French Intuition

Delilah Marvelle

London, England – June 1828, evening
The Pickworth Ball

He hadn’t come. Even though he said he would.

Of course, Lady Gwendolyn Elizabeth Redford knew all too well why her husband hadn’t arrived. Instead of being a mature and rational man, he’d finally opted to believe the outrageous rumours that she was involved with Lord Westbrook. And whilst, yes, Westbrook had once ardently vied for her hand in marriage, the man had never meant anything to her. Not then, and most certainly not now. No man could ever be as handsome, or as witty, or as charming, or as . . . annoying as her Camden.

Somehow, this mutual agreement of theirs to spend a little time apart had led to a lot of time apart. Followed by complete chaos brought on by the ton, who held nothing sacred if it created some amusing entertainment.

Perspiration trickled its way down the length of Gwendolyn’s exposed neck beneath her pinned curls. And she hadn’t even been dancing. It was all due to the stagnant heat of a ballroom that harboured an unsightly amount of people. A result of too many invitations sent.

Far worse than all the heat and the people, their fading scents of oiled perfumes mingling with rancid sweat, was having to assist her younger brother’s new-found aspiration to wed. Edwin’s dreamy enthusiasm towards a love match achingly reminded her of herself when she was his age. But it took far more than dreamy enthusiasm to make a loving marriage thrive. She should know.

Lord Westbrook’s stocky frame reappeared at her side again. For the fifth time that night.

She stiffened, but otherwise remained in place, knowing he was going to follow her no matter where she went.

Westbrook swept aside the curling, dark hair from his forehead and cleared his throat. “Lady Redford. Might I have a word with you out on the balcony?”

Gad. The annoying man wouldn’t go away. No wonder everyone thought she was involved with him. He was forever at her elbow, insisting on attention that was anything but respectable.

She sighed, wishing there were no rules in society about being courteous. “I am not interested in sharing words, My Lord. And most certainly not on a balcony where our conversation may be construed as something it is not.”

He scooted closer, his gloved hand curving around her corseted waist. “You cannot keep eluding me.”

Gwendolyn sucked in a breath and stepped outside of his grasp, eyeing the crowds around them, including her brother who lingered only a few feet away. Of course, her brother was far too occupied with his own life to notice she was being shoved into the devil’s own cupboard.

She set her chin, trying to remain calm. If she overreacted, it would bring attention. And that she most certainly did not need. “There is a very good reason as to why I am eluding you, My Lord, but I am far too civil to express that reason. Now I am demanding you cease this. You have already created more gossip than I know what to do with.”

Westbrook reclaimed the distance she had set between them and leaned towards her. His dark eyes boldly traced her breasts and whispered, “I will only cease once I get what I want. Do you need me to tell you what I want? Or has your husband never properly educated you on the matter?”

She buried her right hand within the folds of her gown, fisting the silk material in an effort to keep herself from outright smacking him. She stepped away again and glared at him. “I will see to it my husband calls on you tomorrow afternoon so that you may discuss this with him in greater detail. Will that better suit you?”

“There is no need, madam. When it comes to you, Redford and I already share an understanding.” Westbrook smirked, adjusted his evening coat and stared her down with haughty, dark eyes. Offering her a nod, he turned and strode over towards her brother, interrupting his conversation with a few curt words.

Gwendolyn narrowed her gaze, wishing it were legal to publicly castrate men. With each passing day, she was beginning to believe it was far better being miserable with Camden than being miserable without him. Their separation was supposed to bring them a form of uniting, healing peace – not this . . . war.

She wandered closer to her brother and waved a frantic hand towards him from behind Westbrook’s back. She urgently mouthed, “We must leave. Now.”

Edwin flicked a nod in response to her silent plea, and discreetly held up an apologetic gloved hand, asking for patience. He then continued his in-depth discussion with Lord Westbrook.

It reminded her of something Camden would do. Tell her to wait a moment and then two hours would pass.

She hissed out a breath. Didn’t Edwin realize that by engaging Westbrook, he was only going to further complicate her life? She flicked open her fan and waved it frantically back and forth before her heated face.

A superficial laugh – one she’d never heard in all her five and twenty years — escaped Edwin in response to something Westbrook said.

Gwendolyn blinked, freezing the tip of her fan below her nose. She lowered her chin slightly and continued to observe her brother’s unusual antics. Edwin’s chestnut hair fell farther out of place with each exaggerated, eager nod.

Oh, no. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say Edwin was trying to impress Westbrook in an effort to gain an introduction to the man’s ever-so-popular younger sister. Dear Lord, this did not bode well for her. At all. She did not want or need Westbrook for an in-law.

Someone leaned towards her, bringing the refreshing scent of citrus into the frowsty air. “Gwendolyn,” her mother chimed. “You look incredibly annoyed.”

“I am incredibly annoyed.” Gwendolyn snapped her fan shut and released it, letting it dangle again from her wrist. She spun towards her mother. “Where have you been?”

Despite the heat that was causing everyone’s rouge to fade, Lady Stanton’s own remained flawless. Like the rest of her. Even with those greying tresses, her pretty, oval face held a fresh youthfulness from which no amount of grey could detract. Now why couldn’t Westbrook obsess over someone like her mother who had been widowed these past six years? The woman needed attention far more than she did.

Gwendolyn leaned towards her mother. “Edwin is entertaining Westbrook. I demand you do something. He is your son and therefore your responsibility. Not mine.”

Lady Stanton’s green eyes flicked over towards Edwin and Lord Westbrook, then back to her. She shook her head and ushered Gwendolyn away from the two, her emerald satin and lace gown brushing against her own.

Once they were a few steps away, her mother flicked open her own silk fan, hiding her lips from those around them, and whispered, “You do realize Westbrook is waiting for you and Redford to divorce, yes?”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “As if I would ever—”

“What is more,” her mother added in an even more hushed tone, now appearing concerned, “Redford may be planning on it.”

Gwendolyn stared at her, her breath hitching. “Whatever do you mean? Camden and I aren’t—”

“Apparently, upon hearing all the gossip, Redford went to Westbrook and demanded proof of your involvement with him, lest he call the man out for slander. Two days later, Westbrook provided him with proof.”

Gwendolyn choked. “What proof? I never—”

Her mother grabbed her arm and shielded both of their faces with her fan. “Westbrook bribed one of your servants and acquired one of your silk stockings, then delivered it to Redford. Therein providing proof.”

Gwendolyn gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. She grabbed both of her mother’s gloved hands and squeezed them in a frantic effort to balance herself and her thoughts. “How do you know all of this?”

Lady Stanton fluttered her fan for a moment and eyed her sheepishly. “With Redford moving out, I was worried about you living alone. So I . . . paid your butler and housekeeper additional funds to watch over you a bit more carefully.”

Gwendolyn felt her throat tightening as she glanced back towards Lord Westbrook who was still enthusiastically conversing with her brother. “Keep me from slitting his throat from ear to ear,” she rasped. “Why is he doing this to me? I never once—”

“Calm yourself,” Lady Stanton hissed, snapping her fan shut. “And more importantly, keep your voice to a whisper. Now, let us fetch you a glass of wine and take you home. In the morning, we will try to settle this misunderstanding as best we can.”

Gwendolyn drew in a steady breath, trying to calm herself. She let the breath out, nodding. “I believe I will require more than one glass of wine. I will require four or five. Maybe even six.”

“Whatever amount will keep you calm. Now come along.” Lady Stanton tucked her hand into the crook of Gwendolyn’s arm and whisked her away in the opposite direction.

“Mother!” Edwin called out after them. He scrambled around Lord Westbrook and held up a gloved hand above the heads of other passing couples. “You cannot whisk her away as of yet. I need her.”

“Ignore him,” Gwendolyn hissed, rushing them forwards. “He only ever acknowledges me when an opportunity for a female introduction arises and, frankly, I feel like an underpaid chaperone.”

“You needn’t worry about him,” her mother insisted. “I will put an end to his preening. That boy has been far too preoccupied with his own life to notice anyone else’s.”

“It must be contagious.”

Together, they bumped their way through the crush of people and didn’t slow their pace until they were on the other side of the ballroom.

Gwendolyn heaved out a sigh and glanced at her mother. “I don’t understand why you keep encouraging his need for matrimony. Edwin is only twenty.”

Her mother patted Gwendolyn’s forearm. “You cannot fault him, dear. He’s always been a romantic. You know that.”

Lady Stanton suddenly yanked them both to a halt, turning them in the direction of an older gent. “My Lord!” her mother exclaimed. “Oh, thank heavens. Such divine timing I have never known.”

Lady Stanton scurried them both over to a grey-haired gent whose ivory waistcoat couldn’t hide an oversized belly that protruded from his dark evening coat.

Gwendolyn’s heart momentarily skipped at the realization of who he was. Camden’s uncle. Lord Truesdale. Why, she hadn’t even heard his name announced.

“My dear Lady Stanton.” Lord Truesdale took her mother’s free hand and bowed ardently over it. “I demand we find a less crowded room. My carriage or yours?” He waggled his thick, grey brows and grinned crookedly, still holding on to Lady Stanton’s gloved hand.

Her mother released a girlish laugh and coyly withdrew her hand not only from him, but also from Gwendolyn’s own arm. “Do tame yourself,” she shrilled. “We are family.”

Lord Truesdale continued to blatantly grin at her, not in the least bit fazed. “Must you remind me?”

The two openly laughed.

It was like listening to debutantes prattle. Only far worse. When the opportunity of silence presented itself, Gwendolyn decided to interject. “Forgive me, My Lord, but is Camden coming? Do you even know?” There was no sense in pretending she had come for anything but Camden.

Lord Truesdale turned his stout body towards her, those brown eyes instantly cooling. “The boy has never been one for confrontations. You know that.” He stiffly grasped Gwendolyn’s hand, kissed the top of her gloved knuckles and paused, staring her down. “Camden is beside himself. As am I.”

She choked, her grasp on his hand tightening. “I am beside myself. It is a farce, My Lord. A lie. All of it. My mother can attest.”

Lord Truesdale tugged her in closer with the jerk of her hand, forcing her to stare straight into his stern, round face. “It had better be a lie. Now cease all of this nonsense, move back in with the boy and see to your duty by siring an heir. My nephew has waited long enough, has he not?”

Gwendolyn swallowed back the biting sensation of tears burning her eyes and yanked her shaky hand out of his. She had miscarried far too many times – seven, to be exact — for there to be any humour in his words. “Did your nephew not explain my situation? Or do you find yourself thoroughly amusing?”

Her mother touched her arm, silently pleading she refrain from saying anything more.

Lord Truesdale blinked, then set his hands behind his back and abruptly turned towards her mother. “Whatever the situation may be, I intend to embark upon an intervention by putting an end to these blasphemous rumours.” He scanned his surroundings. “And I hope all of London is listening. Because I am a man of my word.”

Gwendolyn’s heart skipped at the unexpected gesture. After all, the man had never been enthusiastic about her and Camden’s marriage, being the dedicated bachelor that he was. The man much preferred courtesans over a respectable woman. “You intend on assisting? Why? You never approved of our marriage.”

He glared at her. “Camden has been contemplating everything but suicide. What else would you have me do?”

Oh, poor Camden. She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking or feeling. They had promised to be faithful during their time apart and now this . . .

From behind them, someone cleared their throat. “Pardon the interruption,” Edwin drawled. “But I require the company of my sister for an introduction.”

Gwendolyn refrained from groaning, but opted to heave out an exasperated sigh instead. She supposed if she couldn’t be a good wife, she might as well be a good sister. She reluctantly curtseyed to Lord Truesdale. “Please inform Camden I am still devoted to him and him alone. Despite everything.”

Lord Truesdale leaned in. “I will call on you tomorrow afternoon. I have an idea as to what should be done.”

Though she dreaded his idea of “what should be done”, she supposed any assistance in this matter would be helpful. “You will find me at home, My Lord,” she insisted, more than ready not only to face Camden, but to reclaim him and in turn become the wife he deserved.

A firm hand grabbed Gwendolyn’s upper arm from behind and yanked her off to the side. She stumbled, glaring at her brother. “Edwin, what are you—”

Her brother stalked past her and moved towards Camden’s uncle. “Tell that nephew of yours I have a pair of fists waiting for him at Jackson’s,” he snapped, not at all bothering to lower his voice. “What breed of man abandons his own wife?”

Gwendolyn’s eyes widened as she smacked her brother’s shoulder with her fan. “Whatever are you doing?” she hissed, glancing around at those who were beginning to stare. “He didn’t abandon me. It was a mutual separation.”

Edwin spun towards her and glared down at her with blazing green eyes. “I am merely overseeing your honour. Someone has to. Now come along. There are a few marvellous women I’ve yet to meet.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her rudely in the opposite direction.

She rolled her eyes and scrambled to keep up with him. “Marvellous? So far, every woman you’ve insisted on meeting has been about as entertaining as a brick.”

He glanced back at her and continued to lead her through the crowds. “I’ll have you know that bricks make good, solid foundations upon which to build.”

It was pointless trying to stick a fork into his brain about anything. She sighed and allowed him to drag her left and right, and then right and left, for the rest of the evening for the sake of his happiness. Of course, she made a point to avoid Westbrook at every turn. After all, she didn’t want to be rude and spray the man’s blood everywhere when she attacked him.

Two days later, night, as the clock strikes ten
The Truesdale house

Camden Richard Dearborn, the fourth Marquis of Redford, had never once in the course of his thirty years overindulged in enough cognac, port or brandy to render himself senseless and useless.

Until tonight.

Of course, drowning the last of his rational mind was the only way he could gull himself into facing his own wife – who already appeared to be an hour late. Damn her. As always, time meant nothing to her. And apparently, neither did he.

Camden shifted against the sofa cushion and tried to focus on tightening his bare fingers against the glass of port. It was a miracle he hadn’t spilled the damn thing. Or dropped it.

He glanced across the length of the candlelit parlour towards the entryway and staggered on to heavy-booted feet. He brought more port to his lips and though he swallowed, he could no longer taste the tangy sweetness coating his tongue.

The very thought of his own Gwendolyn touching another man made him want to smash his glass against his own head. Never did he think she of all people would do such a thing.

It was obvious he stood apart in his way of thinking that all a man truly needed out of life was a faithful wife, four children and a dog. For what every man in London really wanted these days was multiple lovers and other people’s wives. Including his own! And whatever children were born were simply the results of overspent passions, not love and family planning. As for the dog? The poor dog was left to wander the streets alone. Completely forgotten. Man’s best friend no more.

With each droning minute that passed in silence, Camden couldn’t help but feel increasingly pathetic about waiting around for a wife who apparently was not coming. That alone bespoke of guilt. She couldn’t even face him.

Regardless, he was not leaving until she arrived. He wanted a damn explanation as to how her silk stocking had gotten into Westbrook’s hands. And if that explanation wasn’t good enough, by God, he was getting a divorce and moving to France.

“Uncle!” Camden leaned forwards impatiently, swaying for a brief moment against his own movement, and glanced towards the entryway his uncle had disappeared into. “Is my wife coming or not? Where the bloody hell is she?”

After a few moments of silence, there was an echoing of boots. His uncle reappeared with . . . what appeared to be two black strips of cloth in his hands. The old man strode towards him. “She just arrived. Apparently, she couldn’t decide on which gown to wear.”

That most certainly was Gwendolyn. He was of the mind that a woman should only be allowed one gown. That way, there’d be no more indecision.

His uncle paused before him.

Camden watched as his uncle casually draped one of the black velvet sashes over the chair, then snapped the other strip of black velvet taut between his hands. “Lean forwards.”

Camden pulled his shaven chin against his silk cravat. “Whatever do you mean ‘lean forwards’? What the blazes do you intend to do with that? Put that away!”

His uncle’s bushy brows went up as he extended the black velvet blindfold. “Do you or do you not wish to save your marriage?”

Camden choked. “I . . . My marriage? What is all this?”

“Lean forwards, damn you. I will not ask again.”

Camden huffed out a breath, knowing that when it came to his uncle, one did not ask questions. One simply hoped for the best. To accommodate the height difference between them, he leaned forwards, as told. But for some reason, the room swayed.

Camden caught hold of his uncle’s shoulder with his free hand and steadied himself as port splashed outside the glass he held in his other hand.

Lord Truesdale glared up at him. “Why would you ply yourself before her coming? The idea is to save your marriage. Not destroy the last of it.”

Regaining his balance, Camden shifted towards his uncle. “I am not in the least bit pleased with my wife and am merely trying to ensure I am sedated enough to entertain her.”

“She may just entertain you.” His uncle smirked and placed the thick, double-folded soft velvet against the bridge of Camden’s nose, covering his eyes.

Darkness flooded Camden’s vision as his uncle secured the blindfold firmly against the back of his head. The glass was suddenly yanked from his grasp and, before he realized what was happening, both of his hands were yanked hard behind his back and tightly bound together.

“What—?” Camden struggled against the ties that bound him. “What is this? Untie me!” he boomed, unable to free his wrists from the tight binding.

Shuffles and movements floated around him in the fuzzy darkness. “Have at it,” his uncle announced to someone, his booted feet disappearing out into the corridor. “I intend to go for my walk. Expect me in two hours.”

The rustling of skirts filled the room.

“Gwendolyn?” Camden demanded.

“Yes, Camden?” Her voice was soft and flirtatious. “What is it?”

He froze. It had been months since her voice had been that soft or that flirtatious. “What . . . You’d best untie me. Do it. Now.”

“Why would I do that? You are supposed to remain bound for the rest of the evening.”

He choked. “The devil, you say. I am demanding you untie me. Before I acquire a divorce on the grounds of this alone!”

“Oh hush, already. Where is your sense of adventure? You always take everything too seriously.” A pair of firm, small hands grabbed hold of his forearm and waist and guided him forcefully forwards in a direction that was anything but straight.

He scrambled forwards, trying to keep his body upright, though with his hands tied behind his back, it was difficult to balance. He stumbled and winced. “I should probably point out, madam, that I’ve had far too many cognacs. And port. Lots of port.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She eased their pace, and tucked her petite, curvaceous body against him, tightening her hold on his waist, to assist in his movements.

Camden swayed and awkwardly adjusted himself against her. Soft, abundant hair grazed his skin as she slowly led him forwards. He unwittingly leaned into her, willing himself to submit to whatever was happening to him.

The rustling of her skirts, which brushed up against his trouser-clad legs, was all that met his ears. Seeing that they weren’t climbing any stairs – fortunately for him – his guess was that she was opting for the closest private room there was.

His uncle’s library.

She brought them to a halt and slid out of his reach. There was a creaking of double doors opening.

A warm, soft hand grabbed his and carefully guided him through. Her other hand took hold of his arm, encouraging him to remain where he was, before releasing him again.

The doors thudded closed, and a click told him that they were not only locked, but he was now officially at her mercy.

And then . . . there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Camden stood in blinding darkness and silence, sensing Gwendolyn was still nearby. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Do you find yourself amusing?”

Her skirts rustled against the movement of her legs. And without a word, gentle, yet firm, warm hands smoothed their way under his coat and against his waist in a seductive manner that made him suck in a breath.

She placed her warmth close against the front of his body, forcing him to feel every soft inch of her. Her skirts pushed against the length of his trousers. The stiffness of her corset and her full breasts beneath pressed against the front of his buttoned waistcoat.

She continued to tenderly hold him and did not attempt anything more. His pulse drummed. It was as equally wrenching as it was awkward, knowing how long it had been since she had so willingly touched him.

God save him, all he wanted to do was . . .

Camden lowered his shaven chin into a soft mass of soap-scented curls that touched his lips. “Gwendolyn. Please.”

Gwendolyn readjusted in his arms and laid her head on the expanse of his chest, sighing ever so wistfully. As if it was the only place she was ever meant to be.

Camden swallowed. The way that sigh escaped her lips, and the way her hands and fingers dug possessively into the back of his waist, achingly reminded him of the way their marriage used to be. Perfect. Romantic. All the things he and Gwendolyn had lost with each and every miscarriage.

Damn her. Damn her for not using their separation to heal her body and her soul as they had agreed on. “I want an explanation as to what is going on between you and Westbrook. And I will have that explanation after you bloody remove this blindfold and untie my hands. Is that understood?”

Her head lifted from his chest. Pulling her arms from around his waist, she scrambled outside of his grasp. “You will get an explanation after we play a little game.”

He blinked against his blindfold and huffed out a breath, trying to focus. “I would sooner demand a divorce than entertain any of this.”

A hush met his ears.

Camden raised his chin slowly. Then lowered it. He tried to see her through the blindfold. “Are you there?” he ventured. “Or did I cause you to faint and somehow missed the thud?”

When she didn’t answer, he attempted to move his hands against the velvet binding. He staggered during the attempt. “Your humour knows no bounds. This is all very symbolic, I assure you.”

He suddenly froze, sensing Gwendolyn was not only standing before him, but was actually leaning in towards him. He swallowed, as the heat of her body seemed to pulse against his own, bidding him to forget everything and give in to the temptation of touching her intimately.

She obviously wanted them to be intimate. But . . . why?

“’Tis obvious your wife never appreciated you as much as she should have,” she whispered, her hushed voice sounding so incredibly close it startled him. “Which is why she humbly asks to pleasure you in a manner you deserve. Will you let her?”

His breath hitched in his throat in response. Hell, he couldn’t have heard her right. This was all the result of one too many cognacs, a blindfold and no access to cigars.

Camden stumbled back and away, but the floor beneath him – which he could barely feel, let alone see – swayed. He sucked in a harsh breath and squeezed his eyes shut, steadying himself and his thoughts. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. He never drank and was now downright delusional. And by tomorrow, he’d be heaving for it.

Camden opened his eyes again and blinked against the darkness of the blindfold. “I . . . No. I cannot do any of this. Not until you tell me of your relationship with Westbrook.”

“I will not offer you an explanation, Camden, unless you agree to play a game with me. You used to love playing games in the bedchamber. Or have you already forgotten what it is you love?”

Damn. In some ways, yes, of course, he wanted this. He was tired of using his right hand all these months. But to submit himself to her without explanation?

He was usually a rational man. Usually. Hell, even whilst rumours about Gwendolyn’s involvement with Westbrook had choked him to a fury he never thought possible, he allowed reason to rein him in and decided to visit Westbrook’s townhouse for an explanation. Instead of shattering the man’s skull against the floor like a piece of china, as he should have, he coolly demanded proof of the man’s involvement with his own wife. And the proof came, two days later, in the form of Gwendolyn’s silk stocking, which he recognized all too well. The one stitched with lilies and softly scented with her favourite French perfume. The one he had burned, lest he hang himself with it.

“I want an explanation,” he snapped.

“And you will get it by the end of the night. The question of more notable importance is . . . do you trust me, Camden?”

He swallowed. Hard. He wanted to trust her. He wanted to trust her with his entire bleeding heart, but . . . “I don’t know if I do.”

“Then you will receive no explanation and can take yourself straight to the door. I am certain London would find you quite entertaining stumbling about the streets as you are.”

“Gwendolyn, for God’s sake—”

“Do you know the name of the game we are about to play?”

“Yes. It’s called Let Us Torture the Husband.”

She snorted. “No. It is called French Intuition. According to your uncle, courtesans play it with their patrons.”

He rumbled out a laugh. “You really shouldn’t listen to my uncle. He flogs the bishop a bit too much.”

She sighed. “Do you think I would have agreed to any of this if I did not think it would benefit us? You and I both know how much our intimacy has suffered due to our inability to have children. I wish to set all of that aside. I wish to save our marriage.”

He shifted from boot to boot, struggling to understand her and what it was she wanted. “Why?”

“Because I love you and hope that you still love me.” There was an aching softness in her voice. “Now please. Ask me how the game is played. Show me how much our marriage means to you.”

He shifted his jaw. “How is it played?”

“You will remain blindfolded and your hands will remain tied. Nothing will be allowed to exist for you except for pleasure. Everything else, all doubts, all questions, all fear, must fall away. By allowing everything to fall away, only that which is important will remain. What one feels.”

“A philosophical game tainted with eroticism. How very . . . French, indeed.”

“So you will play?”

He snorted. “In my uncle’s own house? Good God, woman. Never. The idea is anything but arousing.”

“Your uncle has removed himself from the house and the servants have been asked to retire. We have two hours. Now if you promise to keep your blindfold in place, I will go against the rules and allow your hands to be untied. So you can touch me.”

He seethed out a breath at the thought of touching her. Christ, it had been so long. So bloody long, he couldn’t even remember what she felt like. Pathetic, was what he was. Pathetic. “I . . . very well. Do it. Before I change my mind.”

“You promise to keep your blindfold in place?”

“Yes, yes. I promise.”

She rounded him, bare fingers working against the velvet bindings. Within moments, his hands were free.

“Undress.” Her voice was flirtatious but controlled and authoritative. “Remove your coat, cravat, collar, waistcoat and shirt. In exactly that order.” She paused, then added a quick, “Please.”

He was deranged, to be sure. To engage her like this without even knowing whether she and Westbrook . . .

Then again, that was the point of the game, wasn’t it? Exhaling a ragged breath, he slowly slid his evening coat from his shoulders. Already he felt himself growing hard at the thought of having her. With the darkness that continued to press against his eyes preventing him from seeing her body or her face, he envisioned his beautiful Gwendolyn in a state of undress, and savagely hoped this was not the last time he ever touched her.

Gwendolyn drew in a shaky breath as Camden slipped his dark evening coat from his broad shoulders and pulled it down the length of his muscled arms, hidden beneath his white cotton shirt. The coat slid away from his upper body with a soft rustle and crumpled to the wooden floor of the candlelit study.

His arousal pressed against the buttoned flap of his wool trousers. Her fingers dug into the sides of her skirts and her gaze drifted back up to his blindfolded face. The fact that he was willing to play meant he wanted to save their marriage as much as she did. Which is all that mattered.

Camden’s hands reached up and his bare fingers smoothly and effortlessly undid his white silk cravat, his arms shifting to accommodate the movements. His full lips parted slightly as he slid the cravat from around his neck, exposing the smooth skin of his strong neck. He gently flung the cravat over his shoulder and let it disappear somewhere behind him.

Gwendolyn bit down on to her lower lip with the top row of her teeth. Although Camden wore a velvet strip over his eyes that prevented him from seeing her – or at least she assumed he couldn’t see her – the way he casually stood there, his body positioned towards her, made her feel as if he were very comfortable with what he was about to do. Unlike before. He was allowing everything to fall away in order to give himself over to her.

He lifted his shaven chin, causing a few strands of his blond hair to fall away from his forehead and, one by one, undid the silver buttons on his ivory waistcoat. He stripped it from his body and tossed it aside, standing only in his shirt and trousers. “What are you wearing? Describe it to me.” There was a raw huskiness to his voice that made her stomach squeeze.

It was a huskiness she only had the privilege of ever hearing during their lovemaking. It was something she hadn’t heard for months, due to her fear of miscarrying another child. But what was that fear compared to losing the only man she would ever love?

It was obvious that if she wanted to save this marriage, she needed to show him that she was still the wife he once knew and loved. The wife capable of overseeing his passion and his pleasure in the most unexpected of ways.

“A rose-coloured muslin gown,” she offered in a soft, soft tone. “It tapers off my shoulders.”

She shakily pushed away a misplaced curl from the side of her face. She hadn’t realized how nervous she was about being intimate with him again. Especially under such unconventional circumstances. They were in his uncle’s library, for heaven’s sake. But that was exactly the point of this game. To let everything, including one’s surroundings, disappear.

“Rose-coloured muslin tapering off your shoulders,” he murmured as he undid the three small buttons at his throat. The open slit of the shirt fell open to his mid-chest, displaying those defined muscles beneath.

It was more than obvious where her husband had been spending all of his time these past three months. At Jackson’s. Boxing. How many poor men had he hit far too hard because of her?

He yanked his shirt out of his trousers and drew it up and over his head. Muscles rippled in cascading unison as his shirt floated off to the side and ruffled his blond hair.

Gwendolyn would have fainted if she hadn’t locked her knees into one another. For physically, Camden was still every bit of the man she remembered. And missed.

He quietly stood there, at his full height of almost six feet, his broad, smooth shoulders set and his arms lean and defined from all the boxing and fencing he’d engaged in since he was twenty. Soft golden blond hairs trailed from his chest down to a narrow path that made its way towards the only thing that remained covered.

He shifted his jaw, but otherwise continued to stand, motionless. As if waiting for her to approach.

She moved closer to him and set the slippered toes of her shoes against the tips of his large leather boots. She allowed her skirts to cover both their feet. Her gaze drifted up the length of his naked chest, which rose and fell in slow, even breaths, until she rested upon the view of his full lips. The clean and simple scent of soap mingling with cognac drifted towards her, causing her already heightened senses to flutter. He always preferred the simple scent of soap. Even on her. Which is why she didn’t wear any perfume tonight. In his honour.

The clock in the room chimed, startling her for a moment. It chimed a total of eleven times before clicking back into silence.

Camden’s large hands grabbed hold of her shoulders, causing her heart to nearly leap out of her throat in astonishment. He reached down and around her with his bare muscled arms. His large hands grabbed each round cheek of her bottom, hidden beneath her skirts, then yanked her body up hard, against his towering, broad body. He held her firmly in place against his erection, his jaw tight. Stating his intentions quite openly.

He slid his hands from her bottom and up along the back of her gown. His fingers gently grazed the hidden hooks on her back, which held the material of her gown in place.

Her mind blanked and nothing mattered in that moment. Nothing but his touch. She stared up at him in complete awe, her chest falling and rising a bit too quickly.

Without a single word, he released the hooks, the muscles in his taut arms shifting around her. One by one, he released them, until he had opened the entire back of her muslin gown, exposing her corset and the chemise beneath it. His jaw tightened and his lips pressed together as he slipped his large hands beneath the parted material. He swept it down from her shoulders and arms, letting it fall to her waist.

His hot hands skimmed the length of her arms, causing her to catch her breath as goosebumps frilled her skin. He slid his hands up towards her neck and dug his long fingers into the nape of her neck. He tilted her head up towards him and bent his blond head, lowering his lips on to hers.

A warm softness grazed her lower and upper lips.

Gwendolyn closed her eyes in utter bliss and slid her hands up the tight, smooth length of his muscled back. She pressed her body against his warmth. And revelled in it. She hadn’t realized how much she missed the bliss of his touch until that moment.

His wet tongue slid into her mouth and touched hers. He pressed his lips harder against her and moved his tongue more urgently into her mouth, silently demanding she make love to him.

Before she could fully enjoy his kiss, he withdrew his tongue from her mouth and outlined her lips softly with the tip. Circling, tasting. Circling, tasting. He drew her upper lip slowly, playfully between his teeth, nipped it then licked. Nipped it again then licked.

Passionately kissing him, her hands left the expanse of his back to slide down between their bodies, past the folds of her muslin gown gathered at her waist. She blindly unbuttoned the wool flap of his trousers and shoved the material past his muscled thighs, wanting to touch every part of him.

Their mouths momentarily broke away from each other as she grasped hold of the hard length of him with one hand. She slid her hand against his hard smoothness, staring up at him, wanting and needing his reaction.

His lips parted in a groan, he threw his head back and held her firmly against him. His chest heaved unevenly as his body tensed. He groaned again, levelling his head. He blindly grabbed hold of her wrists, bumping his knuckles against her corseted stomach.

He yanked her hands away from his body, then grabbed hold of her waist, and dragged them both on to the floor. She gasped as the cool wooden floor pressed against the exposed, heated skin of her back.

He rolled carefully, but quickly, off to the side, threw off his shoes and all the other clothes on his body. Until he was left gloriously naked with nothing on but a velvet blindfold. He felt his way back to her and climbed atop her legs, still covered by her mass of skirts. It was the only material left separating them.

He gathered up her skirts in one hand, pushing them up and away from her legs and thighs, causing the bulk of material to cascade across the floor on both sides of her. His hands slid up the length of her stockings, past the tied garters that held them in place, and pushed her legs apart. Cool air pressed against the wetness between her legs as Camden lowered his head.

His hot wet tongue met her core. She gasped and closed her eyes as a powerful sensation of pleasure rippled through her body. His tongue pressed harder against her, and she gasped in complete disbelief that she was already so shatteringly close to divine intervention.

But then his lips disappeared, as did the warmth of his hands, as he yanked her skirts back down.

Her eyes popped open. Her breaths came in short desperate takes. She blinked.

He wound his arms around her, his body hard, yet so warm and welcoming. “I cannot deny it,” he whispered hoarsely. “Despite everything, I have missed you.”

Her heart skipped. “You have?”

His hand affectionately skimmed the side of her face, down the curve of her throat.

He slipped over the length of her and dragged her skirts back up her thighs, causing her to melt. He slowly skimmed his forefinger from the inside middle of her exposed thigh up to the very spot she wanted and needed him to touch most. Her heated skin tingled in response as she further dissolved into a world of pleasure she had forgotten, and to which she desperately wanted to escape again.

He slid his finger deep into her, pushing her once again towards climax. She fisted the material of her gown and her mind momentarily emptied. It was amazing. He was amazing. He’d always been. She’d simply . . . forgotten.

He climbed over her, placing both hands on each side of her head and rubbed his hardness against her.

His mouth found hers without hesitation, as if he knew exactly where her lips were, and he kissed her deeply, his tongue pushing hard against hers.

She moaned into his mouth as he lifted himself on to one arm and used his other hand to guide himself into her. She gasped as his hips drew back and he drove deep into her, hissing out a breath.

Gwendolyn cried out in bliss and dug her nails into the flesh of his taut skin, trying to feel and breathe her way through the moment. Trying to feel and breathe through every sensation imaginable as it enveloped her body.

He drove deep into her again. She could barely breathe as those building, wondrous sensations scorched her body. She moved against every thrust, wanting and needing more. She could feel the sensation within her core building. Growing. It had been too long.

“Gwendolyn.” His voice simmered with fierce passion as he licked her entire mouth, leaving it cool and wet. He slammed repeatedly into her, grinding her harder to the floor.

A remarkable haze took over the rest of her body and mind. Her name entwined upon his lips and the escalating pressure of his hard length moving against her threw Gwendolyn into that spiralling, whirling paradise she’d missed.

She savagely held on to his naked waist and cried out as endless ripples roared throughout the entire length of her body that both tightened and released her core.

He was relentless in his savage need. “Gwendolyn,” he rasped, then threw back his head and let out a guttural moan of pleasure that reverberated throughout her entire body and soul.

That flushed face, partly hidden by the black blindfold, and his heaving, muscled chest boasted of the pleasure he had taken. And she couldn’t help but love it.

He settled silently beside her.

She swallowed, noticing that several candles had flickered out and that shadows were beginning to creep towards where they lay on the floor. Surely now he knew how she felt. How she had always felt.

He raked his ruffled blond hair with a hand, shifting against the floor. “I want to know,” he blurted. “For God’s sake, I have a right to know.”

Her eyes widened. So much for him knowing how she felt. After a few harried tries, she stumbled up and on to her slippered feet, fumbling with the upper section of her gown in an effort to shove her bare arms back into the hanging sleeves. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

“Blast you, Gwendolyn!” He snapped both of his hands up and frantically tugged at the blindfold. “Why do you refuse to answer? Because of guilt?”

“No. Because if I do, I will be acknowledging that you never trusted me to begin with. And if there is no trust between us, what else is left of this marriage? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Feeling as though her legs wouldn’t hold her up for much longer, she sank to the floor before him.

When Camden ripped the blindfold away from his face and flung it aside, his eyes were instantly flooded with warm candlelight and the earthy colours of his uncle’s study. It somehow snapped his fuzzy, hazed brain and body back into focus.

He blinked at Gwendolyn, who sat near him on the floor. His heart momentarily stopped beating as he wordlessly stared at the beautiful face he had missed so much.

She continued to gaze straight at him, with those blue-green eyes, and lowered her chin ever so slightly. As if not in the least bit pleased with him.

Several golden-chestnut curls, which had fallen from their pinned places atop her head, lay scattered around her bare, slim shoulders. Shoulders that were not properly covered by the lopsided sleeves of her rose-coloured evening gown.

The room wavered and tipped to the side as he leaned over and snatched hold of his shirt, which lay beside him. Her words about his lack of trust bit into him. For she was right. But that still did not explain why Westbrook had her stocking.

“Camden.” Her strained voice brought him back to reality. “Why are you allowing doubts to destroy the last of us?”

He never had doubts before. Not until they had agreed to a mutual separation. All of these months without her had been consuming the last of his soul.

“If you feel an explanation is too much to ask, I will bid you a goodnight.” He stumbled to his feet, veered over to his clothes scattered across the wooden floor and frantically snatched them up one by one. Cravat. Waistcoat. Collar. Trousers. Coat. Boots.

“Camden,” she insisted hoarsely. “It splinters me no end that you would think the worst of me. Based on a silk stocking. Do you know how ridiculous you are being?”

He kept his back to her, his chest heaving. “And rumours, madam. Rumours of him calling upon you at unconventional hours. All that aside, are you informing me that the silk stocking I received was not yours?”

“It is mine. But Lord Westbrook did not acquire it by stripping it from my body, that I assure you. He bribed one of my servants for it in an effort to make you think the worst of me. I will gladly present that servant to you, whom I have since dismissed, if my word is not enough. Westbrook sought to bed me during our separation, but I never allowed it. Not a touch. Not a kiss. And, because of that, he sought to destroy me, and in turn, us. Though I have been suffering, I have been faithful to you, Camden. The question is, who do you believe? Lord Westbrook? Or me, your wife of four years?”

Camden turned towards her, feeling nauseous. And he knew it had nothing to do with all the spirits still warming his blood. He stared her down and whispered hoarsely, “Swear it. Swear it upon whatever love we ever shared. Swear he never touched you.”

“I swear it upon the love I hope we still share. I would never hurt you in so cruel a manner, and I had hoped you would never hurt me by thinking that I could.” She pleadingly met his gaze from where she knelt on the floor, her muslin gown spread out about her in a puddle of rose-coloured cloth. The backside of her dress, which he had unhooked sometime during the height of his fantasy, was still wide open, exposing a pale-blue corset, the chemise beneath it and a few glimpses of pale, smooth skin.

Having known his Gwendolyn for four years of marriage – and a year of courtship before that – he could tell by her eyes, her demeanour and her voice that she was in fact telling him the truth.

He choked, feeling as if the burden he’d been carrying with him all these months fell away. “Gwendolyn,” he rasped, his knees feeling weak. “Forgive me. After you repeatedly denied me of your bed all these months, I have been nothing short of—”

“No, Camden. I ask that you forgive me. You are right. I was distant for too many months, never allowing you to touch me out of an irrational fear of losing another child. But it never meant I loved you any less. I simply never realized our inability to have children was destroying who I was – destroying us.”

He swallowed. “I will not have you blaming yourself. I wasn’t as understanding as I could have been. I expected too much of you.”

“We both expected too much of each other.” She raised her skirts so as not to stumble, and pushed herself up off the floor.

“I . . . should dress,” he murmured, throwing his clothes on to a chair in a daze. He snatched up his trousers, shoved in his left leg, then his right, and yanked them up to his waist in a single swoop.

His hands shook as he attempted to button the front flap of his trousers. He focused on staring at the wooden floor beneath him, doing his best not to look at Gwendolyn, afraid this was all an illusion brought on by severe inebriation.

Camden yanked his shirt over his head, pulling it into place, and stuffed the ends into his trousers. He pulled on his waistcoat and his coat, and then shoved his feet into his shoes, not caring that his stockings were missing. He looped his cravat around his neck, barely aware of what he was doing.

“Camden, the only good to have come of our separation is that it made me realize I cannot lead a life without you. Please tell me you cannot lead a life without me and that our inability to have children will not keep you from loving me.” Her tear-streaked blue-green eyes met his, causing his chest to tighten.

Her words, at this moment, held everything he had ever wanted from them. But, as always, he couldn’t put his cursed emotions into words for fear they wouldn’t match what was truly in his heart.

The clock chimed once, announcing it was half past eleven. Then there was nothing but the annoying sound of his heart beating against his ears. The mingling of laughter and voices drifted towards them from a distance.

Gwendolyn glanced over at the clock. “I suppose you have nothing to say,” she whispered. She turned and made her way slowly to the locked doors.

He stiffened. No. No, no, no. She couldn’t leave. Not now. Not ever again. He would find the right words to say. He would. And that was his vow to her and to himself from this night forth.

Camden sprinted towards her. He slid to a rapid halt before her – or what should have been a halt. The soles of his shoes skidded across the remaining length of the wooden floor until his backside slammed against the double doors with a loud thud.

He winced and stilled his large frame against the door, trying to appear cool, calm and collected despite the fact that he was anything but. He crossed his arms over his unevenly buttoned waistcoat, cleared his throat and eyed her. “I know I’ve always been a man of few words, which has always been my greatest sin against you. But I . . . I love you. I don’t need children to make me happy. I need you to make me happy. I didn’t want to admit even to myself that we were incapable of having children. So I can only imagine what you must be enduring.”

Tears glistened in her eyes and her full lips trembled. “Come home with me,” she whispered. “Where you belong. We will find the words we both lack. I know we will.” She sniffed and then rolled her eyes, as if trying to draw attention away from her own sadness. She yanked her sleeves back up her shoulders and turned, exposing the open back of the gown to him. “Would you mind securing all the hooks back into place?”

God help him, what he really wanted to do was rip off the damn dress and take her again. Without a blindfold this time. So he could see everything and show her exactly what she made him feel every time he looked at her. Show her how she put his body and his mind into a state of constant weakness. Even after all these years.

She looked back at him from over her right shoulder, expectantly. She held the back of her gown together with one hand, pulling long strands of her loose hair out of the way with the other.

He stepped towards her and pushed all of her feathery soft curls to the side, so he could see better. His fingers and palms brushed against the sides of her muslin gown as he slid his hands up to her corseted waist. He managed to find the first hook at the very bottom, just above the curve of her backside. He hooked the material together one by one, up the entire back of her gown, revelling in the moment. He was her husband again. It was all he’d ever wanted and needed. That he knew.

As he reached the top part of her gown, just beneath her neck, his bare fingers brushing against the warmth of her soft skin, she whispered, “We must learn to find new ways to love each other. Seeing it will only be us.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her backside against him and leaned towards her ear, nuzzling against the warmth of her throat. “We will find endless ways. That I know.”

She caught his hands and squeezed them.

His arms tightened. “By the by, I plan on gutting Westbrook tomorrow morning at eight.”

She stilled. “You . . . don’t actually mean that, do you? Mind you, yes, he deserves it. But I would rather not see you hang. That would be rather pointless, wouldn’t it?”

That it would. “Then what do you propose I do? I am not letting that bastard walk away from this.”

She nestled back against him, placing her head in the curve of his throat. “I propose we avenge ourselves by living happily ever after and making him look quite the fool.”

He smirked. “I prefer to gut him and move to France.”

She shifted towards him and grinned. “Are you being serious?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I wish I were. I suppose making him look quite the fool will have to do.” He paused, then added, “For now.” He eyed the clock in the study and then drawled, “Do you think we have enough time to play French Intuition again? Before my uncle returns?”

She turned fully in his arms, her hands sliding up his shoulders and grinned. “I believe we do. Only this time, I intend to wear the blindfold.”

He quirked a brow. “How about we put it around your mouth instead? To keep things quiet.”

Her eyes widened as she smacked him. “Camden!”

He laughed. “It was just a thought.”

“Yes. And how very few of those you have.”

He smirked. “Why do I suddenly feel married again?”

She grinned. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“I think we ought to go home. So we don’t have to rush. What do you think?”

“Even better.” She held out her hand.

“Oh. But before we go—” Camden jogged over and snatched up the pieces of black velvet. He shoved them into his evening coat pocket, sheepishly cleared his throat and strode back over. “For later.”