With His Ring (Brides of Bath Book 2) (25 page)

"Yes you do," Glee said, turning back to
Hampton.

The unfortunate butler did not know who the
master was in this situation. He gazed from one to the other.

Then Gregory stepped forward and grabbed
onto the bannister. "I can manage."

Glee raced up the steps to put her arm
around Blanks's waist. "Lean on me," she said. He faced her and
began to laugh. "Think you to help me when I'm more than twice your
size?"

She shot him a defiant glance. "I'm stronger
than I look." Then she turned back to poor Hampton. "Thank you,
Hampton, but Mr. Blankenship and I will be able to manage now."

When they reached the second floor landing,
Blanks said, "I daresay the entire staff will know tomorrow that
the master's been in his cups."

"I daresay you're right," she said, biting
her lip as she struggled to walk to his chamber with her arm around
him. He was not walking well at all. And his blasted knee hurt like
the devil.

Glee opened the door to his bedchamber, then
turned back to assist him into the room that was lit only by the
fire in the hearth. He hated to admit that leaning on her
slenderness really was of assistance. When he got close to his bed,
he collapsed on it.

"I'll call Stanley," she whispered.

Gregory snatched her forearm. "But I thought
you said you were going to take me home and put me to bed."

"And so I have."

He stared at her, at the fire flickering on
her face. At her eyelashes that were still wet from the night's
rain. At the foolishly absurd picture of her trying to lift him
from the muddy street. At her undeniable loveliness. "Are you not
going to undress me?" he murmured.

"That, my dear Blanks, is why I'm going to
fetch Stanley."

His hand trailed down her arm and grasped
her hand. "You're not behaving very wifely."

She sat on the bed beside him and with a
gentle hand swept the wet hair off his forehead. "What do you
mean?"

Bloody hell! Did she have no idea how such
an intimate gesture would affect a man? Especially a man who'd been
without a woman for so long? "Isn't a wife supposed to share her
husband's bed?"

She spoke softly. "It. . .it wasn't part of
the bargain, but if that's what you want, I will."

He ran his fingers through her radiant hair.
"That's what I want," he whispered huskily.

Chapter 21

Of course, it was the liquor speaking.
Blanks didn't really want her. Most likely, he wouldn't even
remember this night tomorrow. But she could not let this hungered
for blending go unfulfilled. If she could not possess his heart,
she would take consolation in his body. She trembled from the sweet
anticipation of being physically loved by Blanks. As she lowered
her face to his, love surged through her like warm honey.

That first kiss was soft and gentle, with
his arms closing around her, blanketing her in his warmth. The next
kiss was far more intimate, more passionate. Their mouths opened
hungrily, and she drew in the taste of his brandy flavored tongue.
Unaccountably, her breathing grew ragged, and his matched hers,
breath for breath.

This intimacy consumed her, pulsing through
her body an intense desire to be utterly possessed by the man she
loved with all her heart. Her hands glided over the hard muscles of
his powerful back then moved to the front of him, where she slipped
her hand into the gap between his shirt buttons. She thrilled to
the feel of the hot flesh of his chest and the sound of him
groaning with pleasure. Fleeting thoughts of their wedding ceremony
flashed through her mind. She and Blanks belonged to one another,
body and soul. She shivered with delight. Tonight his god-like body
belonged to her. And she belonged to him. Completely.

"Lay beside me," he crooned huskily into her
moistened ear.

Her breath caught as she raised up, then
spread herself like warm butter beside him. His arms came around
her, urging her closer, so close that she could feel the drumming
of his erratic heartbeat. And could feel his man's swell throbbing
against her low in the torso.

His hands caressed her back, then her hips,
sweeping her up into the maddening rhythm that joined them. She
could not think clearly. Her thoughts were like shooting stars,
soaring through a vastness that knew no boundaries. She would
almost channel the thoughts into words when another, brighter star
would streak through her endless pleasure-fogged brain. Through the
blur of thoughts and powerful emotions shone her need to feel her
flesh against his flesh. She began to unfasten his shirt
seductively.

With a single, gentle hand he began to lower
the bodice of her gown. She felt the rush of cold air cover her
breasts. And heard the sharp intake of her husband's breath. He
settled his hands on each side of one breast, handling it as if it
were a tender piece of fruit.

Then she felt his warm mouth close around
one nipple, and she thought she would go mad from the spiralling
sensations he aroused within her.

"That wretched dress has to go," he
whispered with a groan, trailing his hand down the length of her,
leaving a path of tingling flesh.

As much as she wanted him to take her this
very moment, to feel him inside her, she would have to briefly draw
away from him. In essence this was their true wedding night. And
the red gown was no part of it. She thought of the fine ivory lawn
night shift she'd bought in the hopes of one day wearing it for
Blanks. She would have to force herself away from him to go to her
chamber and make herself ready for this most special of nights.

With a final hungry kiss, she slipped from
the bed. "I'll come right back to you, dearest," she promised.

He grasped her hand, kissed it and spoke
with a thick tongue. "Hurry, love."

She crossed the soft carpet of his chamber,
went through their connecting dressing rooms and came to her own
chamber, which was lit only by the fire in the hearth. In the linen
press, she found the lawn. Then she shimmied out of her red gown,
allowing it to puddle on the floor, then she stripped off her stays
and drawers. She stood there naked and unashamed, stunned by her
need for Blanks. She slipped the lawn over her head, then went to
her dressing table where she reached for a bottle of perfume. She
dabbed some scent on her neck, glancing in the mirror. Pins still
secured her hair. Wanting to feel Blanks's fingers trailing through
combed-out hair, she removed all the pins and brushed out her hair
before returning to her husband.

When she entered his chamber she heard heavy
breathing. Very heavy, indeed. Like a sleeping man. With dread, she
walked to his bed and gazed upon him. He lay on his back, his arms
spread to each side of the bed, his white shirt unbuttoned to
reveal his bronzed chest glowing with firelight and its dark hair
trailing to his waist. Her hungry gaze traveled to the tussled hair
on his head, then to his closed eyes. She drew closer. He was sound
asleep.

"Blanks," she whispered as loud as one could
whisper.

Nothing.

She sat beside him and ran a gentle hand
over his brow.

Nothing.

"Bloody hell." 'Twas an expression exclusive
to males, but it exactly summed up her deep, retching
disappointment.

Tense with her denied desire, Glee returned
to her own chamber and drew off the lawn. It would be worn only for
Blanks. She bent to scoop her red gown from the floor, then changed
her mind and allowed it to stay where it was. She would prefer
Patty and the servants to think it had been thrown off in the heat
of passion. She dressed herself in a heavier night shift, pulled
back her covers and climbed onto the bed.

At her immediate recollection of lying with
Blanks, her eyes moistened. She had woefully lost what might be her
only chance to truly be Blanks's wife. In more than name.

She was consumed with a deep, painful
emptiness where she had thought to find fulfillment. Always, she
had hoped for this night. She had thought—indeed, longed for—the
day to come when she would receive Blanks's seed. . .to bear his
child. . . to intertwine their lives so closely they meshed into
one.

And now she had nothing. She began to
weep.

* * *

His chamber was no longer in darkness,
Gregory thought as he lay there, not wanting to move and bring back
the searing pain in his head. He began to lift a leg and realized
he still wore the shoes he had worn to the assembly the night
before. Lying on top the bed instead of in it, he was bitterly
cold. The fire had gone out, and he wore but a thin shirt--and it
was unbuttoned.

Such were the after-effects of too much
drink. He remembered storming to the nearest public house in his
rage at seeing Glee kiss the devil Jefferson. He remembered
drinking all afternoon and into the night, when he had gone home
and hurriedly changed for the Assembly Rooms. There had been a
scene at the Assembly Rooms. He'd told Jefferson he would call him
out if he ever touched Glee again. Then, with a wave of some
unknown emotion, Gregory remembered coming here—to this very
room—with Glee. He bolted up in his bed. Good Lord, he had tried to
seduce her! He closed his eyes and tried to remember exactly what
had happened. He had said she wasn't obliging in her wifely duties.
. .then she consented to make love with him.

How could he have forgotten? The taste of
her. The feel of her eagerly pressing against him. The softness of
her exposed breasts. But, try as he might, he could not remember
feeling himself within her. He glanced down at his breeches. He had
not removed them. Had he, he would be nude now. Which meant. . .the
act had not been consummated. Foxed as he was, he must have bloody
well passed out! He laughed a bitter laugh.

Relief washed over him as he fell back into
his pillows. Thank God he had not impregnated her. Maddening as she
was, he did not care to lose her.

A stabbing pain shot across his brow as he
lay there thinking of Glee. Making love to him was not part of
their bargain. She had his name, his fortune at her disposal. Why,
then, had she willingly chosen to give herself to him? Did she feel
obliged by wifely duty? Did she consent in order to assuage her
guilt over kissing Jefferson? Had she consented because. . .she
cared for him more deeply than she admitted?

Damn! Being married was a most complex
affair. Now he was faced with deciding how he would act when he
next saw her. Should he allow her to believe he remembered nothing?
Should he apologize for his behavior? Perhaps he should warn her
not to ever give in to his drunken demands.

Closing his eyes as if to ward off the pain,
he inched his way off the bed and slowly crossed the room to ring
the bell for Stanley. His wretched head hurt like the devil. So did
his blasted knee. 'Twas enough to keep a man sober for the rest of
his life. His valet would know to bring his special elixir. With
that, a shave and clean clothes he would be ready to face his wife.
And today, he vowed, he would drink nothing stronger than
water.

* * *

An hour later—still not feeling quite the
thing—he left his chambers and was making his way down the hall to
the top of the stairs when he heard his wife's voice at the bottom
of the stairs.

"You're to deliver this letter to Mr.
William Jefferson at the Paragon Building," she said.

Gregory came to a dead stop. His unsettled
stomach flipped. As fuzzy as his memory was of what had happened
the night before, he could have sworn Glee told him she would not
see Jefferson again. Surely Jefferson would not be stupid enough to
meet with a woman whose husband had threatened to kill him.
Gregory's soaring rage and all its violent sparks returned.

Shaking with anger, he tore down the stairs
and limped past Glee, who was standing in the foyer beside a
demilune table thumbing through the day's post. She looked up at
him, color rising in her cheeks.

She looked nothing like the vixen she had
appeared last night in the scant scarlet dress. Today, in a pastel
sprigged muslin day dress, she looked like the old Glee, the
innocent girl who had been his bride. Not the seductress she had
been the night before.

"Any ill effects from last night?" she asked
with concern.

"A great many, if you must know." He drilled
her with an angry gaze. "Why, may I ask, are you sending messages
to Jefferson?"

Her eyes widened. "I. . .I wanted to . . .to
urge him to heed your ultimatum, of course."

He nodded, then continued on to his
library.

Glee had the good sense not to follow him.
Had she, he would have thoroughly vented his anger on her.

In his library, he drew open the draperies
to allow more light into the room, then sat in a red leather chair
behind his massive walnut desk, and with trembling hand penned a
note to the Bow Street Runners in London. Since he obviously could
not trust his wife to stay away from Jefferson, Gregory would have
to impose his will on her without her assistance.

As soon as he had drafted the letter, a rap
sounded on his library door.

Was that blasted Glee coming to use her
charms to coax him from his anger? "Come in," he snapped.

Hampton presented himself. "Mr. Appleton to
see you, sir. May I show him in?"

"Yes, do. And here, discreetly post this
letter for me." Hampton, being a well-trained servant, knew that
Mrs. Blankenship would never see the missive.

Gregory got up to greet Appleton. He owed
his friend an apology for the way he had acted at the Assembly
Rooms the night before.

He bowed when Appleton entered the library.
"So glad you've come, old boy. I fear I owe you an apology for my
abominable behavior last night."

Appleton smiled and dropped into the chair
nearest Gregory. "It's your poor wife who’s owed the apology."