On Bended Knee, page 22
part #6 of Wicked Worthingtons Series
Oh my heavens.
THE BREEZE PICKED UP slightly and the tall grass on the hillside turned to rippling pewter waves in the moonlight. Lysander breathed deep of the clear air and sweet grass — with just a hint of roses — and her.
The scent of Gemma was wholesome and reviving, like the air of the dale, spiced with a hint of green, growing things and warm, wonderful woman.
She shivered slightly in her impractical gown and he pulled her closer. Their gazes held and he marveled at gray eyes gone silver by the light of the moon.
She kissed him.
He was surprised, and yet more ready for the touch of her soft mouth than he'd ever been for anything in his life.
Gemma's mouth. Gemma's lips.
Gemma.
His hands slid up her slim waist, lifting her closer still. She had her hands in his hair, tugging urgently. The sting only aroused him more fully. He wanted so badly to tumble her down into that tall grass, to kiss her throat, to tug her bodice down to taste her breasts, to slide those gossamer skirts up to find her hot and wet and ready to his seeking hand.
She moaned into his mouth and he nearly gave into his aching need.
The music changed to a sprightly reel and Lysander remembered why he could not drive himself into her warm and ready body in the concealment of high grass.
He would not embarrass her before her people. He would not walk her back into that gathering with grass stains on the back of her dress and on his knees, with her hair tumbled and the rash of his evening beard growth on her cheeks.
When he took Gemma Oakes, it would be in the privacy of the bedchamber, the light of a warm fire, and he would take his time, by God, to bring her as much pleasure as he knew how to give.
And he would know himself to be the most fortunate man alive — alive with the beating heart she had created in him again.
WHEN LYSANDER LIFTED HIS mouth from hers, Gemma tugged at his lapels, going up on the very tips of her slippers to follow those hot, tantalizing lips.
"No."
She stared at him. The word took a moment to penetrate her lust-fogged thoughts. "No?"
He stroked a breeze-blown strand of her hair behind her ear. "No. Your people wait. We should go back."
At that moment, Gemma didn't give a damn about the village or the assembly. He'd awakened the sleeping lover inside her, kissed it awake and driven it mad with that teasing tongue and that hot mouth. And then he said "no" and expected it to sleep again?
Abruptly, she was hotly, irrationally furious with him. Didn't he realize that she'd already given up so much? That she'd worked so hard and had never taken for herself?
She wanted this, this selfish thing. She wanted to feel like a woman again, to feel touch, to not be alone anymore!
She went to on tiptoe again and stared this unpredictable stranger in the eye.
"Kiss me now, Lysander Worthington. Or never kiss me again!"
He looked right back at her with those damned black eyes unflinching from her frustration. "You deserve better."
She swallowed hard and forced herself to step back, to move away from his big, warm body and his hot, caressing hands and that mouth that made her dream of things she'd never known.
"You're right, of course, Mr. Worthington. We really must get back to the party." She folded her arms over her chest, suddenly chilled.
He moved to offer her his coat. She turned her back on him and strode down the slope to the shearing shed, already working on the pleasantly noncommittal smile she would wear as she returned to the people who knew her better than anyone — and yet not all. This time she passed through the rose arch all alone.
LYSANDER WATCHED GEMMA GO until she turned the corner of the building and disappeared from his view.
He did not follow her. He was fairly certain that she would rather fall on her face than have him there at her elbow, escorting her safely down.
Once she was gone, he turned his gaze upon the dale by moonlight. From this vantage, he could see the manor, its windows dark, and its decrepitude gilded over.
Lysander knew it could be saved, but work should begin soon or the structural integrity would be compromised. Surprisingly, the prospect did not alarm him. It had only been a short time since he'd had to leave Worthington Manor, the old family home in Shropshire, because he been too disturbed by the noise and bustle of the reconstruction to remain.
Now, the thought of a crowd of builders descending upon Yew Manor seemed very satisfying indeed, provided that "crowd" meant no more than a dozen.
What he could build for Gemma with the aid of a dozen men! Especially if a couple of them were Worthingtons.
He hadn't the right to hammer a single nail, and never would if Gemma didn't forgive him. He could be sure of that. Gemma wasn't one of his sisters, who had to relent eventually. He might've done terrible damage to Gemma's opinion of him by kissing her and then refusing her.
Women like Gemma — well, there were no women like her, not in all the world. None so generous, so hard-working, so selfless, so delicate and yet so strong. And, although she concealed it well, so vulnerable. She thought he didn't know her and perhaps he didn't, but he understood her.
He knew that when he rejected her advances on the hillside, she might never forgive him. However, if he'd embarrassed her before her people, she would have never forgiven herself.
BY THE TIME LYSANDER reentered the shearing-shed ballroom, Gemma had joined in a rousing contredanse, skipping down the tunnel of dancers hand-in-hand with Button.
Lysander claimed a bit of wall space and leaned one shoulder against the stone where he could watch Gemma. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely and quite indifferent to the events of ten minutes past.
If he'd just met her for the first time, he would've been utterly convinced of it. But even on that first encounter she had set herself apart, held back, observing the enjoyments of others. Now she laughed aloud as she and Button went up on their toes in their part as a segment of the dance tunnel, the two of them hilariously trying to remain joined by the hands over the head of the massive Smith who was paired with his tall, voluptuous wife.
All the room laughed and teased the pair, telling Button to "Eat your mutton so you'll grow big and strong!" And the ladies calling out to Gemma that they could teach her to make a man "grow big and strong." It was all good-natured country fun, in a society where the breeding of young creatures of all sorts was considered perfectly appropriate conversational fodder.
Gemma laughed and blushed and shot Lysander a single glance full of defiance that clearly intended to instruct him that his refusal had no effect on her whatsoever.
Lysander was not disturbed. He knew for certain that he'd had a tremendous effect upon Gemma. No longer was she the reserved Lady of the Dale, outside looking in, held in wary deference by the folk of Farby. The village truly seem to embrace and enjoy this new Gemma, although Lysander noticed the that the teasing remained respectful and affectionate.
After pondering the change in her for another moment, Lysander stopped thinking. He simply watched his beautiful Gemma laugh and dance like a carefree country maiden. His gaze caught on the curve of her lips and the flash of white teeth as she giggled at Button's wickedly funny riposte to the worst of his hecklers. The room broke out in a roar of laughter. Lysander missed the point of the joke because he was focused on the graceful way Gemma's dainty, hard-working hand moved through the air, drifting on the music like a leaf floating on a breeze.
Poll joined him on the wall and handed Lysander a tankard. When Lysander drew back his hand in suspicion, Poll laughed.
"No muckle–mouth juice here. Just a very young ale. Watch out, it has a kick."
Lysander took a sip, grateful when the bitter nutty flavor further distanced him from the bilberry incident — although it'd had its moments.
He took his focus from Gemma long enough to become aware that Poll watched him over the rim of his own tankard. Lysander raised an eyebrow in question.
Poll nearly snorted ale up his nose. "Stop that! You look like Orion! One is enough for any family."
Lysander was as fond of Orion as any of his siblings, except for Attie, whom everyone favored and no one resented. He had been closer to Orion in childhood than to Cas and Poll, who had always paired up naturally.
He considered Poll for a moment. His brother looked strained. For the first time in a long time, Lysander had enough silence and space in his own mind to contemplate Pol's unenviable position.
"Do you love Miranda?"
Poll flinched. "God, you don't come back by halves, do you? Six words out of you in six years and now you go for the crippling blow right off the bell?"
Lysander waited. One thing silence had taught him was that people tended to fill it for you if you didn't. Poll looked away, took another swig, hiding behind the protection of his tankard. After a moment he gave a sigh and shrugged. "No. Yes. Sometimes."
Sometimes?
Lysander nodded, not because he agreed but because he understood something new about Poll and about himself. If he had to answer the same question about Gemma, the reply would be a short, definitive "yes."
Poll had had a confusing near–miss encounter with love. It was enough to awaken his formerly feckless heart to the promise of an entirely different rhythm of beating, yet not enough for him to rip it out, cage it, and pass it willingly, eagerly into the hands of another.
Gemma now danced with Cabot. They made a stunning pair and the room grew quieter as the village gaped at a level of grace and sophistication that Lysander would wager they had not seen for a long while, if ever.
Had not Edmund danced with his beautiful wife? Had he made her laugh until she gasped for air, or smile like a beacon when her dancing was greeted with stomping boots and whistling applause at the end?
But Lysander had no evidence of Edmund's treatment of Gemma either way, except for his cognizance of Gemma's painful dedication to her own dignity when he'd met her. She wore that dignified manner carefully, like a fragile crown she must not let fall. It had made her stiff and unapproachable. Lysander would bet Dade's very fine horse that it had been Edmund who had set that ill fitting crown on Gemma's young, girlish head.
Poll shifted to face out upon the crowd, no longer looking at Lysander. Neither said anything for a long few moments, but the lack of conversation felt comfortable enough. It occurred to Lysander that he felt no need to flinch from his brother or to run away from any questions and expectations Poll might have of him. He might be able to answer them if asked, or he might not, but it didn't seem as imperative to avoid them as it had in the past.
Lysander choose to think of that as a sign of improvement.
"So," Poll began, very obviously not looking at Lysander, "you seem better."
Lysander nodded. "I seem better."
"The northern air agrees with you. It seems a robust place, Yorkshire. Very, um, pastoral. Healthy."
Lysander nodded. "Pastoral and healthy."
"Hmm. So, Goose-gogs, eh?"
Lysander didn't look at his brother, because he knew perfectly well the smirk Poll would be wearing. He'd seen it often enough in his life. "We will not be discussing Goose-gogs."
"Really? I'm fairly certain it's a popular area of conversation in this village." Poll sounded very smug. That wouldn't do at all.
"Only because no one knows about the time you swam in the altogether and then found a leech on your — "
"That's not fair! I was but twelve years!"
Lysander remained relaxed and waited. Poll grumbled, then snickered a little in memory. Then Lysander felt a brotherly swat on his bicep. He glanced at Poll, but his brother had turned his attention to one of the pretty Lamb sisters as she danced past. Still, Lysander could tell that Poll felt comforted by the familiar ground of their prickly exchange.
Lysander felt as though he'd passed some sort of test.
I gave him what he needed from me and it wasn't even difficult.
Out on the dance floor, Attie had abandoned her veneer of theatrical sophistication and was chasing the Gosling children in a figure-eight game of tag between the dancing couples.
Childish games and a flawless waltz. Both were performances for Attie, who had never been a child and who would no doubt become a very unusual woman. She was amusing herself but not actually participating in any substantial manner.
Lysander was beginning to suspect that he ought to be very careful with Attie. She seemed brittle, somehow. Not fragile, precisely. More in the nature of a change in weather causing a prickle of unease at the back of one's neck.
Rough weather ahead.
Lysander saw Button watching Attie as well, with a smile on his rounded features but also a tiny crease of concern between his brows.
A storm is coming.
Poll remained focused on Lysander. "It seems that you'll be back to your old self soon."
"Never," Lysander stated matter-of-factly.
"What you mean?" Poll slid his gaze toward him. "Why not? You're better, you said so."
Lysander looked down at the new calluses on his palms. Not riding calluses or rowing calluses, but pail-carrying, chicken-feeding, goat-tending, wall-repairing calluses. And much more work left to do.
"He's dead." Lysander looked up at Pol. "He died at Burgos Castle. Stop looking for him in me."
Poll blinked at Lysander's rough tone. He opened his mouth to debate that statement, then stopped. He nodded crisply "Understood."
Lysander thought that of all of his family, Poll probably did understand, at least somewhat. Poll's old life could no longer accommodate him either.
His gaze sought out Gemma in the crowd. He found her taking a tin cup from Bing at the refreshment table. It was likely spring water, for the bilberry juice had run out long ago and even the mountain of cakes had been reduced to a scattering of crumbs.
Gemma had gone to war, as had Bing. The survivors of battle had found each other, even down to Bad Pony. Was that the reason he felt he could truly understand Gemma, when most people seemed rather incomprehensible to him? Even among Worthingtons he was a wolf amongst the lambs, trying his damnedest to look fluffy and white instead of dangerous and dark.
Gemma wasn't afraid of his dark. She might be a bit leery of her own, however. The blackness of war had changed her, stretched her, challenged and frightened and expanded her.
No wonder her crown didn't quite fit.
Chapter 23
CABOT HANDED BUTTON A cool tankard of spring water. Button thanked him with an absent-minded smile. Cabot turned to see what held Button's attention.
Atalanta Worthington dashed by them, a boy of about six years chasing close behind. The child hadn't a hope of catching long-legged Attie. Yet Attie allowed herself to be tagged, and when the little boy sprinted off giggling with glee, Attie chased him in a leisurely manner. It was a kind way to play with a small child. That was why Button was staring.
Attie wasn't kind. She had her own somewhat irregular code of ethics, but falsifying herself in any way did not apply.
"Ah." Cabot turned back to Button. "How very worrisome."
Button blinked sadly at him. "Could she be developing some latent sense of decorum?"
"God, I hope not. How dull." Cabot was not alarmed. Atalanta Worthington had decided to don some local feathers. She was very likely studying the Yorkshire species, the way her sister-in-law Francesca Worthington studied the inherited traits of animals.
Button smiled sympathetically at him. "I'm sure you are finding this evening terribly mundane, after the entertainments of Town."
Cabot turned away to set his own tankard down on a nearby bench. Button often mentioned Cabot's exciting existence in London, imagining him off having steamy affairs with all his "friends." Button tried to accommodate this allegedly racy lifestyle by giving Cabot many of his evenings free.
Never. Not once since he encountered Button had Cabot had a "friend." There'd been a few casual encounters before that night, sometimes for fun, sometimes for security, but after the first cup of tea, after the first quarter-hour of Button's lively chatter flowing down over his own silence, after mere minutes of Button's generosity and kindly charm, Cabot had known.
It was Button. Always. Only. Forever.
Since then, his "scandalous" nightlife consisted of long evenings of reading. He been an ignorant street sneak and petty criminal. For years after his life had changed, he'd stuffed his brain full of knowledge in hopes of measuring up to Button's cultured ideals. Then Cabot had begun to find joy in the education itself and taught himself an eclectic blend of philosophy, ideas, history and reason.
Everything that Cabot read and everything that he observed in his new life only confirmed in Cabot's soul that Button was more than simply a kindly fellow, more than a loyal friend to many.
Button, diminutive, witty and ever-smiling, was nigh unto inhumanly good-hearted. An eternal optimist who managed to gently and persistently erode Cabot's streetwise mistrust. At first, Cabot assumed that his own gratitude had possessed him to place Button on a pedestal. He began to look for the hidden flaws, the secret cracks in such a pure, crystalline soul. No one was perfect. No one could be.
Yet Button was truly as kind and clever and generous as he had appeared to be in that first fatal quarter-hour.
Cabot only fell more firmly in love with him.
And Button had never noticed.
Attie suddenly popped up at Cabot's elbow. "Now," she said to Cabot meaningfully. "I brought the dress and I would've worn it as well, if Button hadn't given it to the bosomy one." She crooked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate Mrs. Oakes, who did look exceptionally well-endowed in the snug bodice of the very lovely gown.
Cabot debated whether he ought to argue the point, to claim that not having actually worn the dress negated their bargain, but he decided to stand by the spirit of the law, rather than the letter.
He slid his eyes toward Button meaningfully. Attie promptly stopped breathing. Cabot waited, amused to see her intention.
