Page 12 of Falling For The Dowager

He rocked within her, each gentle response stretching and giving her desperate body a little taste more of the wondrous feeling she so craved. The forearms she clung to were muscular and firm beneath her touch, and yet somehow, she needed more. She saw his hand grab at the ground next to her as he pushed into her, finding the right rhythm that had them both gasping.

“Here, Helena,” he cried out as he lent back a little, the air between them stirring her further and making her snatch at him to lever herself up until he pulled over her, and she was straddling him. The new position put her in charge, and she set the pace as she clung to him, adjusting her hips to accommodate this change. How exciting, she thought as she shifted to and fro, finding new areas of her body and sex that could feel. It was not just a solo undertaking in which her body was part of the journey. No, it was the two of them on this voyage of discovery and delight. Nothing could be more wondrous, of that she was certain.

The sensation they created together was one of a steady pace that sent light and sweat and knowledge filling her body until Helena thought she might lose herself again. But it was only when his hand came between their pressed figures did that golden honeyed dew swell up and over, claiming every feeling she had left within her, and causing her to yell out his name to the heavens, to the forest and to herself more than anything. Causing her to admit something she had longed denied to herself. She loved Callum. All her thoughts about Anna and whatever entanglements fled from her head with such a realisation.

CHAPTER 8

The next few weeks passed in a happy blur of stolen kisses, fervent glances, late night picnics when the rainy skies did not open their heavens, and yet more deliciously wicked time spent with the compelling and bewitching Helena. Until Dickon realised it had been over two months since Helena arrived on Mull. All too soon winter would be upon them. No man on this green earth could have been luckier to be with such a woman. Occasionally, she would make mention of her dead husband, only ever in passing or obliquely, and it was clear that the earl had been a fool who did not value or treasure this inspiring and beguiling lady.

Even when Dickon closed his eyes and luxuriated in the quiet, solitary blackness, dozens of ideas populated his mind. Thoughts and memories of Helena would occur to him, and he would be overwhelmed with the desire to see her, to trace the outline of her kissable lips, or to impart some interesting titbit to her. There were constant things he wanted to share. Information he wanted her to know about him. About his life. His world. And yet part of him feared if he revealed too much, she might tire of him or, worse still, realise how unworthy he was of her. Yet with Helena, for the first time in his life, he was a glutton, and he secretly knew he would never be sated.

It was with great reluctance on the Sunday after the weekly church service and blessing that Dickon ventured over to his parents’ home. He greeted his neighbours and friends with small, brief hellos and salutations, all the while wishing he could have hurried after Helena.

The family house was a small, thatched roof and wooden cottage. It had always felt confining after he’d entered service and fell in love with the park and woodland of the keep, but nonetheless, it retained a sense of home, with its patched curtains and flower-strewn front lawn which he had played on as a lad. Now however, such affections felt out of place, as if he should know better, given he was fast approaching the age of forty.

His father was perched outside the cottage, smoking his pipe. A habit Mrs. Dickon would not tolerate in her home, but his father adored, sending grey smoke up in the air whilst stretching out his feet before him, the very picture of leisure.

“Ahh, the wee bairn arrived,” his father called out, waving the pipe over his head at the sight of his son. His blue eyes were weary, and the lines of his face were thick and permanent, but there was a warmth there, and a spark of excitement stirred in Dickon; the idea of seeing his nephew at last pleased him immensely. For months, his brother and wife had written of their upcoming visit, and now it seemed they were finally here on Mull.

“All the way from Glasgow?” Dickon asked easily, knowing full well how his father would want to wax.

“Aye, aye, took that mighty age.” His father leaned back and made space for Dickon to sink into the seat on the bench. But it seemed this was his only comment, and the good cheer of the pipe and his first grandchild had chased away any negativity Dickon senior might have felt.

There were topics of conversations that Dickon was used to relying on with his father. It chiefly revolved around his father’s dislike of the English, what the priest had said that day, what Mrs. Dickon was cooking today, or what she had baked yesterday, and then they would start the loop again. For the first time in a very long time, Dickon wished to break the cycle. To introduce a new topic of conversation into their diatribe and let loose all his thoughts, considerations and struggles about his growing attachment to Lady Sidney. Dare he admit to such a man, proud of his place, his Gaelic heritage, and his own strata, that his son had fallen in love with an Englishwoman, so far beyond the likes of them, that she might as well have descended from heaven.

He dared not give a greater label than “attachment” for fear of his own fragility if he tried to express more. Dickon knew all too well that only to himself would he deem “in love,” so no one else would confess such stirrings. As he was attempting to muster a way of expressing any of these bustling uneasy thoughts to his father, his mother hurried outside and tapped his shoulder affectionately enough. She was flushed in the face and perhaps a little tired looking. Dickon suspected she would have been helping out his sister-in-law with the baby. But otherwise, her plump good-natured face was its familiar round-cheeked goodness, with her blonde hair starting to grey at the roots, but her green eyes were homey and bright.

“There you are, dear,” she blustered, then bent and kissed both his cheeks, taking up his proffered bouquet of flowers that he lifted in the air. Picked of course from the estate, as he did weekly for her. “You’ll want to see the baby, but all three of them are sleeping. Perhaps you can peek in and snatch a look at the boy. He is the dearest, precious wee bairn you ever did see.”

“It can wait,” Dickon said easily enough. Whilst he’d like to see his nephew, he had no desire to disturb the boy or his parents.

His mother was studying him with a narrowed gaze; it was a look he had long grown familiar with. Mrs. Dickon had adopted it ever since his younger brother had wed, and she had no reservations about expressing herself—she was never one to be restricted to a loop of conversation and knew precisely how to prise out whatever information Dickon might privately wish to keep to himself. He should have raised the topic of Helena sooner, when it was just his father and he alone.

In haste, Dickon got to his feet, so best to avoid his mother’s scrutiny. “I like the priest’s speech, the right way of thinking…” He faltered, having entirely forgotten whatever had filled the sermon he had been listening to, just forty minutes ago. Of course, he could recite a diatribe on the shade, shape, and taste of Helena’s hair, which he had watched from his pew as she sat prettily up at the front of the congregation, fully embracing her role as the lady of the manor. As was right and proper, far be it for him to drag her down to his lowly station. After all, what could he offer her?

Dickon’s mother’s hand shot out and captured his elbow. “You looked troubled, boy.”

Given that on his next birthday, he would be turning forty, Dickon laughed at the idea he might in any world still be called a boy. But his mother’s question did linger, and he thought it best that he try, even if it was not directly, to address some element of it. His mother deserved that much and so did his riotous thoughts.

“Well.” He started to fidget, as though youth had certainly claimed and robbed him of his confidence. “I have a woman.”

Pink-cheeked delight spread over his mother’s face, and she clapped her hands together excitedly. “Oh, I have prayed and prayed for this. My dear, my dear—” She turned to rouse her husband but gave up when she looked back at Dickon. “I must know all at once. What is the girl’s name? Her family, her position—oh, I am so happy. Is she dear little Anna, who everyone was hoping for? She’s of good stock, even if she seems a touch unsteady.”

“She’s not twenty-one.” The idea of marrying or making eyes at such a child was a distinctly unappealing one, and Dickon turned his face away.

“She is young, ‘tis true, but with your age and wisdom, it will balance the girl nicely. Besides, her sister’s had her fourth this year, so you’re likely to be blessed.” On his mother went, enthused at the prospect of these imagined grandchildren who would suddenly be spilling forth. Discomfort gripped Dickon, from Helena’s confession and what the two of them had shared, she seemed convinced she would never have a child. The idea had never had much sway for him, never been a driving force in what he wanted, and yet to be told by the woman he loved it would never occur. Well, that meant something else.

“No, madam—Mother,” Dickon cut her off as she had started on the idea of using his own mother’s name if there was a granddaughter. “It is not Anna. Please do not tie our names together. I would have her reputation damaged when I can never make her an offer.”

“Then who? You know every eligible or suitable⁠—”

“I do not necessarily think of marriage, more of love.”

His mother frowned, confusion overwhelming her. “But my dear boy⁠—”

“Come, Mary,” Dickon’s father cut in, “you won’t find out by pestering or wheedling.”

“Then if you mean to just provoke, what was the purpose of telling us?”