floated around her, and white flowers decorated her hair. She had not demurred when Maeve took over the arrangements with her usual efficiency. “She will enjoy being busy,” Gina had said with her usual wisdom. “Mamma has so little to do these days.”

As he’d expected, Maeve had excelled in the task. Her enormous urns arrived from Dublin and were filled with fragrant flowers. The only thing Gina had fought Maeve on was her bouquet. She insisted on yellow roses. Blair had learnt the significance of the roses from Gina’s childhood. How right she’d been, they were perfect.

The wedding breakfast was held in the Dunleavy House ballroom. Old Ben Quayle, a local farmer, drank too much whiskey and began to sing. He was forgiven, however, for he had a fine voice. The Irish love to sing, he’d told Gina. “So do the Italians,” she’d answered smiling at him. The fiddlers struck and Blair led his beautiful bride in the bridal waltz.

True to her word, after the last guests left, Maeve had her trunk taken out to the carriage. She took Gina’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “You’ll do, daughter,” she said softly.

She departed for Dunleavy Court, leaving the lovers alone.

Chapter Thirty-One

Gina stood before the mirror in her wedding gown, her hands to her cheeks.

Blair came from his dressing room wearing his robe. “Why, what is it, darling?”

“I can’t believe this is me.” She gazed at her reflection. “If only mother and Milo could see me.”

He put his arms around her waist. “Maybe they can, darling. Maybe they can.”

“Oh, I’m so happy.” She leaned back against him. “I feel a little tipsy. I had several glasses of champagne.” She reached up to stroke his cheek. “Are you as happy as I am?”

“Yes, my Gina.” He took her in his arms and waltzed around the room. She laughed, thrilled to have him strong again.

He drew her over to the bed. Breathless, they gazed at one another. “I want so much to please you.” She stood and grasped her skirts with both hands, easing them up a little, planning to perform a provocative dance.

Blair grinned and leapt to his feet. “No, sweetheart.” He held her shoulders, and gazed loving down at her. “What Mabel told you has no place on this day.” He gave a wicked smile. “Tomorrow, or next week, I look forward to enjoying what she taught you.”

Crushing her to him, he kissed her passionately. “Darling,” he murmured. “Let me make love to you.”

*

Blair undid the myriad of tiny buttons down Gina’s back. He’d never felt this tender undressing a woman before. Gina was his soul mate, from the moment he first saw her in that painting, he’d been lost. He meant every vow he’d made before the parson. He would love and protect her for the rest of their lives.

The bustle petticoat and the corset joined her gown over a chair. Gina stood before him in her camisole and bloomers. He removed the tortoiseshell combs from her hair and threaded his fingers through the glossy golden locks as they spilled over her shoulders, lifting a scented curl to his lips.

“These combs were my mother’s gift to me,” she murmured, taking them from him and placing them carefully on the dresser.

“I’m glad you have something to remember her by,” he said huskily. He kissed the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat. Easing down the strap of her chemise, he pressed kisses over the soft skin of her shoulder, then raised his head to caress her lips.  Her lovely body had filled his thoughts since the brief glimpse in Mayfair when she was half-dressed in the lurid chemise. He kissed her with slow drugging kisses. His cock hardened with rampant need for her and he cautioned himself, this was Gina’s first experience of lovemaking. He was determined that it would be special.

“I want you to enjoy this, sweetheart.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder as he bent to draw down her blue satin garters over her lovely legs. Stroking the velvety skin of her inner thigh, he rolled down her stockings. He remembered how she’d teased him to distraction on that disastrous night that had sent him hurrying away to Ireland. His instincts had been right not to spoil what they had, for he might have lost her forever, and here she was, his cherished wife.

Gina stood naked before him, all creamy curves, her high, full breasts tipped with shell-pink nipples, a soft vee of fair hair at the apex of her thighs. As lovely as a Degas nude. He couldn’t draw his gaze away from her as he shrugged off his dressing gown.

*

Gina gasped at the sight of him. He was so beautiful. His broad chest tapered to a narrow waist and slim hips. She touched the puckered scar, a symbol of their triumph over adversity. Their life together would hold more adversities to overcome, she was sure, and many victories, joyful ones. Not least the child she hoped to one day hold in her arms.

Blair joined her on the bed. He kissed her taut nipples, rousing a melting sweetness that made her moan and slid her fingers through his thick dark hair. She knew little of love making, but her desire to have him inside her, quickened her pulse and shortened her breath. She grew hot and moist between her legs, and when he stroked that special part of her, exquisite pleasure spread through her body and she cried out.

“Your body is smooth and rough, hard and strong,” she whispered, her fingers tracing over his satiny skin, marveling at his muscled chest with its rough smattering of hair and small brown nipples. His breath scented with wine blended with hers. When his tongue entered her mouth, she gasped. Tasting him set her whole body on fire.

“I love you, Gina.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

“Touch me.” His eyes dark blue with desire, he took her hand and swept it over his stomach and down.

She marveled that he grew hard beneath her fingers, loved that she could make him groan with pleasure. “Hard and soft as velvet.”

“Sweet torture,” he murmured.

He settled his body between her thighs, hipbone to hipbone, and his manhood nudged the folds of her sex. Her body clenched and she opened wider to welcome him, wanting and needing him.

Her heart pounding, Gina drew in a breath as he edged inside her. It stung and she bit her lip trying not to cry out. She arched her back to better accept him and he was inside, filling her.

He paused and stroked her hair. “Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head unable to speak. It did hurt a little, but what bliss to be joined with him in this way. How right it felt.

When he moved inside her, the pain ebbed away. She stroked his back over the straining muscles and down to his rounded, strong buttocks, tensing with each thrust. Her hands on his driving hips, she instinctively moved with him in some primitive rhythm.

With a groan, Blair spilled his seed inside her. Settling beside her he gathered her into his embrace. “Are you sore sweetheart? It will be more enjoyable next time.”

“Mmm.” Gina snuggled against him as a delicious lassitude filled her. She wanted to tell him how beautiful it had been, but she was too sleepy. She could only manage to murmur that she loved him. The thought came to her that she would tell him tomorrow.

She heard the smile in his voice, It’s been a long day. Sleep well, my love.”

* * *

Two days later, her body flushed from early lovemaking, Gina settled in the library, recalling with a sigh how Blair’s expert touch had sent her to even higher levels of ecstasy. After breakfast, he’d kissed her and ridden out to the home farm.

She liked to sit in this room with its smell of leather and old tomes. The family history was here. A painting of Blair’s great-grandfather hung over the fireplace, dressed in riding clothes, he stood beside a magnificent black horse. He had blue eyes and a very determined chin. She would have liked to have known him, and was sure that Blair inherited some of his fine qualities, as well as his good looks. Sitting at the big oak desk, she took a fresh sheet of writing paper from the drawer. She picked up a pen and began to write, grateful to her mother for teaching her to read and write, but painfully aware that her spelling was very bad. In neat script she wrote
The Life of Milo Russo, a Great Artist, by his step-daughter, Giovanna
.

Hours later, Blair found her there when he arrived home for luncheon, still scribbling away. He crossed the room to hug her and peer over her shoulder. “What are you up to? The maid said you’ve been in here for hours.”

Gina chewed the end of the pen. “How do you spell exquisite?”

Blair told her and she wrote it down.

“English spelling makes little sense at times.”

Satisfied with her efforts, she straightened the sheets of paper and rose to give her husband a proper kiss.

“Am I to be told what this endeavor may be?” he asked with an indulgent smile.

“I’m writing about Milo’s life, his wonderful paintings, how much he loved my mother, and how he was struck down just as he’d begun to be famous.”

“A grand idea. I’ll buy you a journal in which to write it.”

“Would you? I should like that.”

“It can be your diary. Write not just about Milo, but of your life too, my love.” He held out his hand to here. “Come now, it’s time to dine. And I want you to myself.”