Angel in Scarlet (38 page)

“Do you really know John Fielding?”

“Never met him,” he confessed, “but my father was great friends with his brother Henry, the novelist-magistrate. Chap who wrote
Tom Jones
, you know. I remember Henry well—he used to take me and my brother Robert into his lap and tell us most improper stories. Are you all right now?”

I nodded, composed now. I asked him which book he needed. He told me. I got it from the desk and handed it to him. He took it silently and looked into my eyes and somehow I knew he was thinking of those few moments when he held me in his arms. Neither of us spoke. Something passed between us, something both of us fully understood. I lowered my eyes. He said he would see me at dinner. He left. I closed the sitting-room door and turned, leaning against it, wondering how I would cope with this new problem. I wanted him. I couldn't deny it. I knew he wanted me, too.

I didn't go down to dinner. I wrote a brief note telling him that I had a mild headache and preferred to stay in my room. I gave it to one of the maids, and she took it to him. I ordered a bath and soaked for a long time in the water I had scented with essence of violet, reveling in the luxury of French soap which made my skin feel silky to the touch. The water was hot, relaxing, and I washed my hair as well, later drying it with a soft towel and brushing it until it fell to my shoulders in gleaming, luxuriant waves. The evening was mild. I left the French windows open, and a gentle breeze stirred the curtains, causing them to billow into the room like thin silken sails.

The bath had helped a great deal, but I was restless, filled with a tremulous feeling as though my whole body tingled with a curious anticipation, flesh and bone and blood aglow. At eleven I slipped into a nightgown of white faille embroidered with minuscule, almost invisible blue flowers. There was an insert of pale blue ribbon that tied in a small bow beneath my breasts, the gown spilling to my bare feet in a wispy cascade. It was a fragile, frivolous garment, and, where it touched, the cloth seemed to caress my skin. I blew out the candles. Moonlight floated into the rooms, transforming both into bowers of misty blue-gray shadow ashimmer with pale silver rays.

I couldn't sleep. I knew that. I didn't even try. Instead I stepped out onto the verandah and stood at the railing. The verandah extended all the way around this floor, a staircase at one side leading down to the gardens. It was a lovely night, moonlight coating the ground with pale silver, trees casting velvety black shadows. The house was quiet, as was the town, the silence strangely underlined by the soft rustle of leaves and the plaintive song of a solitary bird somewhere in the distance. The town was etched in black and pale gray and silver, while the surrounding hills were black, stained with purple. The night sky was a deep ash gray stained with amethyst and agleam with a thousand stars. The beauty of the night stirred me, seemed to beckon to a beauty dormant within me, craving release.

I don't know how long I stood there, bathed in moonlight and surrounded by shadow. The gentle night breeze stroked my bare arms and shoulders. The frail cloth of my nightgown molded itself against my naked body. I sighed, listening to the whisper of rustling leaves, aching with expectancy, and when I heard the soft pad of footsteps on the verandah I wasn't really surprised. I turned, and I saw him moving toward me, now in moonlight, now in shadow. He was carrying a bottle and two glasses, and as he drew nearer I saw that he was wearing a heavy satin dressing robe. He set the glasses and bottle on the railing and grinned, looking at me with mischievous eyes.

“I finished the play,” he said.

“Did you?”

“Thought we should celebrate. I slipped down to the wine cellar and stole a bottle of Mrs. Lindsey's best, filched a couple of crystal glasses, too. The champagne is cold as ice—hope I didn't catch a chill in the cellar.”

He picked up the bottle and worked with the cork until it popped loudly. He poured champagne into both glasses and set the bottle down and handed me one of the glasses, jaunty as a boy. I knew I should send him away or at least go inside and put on my clothes, but I didn't. I took the champagne and sipped it as he tightened the sash of the loose navy blue satin robe which kept threatening to spill open.

“Mrs. Lindsey would be very upset if she knew you were here,” I said.

“That's why I slipped out through the gardens and up the staircase. I didn't want to disturb anyone. Good champagne, isn't it?”

“It's delicious. I—I shouldn't be drinking it.”

“Why not?”

“Champagne does things to me—makes me quite giddy.”

“Drink up,” he said.

He grinned again, and I was suddenly very nervous.

“This—this is highly improper.”

“Of course it is,” he admitted. “I think it's time both of us stop being so bloody proper. I want you, Angel. You want me.”

“That isn't—”

“Don't deny it. I've been very patient. I've been very proper. I've wanted you from the first.”

“Ours is a business arrangement. We—”

“There's no reason why we can't enjoy ourselves as well. You need me, Angel. You were hurt very badly—I know all about the stableboy, you see—and you believe love is something grim and solemn and painful. It needn't be. It can be light and charming, even amusing.”

“I'm not in love with you,” I said.

“Nor am I prepared to pledge eternal vows, but I do find you an enchanting creature and I happen to be extremely fond of you. You're delectable, delightful, engaging, gorgeous—and I want you quite madly. I don't offer you solemn love nor soulful devotion. I offer you affection—and fun.”

“I don't want to be hurt again.”

“I don't want to hurt you. I want to make you happy. I want to make you smile, make you laugh.”

His voice was seductive, ever so persuasive, and in the moonlight his eyes gleamed darkly. He was standing very close. I could smell his skin, his hair, and I could feel his presence. Like a magnet, it was, drawing me to him, and I hadn't the will to resist, nor did I want to. A smile played on his full lips, curving gently, a lovely smile, and that errant wave had fallen across his brow again. Moonlight spilled hazily over the railing, bathing us both in soft silver. The bird continued to sing its plaintive song, closer now, in a tree nearby. I drank my champagne, looking at him, filled with a delicious sense of expectancy I couldn't deny. He moved nearer and touched my hair.

“It's time for you to forget the past. It's time for you to start living, start savoring the joys of here and now.”

“Is that from one of your plays?”

“As a matter of fact—I believe it is.”

“You're a complete rogue.”

“I don't deny it.”

“I'd be an utter fool to get involved with you.”

“Be a fool,” he begged.

“I think I'd better have another glass of champagne.”

“Do. Here, give me your glass.”

“I suppose you think it'll be easier if you get me drunk,” I said, taking the brimming glass. “I suppose you think I'm easy prey—a snap to seduce.”

“You wrong me,” he protested.

“You've treated me like a sister for weeks.”

“I know. I didn't want to rush you. I wanted to give you time. I wanted to be sure.”

“And you're sure?”

“This afternoon, after I threw that horrible woman out, when I held you in my arms, I knew. I knew you wanted me as much as I wanted you. If that sounds like something from one of my plays, I'm sorry.”

“You haven't a sincere bone in your body.”

“But I have an overwhelming yen for you,” he purred.

Oh, he was wily, all right. He was smooth as silk, an accomplished womanizer, but he was so engaging, so appealing, and I was no longer a child. I wasn't fooled for a minute. He wasn't taking me in. I had my eyes wide open, and I knew exactly what I was doing. It wasn't the mood, the moonlight, the marvelous champagne. I was grown up, yes, and I was going to take a lover, because
I
wanted to. I did want to forget the past. I did want to start living. It was time, and he was a magnificent male, utterly irresistible in that slippery navy blue satin robe, with that heavy wave slanting across his brow.

“You're not seducing me,” I informed him.

“Of course not. I wouldn't dream of such a thing.”

I drank the rest of my champagne. He arched a brow, amused. I gave him a defiant look.

“I'm taking you as—as I would take a bonbon,” I informed him, “purely for my own enjoyment.”

“You're frightfully sophisticated,” he said, “very much the woman of the world. Read a lot of novels, don't you?”

“You're mocking me.”

“You're far too adorable to mock. I think we've talked enough now. We've much more delightful things to do.”

He set his glass down on the railing and took mine and set it down too and then he pulled me loosely, lightly into his arms and kissed my hair and told me it smelled of violets and kissed my temple and said my skin was like silk. His lips were warm and moist and seemed to burn my flesh and a dozen delicious sensations exploded inside me as he drew me closer and buried his lips in the soft curve of my throat. I arched my back and slipped my arms around him and ran my palms over his broad back, satin smooth and slippery beneath my palms. He made murmuring noises and drew me closer still, our bodies melded together, his legs trapping one of my own between them, and I clung to him and closed my eyes, savoring the enchantment, savoring the bliss as his lips closed over mine and began to tease and torment, finally parting, possessing. I seemed to be spinning in a magical void of sensations, and the sensations grew and grew, stronger and sweeter by the moment until I was quite dizzy with delight.

“My God,” I whispered when he pulled back.

“What's wrong?”

“You're not wearing anything under that robe.”

“I came prepared.”

“You're outrageous.”

“Utterly,” he said.

He smiled a sheepish smile, and I was absolutely enchanted. I touched his lean cheek with my fingertips and gently rubbed the skin and then examined that crook in his nose and finally traced the curve of his smile with the ball of my thumb, leaning back against the arm still curled around my waist. He pulled me closer and gave me several quick, fervent kisses and then lifted me up into his arms and carried me through the opened French window and the thin curtain enveloped us both for a moment and he stumbled and almost dropped me and I tried not to laugh, feeling deliciously lighthearted, feeling joyous, even as need surged inside.

He dropped me on the bed. I bounced. He wiped his brow from the exertion and sighed and looked down at me and smiled again and I smiled, too, completely uninhibited now, feeling inordinately fond of him, feeling playful, laughing as he struggled to untie his sash. He scowled and finally got it loose and chucked off the robe and stood there naked in the moonlight tall and, frankly, a bit too lean, though superbly muscled, and ready, too, unquestionably ready, throbbing with desire.

“You're too lean,” I said.

“And you're too bloody heavy. Think I strained my back, carrying you like that.”

“I am
not
heavy.”

“You're no sylph, I assure you.”

“I resent that!”

“Shall we fight?”

“Let's,” I said.

And he pounced upon me and we wrestled vigorously and it was joyous and he pinioned me and the match continued and it was delightful and he entered me and I writhed and he bucked and I thrashed and he plunged and it was glorious, glorious, sensations shimmering, soaring, and I fought and he retaliated and I gave and he took and he gave and I took and sensations swelled and shattered and the victory was his but the reward was mine, ecstatic bliss that glowed inside like golden ashes long after the explosion was over.

Bedclothes atangle, moonlight spilling into the room like silver mist, his body lightly coated with perspiration, sprawling all akimbo, his right leg over both mine, his arm cradling me to him, his head on my shoulder, his hair moist, his breathing heavy as he slept. I stroked his hair and savored his weight and his warmth and the wonder of it all, and this wasn't love, no, not love, but he was endearing and engaging and I felt deep affection and it might not be solemn and forever but it was enchanting indeed. He had given back to me that part of myself I thought gone forever, and I was whole again. I slept finally and sometime during the night I woke up to find him nuzzling my throat and squeezing my breasts and I shifted position and he rolled atop me and I clasped his bare buttocks and we made love again, lazily, sleepily, and it was even more enchanting than our rowdy bout had been, wonderfully fulfilling.

Strong morning sunlight awoke me and I sighed and opened my eyes and struggled into a sitting position. He muttered angrily in his sleep, not pleased at being disturbed. He was spread out all over the bed, hogging it quite outrageously, on his back, chest bare, one leg sticking out of the tangle of sheets at his waist. Hair spilled over his eyes. I smiled and brushed it back and rested my hand on his cheek and he muttered and turned over, almost knocking me out of bed. I adjusted the bodice of my nightgown and smoothed the skirt and began to think of hot black coffee, and then I heard the noises. Servants were bustling about the house. People were strolling on the lawn, talking quietly. The clock across the room showed nine fifteen. I was horrified, then I was amused. I could barely restrain my mirth.

“Jamie,” I said.

He grunted. I ran my fingers across his chest.

“I think you'd better get up,” I said.

“Ummm,” he moaned, grimacing.

I smiled. I poked him in the ribs with my fingertip.

He awoke with a start. He sat up. He heard the noises and saw the clock.

“My God!” he cried. “Everyone's up!”