My Sweet Folly (52 page)

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Sweetheart,” the elephant said, and smiled like a child.

It turned into a little boy in blue velvet. He took her hand, pulling her through the gauzy, narrow streets. A man reached out to catch her as she ran—for an instant she was afraid, but then he drew her into his arms, and she knew that it was Robert.

“I’m home,” she said to him. “The elephant brought me home.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, holding her back against him, leaning over her, kissing her neck. As she rolled toward him, he bent and kissed her breast. She felt a surge of desire, a wash of shyness, but this was a dream, and she gave herself up to it. His hand slipped downward, lining her hips and legs as he kissed and sucked at her nipple.

Folie gave a sharp sigh. She did not know what woke her; she hardly knew when—only that the dream turned into warm darkness, the warmth into a solid touch, the pleasure into a hot, mounting urge. She did not question it, but gave herself to the reality as easily as the dream. She felt his teeth close on her nipple and the soft cotton of her gown; she caught her breath and panted. She did not need respect and polite kisses—she needed this, she wanted
this.

He knew all about her. Each nip and pull of his mouth on her breast made her whimper. “Robert,” she moaned, biting her lip and pressing her legs together, moving her body like a mermaid swimming.

He answered with a low wolfish sound, his hand on her hip, pulling her back to him. He pushed his hard man’s part against her, as if he would invade between her legs from behind, straining the gown tight to her bottom. She had left all modesty in the dream—he had only to touch her to transform shame to something delicious between them. When she arched her back, he ran his hand up the curve and made it beautiful. He cupped her breast and gathered her body against him, biting her throat and squeezing her nipple, creating pain and sharp pleasure at once.

“Let me see you,” he whispered through his teeth. “Let me see you.”

Suddenly he rose above her on his knees. Folie lay looking up at him, lost in dreamy amazement. He was a dim outline of light and shadow looming over her—his white linen shirt gaping open; his chest dark, and his throat and his face—a column of darkness; his shoulders shaped in white.

“Take off your gown,” he said.

Folie swallowed against a wave of heat that washed up her body; heat from his words alone, spoken with a low demand. She had not thought she could be so wanton— and yet without hesitation, she sat up, knowing the light was enough for him to see her as she could see him. She drew up her legs and her gown, sitting straight and proud before him as she crossed her arms and lifted the gown over her head.

He caught it away from her and tossed it off the bed. As Folie’s hair fell down her back, he ran his hands along her arms and lifted her hands. He spread them out, gazing at her naked breasts. Then he put his palms at her waist and slid them upward, marking the shape of her body and breasts. He made a faint moan, as if it hurt him to look.

“My God, you are beautiful,” he said.

“So are you,” she said simply.

He gave a soft laugh. “Folly. I want to touch you all over. I want to touch every inch of you.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

He leaned forward, kissing her gently at the corner of her mouth. The very tenderness of it made her want to be crushed against him. Their breath mingled. She felt the light roughness of his cheek, smelled the scent of him, the familiar beloved scent of him, only this time warmed with reality, with flesh and blood.

“Lie down,” he said, and when she obeyed him, he leaned over and began to caress her feet. He stroked her ankle, drawing his finger slowly under the arch of her foot and up the back of her heel. Her skin prickled with a luscious sensation all over her body. He bent and kissed her knee, cupping his hands about her thigh and sliding them up to the place between her legs, just touching it with his finger, stroking and then leaving it. Folie whimpered.

“Mmmm?” he murmured wickedly. “What is it?”

She lifted her knee, hoping he would stroke her again there. He drew his thumb up the inside of her thigh and rolled it across the place, sending fire through her body to her fingertips. She made a faint urgent sound.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Robert—” she said plaintively.

“Say it.”

“Oh, Robert,” she whispered, arching anxiously.
 

“Say it,” he repeated, moving his fingers up close to the place and then away—not quite there, and then away.
 

She slid her legs apart. “Please. Please.”
 

“Tell me what you want.”

Folie could feel all her skin turning hot with desire and embarrassment. “I don’t know.”

He made a low growl. “Oh, yes you do.” He leaned over and kissed her belly, drawing his tongue downward.

“What?” she said, frantically kneading his hair. “What?”

She felt his mouth moving softly on her curly hair, teasing and tickling, then a touch into the depth, to the wet place that made her gasp with pleasure. She lifted her breasts, pushing them outward, pushing her body up to his mouth.

He lifted his head. “Tell me what you want.”
 

“Kiss me,” she panted.
 

“Where?”
 

“There, there.”

He slid his hand under her buttock and gave her a light squeeze. “You have to say it for me, sweet Folly. I’ll make you say it.”

“Say what? I don’t know. I don’t know.”

He kissed the inside of her thigh, chuckling. “Ah.” He slid his thumb about on a moistness that was new and strange to her. “Here, where you’re all wet for me. You don’t know what this is?”

She made a wordless small sound, shaking her head.

“What a naive widow!” he said, his voice amused.

“Well, I have only been married once, Robert!” she exclaimed in agitation. “And he never did this to me!”

“Good,” he said strongly. He leaned over her on both hands and kissed her hard on the mouth. He licked her upper lip with his tongue, then ran it along the outside of her mouth. He pushed his fingers inside her body as he kissed her. The sensation made her open, spreading her legs as he rolled his thumb in a deep searching circle, a pressure that brought soft moans from her throat. “Did he do this to you?”

“No,” she whispered.

She could see his teeth when he smiled down at her in the darkness. “You like it?”
 

“Oh, yes,” she whimpered.

“This is your sweet pussy,” he said, “this pretty dark hair, this soft pink skin, the place I go inside you.”
 

Folie nodded.

He put his mouth next to her ear. “Say it,” he whispered.

Her eyes widened. It was an ordinary word, but suddenly it seemed the most impossible sound in the universe to repeat. Her body burned. “I can’t,” she said helplessly.

“Oh, Folly,” he said low in his throat. “Then I’ll have to leave.”

“No,” she said. “Don’t go.”

“Say my name.”

“Robert,” she whispered.

He caressed the corner of her mouth with his tongue. “Say, ‘Robert, please.’ “
 

“Robert...Robert...please.”

He made that deep delicious circle inside her with his thumb. Her body arched in ecstasy. “Say, ‘Robert, please kiss my pussy.’ “

“Robert!” she wailed softly.

He drew away a little, as if he might leave her. She knew it was a deliberate torment, to make her do what he said, but she could not even make her tongue shape the words.

“Ah, Folly, what a wicked disobedient wife you are already,” he murmured. “Say it.”

“Robert,” she said breathlessly. “Robert...kiss...my pussy.”

“ ‘Please.’ “

“Robert,” she moaned, “you are horrid!”

“I’ve not even begun being horrid,” he said, biting her earlobe. “Say it all, like a good girl.”

“Robert please...” she gasped. “Please...kiss-my-pussy.” She hurried so quickly over the worst part that the words slurred together.

“Mmmmm.’’ He kissed the skin at the base of her throat. While Folie clutched the bed sheets, he shaped her hips between his hands and trailed kisses down her breasts and her belly. He licked the place he had made her give a name to, kissed and ran his tongue over it until she was shuddering.

A great urge came upon her to arch up beneath him, wildfire running through her body. She took in gulps of air and could not seem to let them out of her lungs—his hands held her still but she wanted to move and move, and every tiny thrust of her hips to his tongue made the sensation intensify. She was shivering in hysterical delight, with no control over her own limbs, when he suddenly sat back.

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered.

“Please kiss my—” Her voice cracked. “Robert, please kiss my pussy, please, please.”

He was silent. For a long moment he did not move, and then he put his arm about her bent knee and pressed his cheek against her leg very hard. He let her go.

“No,” he said. “Later. Later, perhaps.”

His words were so unexpected, so at odds with everything, that she hardly even understood what he meant. But then he stood up. He found her gown on the floor and laid it beside her on the bed.

“Put on your gown and go to sleep,” he said. Without another word, he left her.

Robert walked into his room. He went to the window that overlooked the back garden, opened the curtains, and raised the sash. He stood with the chill air flowing under his shirt and over his skin.

His body was raging. He put his hands to his hair and sank to his knees, his head tilted back, his mouth open in a silent howl of need.

TWENTY-TWO

If there been a housekeeper, Folie would have rung for breakfast in her room. If she could have arranged it, she would not have left her bedchamber for at least a decade or two. She remembered every single moment of the night before, clearly and with hot mortification.

But there was no answer to her tug on the bell pull. She was not surprised—Lander could not run a household properly if it consisted of one room and a sty, she thought bitterly. All very well to have a Bow Street Runner on hand, but a decent servant would be more welcome at the moment.

She dressed, perforce in her country clothes that did not require a maid’s assistance, and took a deep breath at the top of the stairs. She descended with a queenly tread, as if she always went downstairs like royalty. It was the only thing to do in these moments of pure agony, act as if all were quite well, or perhaps even superb.

Voices emanated from the breakfast room, along with the scent of coffee and ham. She found Robert and Lander seated at the table, chortling more like boyhood chums than acting like a gentleman and his butler, while “Dr. Joyce” performed some apparently comical act with his plate at the sideboard. Folie assumed it was meant to be a comedy by the audience reaction—the moment she appeared, everyone fell silent, so she could not know for sure.

The men stood up hastily. She had the distinct impression of schoolboys caught out in some silly mischief, which naturally placed her by default into the role of repressive mistress. She had no intention of accepting it. Instead of making any stuffy comment on their guilty looks—though several occurred to her—she took the opposite tack, falling into a deep curtsy.