Thank you for your continued support.
Standard disclaimer.
After Gwen fled the butterfly garden, Arthur struggled to cool his passions.
He had nearly lost all control with her...had almost taken her on the ground like a mindless brute.
Only some infinitesimal gleam of awareness, as weak as a candle flame in a storm, had kept him from ravishing her.
An innocent girl, the daughter of one of his guests.
'Good Lord! I've gone mad.'
Wandering slowly through the garden, he tried to analyze the situation, that he would never have expected to find himself in.
To think, that a few months ago, he had mocked Percy Hunt for his excessive passion for Isabelle Peyton.
He had not understood the power of obsession...had never felt its ferocious pull...until now.
And he just couldn't seem to reason himself out of it. It seemed, as if his will, had become divorced from his intellect.
He could not recognize himself, in his reactions to Guinevere Sweetly.
No woman had ever made him feel this aware, this alive, as if her very presence heightened all his senses.
She fascinated him.
She made him laugh.
And she aroused him unbearably.
If only he could lie with her and find relief from this endless craving.
And yet, the rational part of his brain pointed out, that his mother's assessment of the Sweetly girls, was on the mark.
"Perhaps, we can achieve a bit of superficial polish," the countess had said, "But my influence will certainly be no more than skin-deep. Neither of those girls is tractable enough, to change in any significant way...the elder Miss Sweetly, in particular. One could no more make a lady of her, than one could change fool's-gold into the real substance. She is determined not to change."
Oddly, that was part of why Arthur was so drawn to Gwen.
Her raw vitality, her uncompromising individuality, affected him like a wintry blast of air, inside a stuffy house.
However, it was dishonest of him, not to mention unfair, to continue his attentions to her, when it was obvious that nothing could come of them.
No matter how difficult it was, he would have to leave her alone, as she had just asked.
The decision should have afforded him a certain measure of peace, but it didn't.
Brooding, he left the garden and went to the manor, noting against his will, that the exquisite scenery around him, seemed a bit muted...grayer, as if he viewed it through a dirty window.
Inside, the atmosphere of the sprawling house seemed stale and dark.
And Arthur felt as if he would never take real pleasure in anything again.
Damning himself for such maudlin thoughts, he headed to his private study, even though he was in dire need of a change of clothes.
The Earl strode through the open doorway and saw Percy Hunt seated at the desk, poring over a sheaf of legal documents.
Looking up, Hunt smiled and began to rise from the chair.
"No," Arthur said abruptly, with a staying motion of his hands. "I merely wanted a glance at the morning's deliveries."
"You look to be in foul humor," Percy commented, settling back. "If it's about the foundry contracts, I've just written to our solicitor..."
"It's not that." Picking up a letter, he broke the seal and glowered at it, perceiving, that it was an invitation of some sort.
Percy watched him speculatively. After a moment, he asked,
"Have you reached a sticking point in your dialogue with Thomas Sweetly?"
Arthur shook his head.
"He seems receptive to the proposal I put forth, about the enfranchisement of his company. I don't foresee any problems in securing an agreement."
"Then, has it something to do with Miss Sweetly?" Percy asked.
"Why do you ask?" Arthur countered warily.
And Percy responded with a sardonic look, as if the answer was too obvious to be voiced.
Slowly, Arthur lowered himself to the chair on the other side of the desk.
And Percy waited patiently, his undemanding silence, encouraging Arthur to confide his thoughts.
But, although, Percy had always been a reliable sounding board on business and social matters, Arthur had never brought himself to discuss personal issues with him.
Everyone else's issues, yes. His own, no.
"It's not logical for me to want her," he said at last, focusing his gaze on one of the stained-glass windows nearby. "It has all the makings of a farce. One can scarcely conceive of a more ill-suited pair."
"Ah. And as you've said previously, Marriage is too important an issue, to be decided by mercurial emotions."
Arthur glanced at Percy with a scowl.
"Have I ever mentioned, how much I dislike your tendency, to throw my own words back in my face?"
Hunt laughed.
"Why? Because you don't want to take your own advice? I am compelled to point out, Arthur, that had I heeded your counsel about marrying Isabelle, it would have been the greatest mistake of my life."
"At the time, she was not a sensible choice," Arthur muttered. "It was only later, that she proved herself to be worthy of you."
"But now, you will admit, that I made the right decision."
"Yes," Arthur replied impatiently. "One fails to see, however, how that applies to my situation."
"I was leading to the point, that perhaps, your instincts should play a part in the decision of whom to marry."
Arthur was genuinely offended by the suggestion.
He stared at Percy Hunt as if he had gone mad.
"Good God, man, what is the purpose of the intellect, if not to deliver us from the folly of acting on instinct?"
"You rely on instinct all the time," Hunt chided.
"Not when it comes to decisions that have lifelong consequences. And in spite of my attraction to Miss Sweetly, the differences between us, would eventually result in misery for us both."
"I understand the differences between you," Percy said quietly.
As their gazes met, something in his eyes reminded Arthur, that Percy was a butcher's son, who had climbed out of the middle class and made a fortune from nothing.
"Believe me, I understand the challenges that Miss Sweetly would face in such a position. But what if, she's willing to accept them? What if, she's willing to change herself sufficiently?" Percy asked.
"She can't."
"You do her an injustice, by assuming, that she cannot adapt. Shouldn't she be allowed the chance to try?"
"Blast it, Percy, I have no need of a devil's advocate."
"You were hoping for blind agreement?" Hunt asked mockingly. "Perhaps, you should have sought someone of your own class for counsel."
"This has nothing to do with class," Arthur snapped, resenting the implication, that his objections to Gwen, stemmed from simple snobbery.
"No," Hunt agreed calmly, standing from the desk. "It's an empty argument. I think there is another reason you've decided not to pursue her. Something you won't admit to me, or possibly even to yourself."
He went to the doorway and paused, to give the Earl an astute glance.
"As you contemplate the matter, however, you should be made aware, that Lord Gwaine's interest in her, is more than a passing fancy."
Arthur's attention was instantly captured by that statement.
"Nonsense. Gwaine has never had an interest in a woman, beyond the limits of a bedroom."
"Be that as it may, I was recently informed by a reliable source, that his father is selling off everything that isn't entailed. Years of indiscriminate spending and foolish investments, have drained the family coffers...and Gwaine will soon be deprived of his yearly allotment. He needs money. And the Sweetlys' obvious desire for a titled son-in-law, has hardly escaped him."
Percy allowed a skillfully timed pause, before adding,
"Whether or not Miss Sweetly is suited to be the wife of a peer, she may very well marry Gwaine. And if so, then he'll eventually come into his title and she will become a duchess. Fortunately for her, he seems to have no qualms about her suitability for the position."
Arthur stared at him with furious astonishment.
"I'll speak to Mr. Sweetly," he growled. "Once I make him aware of Gwaine's past, he'll put a stop to the courtship."
"By all means...if you think he'll listen. My guess is, he won't. A duke for a son-in-law, even a penniless one, is not a bad catch for a soap manufacturer from New York."
To anyone who cared to notice, it was obvious during the last two weeks of the house party at Stony Cross Park, that the Earl of Westcliff and Miss Guinevere Sweetly, made a mutual effort to avoid each other's company, as much as possible.
And it was equally obvious, that Lord Gwaine was partnering her with increasing frequency, at the dances, picnics, and water parties, that enlivened the pleasant autumn days in Hampshire.
Gwen and Daisy spent several mornings in the company of the Countess of Westcliff, who lectured, instructed, and tried in vain, to instill them with an aristocratic perspective.
Aristocrats never displayed enthusiasm, but rather detached interest.
Aristocrats relied on subtle inflections of the voice to convey meaning. Aristocrats would say 'relation' or 'kinsman', rather than 'relative'.
And they used the phrase 'do be good enough' rather than ask 'would you'.
Furthermore, it is mandatory, that an aristocratic lady, should never express herself directly, but instead, hint gracefully at her meaning.
If the countess preferred one sister over the other, it was certainly Daisy, who proved far more receptive to the archaic code of aristocratic behavior.
Gwen, on the other hand, made little effort to hide her scorn at social rules, that were, in her opinion, completely pointless.
Why did it matter if one slid the bottle of port across the table, or simply handed it over, as long as the port reached its destination?
Why were so many subjects forbidden to discuss, whereas, others that held no interest for her, must be visited in tedious repetition?
Why was it better to walk slowly, than at a brisk pace, and why must a lady try to echo a gentleman's opinions, rather than offer her own?
She found a measure of relief in the company of Lord Gwaine, who seemed not to give a damn about her mannerisms, or what words she used.
He was entertained by her frankness, and he was decidedly irreverent.
Even his own father, the Duke of Kingston, was not exempt from his derision.
The duke, it seemed, had no idea how to apply tooth powder to his toothbrush, or put on his stocking garters, as such tasks had always been done for him, by his valet.
Gwen could not help but laugh, at the idea of such a pampered existence, leading Lord Gwaine to speculate in mock horror, at the primitive life she must have led in America.
Of having to live in a mansion, that was identified with a dreaded number over the door, or having to comb one's own hair or tie one's own shoes.
Lord Gwaine was the most engaging man that Gwen had ever met.
Beneath the layers of silken gentility, however, there was a hardness, an impenetrability, that could only have belonged to a very cold man.
Or perhaps, an extremely guarded one.
Either way, Gwen knew intuitively, that whatever kind of soul lurked inside this elegant creature, she would never find out.
He was as beautiful and inscrutable, as a sphinx.
"Lord Gwaine needs to marry into a fortune," Isabelle reported one afternoon, as the wallflowers sat beneath a tree, sketching and water-coloring. "According to Mr. Hunt, his father, the duke, is soon to cut off his annual portion, as there is hardly any money left. So there will be little for Lord Gwaine to inherit, I'm afraid."
"What happens when the money is gone?" Daisy asked, her pencil moving deftly across the paper, as she sketched a view of the landscape. "Will Lord Gwaine sell some of his estates and properties when he becomes a duke?"
"That depends," Isabelle replied, picking up a leaf and inspecting the delicate vein pattern of its amber skin. "If most of the property he inherits is entailed, then no. But have no fear, he won't become a pauper...there are many families who will compensate him handsomely, if he agrees to marry one of them."
"Mine, for example," Gwen said sardonically.
Isabelle watched her closely as she murmured,
"Dear...has Lord Gwaine mentioned anything to you about intentions?"
"Not a word."
"Has he ever tried to..."
"Heavens, no."
"He intends to marry you, then," Isabelle said, with unnerving certainty. "If he were merely trifling, he would have tried to compromise you by now."
The silence that followed, was gently fractured by the dry swish of the overhead leaves, and the scratch of Daisy's busy pencil.
"Wh-what will you do if Lord Gwaine proposes?" Elena asked, peeking at Gwen over the edge of her wooden watercolor case, the top half of which served as an easel, as she balanced it on her lap.
Unthinkingly, Gwen plucked at the grass beneath her, breaking the fragile blades with her fingers.
Suddenly, realizing that the activity was reminiscent of her mother, who had a nervous habit of pulling and tearing things, she stopped and tossed the bits of grass aside.
"I'll accept him, of course," she said.
The other three girls looked at her with mild surprise.
"Why wouldn't I?" she continued defensively. "Do you realize, how few dukes there are to be found? According to Mother's peerage report, there are only twenty-nine in all of Great Britain."
"But Lord Gwaine is a shameless skirt chaser," Isabelle said. "I can't envision, that as his wife, you would tolerate such behavior."
"All husbands are unfaithful in one way or another." Gwen tried to sound matter-of-fact, but somehow, her tone came out defiant and surly.
Isabelle's blue eyes were soft with compassion.
"I don't believe that."
"The next season hasn't even started," Daisy pointed out, "And now, with the countess as our sponsor, we'll have much better luck this year than last. There's no need to marry Lord Gwaine if you don't wish it...no matter what Mother says."
"I want to marry him." Gwen felt her mouth tighten into a stubborn line. "In fact, I will live for the moment, when he and I will attend a dinner, as the Duke and Duchess of Kingston...a dinner that the Earl of Westcliff will also be attending. And I will be escorted into the dining hall before him, as my husband's title will take precedence over his. I'll make Pendragon sorry. I'll make him wish..."
She broke off abruptly, realizing that her tone was far too sharp, betraying far too much.
Stiffening her spine, she glared at some distant point on the landscape, and flinched, as she felt Daisy's small hand settle between her shoulders.
"Perhaps, by then, you won't care anymore," Daisy murmured.
"Perhaps," Gwen agreed dully.
The next afternoon saw the estate mostly vacant of guests, as the majority of the gentlemen went to a local race meeting, to wager, drink, and smoke to their hearts' content.
The ladies were conveyed in a succession of carriages to the village, where a traditional feast day would be attended, by a touring company of London performers.
Eager for the diversion of some light comedies and music, the female guests left the estate en masse.
Although Isabelle, Elena, and Daisy, all implored Gwen to come with them, she refused.
The antics of a few traveling players held no appeal for her. And she did not want to force herself to smile and laugh.
She only wanted to walk alone outside...to walk for miles, until she was too weary to think about anything.
So she went alone into the back garden, following the path that led to the mermaid fountain, which was set like a jewel in the middle of the paved clearing.
On her trek, Gwen was fascinated by a nearby hedge, which was covered with wisteria, appearing, as if someone had draped a succession of pink tea cozies across the top of it.
Sitting on the edge of the fountain, she stared into the foamy water, finding herself enjoying the peace and sanctity of it.
She was so lost in the peaceful calm, she was not aware of anyone approaching, until she heard a quiet voice from the path.
"What luck, to find you in the first place I looked."
Glancing up with a smile, she beheld Lord Gwaine, his golden-amber hair, seemingly absorbing the sunlight.
"Aren't you leaving for the race meeting?" she asked.
"In a moment. I wanted to speak to you first." He glanced at the space beside her. "May I?"
"But we're alone," she said. "And you always insist on a chaperone."
"Today, I've changed my mind."
"Oh." Her smile held a slightly tremulous curve. "In that case, do have a seat."
Her face heated, as it occurred to her, that this was the exact spot where she had seen Lady Morganna and her husband Mr. Shaw, embracing so passionately.
From the glint in Lord Gwaine's eyes, it was apparent that he remembered too.
"Come the weekend," he said, "The house party will be over...and then it's back to London."
"You must be eager to return to the amusements of town life," Gwen remarked. "For a rake, your behavior has been surprisingly tame."
"Even us dissipated rakes, need an occasional holiday. A constant diet of depravity would become boring."
Gwen smiled.
"Rake or no, I have enjoyed your friendship these past days, my lord." As the words left her lips, she was surprised to realize that they were true.
"Then, you think of me as a friend," Lord Gwaine said softly. "That's good."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because, I would like to continue seeing you."
Her heart quickened its pace. Although the remark was not unexpected, she was caught off-guard nonetheless.
"In London?" she asked inanely.
"Wherever you happen to be. Is that agreeable to you?"
"Well, of course, it...I...yes."
As he stared at her with those fallen-angel eyes and smiled, Gwen was forced to agree with Daisy's assessment of his animal magnetism.
He looked like a man who was born to sin...a man who could make sinning so enjoyable, one hardly mind paying the price afterward.
Lord Gwaine reached for Gwen slowly, his fingers sliding from her shoulders to the sides of her throat.
"Gwen, my love. I'm going to ask your father for permission to court you."
She breathed unsteadily, against the caressing framework of his hands.
"I am not the only available heiress you could pursue," she said.
His thumbs smoothed the gentle hollows of her cheeks, and his dark brown lashes half lowered.
"No," he answered frankly. "But you're by far the most interesting. Most women aren't, you know...at least not out of bed."
He leaned closer, until the heated touch of his whisper warmed her lips.
"I daresay, you'll be interesting in bed as well."
Well, here it was, Gwen thought dazedly...the long-awaited advance. And then, her thoughts were muddled, as his mouth moved over hers in a light caress.
He kissed, as if he were the first man who had ever discovered it, with a lazy expertise that seduced her by slow degrees.
Even with her limited experience, she perceived that the kiss was wrought more of technique, than emotion, but her stunned senses didn't seem to care, as he drew a helpless response from her, with every tender shift of his mouth.
He built her pleasure at an unhurried pace, until she gasped against his lips and turned her head weakly away.
His fingers slid over the hot surface of her cheek, and he gently pressed her head to his shoulder.
"I've never courted anyone before," he murmured, his lips playing near her ear. "Not for honorable purposes, at any rate."
"You're doing quite well for a beginner," she said against his coat.
Laughing, he eased away from her, and his warm gaze coasted over her flushed face.
"You're lovely," he said softly. "And fascinating."
'And wealthy,' she added silently. But he was doing a very good job of convincing her, that he desired her for more than financial reasons. She appreciated that.
Forcing a smile to her lips, Gwen stared at the enigmatic but charming man, who might very well become her husband.
'Your Grace,' she thought. That was what the Earl of Westcliff would have to call her, once Lord Gwaine came into his title.
First, she would be Lady Gwaine, and then, the Duchess of Kingston. She would be above the Earl socially, and she would never let him forget it.
'Your Grace,' she repeated internally, comforting herself with the syllables. 'Your Grace...'
After Lord Gwaine left her to go to the race meeting, Gwen wandered back to the manor.
The fact that her future was finally taking shape, should have relieved her, but instead, she was filled with grim resolve.
She entered the house, which was serene and silent.
After the past weeks of seeing the place filled with people, it was strange to walk through the empty entrance hall.
The hallways too, were quiet, with only the occasional passing of a lone servant to interrupt the stillness.
Pausing near the library, she glanced into the large room. For once it was unoccupied.
She stepped inside the inviting room, with its two-story ceiling and the shelves lined with more than ten thousand books.
The air was filled with the pleasant scents of vellum, parchment, and leather.
What little wall space wasn't occupied with books, had been crowded with framed maps and engravings.
She decided to find a book for herself, a volume of light verse or some frivolous novel.
However, with the acres of leather spines facing her, it was difficult to ascertain precisely where the novels were located.
As she passed before the shelves, Gwen discovered rows of history books, each of them sufficiently weighty, to flatten an elephant.
Atlases were next, and then, a vast array of mathematical texts, that would cure the most severe cases of insomnia.
Near the end of one wall, a sideboard had been installed in a niche, to fit flush with the bookshelves.
A large engraved silver tray covered the top of the sideboard, bearing a collection of enticing bottles and decanters.
The prettiest bottle, made of glass molded in a pattern of leaves, was half-filled with a colorless liquor, but her attention was caught by the sight of a pear inside the bottle.
Lifting the bottle, Gwen examined it closely and gently swirled the liquid, until the pear lifted and turned with the motion.
'A perfectly preserved golden pear. This must be a variety of eau-de-vie. The French call it 'water of life', she thought, as she observed the colorless brandy, distilled from grapes, plums, or elderberries...pears as well, it seemed.
Gwen was tempted to sample the intriguing beverage, but ladies never drank strong spirits, especially, not alone in the library.
If she were caught, it would look very bad indeed.
On the other hand...all the gentlemen were at the race meeting, the ladies had gone to the village, and most of the servants had been given the day off.
She glanced at the empty doorway, and then at the tantalizing bottle.
A mantel clock ticked urgently in the silence and suddenly, she heard Lord Gwaine's voice in her mind, 'I'm going to ask your father for permission to court you.'
"Oh, hell," she muttered, and bent to rummage through the lower cabinet of the sideboard for a glass.
Stay safe!