Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Gwendolyn took to her heels and ran, anger propelling her forward, though she wanted to drop to her knees and wallow in grief. Despite all the ridiculous stories she'd heard involving Simon Garrick, she always hoped he would come home, regretful, eager to make amends and plead for her hand in marriage.

I love you, Gwendolyn. Forgive me!

But no! He had put a lit torch to her dreams. He had forced her to face a stark reality. He didn't want her. Perhaps he never had.

Damn the man.

Why had he come to Whitehaven and opened old wounds?

Ignorance was easier to deal with than the truth.

Blinded by tears, she stumbled and slipped in the snow, her bare hands breaking her fall. Despite the cold, she remained there, a crumpled heap, a fragment of the elegant lady who'd played the pianoforte so perfectly for her brother's guests.

"Miss Caldwell." Mr Garrick's deep voice pierced the silence. "Allow me to help you back to the house." Firm fingers gripped her elbow as he hauled her to her feet. "You'll catch your death out here."

She wanted to yank her arm free, tell him she was capable of finding her own way, but all the strength had left her body.

"Thank you, Mr Garrick. I should have known better than to venture out in this weather." She brushed snow from her hands and cloak, though her fingers were as numb as her heart. "I shall be fine on my own."

The last statement was a mantra she repeated often.

A state of mind she'd adopted the past five years.

"Miss Caldwell," he repeated, looming like he had unfinished business and meant to flay her alive again. "We should agree to put our differences aside. It will make my stay at Westmore easier to bear."

Gwendolyn couldn't look at him. Of all the stressful situations she expected to encounter this week, this tested her resolve to the limit.

"Put your mind at ease, Mr Garrick. Whatever happened between us is in the past. For everyone's sake, I'm sure we can be civil."

She didn't give him a chance to reply but continued her march back to the house, praying she didn't fall again.

Her face damp with tears and her cloak wet with snow, she hurried to her bedchamber, locked the door and collapsed to the floor.

Breathe!

The world will seem brighter tomorrow.

She had told herself that many times.

Yet Mr Garrick lived under her skin.

He haunted her dreams nightly.

"Good riddance to all men!" she muttered.

It was better to remain a spinster than live with a loon. Mr Garrick was definitely three pence short of a shilling. His waffling made no sense. And he avoided answering the simplest questions.

A light knock on the door brought her maid. "Flanders said you'd retired for the evening, miss. But I knew something was wrong when you didn't ring for assistance."

Wrong was the understatement of the century!

"Come in, Myrtle, and don't ask why I'm wearing a wet cloak."

Myrtle slipped into the room and closed the door. "Happen it has something to do with your walk in the garden. It's only right you'd want to speak to Mr Garrick now he's made a shocking return."

As always, Myrtle had the measure of the situation. "One question. One answer. What is so difficult about that?" Yet pride meant she hadn't directly asked why he'd deserted her five years ago.

And why was he so angry?

It was like she'd missed a vital piece of the puzzle.

"Have any of the servants mentioned Mr Garrick?" Gwen raised her arms as Myrtle helped her undress. "Most of you were here when he left Whitehaven so suddenly."

Myrtle hesitated. "Only that his arrival is bound to cause a stir." She guided Gwen to the stool as if she were incapable of walking unaided, and quickly changed the subject. "Sit down, miss, while I brush out your hair. You know how tangled it gets in damp weather."

Gwen met Myrtle's gaze in the looking glass.

The air grew thick with suspicion and unspoken secrets.

Myrtle knew something.

"Flanders must have an opinion." Gwen turned in the seat and faced the young woman. "A lady's maid should always be truthful. If I cannot trust you, Myrtle, I shall have to find a replacement."

Myrtle worried her bottom lip before blurting, "Flanders said Mrs Samuel would likely die of apoplexy if she'd witnessed Mr Garrick's return. He didn't say why."

"Mrs Samuel? The old housekeeper?" A sickening feeling coiled in Gwen's stomach. "What has she to do with anything?"

Oliver had thrown Mrs Samuel out when he inherited the viscountcy. The woman claimed to be their father's mistress and had demanded money from the estate. But what did Mrs Samuel have to do with Mr Garrick?

"I don't rightly know, miss, but Flanders said she could wrap the old Lord Holmes around her little finger and use him to spin a yarn."

Gwen's father had behaved like a fool around the young widow, giving her an important role in the household when previously she'd only managed young children.

While Myrtle pulled out the pins and tugged the tangled curls, Gwen contemplated Mr Garrick's strange behaviour. He wasn't the only gentleman acting oddly. Oliver seemed more irate than ever, which added to her growing suspicions.

"Do the servants know what prompted Mr Garrick to leave five years ago?" Just as importantly, why had he stayed away?

Myrtle avoided meeting Gwen's gaze.

"Myrtle?"

The maid's throat worked tirelessly. "Mrs Samuel told Flanders that you'd sent Mr Garrick away because his father was a reckless fool. But it's not for me to question your word, miss."

Sent Mr Garrick away?

Why would she want rid of the man she hoped to marry?

Yes, his father was a wastrel, but she didn't care about that.

A sudden chill passed over her.

A chill cold enough to freeze a tropical sea.

Had there been a misunderstanding?

The only way to know for sure was to ask Mr Garrick directly. But a lady could not barge into a gentleman's bedchamber at night. Nor could she sneak about in a state of dishabille in a house full of guests. That said, when one had waited five years for the truth why care about the risks?

"You may leave now, Myrtle. There's no need to return."

The woman frowned. "I'm not sure I should leave you alone, miss. You seem all out of sorts tonight."

"After such a taxing evening, I shall be asleep within minutes."

As soon as the house fell quiet, she would dress quickly, find Mr Garrick and demand answers. She just had to pray she didn't find the man sprawled naked on the bed.

What a glorious sight that would be!

Memories of her caressing his hard body made her heart skip a beat. What she would give to touch him intimately again, to kiss him, their tongues lost in an erotic dance. Failing that, she'd be grateful for his friendship and would learn to cope with the constant yearning.

Myrtle took an age folding clothes and tidying the room and eventually left when Gwen feigned sleep.

An hour passed before Gwen heard the boards creak and the guests bidding each other good night. Soon, all was quiet, so she quickly threw on her day dress and prised the door slowly from the jamb.

Tentatively, she crept along the dark corridors leading to the east wing, her heartbeat thumping wildly in her throat. The whine of a door opening scared her out of her wits. She crouched behind a bust in the alcove and watched Mr Payne leave his bedchamber and disappear downstairs.

Doubtless he was keen to empty the brandy decanter.

Mrs Astley was also on the move, hunting for late-night entertainment. Wearing a frilly silk wrapper, she swayed along the corridor, pitching left and right as if aboard a ship on high seas.

Gwen didn't dare move a muscle.

She lost count of how long she hid in the shadows. She was about to venture to Mr Garrick's room when the gentleman came creeping along the landing.

She squinted amid the blackness.

Where on earth was he going?

Perhaps he had her bedchamber in his sights and sought to offer an explanation for his strange manner. Alas, no. He checked the coast was clear before slipping into Mr Payne's room.

Her heart skipped a beat.

How odd!

What did he want with Mr Payne? Did he mean to throttle the man as he'd threatened to do earlier? If Oliver got wind of these late-night antics, he would throw Mr Garrick out despite the plummeting temperatures.

Simon Garrick is not your problem , she thought.

Him leaving would be the best solution all round .

And yet she couldn't bear to see him go.

The muscles in her throat tightened. She desperately wanted to hate him but knew she'd be heartsick the minute he left Westmore. The thought of feigning happiness for another five years urged her to stop this nonsense. It was time to put the past behind her. Time to discover what had gone wrong all those years ago.

Mr Garrick was not expecting anyone to enter the room. Gwen found him rifling through Mr Payne's luggage like a common thief.

He swung around when he heard her shocked gasp. "Shut the damn door," he whispered through gritted teeth. "I cannot let Payne find me here."

Not wanting Mrs Astley to see her lingering in the doorway, Gwen did as instructed. She closed the door and crossed the room. "Why are you searching Mr Payne's luggage?"

Mr Garrick muttered a curse. "Don't ask questions. I'll be done in a moment, and then you'll not mention this incident to anyone. Do you understand, Gwendolyn?"

She blinked at his impertinence. If he thought she would live with more unanswered questions, he was grossly mistaken. "As mistress of this house, you will tell me what you're looking for, sir. Is it money?"

"Money?" He shot her an irate glare. "Is that what you think of me? That I'm a wastrel like my father? Good God, Gwendolyn, I thought you knew me better than that." Then he continued flicking through Mr Payne's personal diary like the worst sort of snoop.

Gwen closed the gap between them and gripped his arm. "I don't know what to think. You act like a stranger. I fear the man I once knew no longer exists."

"No, you killed him long ago."

The comment hit like the crack of a whip, causing a sudden pain in her chest. Something akin to grief and confusion. Something eradicated by a violent wave of anger.

"How dare you!" In a bout of sheer madness, she gripped his coat lapels and forced him to look at her. "How dare you come into my home and lay the blame at my door."

He had the strength to shirk out of her grasp but didn't.

The air about them thrummed wildly. Desire unfurled in her belly. Years of frustration had taken its toll. She stared at his lips, wanting to shake him and devour him in equal measure.

"I know what you want, Gwendolyn," came his growled whisper. "By God, I mean to give it to you. Perhaps then you'll see I'm no longer the fool you remember."

He kissed her roughly.

Just once.

Their mouths meeting for a few agonising seconds.

They both stumbled backwards in shock, their gazes locked, their breathless pants mating in the air between them. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could feel his hunger clawing at the walls—an inner desperation she shared.

She wasn't sure who made the next move, but she was suddenly wrapped in his powerful arms, the heat of his breath on her neck, his hands squeezing her buttocks as he pulled her against his hard body.

Drawn by a magnetic force, their lips collided. This time, he coaxed them apart with his tongue and entered her mouth, eager to feed the craving.

Such was the sudden rush of passion, the wave of lust and love, she might have wept.

Regardless of his harsh words and muscular physique, this was the man she knew. The potent scent of cedarwood filled her nostrils. His earthy essence filled her mouth. His masculine aura surrounded her, a potent thing that left her feeling rampant.

Simon!

She deepened the kiss, pressing her aching breasts to his chest, keen to keep the emptiness at bay.

Don't let this be a dream.

Perhaps it was. Somehow, she ended up with her back pressed to the door, Simon Garrick raining hot kisses over her neck, cupping her breast.

"God, Gwendolyn. Do you mean to see me in Bedlam?" He was panting hard, kissing her wildly. "Tell me you've touched yourself and thought of me. Hell, I've come so many times with your name on my lips."

Cool air breezed over her legs as he slid his hand up her bare thigh. Yes! This was what she wanted. Not polite conversation. Not compliments about her musical ability. But the burning heat of desire. The touch of a man who made her mindless with need.

"I only ever think of you," she whispered.

"Do you remember the last time I did this?" He slipped his fingers over her damp folds, rubbing lightly over her sex.

"I—I remember everything." Lord, her knees almost buckled.

"Touch me, Gwendolyn. Like you used to."

She dared to touch him.

He was solid, hard as steel.

As her fingers moulded around the thick length in his trousers, he kissed her, moaned in her mouth, massaged her sex and slipped his long fingers inside her.

She stroked him through the material, tried to maintain a steady rhythm, but her climax ripped through her. She came apart as she always did—with one man's name on her lips. Simon!