Chapter 25
Gervaise woke abruptly in the early hours to a cat’s paw tapping his cheek. It was Romulus, who refused to be placated with a petting and started meowing in his face. Gervaise growled at him and cast a quick warning look toward Caroline, who remained slumbering soundly.
Once his eyes turned in her direction, he found he could not easily redirect them. Caroline Halperston, her face softened in sleep, robbed him of his breath and he was not sure he would ever get it back.
It took everything in him not to reach out to her and draw her against him.
Not even for sexual congress, he realized in stunned disbelief.
Just for…well, he was not really sure what for, truth be told.
The impulse was a disquieting one. He had a horrible suspicion it was nothing more complicated than a misguided desire to cuddle with her.
Disgusting, he thought unconvincingly. Was he turning into some sort of dotard in his old age? Would he turn into a pincher and a fondler in future? His eyes traveled down the counterpane without making out much of Caroline’s shapely form. He suddenly found the idea was not entirely without merit.
He had never been much of a pawer of women before. In truth, he liked to keep the physical side of things to a very specific set of circumstances. And here he was currently breaking all of them, he thought incredulously.
If last night was anything to go on, she would likely not even murmur one word of reproach, he thought, swallowing.
She had been so…fucking willing, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.
More than willing. She had wanted him. Wanted him with a desire to match his own.
His body, remembering the feel and taste of her, started inevitably to react.
Gervaise took a steadying breath, tearing his gaze from her.
It was just an infatuation, he told himself firmly.
Men were subject to these violent infatuations from time to time.
True, he had never been thus afflicted before, but he remembered his friend Jeremy at nineteen.
How completely he had fallen victim to Cupid’s dart.
What a fool Gervaise had thought him. How pitiful that he now should…
But no. It was not the same. Jeremy had not made Emmeline his mistress.
He had nobly withdrawn from the field until he could offer his beloved respectable marriage.
Whereas Gervaise had not a noble bone in his body.
He had pursued a far less respectable arrangement with Caroline and now look at him!
He wanted marriage, while she scorned him! A pretty state of affairs and no mistake. And it was entirely his own fault. He huffed out a frustrated breath. Why had he not realized that Caroline was not at all suitable for the type of liaison he usually indulged in?
She did not have the experience. She did not have the sophistication.
She did not have the wherewithal for such things.
His prior arrangements had always been entirely practical and devoid of emotion.
He could enjoy the company of a pretty woman of an evening without wondering remotely how she had spent her day.
He did not dwell on them between times. He barely considered them. Caroline though was crowding into his thoughts an almost obscene amount. Why? He wanted her, yes, but this was ridiculous. Was it because she had rejected his offer of marriage?
He considered the matter impartially. Could it be as simple as that? A contrary longing for that which he could not have? But Caroline had made it abundantly clear that he could have her! Without any trappings of respectability in fact! So…no. It could not be that after all.
In vain he tried to tell himself she was the same woman he had thought nothing special not so long ago. When she had clambered into his carriage, he had half regretted his offer to her. And since then, she had undergone no incredible transformation.
She was the same practical, level-headed creature with her grave expression and sober clothes. A pretty governess, that was how he had once thought of her. Understated, calm, and repressed. Only the way her eyes lit up when she was amused gave her away.
Oh, and the way she yelled herself hoarse when she climaxed.
Fuck, why did he have to remember that? He stole a quick sideways look at her.
Still fast asleep. Of course she was. What was she dreaming about, with her lips just parted and her lashes resting undisturbed against her cheeks?
Why did her every unremarkable feature strike him now as sheer perfection? And how long would his obsession last?
She was far from his ideal, he told himself doggedly.
She was… Well, she wasn’t… Again, words failed him.
Well, she acted against his wishes, he recalled with great effort.
He had bade her to stay in their rooms and instead she had ventured downstairs to consort with the inhabitants of a gin palace of all places.
Strictly speaking, that was his fault too, for getting them embroiled in one, he acknowledged.
What a reasonable individual he was turning out to be!
Well then, he would take a different tack.
She liked taking him to task, he remembered, but instead of irritating him, as you might imagine, it sort of… intrigued him.
Suddenly, the impertinent words she had spoken at The King’s Head popped into his mind. I hope you will excuse my husband’s eccentricities, as I am forced to. He caught his breath. There was absolutely no mistaking it this time around. He had liked it when she called him husband. Fuck.
He had liked the challenging lift of her chin, the gleam in her eye as she waited for his reaction. He wanted it, that…her, all to himself. He wanted to set her at the center of his world and then organize his whole existence around her.
That alone was what would satisfy him. Finally, he had worked it out. This was what he wanted. His chest pounded as he waited for the inevitable panic to set in. Why wasn’t he panicking? He turned his head slowly, almost reluctantly, to take another look at the sleeping face of his beloved.
Oh. That was why. He wasn’t infatuated. He was in love.
Romulus shoved his face against Gervaise’s cheekbone, purring loudly. “Shhh,” he scolded him in a whisper. “Why can’t you be more like your brother?” Remus currently lay blissfully outstretched alongside his mistress’s still form. They made a well-matched pair. Romulus meowed again, insistently.
“Oh, very well,” Gervaise sighed in accents of long-suffering. He clambered naked out of the bed into the brisk morning air, casting about for his nightshirt. Then he remembered Caroline was wearing it. He turned back, wanting to see her in it but the bed coverings obscured the view.
Grabbing his banyan, he rapped the green silk around himself and tied the belt.
“Perhaps you’re hungry,” he ventured, scooping up the troublesome cat and stepping into his slippers.
Romulus meowed again and Gervaise made his way down the stairs with him in his arms, making his way into the scullery.
He did not pause on the threshold this time, but pushed the door open and walked slap-bang in the middle of a conversation between Jeb and Reg.
“—and now she’s not speaking to me,” Jeb finished in aggrieved tones. “As if I can help it who my old mum invites to her table on a Sunday!”
They both turned to look at Gervaise. Jeb was still glowering ferociously, while Reg looked relieved by the arrival of a newcomer.
Gervaise suspected Reg had little to offer by way of advice for his cousin’s domestic predicaments.
“Mornin’, your lordship,” he said. “There’s tea in the pot if you want to pour a cup for Miss Caroline. ”
“Ah, yes,” Gervaise answered. “Excellent. But first, I must see to this one.” He hitched Romulus a little higher. “Is there any of that horsemeat remaining?”
“’Orsemeat?” Jeb repeated sullenly. “I don’t know nothin’ about no ’orsemeat.” He looked to his cousin.
“I’ll ’ave a look round,” Reg said obligingly, opening and closing cupboards.
“Thank you. I’ll return presently.” Gervaise wandered out with the cat into the little courtyard and set him down on some scrubby grass to go about his business, while he smoked his first cigarette of the day.
When they returned five minutes later, it was only Jeb sat sprawled in a chair, swigging tea from a mug.
Gervaise set Romulus down and after cautiously sniffing the jug of milk, poured some into a saucer for him.
“Reg has nipped out to see if he can spot the catsmeat seller,” Jeb volunteered grudgingly. “The store round the corner don’t open till nine.” He cast a disparaging look at Romulus who was now dipping a paw into saucer of milk. “There summink special about your cats I don’t know about?”
“Why do you ask?” Gervaise enquired.
“Never seen no one escort their cat outdoors for a piss before,” he answered scathingly.
Gervaise shrugged. “Well, perhaps I am not so careless with my belongings as you.”
“Wot the bleedin’ ’ell do you mean by that?” Jeb fired back, clearly taking offence.
Gervaise turned to look at him. “I meant,” he responded coolly, “that I do not wish my cats to wander off and get lost. So, yes, in answer to your question, I suppose they are valuable. To me.”
Jeb scowled and stared down at the table. He scrubbed a hand over his face and Gervaise noticed he had not shaved this morning and looked rather the worse for wear.
“Rough night?” he enquired idly as he picked over the cups and saucers. Really, he should have purchased a matching set for Caroline yesterday. Maybe he would buy her one today. A whole set, he decided recklessly.
Jeb grunted but would give no other reply, and as soon as the far door opened and Reg ambled in, he thrust back his chair and flung out of the room with a face like thunder.
“Don’t mind ’im,” Reg imparted. “’E’s ’avin trouble wiv ’is missus.”
Gervaise felt a surprising pang of fellow feeling. “Well, that can certainly put a blight on one’s day,” he murmured.
“’Ow was your French food last night?” Reg asked, passing over a bundle of newspaper. “It’s catsmeat,” he explained when Gervaise gazed down at it blankly.
“Ah! The food was top notch as always,” he replied, untying the string and tipping some of the cubed meat onto a plate, Romulus clamoring all the while.
“If you say so,” Reg replied doubtfully. “Only I ’eard them Frenchies eats snails and frog’s legs. Don’t fancy none of that meself.”
“Do you similarly avoid cockles and sheep’s trotters?” Gervaise enquired mildly.
“Ah, now that’s different!” Reg objected. “You can’t beat a nice, boiled trotter, and as for cockles, served with a bit of pepper and vinegar…” A wistful look entered his eye. “Beautiful, they are.”
“I will have to take your word for that,” Gervaise replied, retying the string on Remus’s share of the meat. Once he had poured Caroline’s cup of tea, he carried it upstairs in one hand, cradling Romulus in the other.
He found Caroline awake, stroking Remus’s outstretched belly.
“Do you know,” she began as he entered the room. “Initially I thought Remus would prove the more troublesome child, but he is turning out to be a perfect lamb. Whereas Romulus…” She pressed her lips together and shook her head.
“What about Romulus?” Gervaise asked, rounding the bed and presenting her morning tea.
“Oh, wonderful,” she said, sitting up and affording him a gratifying view of her in his nightshirt.
Strange how pleasing he found it. “Thank you,” she said, taking the cup and saucer.
“Well, I hate to tell tales out of school, but yesterday Romulus was rather naughty.” She eyed the gray and black cat reproachfully.
“He showed scant respect for Mr. Bailey’s artistic endeavors and scarcely listened to a word I said. ”
Gervaise glanced down at the cat in question. Romulus struggled against him, so he set him down on the counterpane. The small cat promptly pounced on his brother, wrestled him into submission, and began aggressively licking Remus’s head.
“Romulus knows his own mind,” Gervaise corrected her firmly. “And doubtless shows more respect for the sciences than the arts.”
“Is that so?” She sounded amused, lifting her teacup to her lips. He reached for her cashmere shawl. “Here, put this on.” He passed it about her shoulders and watched as she absently stroked the soft fabric.
It made him shiver slightly. She had touched him with similar assurance the night before and found himself devoutly wishing she would do so again.