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She’d dropped to her knees beside the bed. “Of course I came, Papa.” She pressed his hand to her lips and kept it clasped in her own to warm it.
“Why did you not allow Maman to write to me sooner?” she’d asked, tears filling her eyes.
“I did not ask her to write this time, ma petite choux. Your mother took matters into her own hands. I shall have to have words with her later!”
His brave words were followed by a distressing bout of coughing. Blood spattered across his chest. Angel stood and turned a distressed gaze upon her mother who came forward and gestured for her daughter to move aside. The nurse and her mother began to remove her father’s nightshirt and so Angele slipped from the chamber followed closely by Gabriel.
It was at this point a manservant had brought the letter from England with the news his mother was at death’s door. The letter had gone to Michaelmas Hall only an hour after their departure to France and had been forwarded, chasing them all the way to Paris.
“Marie? Madame, I did not mean to burden you by recalling that dreadful day. It is just that I blame myself entirely for Angele’s demise and...”
She stretched out her hand and placed it on his wrist to halt the bitter stream of words. They both jumped at the current that flowed between them. Quickly, she snatched her hand away.
“You were not to know any more than I that the people would rise up on that particular day. Unrest had been rife in Paris for many months, but until then the troubles had come to nothing. No one could have predicted what occurred. You cannot continue to torture yourself this way, Gabriel. Think of your son and the future. I beg you to leave the past where it belongs.”
She sighed ruefully.
Fine words; if only I could take my own advice.
He nodded. “You are right, of course. Tell me about my son; tell me all about Christopher, from the moment he was born to the moment you left him in the care of my sister.”
Angele smiled, with no further prompting, she told him of Christopher’s sweet nature, his questioning mind and endearing ways. She shared all she could about their beloved child.
* * *
That night, she dreamt she lay naked in his arms again, passion burned brightly between them. She awoke covered in perspiration despite the chill in the room. The twisted sheets attested to her frustrated unrest, as did the hand lying betwixt her thighs, her quim slick with need. She circled the nub of throbbing flesh at the apex of her sex as she recalled the steamy dream.
Gabriel kneeling between her thighs, his manhood heavy, swollen with desire for her, head bent in order to pleasure her folds with his mouth.
Her finger worked faster, rubbing and circling her hardened pearl. She imagined him entering her wet sheath, picturing the look of intense lust mixed with love upon his face, while the remembered feeling of fullness when he thrust home brought on her implosion. She spent, gasping aloud, shuddering with the power of her completion.
Afterwards she wept. She wanted her husband, needed him,Gabriel,the other half of her aching soul. Once again she wondered how she’d thought she could spend time with him only to walk away, back into misery and isolation.
That jolt they’d both experienced when she’d touched him at dinner. That was something they’d felt from their very first moment. It had occurred the first time he’d asked her to dance in Paris. He had visited the city after completing his grand tour of Italy and France. The stimulating spark had startled them both when he had taken her hand to lead her onto the dance floor. They’d known at once they were destined for one another, joking that with their Christian names they were ordained to meet. Six months later, just after she’d turned nineteen and he twenty-three, they’d wed. In the three years following their marriage, the heat between them had flared to an even greater level, their lust never once waning or diminishing.
Then tragedy had struck their families, and they’d been forced to part. Her father and his mother had both lain on their deathbeds simultaneously. Gabriel had left her in Paris at her family’s home in order to return to his mother’s bedside. She had not seen him since—not until now.
Wide awake, she arose, pulling a shawl about her. She shivered in the frigid air of her chamber. Going to the window, she drew back one of the heavy brocade curtains and peered into the night. Yet more snow had fallen covering the ground. Soft contours and smooth hillocks fully hid angular walls and shrubs. Moonshine lit the crystalline snow, and starlight gave the world a sparkling blue haze. There was no way she would be able to travel tomorrow. Sighing, she let the drape fall and padded to the fireside. A few red coals still glowed; she added a log and used the poker to stir the embers back to life. It was too cold to stay up, and so she crawled gratefully back into the warmth of her bed where she slept restlessly, troubled by nightmares.
* * *
The following day she chose to break her fast in her chambers. She did not trust herself around her husband. Ivy pottered about tidying while humming beneath her breath. Angele found her presence both soothing and reassuring. She was glad that Mary had insisted the maid accompany her.
She rose and sat at the dressing table while Ivy pinned up her hair. Standing she moved behind a screen and washed while Ivy fetched her clothing for the day. Once dressed the two women settled before the fire and Ivy took up a needle and threat and began to mend some torn lace on the cuff of one of her mistress’s gowns.
Restless, Angele moved to the window to stare at the beautifully stark world of white. She saw her husband walk away from the house followed by his hounds. It was safe to venture forth into the house.
“I am going to take a stroll about the house, Ivy. Help with my veil, please.”
“Take you shawl milady, ‘tis chill in the house.”
Gratefully Angele allowed the maid to wrap her warmly. Knowing her smile of thanks was concealed by the heavy cloth obscuring her face she touched the girls hand and was rewarded by a bright smile. She was becoming fond of the maid.
As Ivy had warned, it was chilly in the corridors. She drew her shawl tight about her with a shiver; she’d forgotten how cold England could be in the winter months. Arriving at Gabriel’s chamber door she hesitated. Supposing his valet was within? Why then she would act as though she was lost and ask his help in locating her own chambers. Turning the handle the door swung inwards.
The room was as she remembered. She stared at the huge canopied bed which she had once shared with him and where so much pleasure had been shared. Moving across the room to his armoire she opened the door and ran her hand lightly over his shirts. Locating his banyan she withdrew it and pressed her nose to the open gown he wore before dressing and late at night after disrobing. She inhaled the heady scent of him.
A male voice sounded in the passage outside. Quickly Angele shut the doors on the cupboards. Spinning around her gaze searched frantically for somewhere to hide. The only place she could get to quickly was beneath the high bed. Thankfully she had left off her cumbersome hoops that morning and was able to scramble under the heavy oak frame just in time.
