Gilding Lillian Read online

  Gilding Lillian

  Legacies, Book 2

  DawnMarie Richards

  Published 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62210-210-5

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2015, DawnMarie Richards. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Griffin Bennett returns to his childhood home unprepared. Despite his long absence, he learns he has been named the sole heir to the fortunes of two venerated Bostonian families. Possibly even more disturbing is his reaction to his father’s widow, a stunning woman whose mere presence provokes vivid images of sex in wildflower meadows.

  Lillian Gustave Milton Bennett has always enjoyed men, even marrying a select few. But when circumstances conspire to keep her in the family home with her deceased husband’s estranged son, a mutual sexual attraction becomes an unwelcome complication. She resists, but it becomes clear the most efficient way to exorcise the man, and his odd effect, from her psyche, is to sleep with him.

  Griffin is well aware Lillian wants nothing more than to work him out of her system, but in a few short weeks his feelings for her have grown from the primitive to the sublime. Realizing her next husband awaits, Griffin struggles to make her understand. But for Lillian, love is an excess, an unnecessary construct, and Griffin’s heartfelt declarations are not enough to make her stay.

  Dedication

  To my husband, who is all about excess, and I couldn’t love him more for it.

  Acknowledgements

  A special thank you to Victoria Miller, my editor extraordinaire. You have made the editing process—dare I say it—fun! More importantly, you have made my work better with your spot-on suggestions and thoughtful insights.

  Thank you.

  To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,

  To throw a perfume on the violet,

  To smooth the ice, or add another hue

  Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light

  To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,

  Is wasteful and ridiculous excess

  —King John

  Act IV Scene 2

  William Shakespeare

  Then you don’t understand love in the least

  ‘Ever else it may be, love is excess.

  “Wasteful and ridiculous” to your mind,

  As essential as breathing air to mine.

  The strange beauty of the divine requires gilding

  Most when secreting a resistant heart.

  —Griffin Bennett

  Prologue

  Lillian Gustave Milton Bennett stood naked before a full-length mirror, taking stock with the confident self-awareness particular to the very beautiful or the very vain. True, she worked at inspiring lust. Male or female, young or old, naïve or jaded, few seemed immune to her seductive presentation. Currently, though, she took note with a dry-eyed sensibility. How she appeared to others did not motivate her in the least.

  Tipping her head back, she peered along the length of her nose at her image. She placed her fingertips along her jawline, pausing before trailing them down her torso. The more sensitive spots she gave special attention with a scrape of the nails or quick pinch. After a time, she brought her hands to rest along her outer thighs and waited, watching. Her skin flushed and her nipples drew tight, but beyond the automatic responses of her nerves and muscles, she felt nothing—no flash of desire.

  Her entire adult life, she’d considered herself an exception to the cautionary maxim not to judge a book by its cover, her sexy shell the perfect hint of what lay beneath. Seeking out and providing physical satisfaction was as necessary for her well-being as air for her lungs or food for her body, but over the last several months there’d been an inexplicable quieting, a dampening of the fire.

  A number of rational explanations presented themselves. They ranged from the obvious—she was getting older, she would celebrate her fortieth birthday next year—to the absurd; the extreme amount of sex she’d had, and the multitude of men she’d had it with, had led to some kind of sexual ennui. None of them explained, to her satisfaction, her uncharacteristic disinterest.

  Shrugging, she reached for a negligee from the selection hanging in front of her and fitted it over her head. The apricot silk cascaded around her, caressing her skin in a pale imitation of a lover’s touch. The fanciful thought made her sigh with exasperation. She pulled on the nightgown’s matching robe, cinching it closed and knotting the belt with an impatient tug.

  Such foolishness! Mentally shaking herself, she left the confines of the walk-in closet and padded, barefoot, to her husband’s bedside.

  She moved her fingers deftly along the length of the IV line, pausing at the drip chamber. The steady fall of drops informed her, at a glance, the fluid flowed properly. Turning her attention to Leonard, she opened his pajama top, parting the pinstriped cotton to check the skin around his central line. Finding everything as it should be, she bent to the task of refastening the buttons.

  “Taking too damned long.”

  She looked up at the sound of his deep, graveled voice. His closed eyes and peaceful expression made her doubt her ears.

  “Leonard? Are you awake?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched, a smile struggling to find its way to his lips. Lillian sank down onto the edge of the bed in wonder, her hip pressed tightly to his.

  For an astounding eleven years, Leonard Bennett had managed to not only survive, but thrive, after receiving the devastating diagnosis of stage-4 colon cancer. The Herculean feat had more to do, in her opinion, with his indomitable stubbornness than the medical care he’d received, extraordinary though it had been. But over the last several weeks, his embattled body seemed to have succumbed to the ravages of his disease leaving him lingering in the twilight between life and death. Lillian had not expected him to emerge from it.

  “What is taking too damned long?” she prodded, only half believing he would be able to respond.

  “Dying,” came his gruff reply.

  She shook her head at his audacity. Irreverent to the end, her Leonard. She realized he’d fought his way, not just to consciousness, but awareness. Indomitable stubbornness.

  “It is taking exactly as long as it should,” she told him in her most imperious voice.

  His eyes sparked with ironic amusement when he opened them to consider her.

  “Dictator.”

  “Il infante.”

  They smiled at the familiar taunts.

  He sobered. “Taking too long…for you.”

  The regret in his voice tightened her easy grin. It made her angry to think he would waste his precious energy on concern for her. She should be the last thing on his mind. Taking his nearest hand into both of hers, she squeezed.

  “You are not to worry about me,” she scolded him gently.

  “Don’t want you to miss…”

  “Miss what?” she asked, but his eyelids had drifted closed.

  In the silence, she considered the tangle of their fingers. Her marriage to Leonard had lasted more than twice as long as the previous two. Perhaps it explained their comfort with one another though she suspected
it to be something more.

  They were kindred spirits, she and Leonard. They recognized and respected the aspects of their personalities others condemned. Leonard’s preoccupation with maintaining the integrity of an illustrious family name, and the business it had created, had garnered him a reputation for being cold and unfeeling. Lillian admired his accomplishments and understood the sacrifice, determination, and unwavering drive they required. The rumors of Lillian’s penchant for widowhood led many to dismiss her as self-serving and mercenary. Few bothered to know her beyond base assumptions. Of course, Leonard knew the truth. But even before being privy to the details of her reality, he suspected she’d transcended her reputation and treated her with respect.

  She looked up at him, not ready for the gift of the unexpected chat to end.

  “Miss what?” she whispered.

  “Love.”

  Shock made her suck in her breath. Her forehead creased in concentration as she struggled to piece together their disjointed conversation and tease meaning from it. Surely, her no-nonsense, logical-to-a-fault husband could not be speaking to her about love in the traditional sense. He knew she did not subscribe to the emotion. Realizing the stressed neurons in his brain would be stimulating random thoughts and memories, a possible interpretation emerged.

  “Helena? Are you thinking of her?”

  He opened his eyes upon hearing the name, focusing on a distant spot over Lillian’s shoulder. The blue in the gray of his irises became a striking shade of sapphire. She assumed she had guessed correctly, and he had retreated to the special place where he kept his treasured memories of his beloved first wife. But after a brief moment, he dragged his gaze to hers.

  “No. You,” he insisted. “You miss love.”

  She considered him carefully. Had he somehow sensed her disquiet and the failed experiment in the dressing room?

  Because of the special circumstances of her marriages, unusual allowances had been agreed to by all involved parties. One such concession had to do with Lillian being left free to have her physical needs met in whatever way she saw fit.

  Her first two husbands had adopted a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, leading Lillian to elevate discretion to an art form. But Leonard—being Leonard—had his own way, taking an untoward interest in her extramarital activities. It had been a major point of contention between them until she’d accepted it for what it was. Her husband’s way of letting her know there was no part of her life he didn’t want to know about, even the aspects which might threaten the ego of a lesser man.

  Affection softened her expression as she answered, “I am fine. It will be taken care of, you know that.”

  “Not lovers,” he mumbled. “Love. You’re missing love.”

  Lillian tipped her head with confusion.

  “Leonard? You know…”

  “Yes,” he interrupted. “Don’t believe.”

  “Yes.”

  His clear and direct stare began to make her uneasy.

  “You are wrong.”

  As if the reproach had exhausted his remaining strength, his eyelids slipped shut. Lillian searched his face before lowering her gaze to watch the shallow, if steady, rise and fall of his chest. All at once, understanding came to her in a tingling flush. The gift of Leonard’s lucidity indicated something more.

  “Leonard,” she called to him, hoping against hope for a few moments more. “I want you to know what a great honor it has been to have been your wife. Thank you.” She leaned toward him, holding tight to his hand, wanting him to feel her presence as long as possible and know he was not alone. “Thank you for everything.”

  He tensed beside her, his lips moving but making no sound.

  “Leonard.” She smoothed her hand over his chest, trying to comfort him. “Is there something, anything, I can do for you?”

  “Griffin,” he managed in a ghostly whisper.

  “Your son.” She knew instantly what he needed. “Yes. I will do everything I can. Everything we talked about,” she reassured him. “I promise.”

  He relaxed into the pillows, a satisfied grin replacing the taut line of his mouth.

  “Enough.” He nodded.

  Whether he referred to the weight of her promise or his time on Earth, Lillian would never know. The single, cryptic word would be Leonard’s last.

  Chapter 1

  Somewhere over the province of Manitoba, Canada, Griffin Bennett had started drinking. He’d been traveling for over five hours by then and had at least as much to go. And he hadn’t slept since he’d gotten the phone call telling him his father was dead.

  He’d hoped a scotch on the rocks would quiet his mind enough for him to rest. But one had turned into four, and all he’d gotten was one hell of a headache and the unnerving sensation he was wavering on a narrow ledge. Not the ideal frame of mind for the meeting about to take place, and he had no one to blame but himself.

  Taking a deep breath, he rang the doorbell.

  The chiming was instantly familiar and brought a reluctant smile. The echo of clipped footsteps quickly chased it from his face and straightened his back. The door opened to reveal a petite woman with short brown hair. There was a knowing smile on her full lips and a sparkle of recognition in her doe eyes.

  “Griffin Bennett.” It was not a question.

  “Do I know you?”

  “You did.” She smiled. “Please, come in.”

  She moved to the side and Griffin stepped past her into the entry hall. The sound of the door closing behind him, solid wood finding its home in a grounding reverberation, sobered him. He turned to face the pixie standing before him.

  She was young, must have been a little kid back then. It should have been a clue. There hadn’t been many children around when he was growing up here. He squinted at her as he tried to grasp onto a wisp of memory.

  “Epiphany Jones,” she supplied without preamble.

  “Ephie? You’re joking.”

  “I am not.” She laughed at his disbelief.

  “You were…what?…Five when I left?”

  “Eight.” She scrunched up her face. “But I suppose I must have seemed like a little kid to you.”

  “Well, you’re not a kid anymore.” The wary disapproval in her eyes at his innocent observation made him change topic. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m Mrs. Bennett’s personal assistant.”

  “Oh.” Reflexively, he looked down the hall leading to the kitchen. “And your grandmother?”

  “She died.” Griffin’s gaze snapped to her face at the softly spoken words. “About two years ago.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that. She was a nice woman.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “And an amazing cook.”

  Ephie smiled her agreement. They shared a moment of quiet reflection, Griffin recalling the many kindnesses of the lady who had prepared the meals for his family for as long as he could remember. A dull vibration against his chest brought him back to the present, his cell phone alarm.

  “Damn. I’m sorry.” He reached into his breast pocket and pressed off the reminder. “I have an appointment and the taxi is waiting for me. I thought Mrs. Bennett…” The name stuck, making him pause. “I thought she’d be expecting me.”

  “She is. I’ll tell her you’re here.” Ephie turned and took several steps before stopping and coming back to him. She touched the fingertips of one hand to his bicep. “Before I go, I want you to know how very sorry I am for your loss. Your father was always good to my family and to me.”

  Griffin marveled at the tears welling in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said simply, suppressing the sarcastic comment which had sprung to his lips out of respect for her evident sincerity.

  “I’ll get Mrs. Bennett.”

  Griffin watched as she ascended the stairs and disappeared down the hall leading to the bedrooms. Sighing, he surveyed the room. It was eerily as he remembered. Granted, there wasn’t a lot to be tampered with, only two p
ieces of furniture, an intricately carved table at the center of the floor, and an antique grandfather clock to the left of the stairs directly facing the front door. A tasteful arrangement of flowers on the entry table welcomed visitors.

  Every detail appeared well tended. The handrail, balusters, and newels of the curved staircase gleamed from regular polishing. The handwoven Gregorian runner gracing its treads, the one his mother had chosen more than two decades ago for its bold design, was as vibrant and luxurious as the day it had been installed. The dramatic chandelier held its own in the two-story space, its hundreds of crystal teardrops sparking in the sunlight. The artwork hung precisely level in the exact locations they had occupied since before Griffin had sat in this sunny spot playing with his matchbox cars. He remembered the glasslike marble floor made for excellent racing.

  So if it all looks the same, why do I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality? Griffin rolled his head on his neck, willing the muscles in his shoulders and back to relax. He inhaled deeply and it came to him; it was the smell. Lifting his face, he sniffed. Undoubtedly pleasant, it was something earthy and floral, like sex in a meadow. He grunted as the bizarre, unbidden image brought him up hard.

  “What the fu…”

  Before he could finish muttering the curse, he heard the careful pulse of high heels on carpeting coming from somewhere over his head. Bringing his hands together in front of him, he schooled his features.

  “Griffin?” a throaty, accented voice queried, drawing his gaze to its source.

  She was beautiful, as he’d expected. But he’d imagined a blonde, big-chested, obvious beauty; a gaudy bauble meant to appease an old man’s ego. But this woman was something very different. Her hair was dark, a deep and glossy black. It shone almost blue where the light hit it. She wore it loose, long strands falling to her collarbone. Shorter layers bowed softly around her face. Her silk sheath dress, a watercolor print of melding shades of purple, revealed rounded hips, a trim waist, and shapely breasts. Her legs seemed to last forever, made longer by black leather stiletto sandals attached to her feet with nothing more than thin straps over her toes and broader ones buckled around each ankle.