Reeling, unable to listen to more of the abhorrent dialogue, she crawled to a nearby chair, gripping the arm and using it to brace herself as she clambered to her feet. Raging and shamed, she lurched into the hall and down the stairs, blindly stumbling into her room, not caring if a passing servant viewed her in such a deranged condition.
Shuffling to the window seat, she stared out at the rainy night and the dreary garden below, as she fought to regain her equilibrium. Composure gradually returned, and with it, she was overcome by a glaring clarity.
Her husband was the sort of despicable swine who would consort with a woman of dubious character in an upstairs bedroom while his wife slept, blissfully ignorant of his sins. Then he would require that selfsame abused wife to tolerate the degradation of being waited on by the harlot in the light of day.
While in the throes of their illicit passion, had he and Mary Smith laughed and joked about her? Had they poked fun and ridiculed her for her copious carnal ineptitudes? How many of Charlotte's painful secrets had the earl wrongly shared?
Charlotte couldn't believe her naïveté. Her folly. Her foolishness.
She would never forgive Findley Harcourt for this mortification as long as she lived. But she would get even for it.
Just see if she didn't.
Chapter Seventeen
Gabriel stood before the wall of pictures he'd drawn of Elizabeth during their numerous sessions. He tried to study nuance and form, but as happened so often of late, his excessive ability to concentrate had vanished, and he couldn't focus on his work with his usual level of passionate commitment
Behind him was the portrait he'd begun of her. The background had been filled in with his customary meticulous attention to detail. The pastoral setting tickled the senses, so lifelike that he could detect the aroma emitted by the roses climbing up the trellis. But the center was blank, as though the person who had been posed there had simply strolled away.
He couldn't finish it. Although it was absurd to think so, he was convinced that as soon as he painted Elizabeth into the scene, their interval together would abruptly terminate, so he couldn't constrain himself to put brush to canvas.
At some point, however, a portrait had to be presented to the Earl of Norwich for payment. Once delivery was made, what fabrication could they possibly use to persist with their trysts?
Elizabeth was clever and could certainly devise other pretexts for getting out of the house, but those excuses were few in number, and they would quickly dwindle until there wouldn't be any valid alibi she could offer as to where she was going or where she'd been.
She'd already pushed herself to the allowable amount of absences. Her adolescent stepmother was interrogating her with a curiosity that went beyond general interest and into the realm of preoccupation, so it was only a matter of time before circumstances compelled them to cease.
Morosely, he stared at the copious renderings he'd sketched, while wondering how he would get along without her when their affair wound to its logical conclusion. God willing, that day would arrive many weeks in the future, despite how his father and Mary were insisting on an earlier date.
A smile quirked his lips as he thought of them. They carried on like a pair of lovebirds, so attuned to one another that it was embarrassing to be in their presence. The morning after their wedding, they had departed for a brief honeymoon in the country, and Gabriel was heartily glad.
He hoped that by their return, they'd have slaked some of the overt passion that was almost shameful in its intensity. With their cooing and kissing, fawning and cuddling, he was constantly blushing. He had endured many carnal episodes with his father, had seen him woo any number of potential lovers, but watching John with Mary was disconcerting. Gabriel invariably felt as though he was spying on them during intimacy.
His father had actively and regularly enjoyed associations with bored, jaded aristocratic women. Never commoners. He'd sought them out for physical alleviation, for diversion from tedium, but never for emotional connection.
Gabriel had never seen his father in such a state. He neither understood, nor was comfortable with, the burgeoning affection John displayed, although after spending many hours in Mary's company, Gabriel was relieved to discover that she was much different than he'd assumed her to be.
Even before she'd moved in, her devious, crafty mind had been busy, concocting the methods by which they could improve their fates. A no-nonsense, straightforward female, she exhibited none of the coquetry or simplemindedness to which they were accustomed. A virtual genius at organization and planning, she objected to Gabriel's tendencies to earn money by less man reputable means, and she wanted changes. Immediately.
She had many ideas as to how he and his father should support themselves, and Gabriel wasn't persuaded that he could accept any of her suggestions. Out of deference to John, he hadn't refused her outright, but battles were looming, which he hated to consider.
With ease, she'd convinced John that much of their financial situation could be rectified if Gabriel obtained a patron. She was also imploring John to approach his eldest brother for either an allowance or a cash settlement Her brashness knew no bounds. She'd even propounded that they hire a solicitor to contact Selena's family in Italy, that Gabriel's wealthy uncles be coerced into coughing up a stipend to reimburse Gabriel for the loss of his mother.
How did the sly woman form such diabolical suppositions?
He liked her style, but unfortunately, he was vehemently opposed to all three proposals. John would have to go, hat in hand, to those who had shunned him when he was young and foolish. Gabriel would be impelled to acquire cash by performing, like a circus animal, for the very bastards who had scorned and disdained his father. And to have any contact—though it would transpire through a third party—with his Italian relatives was extremely abhorrent
Still, there was another side of him—his mercenary, corrupt, greedy side—that promptly grasped her schemes as justified and logical. If their appeals for sustained funding were successfully wrangled, he would gain immense, protracted satisfaction, because the payments they received would be from villains he'd perpetually loathed.
No doubt about it, Mary Smith Preston had the heart of a genuine confidence artist. She was a virtual master at shrewd posturing, and Gabriel could feel himself being drawn in by her persistent tenacious determination to transform his behavior. Though perhaps it was more elemental than that: perhaps he was merely ready to oblige her. He was so elated by her obvious, undeniable fondness for John that he might have acquiesced to any supplication she voiced.
His frantic worries about her motives had vanished She was as devoted to John as John was to her, a fact repeatedly demonstrated in countless small ways. They were an excellent combination, a balanced couple, with strengths and weaknesses that complemented and offset each other's attributes and faults.
How John had stumbled upon her remained a mystery.
He'd been unusually reticent about what had led to their falling in love, just when Gabriel wished he'd spill all. He was dying to ascertain how John had been so effortlessly won over, how he'd tossed aside his reservations and qualms.
Gabriel wished he'd been brave enough to inquire, for he might have learned how to utilize the same bluster and bravado to snag Elizabeth. He might have determined how to wear her down, to alter her opinions so that she'd be amenable to the potentialities that existed between them.
During their prior appointment, it had seemed that there’d been a major shift in their relationship, that Elizabeth's emotions were becoming engaged. Preposterously, he'd imagined that she was prepared to grasp at the chance to build a life together, but he'd been wrong and had been stung by her rejection.
If she'd given the slightest indication that she was interested, he'd have jumped any hurdle to be with her, but when he'd brutally specified the reasons they didn't suit— their disparate statuses, his poverty, her father's disapproval—she'd flung aside his overture. He'd hoped that she cared about him enough to defy the odds, to gamble on the unknown, to recklessly seize the turbulent perils of love, but she'd been totally indifferent, readily dissuaded, so he wouldn't raise the possibility again.
He couldn't deny it: He was a proud man, and he wouldn't place himself in a position where she could rebuff him a second time.
While he wanted to be angry with her, to be bitter or disillusioned by her repudiation, he grasped the strictures that governed her. She'd been born and bred to embrace certain truths and realities, and it was utterly impossible for her to set aside such an extreme indoctrination.
She could no more cast off society's rules to marry him than she could leap in front of a runaway carriage. His insane, misguided assumption that she might lower her standards was ludicrous and laughable.
He had to stop ruminating about her! He'd made a fool of himself, but he wouldn't repeat his mistake. As with his previous paramours, he would use her for the duration, then he'd move on. Their parting would be more difficult than any of the others, but he wouldn't dwell on it.
The door opened, and in she came, a burst of cool wind whooshing in behind her, inducing the fire to spark and Hare. Spring was rapidly approaching, and he could smell fertile earth, ripe air, and growing flowers. Green shoots were poking up all over in the garden, and regrettably, with the appearance of the first blossoms, his affair with Elizabeth Harcourt would likely be but a memory.
"Hello, Gabriel." She smiled, pushing the door against the stiff breeze.
"Entri pure!
Let me have a look at you."
She was wearing her pink dress as she always did for her visits. When she departed for his house, she made the excuse that he was painting her, which wasn't exactly a lie.
Frequently, he sketched her—he loved having her pose, relished the opportunity to languidly study and assess her—but now when he drew her, she was naked. In dozens of illustrations, he'd captured her in nude repose, and he never tired of engaging in the naughty artform. She was a willing model, and he had produced many superb renditions that emphasized her beauty and enchanting femininity.
Eager, happy, he swept her into a torrid kiss, reveling in how her torso fit to his own, the brush of her soft hands over his bare back, the push of her tongue as it mated with his, the slow flex of her hips as she thrust into him.
What an adept, proficient lover she'd become! She'd mastered the techniques and procedures of sexual intercourse, and he could hardly wait for their carnal play to commence, for he was well aware of just how raucous, glorious, and satisfying the event would be.
"My goodness," she said, laughing as he broke the kiss to nibble down her neck, "I'd say you've missed me."
"Every minute we were apart."
He was yanking at the back of her gown, freeing the buttons, and he forced himself to slow lest he rip the fabric in his desperation to feast his eyes on her luscious breasts. They were the most delectable pair he'd ever seen, her nipples sinfully sensitive to his manipulations, and at each rendezvous, he gave them extra attention, suckling and fondling until she was wet and crying his name.
Impatient, out of sorts, he ceased with the fastenings. Grabbing her by her bottom, he lifted her up in order to press against her so that she could discern how hard he'd grown while he'd been awaiting her arrival. He prodded at her through her skirts, earning a giggle at her realization of how aroused he was.
Abruptly, he set her down and stepped away, reaching for a glass of wine as he went to the sofa and reclined. "I want you to disrobe for me. Very slowly. While I watch. Then, I want to draw you in the nude."
"A marvelous notion."
"I thought so."
"By the way"—she winked wickedly—"I missed you, too."
He had loosed enough of her attire so that she could proceed without assistance, and he avidly observed as she merrily complied with his indecent request. Accentuating each flick of her wrist, every snap of her fingers, she loosed the bodice of her dress and let it shimmy down her hips and over her thighs.
Next were the ties on her petticoat, the laces of her corset. She tarried and dawdled, turning and shifting so he was gifted with the most stimulating view. So expertly did she taunt and tease, that she might have been a high-priced courtesan, and he stroked the stem of his wineglass across his loins, pushing at the painful erection she'd inspired.
Her undergarments fell away, her chemise was tugged over her head, and momentarily, she wore only her slippers and stockings. With deliberate provocation, she situated the stool directly in front of him and steadied her foot on it.
Her nimble, slender fingers toyed with her garter, untying it, then rolling the stocking down her leg, unveiling a lengthy expanse of smooth skin.
She bent over, her abundant, rounded breasts swaying delectably, her nipples rigid and inducing him to greater heights of titillation. Her pussy tantalized, her mound located so that her cleft flirted with him from between her womanly hairs. As she finessed the other stocking, he could scarcely remain seated. His entire body screamed for abatement, begging to progress, but he did nothing, letting the tension escalate, the tumult increase.
"Are you hard?" she asked as her stocking drifted to the floor, but she needn't have inquired. He was aching, hungry for her, the crest in his trousers providing ample evidence of his condition.
"You know I am."
"If you could have me do anything for you, what would please you the most?"
"Having your mouth on me."
"A delightful sentiment"
With a mischievous grin, she scooted onto the sofa, her hip next to his, and she unbuttoned his pants, proceeding so resolutely that by the time she slipped her fingers inside and wrapped her hand around his hot burning shaft, he was fit to explode.
She tongued him, licking him with tiny strokes that drove him wild, then she eased over the crown, taking the tip, then more and more until he was mostly impaled. As unceasingly happened when she slaked him in this fashion, he spun out of control, and he was in instant need of satiation, but he declined to allow the ending to occur so swiftly.
Retreating, he hauled her up and over his body. Spreading her thighs, and centering himself, he penetrated her so rapidly that she hitched out a breath at his invasion. She squirmed and adjusted to his immense size, and he focused on her breasts, caressing and massaging them, urging her forward so that her nipples dangled over his mouth. He sucked and trifled with one, then the other, spurring her to the edge of assuagement, but never quite all the way.