A Regency Gentleman's Passion: Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy / A Not So Respectable Gentleman?

If Napoleon did not get him killed in the battle, that is.

Until Claude returned to her, she could do nothing, but if God saw fit to spare him in the battle, Emmaline had vowed to devote her life to restoring her son’s happiness.

But Claude was not here now and Gabriel would not remain in Brussels for long. The British army would march away to face Napoleon; both Claude and Gabriel would be gone. What harm could there be in enjoying this man’s company? In making love with him? Many widows had affairs. Why not enjoy the passion Gabriel’s heated looks promised?

“Come, Gabriel,” she whispered.

He walked to the edge of the bed and she met him on her knees, her face nearly level with his. He stroked her face with a gentle hand, his touch so tender it made her want to weep again.

“I did not expect this,” he murmured.

“I did not, as well,” she added. “But it—it feels inévitable, no?”

“Inevitable.” His fingers moved to the sensitive skin of her neck, still as gentle as if she were as delicate as the finest lace.

She undid the buttons on his waistcoat and flattened her palms against his chest, sliding them up to his neck.

She pressed her fingers against his smooth cheek. “You shaved for dinner, n’est-ce pas?” Her hands moved to the back of his neck where his hair curled against her fingers.

He leaned closer to her and touched his lips to hers.

Her husband’s kisses had been demanding and possessive. Gabriel offered his lips like a gift for her to open or refuse, as she wished.

She parted her lips and tasted him with her tongue.

He responded, giving her all that she could wish. She felt giddy with delight and pressed herself against him, feeling the bulge of his manhood through his trousers.

“Mon Dieu,” she sighed when his lips left hers.

He stepped away. “Do you wish me to stop?”

“No!” she cried. “I wish you to commence.”

He smiled. “Très bien, madame.”

She peered at him. “You speak French now?”

“Un peu,” he replied.

She laughed and it felt good. It had been so long since she had laughed. “We shall make love together, Gabriel.”

He grinned. “Très bien.”

She unhooked the bodice of her dress and pulled the garment over her head. While Gabriel removed his boots and stockings, she made quick work of removing her corset, easily done because it fastened in the front. She tossed it aside. Now wearing only her chemise, she started removing the pins from her hair. As it tumbled down her back, she looked up.

He stood before her naked and aroused. His was a soldier’s body, muscles hardened by campaign, skin scarred from battle.

Still kneeling on the bed, she reached out and touched a scar across his abdomen, caused by the slash of a sword, perhaps.

He held her hand against his skin. “It looks worse than it was.”

“You have so many.” Some were faint, others distinct.

He shrugged. “I have been in the army for over eighteen years.”

Her husband would have been in longer, had he lived.

He’d been rising steadily in rank; perhaps he would have been one of Napoleon’s generals, preparing for this battle, had he lived.

She gave herself a mental shake for thinking of Remy, even though he’d been the only man with whom she’d ever shared her bed.

Until now.

A flush swept over her, as unexpected as it was intense. “Come to me, Gabriel,” she rasped.

He joined her on the bed, kneeling in front of her and wrapping his arms around her, holding her close. His lips found hers once more.

He swept his hand through her hair. “So lovely.” She felt the warmth of his breath against her lips.

His hand moved down, caressing her neck, her shoulders. Her breasts. She writhed with the pleasure of it and was impatient to be rid of her chemise. She pulled it up to her waist, but he took the fabric from her and lifted it the rest of the way over her head. With her chemise still bunched in his hands he stared at her, his gaze so intense that she sensed it as tangibly as his touch.

“You are beautiful,” he said finally.

She smiled, pleased at his words, and lay against the pillows, eager for what would come next.

But if she expected him to take his pleasure quickly, she was mistaken. He knelt over her, looking as if he were memorising every part of her. His hands, still gentle and reverent, caressed her skin. When his palms grazed her nipples, the sensation shot straight to her most feminine place.

Slowly his hand travelled the same path, but stopped short of where her body now throbbed for him. Instead, he stroked the inside of her thighs, so teasingly near.

A sound, half-pleasure, half-frustration, escaped her lips.

Finally he touched her. His fingers explored her flesh, now moist for him. The miracle of sensation his fingers created built her need to an intensity she thought she could not bear a moment longer.

He bent down and kissed her lips again, his tongue freely tasting her now. Her legs parted, ready for him.

She braced for his thrust, a part of lovemaking always painful for her, but he did not force himself inside her. Wonder of wonders, he eased himself inside, a sweet torture of rhythmic stroking until gradually he filled her completely. The need inside her grew even stronger and she moved with him, trying to ease the torment.

More wonders, he seemed to be in complete unison with her, as if he sensed her growing need so he could meet it each step of the way. The sensation created by him was more intense than she had ever experienced. Soon nothing existed for her but her need and the man who would satisfy it.

The intensity still built, speeding her forwards, faster and faster, until suddenly she exploded with sensation inside. Pleasure washed through her, like waves on the shore. His grip on her tightened and he thrust with more force, convulsing as he spilled his seed inside her. For that intense moment, their bodies pressed together, shaking with the shared climax.

Gabe felt the pleasure ebb, making his body suddenly heavy, his mind again able to form coherent thought.

He forced himself not to merely collapse on top of her and crush her with his weight. Instead, he eased himself off her to lie at her side.

As soon as he did so she flung her arms across her face. He gently lowered them.

She was weeping.

He felt panicked. “Emmaline, did I injure you?” He could not precisely recall how he might have done so, but during those last moments he’d been consumed by his own drive to completion.

She shook her head. “Non. I cannot speak—”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you.” He ought not to have made love to her. He’d taken advantage of her grief and worry. “I did not realise …”

She swiped at her eyes and turned on her side to face him. “You did not distress me. How do I say it?” He could feel her search for words. “I never felt le plaisir in this way before.”

His spirits darkened. “It did not please you.”

Tears filled her eyes again, making them sparkle in the candlelight. She cupped her palm against his cheek. “Tu ne comprends pas. You do not comprehend. It pleased me more than I can say to you.”

Relief washed through him. “I thought I had hurt you.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, resting her head against his heart.

Gabe allowed himself to enjoy the comfort of her silky skin against his, their bodies warming each other as cool night air seeped through the window jamb.

She spoke and he felt her voice through his chest as well as hearing it with his ears. “It was not so with my husband. Not so … long. So … much plaisir.”

The image of a body in a French uniform flashed into Gabe’s mind, the body they had been forced to abandon in Badajoz. Now he’d made love to that man’s wife. It seemed unconscionable. “Has there been no other man since your husband?”

“No, Gabriel. Only you.”

He drew in a breath, forcing himself to be reasonable. He’d had nothing to do with the Frenchman’s death. And three years had passed.

He felt her muscles tense. “Do you have a wife?”

“No.” Of that he could easily assure her. He’d never even considered it.

She relaxed again. “C’est très bien. I would not like it if you had a wife. I would feel culpabilité.”

He laughed inwardly. They were both concerned about feeling the culpabilité, the guilt.

They lay quiet again and he twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers.

“It feels agreeable to lie here with you,” she said after a time.

Very agreeable, he thought, almost as if he belonged in her bed.

After a moment a thought occurred to him. “Do you need to take care of yourself?”

“Pardon?” She turned her face to him.

“To prevent a baby?” He had no wish to inflict an unwanted baby upon her.

Her expression turned pained. “I do not think I can have more babies. I was only enceinte one time. With Claude. Never again.”

He held her closer, regretting he’d asked. “Did you wish for more children?”

She took a deep breath and lay her head against his chest again. “More babies would have been very difficult. To accompany my husband, you know.”

What kind of fool had her husband been to bring his family to war? Gabe knew how rough it was for soldiers’ wives to march long distances heavy with child, or to care for tiny children while a battle raged.

“Did you always follow the drum?” he asked.

She glanced at him. “The drum? I do not comprehend.”

“Accompany your husband on campaign,” he explained.

“Ah!” Her eyes brightened in understanding. “Not always did I go with him. Not until Claude was walking and talking. My husband did not wish to be parted from his son.”

“From Claude?” Not from her?

Had her marriage not been a love match? Gabe could never see the point of marrying unless there was strong devotion between the man and woman, a devotion such as his parents possessed.

Emmaline continued. “My husband was very close to Claude. I think it is why Claude feels so hurt and angry that he died.”

“Claude has a right to feel hurt and angry,” Gabe insisted.

“But it does not help him, eh?” She trembled.

He held her closer. “Everyone has hardship in their lives to overcome. It will make him stronger.”

She looked into his eyes. “What hardship have you had in your life?” She rubbed her hand over the scar on his abdomen. “Besides war?”

“None,” he declared. “My father was prosperous, my family healthy.”

She nestled against him again. “Tell me about your family.”

There was not much to tell. “My father is a cloth merchant, prosperous enough to rear eight children.”

“Eight? So many.” She looked up at him again. “And are you the oldest? The youngest?”

“I am in the middle,” he replied. “First there were four boys and then four girls. I am the last of the boys, but the only one to leave Manchester.”

Her brow knitted. “I was like Claude, the only one. I do not know what it would be like to have so many brothers and sisters.”

He could hardly remember. “It was noisy, actually. I used to escape whenever I could. I liked most to stay with my uncle. He managed a hill farm. I liked that better than my father’s warehouse.” His father had never needed him there, not with his older brothers to help out.

“A hill farm?” She looked puzzled.

“A farm with sheep and a few other animals,” he explained.

She smiled at him. “You like sheep farming?”

“I did.” He thought back to those days, out of doors in the fresh country air, long hours to daydream while watching the flocks graze, or, even better, days filled with hard work during shearing time or when the sheep were lambing.

“Why did you not become a farmer, then?” she asked.

At the time even the open spaces where the sheep grazed seemed too confining to him. “Nelson had just defeated Napoleon’s fleet in Egypt. Lancashire seemed too tame a place compared to the likes of Egypt. I asked my father to purchase a commission for me and he did.”

“And did you go to Egypt with the army?” Her head rested against his heart.

He shook his head. “No. I was sent to the West Indies.”

He remembered the shock of that hellish place, where men died from fevers in great numbers, where he also had become ill and nearly did not recover. When not ill, all his regiment ever did was keep the slaves from revolting. Poor devils. All they’d wanted was to be free men.

He went on. “After that we came to Spain to fight Napoleon’s army.”

Her muscles tensed. “Napoleon. Bah!”

He moved so they were lying face to face. “You do not revere L’Empereur?”

“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “He took the men and boys and too many were killed. Too many.”

Her distress returned. Gabe changed the subject. “Now I have told you about my life. What of yours?”

She became very still, but held his gaze. “I grew up in the Revolution. Everyone was afraid all the time, afraid to be on the wrong side, you know? Because you would go to la guillotine.” She shuddered. “I saw a pretty lady go to the guillotine.”

“You witnessed the guillotine?” He was aghast. “You must have been very young.”

“Oui. My mother hated the Royals, but the pretty lady did not seem so bad to me. She cried for her children at the end.”

“My God,” he said.

Her gaze drifted and he knew she was seeing it all again.

Gabe felt angry on Emmaline’s behalf, angry she should have to endure such a horror.

He lifted her chin with his finger. “You have seen too much.”

Her lips trembled and his senses fired with arousal again. He moved closer.

Her breathing accelerated. “I am glad I am here with you.”

He looked into her eyes, marvelling at the depth of emotion they conveyed, marvelling that she could remain open and loving in spite of all she’d experienced. A surge of protectiveness flashed through him. He wanted to wipe away all the pain she’d endured. He wanted her to never hurt again.

He placed his lips on hers, thinking he’d never tasted such sweetness. He ran his hand down her back, savouring the feel of her, the outline of her spine, the soft flesh of her buttocks. Parting from her kiss, he gazed upon her, drinking in her beauty with his eyes. The fullness of her breasts, the dusky pink of her nipples, the triangle of dark hair at her genitals.

He touched her neck, so long and slim, and slid his hand to her breasts. She moaned. Placing her hands on the sides of his head, she guided his lips to where his fingers had been. He took her breast into his mouth and explored her nipple with his tongue, feeling it peak and harden.

Her fingernails scraped his back as he tasted one, then the other breast. She writhed beneath him. Soon he was unable to think of anything but Emmaline and how wonderful it felt to make love to her, how he wished the time would never end. Even if he had only this one night with her, he would be grateful. It was far more than he’d expected.

The need for her intensified and he positioned himself over her. She opened her legs and arched her back to him. His chest swelled with masculine pride that she wanted him, wanted him to fill her and bring her to climax.

He entered her easily and what had before been a slow, sublime climb to pleasure this time became a frenzied rush. She rose to meet him and clung to him as if to urge him not to slow down, not to stop.

As if he could. As if he ever wanted this to end, even knowing the ecstasy promised.

The air filled with their rapturous breathing as their exhilaration grew more fevered, more consuming. Gabe heard her cry, felt her convulse around him and then he was lost in his own shattering pleasure.

Afterwards they did not speak. He slid to her side and Emmaline fell asleep in his arms as the candle burned down to a sputtering nub. While it still cast enough light, he gazed upon her as she slept.

He did not know what the morning would bring. For all he knew she might send him away in regret for this night together. Or he might be called away to the regiment. Would the regiment be ordered to march, to meet Napoleon’s forces?

Would he face her son in battle and take from her what she held most dear?

Chapter Three

Emmaline woke the next morning with joy in her heart. The man in her bed rolled over and smiled at her as if he, too, shared the happy mood that made her want to laugh and sing and dance about the room.

Instead he led her into a dance of a different sort, one that left her senses humming and her body a delicious mix of satiation and energy. She felt as if she could fly.

His brown eyes, warm as a cup of chocolate, rested on her as he again lay next to her. She held her breath as she gazed back at him, his hair rumpled, his face shadowed with beard.

This time she indulged her curiosity and ran her finger along his cheek, which felt like the coarsest sackcloth. “I do not have the razor for you, Gabriel.”

He rubbed his chin. “I will shave later.”

From the church seven bells rang.

“It is seven of the clock. I have slept late.” She slipped out of the tangled covers and his warm arms, and searched for her shift. “I will bring you some water for washing tout de suite.”

His brows creased. “Do not delay yourself further. I will fetch the water and take care of myself.”

She blinked, uncertain he meant what he said. “Then I will dress and begin breakfast.”

He sat up and ran his hands roughly through his hair. She stole a glance at his muscled chest gleaming in the light from the window. He also watched her as she dressed. How different this morning felt than when she’d awoken next to her husband. Remy would have scolded her for oversleeping and told her to hurry so he could have fresh water with which to wash and shave.

As she walked out of the room, she laughed to herself. Remy would also have boasted about how more skilled at lovemaking a Frenchman was over an Englishman. Well, this Englishman’s skills at lovemaking far exceeded one Frenchman’s.

She paused at the top of the stairs, somewhat ashamed at disparaging her husband. Remy had been no worse than many husbands. Certainly he had loved Claude.

Early in her marriage she’d thought herself lacking as a wife, harbouring a rebellious spirit even while trying to do as her much older husband wished. She’d believed her defiance meant she had remained more child than grown woman. When Remy dictated she and Claude would accompany him to war, she’d known it would not be good for their son. She had raged against the idea.

But only silently.

Perhaps her love for Remy would not have withered like a flower deprived of sun and water, if she’d done what she knew had been right and kept Claude in France.

Emmaline shook off the thoughts and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen to begin breakfast, firing up her little stove to heat a pot of chocolate and to use the bits of cheese left over from the night before to make an omelette with the three eggs still in her larder. Gabriel came down in his shirtsleeves to fetch his fresh water and soon they were both seated at the table, eating what she’d prepared.

“You are feeding me well, Emmaline,” he remarked, his words warming her.

She smiled at the compliment. “It is enjoyable to cook for someone else.”

His eyes gazed at her with concern. “You have been lonely?”

She lowered her voice. “Oui, since Claude left.” But she did not want the sadness to return, not when she had woken to such joy. “But I am not lonely today.”

It suddenly occurred to her that he could walk out and she would never see him again. Her throat grew tight with anxiety.

She reached across the table and clasped his hand. “My night with you made me happy.”

His expression turned wistful. “It made me happy, too.” He glanced away and back, his brow now furrowed. “I have duties with the regiment today, but if you will allow me to return, I will come back when you close the shop.”

“Oui! Yes.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, I cannot, Gabriel. I have no food to cook and I have slept too late to go to the market.” She flushed, remembering why she’d risen so late.

His eyes met hers. “I will bring the food.”

Her heart pounded. “And will you stay with me again?”

Only his eyes conveyed emotion, reflecting the passion they’d both shared. “I will stay.”

The joy burst forth again.

Gabe returned that evening and the next and the next. Each morning he left her bed and returned in the evening, bringing her food and wine and flowers. While she worked at the shop, he performed whatever regimental duties were required of him. It felt like he was merely marking time until he could see her again.

They never spoke of the future, even though his orders to march could come at any time and they would be forced to part. They talked only of present and past, Gabe sharing more with Emmaline than with anyone he’d ever known. He was never bored with her. He could listen for ever to her musical French accent, could watch for ever her face animated by her words.

May ended and June arrived, each day bringing longer hours of sunlight and warmth. The time passed in tranquillity, an illusion all Brussels seemed to share, even though everyone knew war was imminent. The Prussians were marching to join forces with the Allied Army under Wellington’s command. The Russians were marching to join the effort as well, but no one expected they could reach France in time for the first clash with Napoleon.

In Brussels, however, leisure seemed the primary activity. The Parc de Brussels teemed with red-coated gentlemen walking with elegant ladies among the statues and fountains and flowers. A never-ending round of social events preoccupied the more well-connected officers and the aristocracy in residence. Gabe’s very middle-class birth kept him off the invitation lists, but he was glad. It meant he could spend his time with Emmaline.

On Sundays when she closed the shop, Gabe walked with Emmaline in the Parc, or, even better, rode with her into the country with its farms thick with planting and hills dotted with sheep.

This day several of the officers were chatting about the Duchess of Richmond’s ball to be held the following night, invitations to which were much coveted. Gabe was glad not to be included. It would have meant a night away from Emmaline.

His duties over for the day, Gabe made his way through Brussels to the food market. He shopped every day for the meals he shared with Emmaline and had become quite knowledgeable about Belgian food. His favourites were the frites that were to be found everywhere, thick slices of potato, fried to a crisp on the outside, soft and flavourful on the inside.

He’d even become proficient in bargaining in French. He haggled with the woman selling mussels, a food Emmaline especially liked. Mussels for dinner tonight and some of the tiny cabbages that were a Brussels staple. And, of course, the frites. He wandered through the market, filling his basket with other items that would please Emmaline: bread, eggs, cheese, cream, a bouquet of flowers. Before leaving the market, he quenched his thirst with a large mug of beer, another Belgian specialty.

Next stop was the wine shop, because Emmaline, true to her French birth, preferred wine over beer. After leaving there, he paused by a jewellery shop, its door open to the cooling breezes. Inside he glimpsed a red-coated officer holding up a glittering bracelet. “This is a perfect betrothal gift,” the man said. He recognised the fellow, one of the Royal Scots. Buying a betrothal gift?

Gabe walked on, but the words repeated in his brain.