Almost a Gentleman (33 page)

Or, as she thought a moment later, to drink as much of him as she'd been capable. Because try as she might, she simply hadn't been able to swallow it all.
But there was so much of it
, she told herself ruefully,
what was a lady to do under the circumstances
? A thin stream of his semen dribbled gracelessly from the corner of her mouth. She tried to chase it with her tongue; she didn't get all of it. There was nothing to do but wipe her cheek with her thumb, smiling wryly up at him still kneeling above her. She tried to pull him down on top of her.

Ah, but he was a man of honor, a gentleman with a debt to pay. Ceasing to straddle her now, he kneeled next to her again; his forearm had resumed its vigorous arcs, the fingers even spreading a little, rekindling the all-but-forgotten fires he'd lit earlier. For an instant she wondered how close, how high his hand was…

But no more questions, no more thoughts—no more
thinking
—for now she was falling from a very high place, and drifting, drifting downward through the softest, darkest, starry velvet night.

Space and time seemed to swirl about her. Had it been minutes? Hours?

The air was chilly where his arms and legs weren't entwined with hers. She reached for the velvet coverlet, hoping to drape it around him and herself without effecting any major changes in position. He coiled himself more tightly around her.

"Don't move yet," he whispered.

"It's all right," she whispered back. "I'm not sure that I
can
move quite yet."

"Perhaps," she added, "we should simply freeze in place here. We should have died happy, in any case."

"You're happy, then, Phoebe?"

"I am when you make love to me."

His body stiffened. It wasn't the answer he wanted.

"You said that in Marston's voice."

"It was my own voice."

"No, I can tell the difference."

"You're simply embarrassed by the image of yourself in bed with Marston."

He rolled away from her.

"Forgive me. That was frivolous, cruel of me. Shallow. I—I don't even know why I said it."

Were those tears starting up in her eyes?

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine what's gotten into me. I never cry."

But now
she
could hear it, too. She
was
speaking in Marston's voice.

She sat up against the pillows, knees against her breasts, arms hugging her shins. As though to hide herself from him, as she'd tried to hide her feelings behind Marston's light, mocking phrases. She wouldn't let herself cry: a stray tear or two didn't count, she told herself.

He'd moved up beside her, wrapping the coverlet and then his arms around her.

"It's all right, Phoebe."

She leaned into his embrace. But her eyes were dry now. Her mouth was dry too. And her throat was so tight that she thought she'd never be able to speak again. They sat silently for a few minutes.

"Was your marriage really as bad as that, Phoebe?"

She stared at him.

"Last night, at the inn, you said…"

It was true. She'd called it "miserable," and a "form of prostitution." But her mouth was still too dry to speak.

"Look," he said. "I'm freezing. Let's take some pillows and blankets and sit next to the fire."

He led her to the hearthside, to the edge of the thick Persian rug, where he quickly built a nest for her of bedclothes and bolsters.

"Wait," he said, "I'll get you something to drink."

An old, smooth brandy. He joined her under the blankets, his arms around her again.

She took a small swallow of brandy and stared into the flames.

Little by little, in a low monotone, she began to shape hesitant phrases, lonely little islands of sound in a vast ocean of shamed silence.

"It wasn't the pain or the violence, you know, for really he wasn't very violent with me… physically, anyway… well, only for the last few months…"

"It was the
humiliation
. There always seemed to be some dreadful sneering footman lingering about—well, there were more than one, but one was worse than the others: there was something… carnal about how he'd feast his eyes upon me groveling to the master. I don't think it would have been real to Henry without his little audience of household acolytes. And it made it very real to me, too; it showed me how much of myself I'd abdicated… to someone so, so
small
. And for so little, really.

"Glamour. Compliments, God help me. Exclusivity and distinction. The heady sense that when you ascended the staircase at Carlton House you were at the absolute center of the world. Well, I was very young. Devonshire had been very boring. London was thrilling.

"And having achieved it, having woken up one morning and understood how much I'd given away to get it, I was resolved to keep the devil's bargain I'd made. I thought I deserved the fine mess I'd found myself in.

"And you must believe me, David. I never once complained."

He did believe her. And he didn't ask any questions. She was grateful for that, for she couldn't have explained it to him any better than in the few halting phrases she'd offered.

For truly, she could hardly understand it herself. As thrilling as the public part of it had been, she didn't really see how her headstrong, harum-scarum younger self could have tolerated such contemptuous treatment, such petty, self-serving disrespect. Of course, it hadn't happened all at once. It had happened gradually. Moment by moment, it had been easy to fool herself, to pretend that it wasn't really happening at all. To devote all her attention to the child she'd adored…

But she wouldn't think about that part of it.

"So now you see what a fraud I am. Pretending to be brave and devil-may-care when instead…"

"You're not a fraud. You
are
brave."

What could he do, he wondered, to make her understand how touching he found her—in her honesty, her confusion, her stubborn insistence upon the complexity of things. He probably couldn't do anything except wait for her, with all the love and patience he could muster. Stay by her side while she relived the painful past. For she clearly wasn't ready for the future yet.

Her head nestled in the hollow just below his collarbone. Softly, he kissed her brow.

"And I said something to you last night, too," he whispered, "after you called me a satyr. Do you remember?"

"No, I think I became distracted. Well," she laughed nervously, "I don't usually have a satyr in bed with me."

He took her hand.

"I said that I should love you all my life. And so I shall."

She squeezed his hand back.

"I shall love you exactly as you are," he said.

She smiled and shrugged, almost imperceptibly. His lips moved down to kiss her eyelids. Her cheeks. The tip of her nose. Finally, lingeringly, her lips. He held her more tightly; she curled her body into his embrace. Until suddenly, simultaneously, they both drew back, staring at one other in surprise.

"You must believe me… I hadn't thought I'd become aroused again so quickly. I beg your…"

"Don't apologize. Do you know that I also feel quite…"

"Not really. You too?"

How sweet to have been taken unaware—each of them and both of them—by their bodies' brusque, untactful demands.

Slowly, he laid her down on the rug, stroking her from her shoulders to her knees. It was true: he could see, touch, smell the desire coursing through her. Hard as cherry stones, her nipples grazed the work-hardened palms of his hands. Her eyes shone, tiny beads of perspiration gathered in the hollow of her throat, a pulse beat quickly in her neck. He kissed her there; she quivered under him like a captured bird.

He parted her legs, opening her with gentle fingers. She was like a flower: he loved to peel back the layers, to probe the mysterious inner parts. How flushed, how swollen and sensitive she was between her legs. When his finger slid between those hungry lower lips, her mouth parted in a deep, involuntary sigh.

She smiled up at him, arching her limbs, moaning sweetly under his hand. Her fingers played with his hair where it grew a bit long at the nape of his neck. She was so ripe, the mound of her quim so plump between those long, slender white thighs. Like a shameless bright red poppy, he thought—burst wide open during the long days of spring suddenly turned to summer.

And yet so young, so untouched in other places. That tiny, frightened knot of flesh in the cleft of her beautiful arse—untouched, he was sure of it. Virginal. Waiting for him, though she didn't know it yet.
Not now, David. Another time, when she's ready
. Another time, another mood, another season.

For she needed him right now. Just as she was, and just as
he
was, too. Well, how he'd been a minute ago, anyway. Her mouth had pursed itself into an insulted little pout—she could tell that his attention had wandered.

He laughed and kissed the pout away.
Begging your pardon, my lady. Here I am, entirely at your service
.

He raised himself above her, on his hands and knees. She lifted her hips, wrapped her legs about his waist, and pulled him close. Ah, she'd taken him a bit unaware there. She was stronger than he'd expected—it was rather thrilling, that unanticipated tug of muscle and sinew in her back and limbs. His hips, thighs, and belly tightened and tingled with the uncomplicated pleasures of taking and being taken. He sank into her; he let her draw him into the depths of her body.

The last thoughts he had, before losing all thoughts, was of how natural and joyful this was. Challenges lay ahead, of course: vanquishing her agonized memories would be a daunting, difficult task. But all in good time. Everything in its season.

She woke up alone the next morning. Confused and disoriented, it took her some minutes to realize that she was back in the green bedchamber. Her pink dressing gown, she noted vaguely, lay on a chaise longue near the bed. Turning to look for David, she found a note on the pillow next to her.

My love,

You were sleeping so soundly (and beautifully), that I was able to carry you here quite early and barely wake you. Do you remember? You fell back to sleep in the middle of a kiss. I brought you back into this room because I think the household staff would prefer it if we tried to keep up appearances.