Chapter Nineteen
He hadn’t realized how beautiful she was.
Certainly, her face and form were pleasing.
On a purely physical level, she was attractive.
Her face was sweet, her skin clear. Her curves enticed him, including her full breasts and long legs.
Many women seemed too delicate next to his huge body, but she had muscles to support her bones.
It let him know she wouldn’t break if he touched her.
And oh, how he wanted to touch her.
He distracted himself by paying a boy to get them dinner.
Bread and cheese, plus a bottle of wine.
Then he stretched out against the wall and listened to the dream she spun with her words.
She’d thought about this a great deal. She loved the thought of a place for women.
One room to deliver babies, one to care for them before and after.
Another place to mix her potions. That was not her true passion, but one that aligned with the health of new mothers and their babes.
She was a healer through and through, and she dreamed of a place where life flourished when so much of the world beat it down.
“A simple room like this would be a miracle,” she said.
“But as soon as I had it, I would want more. You saw Suz. She was exhausted afterwards. If the babe was sickly, it would need care that she couldn’t give it.
A wetnurse would be the best choice, but so many of those ladies are malnourished and have their own babes to care for. It’s an expanding circle of need.”
She had started out leaning against the wall beside him, but once the wine arrived, she sat up as a proper lady would.
Without glasses, they poured the drink into his flask, then shared equally from it.
He became obsessed with watching her lips—so mobile as she talked—wrap around the top of his flask.
Pursed tight, she drank, and he watched her throat work.
She didn’t take huge gulps but sipped as a lady would, and the sight had his cock pulsing in time with her drink.
He imagined her mouth wrapped around his organ. He thought of her drinking him, and he could barely hear for the roar in his ears.
She passed the flask back to him, and their fingers touched.
He wasn’t thirsty—not for wine—but he put his mouth where hers had been.
He rolled his tongue around the opening, all the while knowing that her tongue had been there as well.
He sipped from the flask as he would sip from her.
And when her breath caught, as it did just before she took a bite of cheese, he would thrust into her with tongue or finger or cock, and the pleasure would be devastating.
“Oh, the things I could do with such a place,” she said. “I wouldn’t be able to manage it myself, but there’s an apothecary associated with the Rose Garden. They say the owner is Chinese. She mixes teas that help with inflammation in the lungs.”
Amazing that she hadn’t heard of the new Chinese Countess of Artanges and her apothecary shop.
That was the one she was referring to, he was sure, but that just showed how little she cared about society.
Or perhaps how quickly society moved on from a sensational story of a future duke falling in love with a Chinese princess.
“If I had the time,” Janelle continued, “I would study with her. If I had the money, I would set her up in a warm house with good food, and she would teach me everything!”
Her arms spread wide as she gestured. Her legs moved beneath her skirt as well.
She had taken off her apron and now sat on the floor in her ballgown.
He had no idea why she hadn’t taken it off before, but now she sat in a pool of yellow silk.
It was easy to liken her to a flower or canary.
Indeed, it was like the yellow dress was the overflow from her light.
When she spoke like this, the brightness of her being suffused her.
Kissing her would be like kissing the sun.
It would burn, but it would be worth it.
“Oh, how I go on,” she said as she tore off a hunk of bread. “I believe, Major, that you have gotten me quite drunk.”
He pointed at the bottle of wine. “We’ve barely had half,” he said. “You are drunk on your own dreams.”
“I am,” she said as she tilted her head back.
She braced her arms behind her, and her breasts moved enough to make his hands itch to shape them.
“I have never told anyone what I just told you,” she said.
“I’ve sketched it on papers I burned. I’ve written my thoughts in a dairy that I’ve thrown away.
But in my mind, it’s so clear. If only I could. ”
“What if it could be?” he asked, the words choking him as he said them.
He wanted to give her everything she desired.
He wanted to be the one dripping in money who could see her desires fulfilled.
But he was not that man. Certainly, he could find a way to match her dream with reality, but the money was not in his hands. Not directly.
She tilted her head to look at him. “Does Lord Benedict offer me so much?”
“Yes.”
She laughed, the sound filled with frustration and hope.
He knew it well for he had heard it from so many souls over the years.
Disillusionment made that sound. When one has fought for years for something to no avail, laughter is the only recourse.
And yet there is always a measure of hope, be it in a wish or a prayer.
It usually sounded like God whispering, “Maybe. Someday.”
But Janelle had more practicality in her than prayers. “No wife of his can do what I describe,” she said. Then she straightened to look him in the eye. “Is that why you don’t want me to marry him?”
She didn’t mince words. He loved that about her. But he could hardly declare his own adoration. “Lord Benedict has tasked me with making your dream come true.”
She giggled as she turned back to the ceiling. “Well, then, Major, you have been set a herculean task.”
“Gabriel,” he said, the wine making him impulsive. “If I am to be your magic genie, then you must call me by my real name.”
“Gabriel,” she said, rolling the word off her tongue, making him feel as if he’d been touched by it. “Gabriel, my angel, come to fulfill my every desire.”
If only that were true.
She abruptly straightened, bracing herself when her head swam. He reached out a hand to steady her, but she batted it away in the expansive gesture of the inebriated. “God, I hate all these pins,” she said as she began to pull them out of her hair.
Lock by lock, her hair tumbled down. He watched with rapt attention, as if she undressed completely before him.
Her hairstyle was generally simple, but it had been knotted up tight when she worked as Betty.
And now the brown tresses fell in untidy spills of mink and mahogany.
They had two lamps here, enough light to make her appear as a fairy goddess before him.
And when she stopped, she looked at him with an unguarded smile. “I love the way you look at me,” she said. “As if you would give me the moon and stars if I asked.”
He would. “I would give you your birthing quarters,” he said. “Indeed, I already have, though it was badly done. I will do better tomorrow.”
“But why?” Her hands flopped into her lap as she regarded him. “Surely you know Lord Benedict will hate this.”
“Lord Benedict knows you will not stop. And therefore, it is up to me to make it work so that you may have your dream while he focuses on his.”
She stared at him, her mind working in ways he could not fathom. “And what of you, Gabrrrrriel?” The way she rolled his name in her mouth made a shiver roll down his spine. “What do you dream about?”
Her. Ever since he’d run into her outside the Rose Garden. “I am not a man with big dreams.”
“Tut tut,” she said as she leaned forward. The round tops of her breasts came into view, and he tightened his hands into fists rather than touch her. “You dream like everyone else. If you are so busy with my dream and Lord Benedict’s plans, what room is there for yours?”
“You know I am a bastard, yes?”
“I do, but I never thought less of you for that. Even before my London season, I have met enough good people of unfortunate birth to know that parentage does not make the man.” She chuckled. “And I’ve known several men with impeccable lineage that I would not trust to shine my shoes.”
“You are unusually open-minded.”
“That’s not being open-minded. It’s not being blind. And you still have not answered my question.” She looked at him and he saw the misty beauty of her brown eyes. The light gave them a golden hue in flashes that mesmerized him. “What do you wish for?”
The opening was there. He had only to stroke her cheek and curve his fingers beneath her chin.
She might come to him then. She was open and tipsy with wine.
He could blame the drink for the inexcusable liberty, but he didn’t do it.
He was a man of honor, and he would not trespass upon another man’s wife. Or future wife.
“I want children,” he finally blurted. “Lord Benedict and I are the same in that. I want a boy and a girl to live in the sunshine. I want them to be strong and happy, to know they are loved, and that…” He could not voice the rest. His throat closed up at the image of giving his own children the life he had been denied.
“You want them to be legitimate,” she said, reading his mind.
“Yes.” How that word ached.
“How awful was it?”
He blinked to focus on her instead of a pair of children he might never have. And yet, when he looked at her, he couldn’t help but imagine a little girl with her eyes or a boy with her impudent determination.
“I grew. I learned. I have a good life.”
“Serving Lord Benedict and me.” She touched his hand. It was set by his hip, still balled into a fist. He was leaning on it and so could not twitch away. He felt her fingers settle upon the back of his hand and let her touch caress away his restraint.