Cross the Ocean by Holly Bush Page B

freckles on her nose. She was pliable, yet met his kisses with her own strength. Gertrude was no silly weak woman tittering in his arms. She was tall and lush and when he pulled her bottom to him she groaned. Sweet agony these layers of clothes.
    She broke away, breathing hard when his hand reached her bosom. “What are you doing?” she asked.
    Blake looked down and saw his large, tan hand around a plump white breast. Could he reach around the stay to her nipple? He groaned and dropped his hand.
    “I’m terribly sorry. I seem to be caught up in the moment,” Blake said but could not drag his eyes from the breasts before him.
    “Another apology, Sanders. Fawcett didn’t stick his hand down my dress or his tongue down my throat,” she hissed.
    The liquor running through his blood loosened Blake’s mouth. “He better not have.” She was staring at him slack jawed and wide eyed. Blake straightened. “As unbelievable as it is to me I find I can not keep my hands off of you.” She bristled. “Anyway, you admitted Fawcett’s kisses were forgettable. Mine, I know, are not. Tongue and all.”
    “Of all the conceited….” Gertrude said. “Of all the arrogant comments you have made to me, that is the biggest of them all.”
    “Tell me it’s not true. Look me in the eye and tell me that Fawcett’s kisses make you weak-kneed. That you weren’t imagining further than a few simple kisses just a moment ago.” Blake grabbed her arms. “Tell me they don’t drive you near insanity with the passion they generate. And tell me why, woman, why they do.”

    * * * *
Blake sat down in the middle of the staircase. Gertrude had run from him as if he were a specter. And why shouldn’t she, he asked himself? He was sober enough to know he had spoken of himself. About his passion and its source. He admitted to the woman, to his own chagrin, that he could not keep his hands off of her. Why? Did she see as clearly as he that he railed not at her but at his own miserable self? Blake stood, praying for peace with the blessed escape of sleep. But as he passed the door to her bedchamber he could not stop himself from wondering what she was thinking and feeling. Did she sleep soundly or toss? Did she stare at the door and wonder if he would open it or wish the time away until she could escape England and return to her home?
    * * * *
The next morning Blake sat at his desk and held his head. He had more hangovers in the last month than his whole life. He stared at the papers Briggs handed him from his barrister. What nonsense did the man require answered now? Isn’t that why I pay the fool the ungodly sum I do so I don’t have to deal with trivial matters? Blake swallowed as he read. His wife was requesting he proceed with a divorce. He sat back and snorted. She will marry her merchant then, he thought. Ann will happily move along and I will be left with the stigma, the questions and the loneliness. The door to his office banged against the wall.
    Anthony stood on the threshold, glaring.
    “I’m busy, Burroughs,” Blake said and waved the papers.
    Anthony slammed the door shut and marched to Blake’s desk. “Look at it another time, Sanders.”
    “What do you want?” Blake asked.
    “What happened last night?” he asked.
    Blake stared. “Other than my making a fool of myself in a crowded ballroom, I wouldn’t know. It stands out singularly.”
    “Between you and Miss Finch,” Anthony said.
    “Miss Finch, is it now, Tony? Last week it was the ever interesting Gertrude.” Blake picked up his quill and dipped ink. “Nothing happened.”
    “You are sure then you had nothing to do with her booking passage next week back to America? There would be no reason for her to run home, would there Blake?” Anthony asked.
    Gertrude was leaving. Blake stared at his desk. “Not that I know of.”
    “I know you waited up for her. You were drunk and angry about Fawcett,” Anthony continued.
    “Poor taste, I’d say to send your host