Disclaimer: Doctor Blake Mysteries and the characters therein are a copyright product and not owned by me. No profit made or sought, no infringement intended.
Author: hazeleyes57
Rating: T or 16+
A Green Dress.
Doctor Lucien Blake made a mental note to cut back on his alcohol intake - eventually.
Right now he needed the smoky comfort of a sneaky nip of the hard stuff. The cut-glass tumbler in his hand warmed with his touch, encouraging the aroma of the whisky to dance under his nostrils.
He was hoping to distract himself from whatever was going on in the kitchen between his housekeeper and friend Jean Beazley, and her guest, the heroic Richard Taylor.
But he was failing miserably.
He had been sufficiently aware that Jean had not wanted him to linger in the kitchen, especially after the look that she had given him when he had been unable to stop himself asking Richard about the fire at the Regal. A man had lost his life, despite Taylor's intervention, and he couldn't help wanting to know as much as he could about the fire with the hope of catching the bastard who had killed Adam Summers.
Jean had a point though, he pondered, as he took an appreciative sip of his drink. Murder was not ideal kitchen table conversation on a date, especially a first one.
He frowned, oddly disquieted more by the word 'date' than 'murder'.
Like it or not, his mind obstinately ruminated on this recent development. Finding his customary hat peg occupied shouldn't have discomforted him as much as it had. It seemed to have a greater resonance for him than that of a simple hat on a peg.
Hearing laughter, especially that of a man, coming from the kitchen had peaked his curiosity, and instead of retreating tactfully to his study as his conscience had suggested, he had made an entrance instead and had surprised himself as much as his housekeeper.
He had been living under the same roof as Jean Beazley for the best part of three years, and, until half an hour ago, he had not seen her as a woman. A widow, a mother, his late father's housekeeper, yes, yes, and yes. A woman, still slim and attractive in her forties, no.
Lucien was aware of the more salacious interpretations placed upon Jean's presence in his household, but had dismissed them out of hand. He was still grieving for his lost family, not to mention the abrupt loss of his burgeoning friendship with Joy Macdonald, so he was not remotely interested in listening to gossip or hearing other people's opinions of his conduct. He had enough of his own demons, too many to be off chasing dragons for other people. He knew that anyone with an ounce of common sense who knew Jean Beazley would know that there would be no shenanigans tolerated under her roof, but he hadn't really viewed it from her perspective.
Now he could no longer hide behind that flimsy barrier of fragile self deception.
And all because of a green dress.
Tall, slim, elegant, poised even in her surprise, she was no longer just his father's housekeeper, a widow and a mother. Jean Beazley was all woman, from her upswept and pinned hair - oh, God, such a delightful bare neck - his enraptured gaze slid down that reed-slim body and over the delicious curves where the dress hugged her bottom before slipping smoothly past trim hips, and down to toned calves and slim ankles. A veritable feast of womanhood.
Lucien Blake prayed to anyone who was listening that Jean had not noticed his involuntary glance at her backside, rapidly followed by a double-take.
He had belatedly escaped to his study and had a glass in his hand in moments, so here he sat, nursing a drink his recuperating liver ought not to be facing.
Every time he closed his eyes, the vision in green taunted him. Every muted laugh from the other room jabbed at him in recrimination.
Why had he not seen what was right under his nose? The scales were well and truly ripped from his eyes now, and it was painful. He tried to convince himself that his feelings were that of territorial right - he didn't want to lose his housekeeper to another man - but his brain was laughing at him with complete derision.
Jean was invaluable to him. She knew him completely and yet was not revolted by him. She knew of his late wife and daughter and they shared the common bond of widowhood. She knew something of his torment during the war, and quietly kept an eye on how much he drank. She waited up for him, fretted over him and looked after him with all the care of a wife. She had seen the best and the worst of him, and still hadn't walked out the door.
Jean and Richard were still talking quietly in the living room when Lucien did what he should have done earlier and took himself to bed. The whisky hadn't helped him at all, and he was still awake an hour later when Jean let her guest out of the house.
Lucien heard her soft footfall pause outside his bedroom door and he held his breath in fear that she would knock on his door to say a goodnight.
After a long moment he heard her go on her way to her room. Lucien resolutely tried not to think about her getting ready for bed, or of her removing that striking green dress and hanging it up. Tried so hard not to think of her momentarily naked as she donned her nightwear. Tried very hard not to imagine how her breasts would lift as she raised her arms to unpin her hair, and made sterling efforts not to imagine her climbing in between her crisp, cool sheets before moving over so that he could join her and strip her of that cursed nightwear.
Yes, Lucien tried very hard, but it was to no avail. It was all there in his head and, unfortunately, parts further south. Only with the thought of Jean having to launder his clothes was he able to quell the urge to finish what his brain had started.
It was still hard. Very hard indeed.
But the genie was truly out of the bottle and there was no putting it back, not now that he could see Jean for the woman that she had been all along.
And it was all his own fault.
Mea Culpa. Mea so very Culpa.