PortraitofPassion (14 page)

With one quick lunge Beatrice brought all of her weight
down, impaling herself on him. She ground her hips down until he was seated in
her tight cunny to the hilt. She captured the moan that tore free from his
chest to rumble up past his throat and into her waiting mouth. Simon dimly
thought that he could not have made that primal sound. Surely, he had never
made such a desperate, hungry sound.

Then Beatrice lifted her lips from his and began to move.
She rose, nearly unseating him, before lowering herself again. Simon thrust his
hips up to meet her descent, his hands digging into her hips. Again she rose
and fell, eyes once more closed, head thrown back. Simon caught her rhythm, or
perhaps she caught his—they moved in perfect accord.

Simon was torn between a desire to rush to completion and a
desire to prolong the pleasure, the madness of being inside Beatrice while the
storm raged outside their shelter.

Beatrice took the decision from him with one final lunge
downward. She fell forward and threw her arms around his shoulders to dig her
fingers into his back. He felt his control desert him altogether as she bore
down upon his straining cock until he was buried deep, deep within her.
Beatrice rocked against him, dragging her clit over his pelvis, her passionate
cries ricocheting around the gazebo.

“Simon!” she screamed as she strained against him. Simon
felt her body convulse, felt her tight inner walls clench around his cock,
milking him.

“Ah Beatrice,” he shouted on a groan as he was gripped by an
orgasm so intense his entire body shook with it, so intense the world seemed to
stop, to go completely still. For one heart-stopping moment, as he spent inside
her trembling body, he thought he must have died, or fainted. He no longer
heard the rain, he no longer saw Beatrice or the white lattice walls of their
shelter. He was adrift in nothing but a pleasure so intense it bordered upon
pain.

With a jolt, the world returned, and there was the gazebo,
there was Beatrice, limp in his arms, her breath warm on his neck where her
head rested, there was the rain drumming down all around them.

As his heartbeat slowed and his lungs returned to working order,
Simon removed his hands from Beatrice’s hips under her dress to bring them up
to encircle her in a tight embrace.

“One of these days,” he whispered, cuddling her close, “we
must make love in a bed, in the privacy of a locked room.”

“You are not going to order me up and dressed, are you?” she
asked. Her voice was soft and drowsy. She snuggled her face into the juncture
of his neck and shoulder. He felt the smile on her lips before she kissed him.
“I don’t want to, but we cannot stay here.” The rain was steadily coming down
and judging by the clouds and wind, it would not let up for some time. Even so,
someone would eventually come looking for them.

Beatrice was silent in his arms. He wondered if she had
fallen asleep. He would have liked nothing better than to fall asleep with her
in his arms. But the bench was hard and night was fast approaching. He needed
to get her inside the house.

“Come on, love,” he encouraged. “Let’s get you inside. You
can ring for a bath and have a nice long soak.” As the words left his mouth, he
thought how fine that sounded.

“I do love a long soak in a steaming-hot bath,” she mumbled.
Simon smiled at the wistful sound of her voice.

“And a nice cup of tea,” he went on. “And maybe a light
snack, scones or muffins perhaps.”

“Mmm, I think I’d rather a brandy and some roast pheasant.
I’m famished.” Beatrice lifted her head from the nest of his shoulder to smile
sleepily at him. “Will you stay?”

“Stay?” he asked in surprise. “For dinner?”

“And a bath and a brandy?” she countered.

Simon knew he shouldn’t be surprised by her offer. This was
Beatrice, he reminded himself. Beatrice, who did as she pleased, who did not
worry what prying eyes might see, who did not concern herself with possible
scandal.

“I have no dry clothes,” he replied. He tried to keep his
mind on the practical aspects of the situation when all he wanted was to stay
with her. The picture she painted, of a long, hot soak in a tub big enough for
two, sipping brandy, enjoying a private dinner, lured him.

“You will not need them,” she promised.

Simon looked into her warm eyes, saw the moment she decided
he would reject her offer, felt the stiffening of her spine. He reached out to
pull her back into his embrace, but Beatrice moved faster.

She scrambled up and off his lap, her wrinkled skirts
falling to hide her secrets once more. She turned away to tug up the bodice of
her gown, struggled with the small tangled sleeves until finally managing to
wrestle them up her arms. She reached behind to the buttons. Simon rose to
assist her, tugging his trousers up over his hips. He stepped toward her and
she spun around to face him.

He expected to see a frown. He thought he should have known
better. When did Beatrice ever behave as he expected?

She looked up at him with a soft smile and shining eyes.

“Hurry and dress,” she ordered. “I am near fainting with
hunger. If we hurry I may get some of Mabel’s roast pheasant while it is still
warm.”

“Allow me to help you,” he said, but Beatrice only laughed.

“I have been dressing myself all of my life,” she replied.

Simon watched in amazement as she twisted her lithe body
into all sorts of contortions to reach each of the many buttons that ran down
her back. When she had worked the last one through its hole, she reached down
to retrieve her discarded drawers.

“You are not going to offer to help me with these, are you?”
she asked with a sassy grin.

Simon laughed as he retrieved his shirt and damp jacket. He
felt languid and satisfied, completely relaxed. He was only mildly surprised
when he heard himself say, “If the offer still stands, perhaps I can stay for a
bit.”

Beatrice leaned back against the curved side of the big tub,
stretched out one foot and gently drew circles upon Simon’s chest with her toe.
She watched in fascination as his heavy lids rose and he peered at her with
drowsy eyes.

“I thought you might have fallen asleep,” she explained. She
hadn’t really, of course. She only wanted to look into his eyes. Again. Always.
Gone were the solemn eyes she had first looked upon.
Can it only have been
two weeks ago?
she thought in wonder. It seemed she had known him forever.
His eyes smiled at her over the expanse of water that separated them.

“And if I had?” he asked. He raised his arm from where it
dangled over the side of the huge tub and brought his snifter up for a sip of
brandy.

“I should be forced to wake you. It is dangerous to fall
asleep in the tub. You could drown.”

“Oh has there been a rash of men over thirty drowning in the
bathtub?” he asked and Bea laughed at the arch look he gave her.

“How old are you?” she asked. She thought he might be two
and thirty, five years older than her. She vaguely remembered William telling
her he had just turned twenty the first time he had come to Idyllwild.

“I was two and thirty in April,” he answered. “And you?”

“I’ll be seven and twenty in exactly three weeks.”

“How in blazes did you stay a virgin until seven and
twenty?” he asked.

“I hadn’t met you,” she replied with a giggle. She had found
herself giggling quite a lot since their mad dash through the rain to the
house.

Simon rose up in the tub to lean forward and rest his arms
on his knees. He looked intently at her, patiently waiting for her to tell him
the truth. But it was the truth. She’d never met anyone with whom she had
wanted to share her body. She had never met anyone with whom she had wanted to
share her heart. To her they were one and the same.

“I don’t know, Simon,” she finally answered and because she
could not tell him all of it, she told him part. “I was just too busy, I
suppose.”

“Too busy?” he asked softly. She knew that he was curious
about her, about her past. She was amazed that he had waited this long to ask
his questions. It was that astonishing patience. His patience sometimes annoyed
her beyond belief. Other times, like now, she was glad for it. She suspected he
would not press for any information she was unwilling to share. No, he would
just wait patiently.

“Too busy for romance,” she clarified.

“Busy doing what?” he asked with a frown.

“Painting and moving about.” Bea wondered how much she could
tell him, and then decided to trust him with the fundamental story of her life,
leaving out the details that might give her away.
Tread carefully
, she
warned herself. “Keeping my family together.”

“Will you tell me?” he asked, his eyes once more serious,
his mouth a firm line.

Bea closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“You needn’t tell me if you would rather not,” Simon said
quietly. She felt his fingers trailing lightly over the back of her hand where
it rested on the rim of the tub. She opened her eyes to find him studying her.

“I would like to tell you,” Bea said. She turned her hand
over and linked her fingers through his.

“My father died nine years ago, of a fever. He had been dead
for some time before we learned of it. We hadn’t known he was ill at all.” It
hurt to say the words. She knew that Simon heard some of her bitterness, not
all certainly, but enough. She had never allowed her bitterness to fully rise
within her, she thought she might howl with pain and rage if she did.

“He was away from home at the time?” Simon asked, his voice
soft and hesitant, as if he feared where her story would lead.

“He was here, in London. He had been here for months.”

“And you and your mother were north, in the country?”

“We lived in the country. I had never been to London until
we were forced to leave our home.”

“Forced?” he asked.

“Oh it is a common enough tale. The house did not belong to
us. It was entailed. It went to a relation. The next male in the line, a man, a
boy really, a boy I had never met, had never even heard of until then.”

“Did your mother not know that she would lose the house
should your father pass away?” Beatrice watched Simon frown in confusion.

“She believed there was an agreement, a spoken agreement, nothing
in writing, mind you. My father was promised that we would be granted the
living rights to the house and all of its lands.”

“He made no formal provisions for you?”

“He left us a small fund, an annuity that would have
sufficed had we not been left homeless. In truth, even having to pay for
lodging, it sufficed. We were comfortable. We were never in want. We were
simply adrift.”

“Your mother had no family to take you in? None of your
father’s relations offered you shelter? The boy who inherited the property, he
would not allow you to continue living there?” Bea nearly laughed at Simon’s
reasonable questions. His world was ordered, rational. In his world relations
took care of one another, however grudgingly. He could not begin to imagine the
isolation in which she had been raised.

“No,” she answered simply. How could she explain without
giving away all her secrets?

“So you came to London?” he asked.

“Only very briefly. We came to book passage to France. I
believe my mother went to the boy’s guardian to ask that we be allowed to
continue living in our home. She left one morning and didn’t return until the
afternoon. We were staying here with Bertie and Anna, Mrs. Forsythe.” Bea shook
her head to dislodge the memory of her mother’s ravaged face, her wilted posture,
her wail of anguish as she fell into Anna’s arms.

“She was unsuccessful?” Simon whispered.

“Yes. We took ship for France three days later, Anna, Mama,
Molly, Tom and I.”

“Molly and Tom?”

Bea laughed softly. How to explain Molly and Tom? And Harry?

“Molly and Tom Jenkins and their son Harry lived with us all
of my life. Well, Harry purchased a commission in the navy and left a few
months before Papa died.”

“They are relatives? Servants?” he asked, and it was clear
to Beatrice that he was perplexed.

“They are friends, part of our family,” she answered. She
lifted her glass of brandy from the floor and took a healthy swallow.
This
might take some explaining
, she thought with a laugh.

Simon waited expectantly for her to continue.

“You must understand I was not raised as most English girls
are raised. Before coming to London, I did not even grasp the concept of
servants. We had Molly and Tom Jenkins who helped us with the house and the
grounds but they were part of our family. They lived with us and dined with us.
We worked side by side with them. Their son Harry was like my brother. We grew
up together, played together, studied together.” Bea knew she was speaking
rapidly, but could not help the nerves that caused her to ramble.

“What did you study?” he asked and Bea could see that he was
trying to understand her, trying to understand her life.

“Everything. Mathematics, anatomy, history, Greek, Latin. I
was taught everything a boy would have been taught. Oh don’t misunderstand me,”
she said with a laugh when she saw the confusion on his face. “I was also
taught everything a girl should know, everything a
country girl
should
know.”

“Such as?”

“I can milk a cow and birth a foal. I can plant a garden and
harvest its crop. I know how to catch a fish, skin it and fry it over an open
fire. I am no stranger to dust mop and scrub brush, although cleaning house was
my least favorite chore.”

“You make delicious lemon muffins,” Simon added with a
smile. “And you prefer to ride astride.”

Beatrice felt a blush sweep up over her breasts, up her neck
to heat her face. She looked down with a soft laugh as she remembered
straddling him in the gazebo.

Simon barked out a surprised laugh and Bea looked back up.

“What a depraved mind you have, Miss Morgan,” he said,
shaking his head. “I meant a horse. You prefer a man’s saddle to a lady’s.” His
eyes twinkled at her.

“I had never seen a sidesaddle until I was eighteen,” she
exclaimed.

“That explains quite a bit,” he teased.

“Hush, you wicked man!” She giggled, splashing water at him
with her foot.

“Your mother sounds like an interesting woman, allowing you
such unconventional pastimes as birthing foals and skinning fish,” he said when
they had both brought their mirth under control.

“Mama is…” Bea looked away, trying to decide how to describe
her mother to Simon. “She was raised to be a proper lady, to believe her only
goal in life was to marry well.”

“But instead she met your father, who was already married,”
Simon added when she paused. Beatrice’s eyes flew to his face. How could he
know?

“I know about your parents,” he said, his voice soft.

“What do you mean?” she asked. Her mind was spinning, trying
to come up with an argument, some way to convince him he was wrong. But how did
he know? What did he know?

“I know that your parents loved one another. I know that
they lived together. I know they were not married. I suspect that is because he
was married to another.”

“How?” she whispered, giving up any idea to convince him he
was wrong.

Simon smiled and squeezed her fingers and Bea was surprised
to realize he still held her hand.

“Do you think that when I sit quietly and allow others to do
all of the talking that I am daydreaming?”

“No, of course not,” Bea answered promptly.

“I had only to listen to you share your thoughts about love
and marriage, and to hear Moorehead say with conviction that your parents loved
one another, passionately, devotedly, but that love did not exist with
marriage, to see that they were unmarried.”

“You know,” she whispered and relief washed over her. Relief
that he knew she was illegitimate and did not shun her, relief that that was
all he seemed to know.

“And so, you and your family sailed for France,” Simon
prompted her.

“Do you really want to know all of this?” she asked.

“I want to know everything there is to know about you,” he
replied softly. “Whatever you are willing to share with me.”

Beatrice felt his soft words course through her, warming her
blood, filling her with mingled joy and pain. She wanted to share all with him,
was tempted to tell him all her secrets, to beg him to help her. She held her
tongue. She could not take the risk, she knew she couldn’t, not yet. Not until
she had secured Henry’s regard, not until Henry cared enough about her to grant
her deepest wish. Not until he agreed to honor the promise given all those
years ago. Not until Henry returned Idyllwild to her.

“This bath grows cool,” she said. She rose to her knees
between his long legs spread around hers in the tub. “I must eat if I am to
seduce you again.” She knew he saw through her evasion, but she trusted him to
wait patiently until she felt ready to continue her tale.

“Seduce me?” He grinned up at her. “In a bed? In the privacy
of a locked room? I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” she purred before leaning down to kiss him.
She kissed him as he had taught her. She kissed him with lips and tongue and
heart. She kissed him with all the love she felt for him, she poured her love
into his open mouth, wishing she could give him the words.

Bea and Simon dined together at the small table in her
bedroom, beside the window. The rain had subsided to a gentle steady rhythm,
which Bea found soothing. They talked of everything and nothing at all. They
laughed together and fell into comfortable silences.

“What was your life on the continent like?” Simon asked,
leaning back in his chair, brandy snifter resting in his hand.

“It was eye opening,” Bea replied promptly and then laughed
at the understatement. “I spent the first eighteen years of my life on a small
country estate with my family the only other residents. Oh, Papa often brought
home friends to spend a few weeks with us, Bertie and Anna, Mrs. and Mr. Tobin
and their daughter.” Bea paused for a moment. She hated to spoil the mood that
they had created together.

“You did not go away to school? Perhaps in the village?”
Simon asked with a frown.

“Oh no. Mama taught Harry and me. And Papa brought
instructors home when we had exceeded Mama’s knowledge.”

“London must have been a shock to you.”

“Goodness yes. I was aghast at the crowds and the noise. I
found it all overwhelming, scary and suffocating. We were here less than a week
and for the entire time, I felt unable to breathe.”

“And Paris?” he asked. He stretched his long legs out before
him under the small table. Bea ran her bare foot over his. They had donned
dressing gowns after their bath. Bertie’s valet Simmons had taken Simon’s
clothes to launder and press.

“Paris I learned to love by small degrees. We lived with
Anna, who had crossed the channel with us, leaving Bertie behind for some months.
Anna’s house is on the outskirts of the city, a wonderful old chateau set amid
acres of rolling lawns and gardens. It was almost like home.”

“And you studied with Monsieur Poitier?”

Bea smiled at him. He really did listen to the conversations
going on around him.

“Mama and I traveled into Paris and stayed at a small hotel
for three or four days each week while I took lessons with Andre. It was a
magical time for me.”

“Andre?” Simon asked. “But of course you were on a
first-name basis with the great artist within moments of meeting him.”

Bea laughed, for it was true. She had simply called him by
his given name and he had not corrected her.

“We stayed in Paris for nearly two years, eventually moving
into the city to a small town house close to Andre’s studio. I became
accustomed to living in the city. I enjoyed the museums and parks and
theaters.”