His injury had seen him retiring from the army, with a plan to pursue his passion for writing. Fickle and inconstant his brother would no doubt tease. But to Gabriel's mind, it was more important to find and hold onto the things he had a true passion for, which he discovered to be the art of writing during the war. The horrors of the war had indeed reinforced how fleeting life could be. It had been brutal and ugly, at times the stench of death and the hopeless cries of his comrades were a memory he could not escape. His sole solace became the quill and ink, recording his and others’ tales. He’d identified how much he wanted to live a full, abundant life where he was truly happy.
The only thing Gabriel had ever been sure of in his entire life was how he felt about Miss Primrose Markham. With a mere thought, his heart started to race, and happiness like he'd never know burst inside his chest. Bloody hell. It felt like the purest of sunshine on this frigid day, and he couldn't stop the grin that curved his lips.
He hadn’t planned to take her last night. Swirls of want and needs long denied had rushed through him, and he had given in to all the lustful cravings in his heart. And she had responded without shame or hysterics. His Primrose had been so adventurous she had damn near killed him. He had ridden her long and hard, rocking her soaking wet, yet impossibly tight pussy over his aching cock for the entire night. Three times he’d made love with her, and damn his soul he should have been gentler. The sensual creature he’d always sensed within her had stretched and purred such wonderful filthy things in his ears.
My pussy aches from your possession, but I do not want you to stop.
Lick my cunt…yes…just like that.
My cunt is yours, my love,
make me your sweet harlot, my darling.
Each time she’d moaned, a drawn-out sound of shocked pleasure as if she couldn't believe the words spilling from her lips. How he’d reveled in the sensuality of it all.
A piercing whistle sounded, and he glanced around. His brother, George, waved in the distance. Gabriel went to meet him, and soon he was engulfed in a fierce hug. They were of a similar height and lankly built, but their similarities ended there, George taking his blond fairness and green eyes from their father, while Gabriel favored their mother with his black hair and dark blue eyes.
“I only arrived from town early this morning when the household was still abed. Verity told me you were here,” George said gruffly, releasing him. “I am happy you made it home.”
Gabriel grinned. “I’m happy to be home too. I presume Father went straight to bed?”
George nodded. He and their father hadn’t been home yesterday when Gabriel had arrived at Sancrest Manor. “I take it whatever business you had in London was successful?”
His brother laughed. “The business of gift hunting for Mother, Annabelle, and Verity. Father was quite determined to procure a necklace set from London’s finest jeweler at the last minute for Mother. Somehow, I got the notion to follow him and select something for Verity as well. I might add the whole business had us almost stranded in town.”
The sun peeked through the clouds, splashing a warm golden glow onto the pristine whiteness of the lawn. Most of the household still slept, but the servants had already been stirred awake by Mrs. Lumsden, the housekeeper, to prepare for the Christmas celebration.
“Mother would not have forgiven that for years to come,” said Gabriel with a smile. The Christmas feast had always been a lively and extravagant affair for their family.
"You've accomplished much, and your bravery has not gone unnoticed," his brother murmured. “For weeks society spoke about Captain Northcote and your bravery at Balaclava. You carried twelve men to safety on your shoulders at the risk of your own life. If not for that bullet you would not have stopped. It was a fine thing you did, Gabriel.”
“I was just doing my duty,” he replied, hating to remember the chaos that had rained as British and French soldiers had worked together to halt the ruthless march of the Russian General Liprandi.
George clapped him on the shoulders. “It was more than that, do not underscore your bravery. Lady Beatrice will be quite pleased with your accomplishments.”
A figure emerged from the western gardens, and he faltered, recognizing Primrose. A fierce rush of pleasure filled him. She'd always been an early riser, and it was her appreciation of nature as the flowers and insects woke with the dawn which had inspired his enjoyment of early morning walks. He’d slipped from her bed in the wee hours of the morning and had not roused her while leaving. Gabriel was mildly surprised she’d been able to wake still, given their excesses.
“You’ve nothing to say of Lady Beatrice’s expectations? As mother tells it, she and her mother are due to arrive by noon today, and they are quite eager to greet your return.”
Gabriel was unable to tear his gaze from the willowy figure strolling ahead, clasping her dark green fur hat as the wind tried to rip it from her head. He almost wished the wind would take it and tumble her dark auburn hair to her back. Her tresses were a glorious curl of waves, and she had the most incredibly lovely smoky gray eyes. How they had lit with relief and joy at seeing him yesterday. How they had burned with wickedness through the night. How he had missed her with every emotion in his heart. “I’ve no wish to court Lady Beatrice,” he finally answered, aware of his brother’s expectant silence.
"Say it isn't so! I am happily married, but only a fool would not see what a charming beauty Lady Beatrice is. Her dowry is also fifty thousand pounds.”
Gabriel grunted softly. “I cannot recall her beauty, and it is insignificant to me. I plan to marry another lady.”
“Another lady?”
“Yes. One whom I love and admire with every part of me.”
George faltered and shot him a surprised glance. “Who? You’ve been on and off to this dratted war for the last two years, when did you find time to meet a lady?”
No, it had been only when he returned home from furlough, even though Miss Markham had captivated his regard and admiration before he’d bought his commission. “It’s Miss Markman,” he said into the waiting silence.
“Annabelle’s governess?” George couldn’t have sounded more incredulous if a snake had darted from the mound of snow and attacked. “Have you gone daft? She is lovely to be certain, I would even dare say beautiful, but she has no connections or fortune to align with this family. Mother and father will not stand for it.”
“I do not need their approval.” And there it was, that heavy press of doubt in the pit of his gut. While he did not need it, for he was certain of the tendre he’d formed with Miss Markham, he would like his family’s support. They’d always been a loving family, quite open in their affections and support of each other’s dreams and desires. It would sever something inside of him to not be a part of that love, watching from the outside if their disapproval of the union would see them cutting him from their lives. He dearly wished it would never come to that. “But I would appreciate it. I am quite determined to marry Miss Markham.”
“By God, I do not believe you. Father will cut you off for this. Do you have the means to live without his support? I bloody well think not!”