PortraitofPassion (20 page)

Bea turned back to find Simon standing motionless beside the
chair, his brow cocked up. Bea thought he appeared to be waiting. For what? For
more proof that she was a mean-spirited, shameless woman?

Bea lowered her arms and her chemise fell to the floor. She
stepped from the puddle of lace and cotton and turned her back on Simon. She
stood before the small vanity with its oval mirror tilted at an angle. In the
flickering candlelight reflected off the mirror, Bea could see her shoulders
and arms, her breasts with their rosy peaks, her flat stomach, the indentation
of her waist, the flare of her hips, the soft curls that hid her sex. She was
glad that she could not see her face. She did not want to see herself. She did
not want to
be
herself. She wished she was someone else, someone who was
not obsessed with a house and a piece of land, someone who did not hide her
past like a dirty secret, someone who deserved the respect and attentions of
the man who stood silently behind her.

Bea reached up to remove the sapphire pins that held her
golden hair atop her head. When she had removed the last one she shook her head
and her long tresses tumbled down around her shoulders, over her breasts and
across her back to her waist.

She heard Simon groan, heard the soft curse that whispered
darkly through the room. She lifted her brush but before she could bring it up
Simon was behind her. In the mirror she saw his dark hand land on her paler
one, stopping her movements. Bea relaxed her hold and Simon took the brush from
her.

Bea watched in the mirror as Simon’s arm, fully clothed in
the stark white shirt, and seeming disembodied, rose to bring the brush up to
the crown of her head. She felt the soft bristles glide through her hair, brush
against her back down to her waist. She thought it fitting that he was still
fully dressed while she was naked before him. She knew her wanton behavior
tonight was nothing compared to her other sins.

She stood perfectly still while Simon brushed the tangles
from her hair, carefully lifting the curls to hold them in his hands to spare
her even the slightest tug upon her scalp. His gentle ministrations brought
tears to her eyes. Blinking rapidly, she willed herself not to crumble. She did
not deserve his gentle care. She did not want it. She wanted to forget, to lose
herself in mindless passion.

She arched her back and watched in the mirror as her breasts
rose, the hard peaks peeping out between the strands of her hair that floated
around her. Simon’s breath hitched, his hand holding the brush fell to his
side. With a quick tilt of her head down and a sharp flip back, she sent her
hair flying. She watched as it floated around her before coming to rest down
her back. Simon dropped the brush to the floor with a dark groan. His beautiful
dark hands were suddenly on her. He ran one up from her hip to cup her breast
while the other landed low on her stomach, pulling her against him. His rigid
arousal was hard against the small of her back. She reached around behind her
to grip his hips, to anchor him, while she pushed back against him.

“Beatrice,” he growled just before he bent his head to
fasten his hungry mouth on her neck. His lips and tongue and teeth combined to
torment her. He sucked and licked and nipped at her flesh while his wandering
hand rose to join the other, molding her breasts, pinching her nipples, drawing
a deep moan from her.

Bea arched into his touch, pushing her bottom more firmly
against his cock, rocking against him. Dimly she heard a desperate moan and
realized it had come from her. She grasped Simon’s hips, dug her fingers into
his firm buttocks and held on.

Simon’s lips moved from her neck to her shoulder, his open
mouth hot and wet upon her. He dropped one hand to the juncture between her
legs, cupping her warmth. Bea cried out in pleasure, rocking her hips forward
to press into his palm, shamelessly opening her legs to his touch.

“Christ,” Simon groaned against her shoulder before pushing
his head forward to kiss and caress her collarbone with his mouth. Bea realized
that now he could see her in the mirror. He could see his hand squeezing her
breast, his thumb and finger pinching her nipple, drawing it sharply away from
her body only to bring it back again. He could see the other buried between her
legs. He could see her back arch and her hips buck against him. She turned her
head to the side so that he could not see her face.

If Simon noticed the movement he did not acknowledge it. He
ground his palm against her heat, pushed it forward and back. Hot fingers
delved through her curls, down between her folds, spreading her. Without
warning he drove one long finger up into her core.

“Simon,” Bea cried, his name torn from her throat. She
rocked forward against his palm then pushed back against his shaft. She watched
in the mirror as the muscles in his forearm tightened and he dragged her back
against his cock, his finger working deeper inside her. Bea panted as she felt
the first shivers of climax looming.

“Please,” she moaned, caught between his hand and his
hardness.

His lips left her collarbone. She heard his breath rasping
out behind her as his hands left her. She watched in the mirror as he ripped
off his cravat, tore at the buttons on his breeches. She placed both hands upon
the vanity, hanging her head down so that her hair fell all around her like a
veil. Through the tangled locks she caught a glimpse of her eyes and was startled
by the desperation she saw.

Simon’s hands landed hard upon her bottom, kneading and
squeezing. He wedged his knees between hers and pushed her legs open.

Bea felt his hot flesh between her legs and thought he would
take her now. Thank God. But instead of his cock, she realized it was his
finger, probing at her moist center. She felt his other hand come to rest in
the center of her back, his palm rough and hot. Firmly he pushed and Bea
followed his silent command, lowering her torso, bending her elbows to rest
them on the cool surface of the vanity top. Bottles and brushes went rolling
and flying about. He held her in place for his questing fingers.

Simon pushed two thick fingers into her until she could feel
his knuckles against her folds. Beatrice squirmed at the invasion, thrusting
her hips forward then pressing back against him, forcing his fingers deeper
inside.

“Beatrice,” Simon groaned before withdrawing his fingers
until he was nearly out of her warmth. Bea moaned at the retreat. Simon flexed
his hand upon her back and thrust his fingers into her once more. Slowly, oh so
slowly, until he was as far inside her as he could get.

“Simon,” Bea cried out his name. “Please, I can’t…please…”

Simon groaned behind her. He slowly removed his fingers and
Beatrice felt the hot, engorged head of his cock prodding her opening. He did
not put himself inside her as she hoped. Instead, he made slow circles around
her sheath, collecting the moisture, spreading it around her aching flesh,
around the head of his penis. He bent his knees and brought the heavy shaft
between her legs, rubbing his length forward and back from tip to base over her
center.

“Do you feel how I want you? Do you feel how hard you make
me?”

“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes, Simon, so hard. Please take me.”
Bea gripped the far edge of the table, mindless with need, hungry for him to
fill her.

“Yes,” he growled. “I want to take you like this, take you
so hard you scream.” His words sent a black cloud of dark, desperate desire to
wrap around her.

Simon gripped her hips, dragged his erection over her to
position the tip at her opening. She felt him there, heavy and pulsing.
Beatrice lifted her head, shaking the hair from her eyes and looked at him in
the mirror.

Simon stood behind her, between her legs, gripping her hips.
He looked up to meet her eyes in the mirror. Bea had never seen such hunger,
such naked desire. He looked wild, barbaric. His eyes were mere slits beneath
his lowered brow. His mouth was open, his lips pulled back as he sucked in
great gulps of air. Bea shuddered as dark, dangerous lust ricocheted through
her.

Simon saw her reaction, felt her tremble, misunderstood the
reason. He flinched, his hands flexing upon her body, the pressure of his cock
disappearing. He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened his eyes
again the brutal look was gone, to be replaced with regret.

“Bea,” he murmured, dropping forward to lay his head upon
her back, his arms encircling her waist.

“Simon,” she whispered.

His only response was a small shake of his head between her
shoulder blades.

“Simon. Please.”

He lifted his head to look at her in the mirror. Bea was
mesmerized by the need she saw there. She thought he must see the same in her
eyes.

“Please. I want you to.” And she did, she wanted him to take
her roughly, blot from her mind what she had done, what she would do in the
coming days.

Without a word Simon gripped her hips and brought his cock
to her center once more. Bea watched as he closed his eyes and rocked his hips
forward, pushing into her heat slowly, steadily, until he was seated to the
hilt. Bea dropped her head and allowed her hair to shield her once more. She
had not wanted his tenderness, had known it would undo her. And it did.

He moved within her almost leisurely, pushing forward,
gently rocking against her. He reached around her to brush his fingers through
her curls until he found her clitoris. Deliberately, delicately, he circled
her, whispered his fingers over her aching flesh, matched the gentle caress to
the slow drag of his hard length within her.

Bea moaned low in her throat, pushed forward into his hand,
pressed back against his cock filling her, caught his rhythm. Together they
moved, silent but for the sawing of Simon’s breath and the desperate panting of
Bea’s.

Bea felt the first waves of climax glide over her, softly, a
whisper of heat, a shiver of static.

“Oh Simon,” she whispered on a soft moan as her body
trembled with the softest, most exquisite climax he had ever given her. She
felt it in her womb, in her heart, in her soul. She closed her eyes and allowed
herself to drift on the currents of pleasure cresting over her, knocking the
breath from her lungs, tightening her inner muscles around his hard flesh,
bringing tears to her eyes, wringing a soft cry from her lips.

Simon dropped forward to place his lips on Bea’s nape. She
felt his breath caress her skin, then his lips in the sweetest of kisses.

“Beatrice,” he whispered and she felt his body jerk. He drew
back and thrust into her one last time, deep, so deep she imagined she felt his
hardness, his pulsing heat against her heart. His hands flexed upon her body
and he ground his hips against her bottom, as if he could somehow burrow even
farther inside her.

“Ah God,” he moaned dropping his weight heavily upon her for
a moment. Then he stood and slowly withdrew from her body. Without a word he
turned her and lifted her into his arms to carry her to the bed. He gently
placed her in the center, following her down, tucking her into his side. He
drew the coverlet up and over them.

Bea sighed and closed her eyes, praying for the oblivion of
sleep. For once her prayers were answered.

In the gray light of dawn, Simon looked down upon a sleeping
Beatrice. How young she looked, curled into a ball in the center of the big
bed, one hand tucked between her cheek and pillow, her tangled hair fanned out
around her. He hated to leave her. He knew something was terribly wrong,
suspected that his aunt had somehow wounded her deeply.

He considered putting off this trip to view the estate but
decided against it. The property had only come on the market the week before
and he did not want to run the risk of losing it to another buyer. From the
description the agent had given him, he thought the small estate might be
perfect for Beatrice. He would be back by tonight, he reasoned, early tomorrow
at the latest. Surely Beatrice would be all right until then.

He propped a note to Beatrice against the bottles he had
replaced on the vanity table. He paused there, remembering Beatrice’s nearly
desperate cry for him to take her, standing behind her. He remembered the
frantic hunger, the crazed lust that had gripped him, nearly forcing him to
take her roughly, brutally. He had wanted to pound his flesh into hers. He
silently thanked God he had not allowed his base instincts free range.

Instead, he had collected himself, reminded himself that
this was the woman he intended to make his wife, not some whore whose body he
could use to satisfy his dark desires. He was shocked by the raging desire
Beatrice inspired in him. He had always approached lovemaking in the same
controlled manner in which he approached every aspect of his life. Not so with
Beatrice. The uncontrolled lust he had felt last night had surprised and
confused him. He had sensed that she had wanted to drive him mad, drive him to
take her violently.

He thought of the quiet rage he had sensed in Beatrice last
night, remembered the desperation he had seen in her eyes. And asking the maid
to undress her before him. Simon had been dumbfounded when he had realized what
Beatrice intended, but he could not deny the desire that had heated his blood
watching as the young girl bared Beatrice’s lovely body to him. He suspected
that she would be embarrassed by her behavior this morning, guessed she would
seek out little Abby first thing to beg forgiveness. No hiding, no pretending
it hadn’t happened, Beatrice would face her actions head on.

God, how he loved her, he thought as he walked the few short
blocks through nearly deserted streets to his town house. She had captivated
him from the very first time he had seen her, captivated him with her radiant
smile, her warm, honey laugh, her natural sensuality. As he had come to know
her, she had riveted his attention with her warmth, her joy, her desire to live
life to the fullest on her own terms. He loved her bravery, her honesty, her
genuine regard for those around her, from servants to ladies and gentlemen.

He could not imagine a day when she would not be the very
center of his world. He wanted to greet each day with her beside him, to share
happiness and sorrow with her, to face life’s triumphs and trials with her, to
bring her comfort and ease, to fill her belly with his children, to raise those
children in their mother’s image.

He knew it would not be easy. Beatrice would never be
entirely comfortable in his world. She would never be content to spend the
Season hopping from one
ton
event to the next. She would want to live in
the country, to raise a family in the fresh air and open spaces, away from
judging eyes and vicious tongues, to create an oasis. What had she said to him?
“
I want to find my place in the world.”

He suspected he had found his place in the world, and it was
wherever Beatrice happened to be.

Simon decided to take a carriage for the journey to view the
small estate as the gray morning sky promised rain. He was due to meet the
agent at two o’clock. He had been told the trip would take four to five hours.
He hoped the coming rain would not delay him. He was anxious to see the house
and grounds, to complete the purchase should he find them suitable to his
needs, to Beatrice’s needs, and return by late evening.

* * * * *

An hour into the journey the skies opened up. Rain poured
steadily upon the moving carriage for almost two hours. Thank God the roads
were good. The weather had barely delayed him. Five hours after he had set off
from London he saw a small hand-painted sign atop a tall wood post.
Winter
Haven
he read and thought it an apt moniker. He hoped to spend the long,
cold winters secreted away in the country with Beatrice.

The carriage turned down the long drive and Simon studied
the open, rolling green fields that spread out to the right as far as the eye
could see. Looking out the other window, he saw a heavily wooded forest off in
the distance. He breathed a sigh of relief. As long as the house was in
relatively good condition and large enough to support a growing family and a
handful of servants, he felt confident he would return to London with deed in
hand.

Simon opened the window and craned his neck and head out as
the carriage crested a small incline. There stood a lovely stone house, three
stories tall with dormer windows poking out from the steeply pitched roof. The
stone was a soft, weathered yellow. Large windows, as tall as a man, lined the
first floor on either side of the wide covered front portico. The second story
hosted windows matched in width to those below them, but shorter, perfect
squares.

The carriage came to a gentle stop in the curve of a large,
circular drive. In the center of the circle was a large fountain. The sound of
the gentle cascade of water greeted Simon as he stepped down from the carriage.
He looked around at the front lawn, carefully manicured with green grass and
precisely shaped square hedges. Rose bushes, the open blooms a soft pink,
graced both sides of the house.

Simon was enchanted. He could not have asked for a house
more perfect for Beatrice.

The front door, painted a crisp white, opened and out
stepped a portly gentleman in riding clothes, his head bare to display a shock
of bright-red hair cropped close to his head.

“Ah, Viscount Easton,” the man boomed as he rushed down the
half-dozen steps from the porch to the path, hand outstretched. Simon walked
forward to meet him.

“Mr. Brown,” Simon said, shaking the man’s hand.

“You made good time,” he bellowed and Simon wondered if he
always shouted when he spoke. “I wasn’t certain you would, what with the rain
and all.”

Simon spent the next hour roaming the rooms of the house. They
were large, bright and airy with all the windows thrown open to the sun and the
breeze. The décor was sadly in need of updating, but Beatrice would surely
welcome the opportunity to decorate the house to her tastes, to make it her
own. The structure itself seemed sound and he saw no evidence of rodents or
water damage.

Mr. Brown had thought to bring an extra mount for Simon and
together they rode over the fields, down to a small pond with a long wooden
dock behind the house. Simon could picture himself teaching his sons, and
daughters he reminded himself with a laugh, to fish from that dock, to swim in
the cool water. Perhaps Beatrice would skin the fish they caught and fry them
up over an open fire.

The woods were in need of thinning—the cultivated lumber
would bring in a nice sum. He saw a flat plot off to the side of the house and
thought it must have once been a small vegetable garden. It would be again.

Four hours after he had arrived, Simon was happily on his
way back to London, deed to a small manor house and nearly three hundred acres
of land safely in his breast pocket.

He arrived home later than he had intended and wondered
briefly if he should bathe and knock upon Moorehead’s door. He had asked
Moorehead in the note he had left for him to please keep Beatrice at home today
and not to leave her alone.

As he alighted from the carriage he saw a young man leaning
against a lamp post in front of his town house. He thought he wore Hastings
livery but could not be certain in the dark. The man sprang up when he saw him
and darted off down the street. How odd, thought Simon.

Jacobs, his butler, held open the front door and Simon
dashed up the steps and into the quiet of his front hall.

“Welcome home,” the butler intoned with a bow. He always
greeted Simon thusly, whether he had been gone for weeks or mere hours. Tonight
it struck Simon as funny and he chuckled.

“Send Tibbons up to draw me a bath, please,” Simon requested
as he moved toward the wide staircase that led upstairs to his suite of rooms.

“You’ve had a number of visitors,” Jacobs called out to his
retreating back. “You’ve a number of messages.” He held out a small silver tray
bearing a few cards and folded notes.

Simon felt a fissure of dread trace down his spine. He
turned and made his way calmly back to take the cards and notes. He was
surprised to see his hands tremble.

“Who were my visitors?” he asked.

“Lady Hastings first came to call this morning and again
this afternoon,” Jacobs answered. “Lord Hastings called twice this evening,
once alone and then accompanied by Lady Palmerton.”

Simon looked down at the cards in his hand, one from each of
his relatives. He flicked open the three notes.

Lord Easton,

I have called upon you twice today. I imagine I know what
has kept you from home. It is imperative that you call upon me as soon as you
return.

Lady Hastings

Simon,

Something dreadful has happened. Please send word as soon
as you return so that I may call upon you immediately.

Henry

Oh Simon,

Do not believe what she tells you. All is not as it seems.
Have a care and trust your heart. Please call upon me as soon as you return and
I will explain.

Yours,

Olivia

“Send a note to Lord Hastings advising him of my return,” he
told the waiting butler.

He slowly made his way up the stairs, the cards and notes
crumpled in his hands. Christ, he was only gone one day. What family emergency
could have occurred?

He turned his head to call down to Jacobs, “No word from
Miss Morgan or Viscount Moorehead?”

“None, my lord,” returned the butler.

Simon breathed a sigh of relief. Surely if Beatrice was in
any way involved she would have sent him a note. If not, Moorehead would have.

Simon lowered himself into the tub some minutes later,
laughing at the absurdity. Of course, Henry has finally told his mother he
would not marry Miss Fairchild! His lady aunt would surely come to him to
insist that he help her to convince Henry to marry the silly girl.

Had Henry and his aunt had an argument over the issue? What
had Olivia meant when she said that all was not as it seems? Who was he not to
believe? Lady Hastings?

Questions raced through his mind. At least this family
catastrophe did not seem to involve Beatrice, he thought in relief. Whatever it
was, he would deal with it.

Tonight Henry would explain the situation to him. Tomorrow
he would call upon his aunt and soothe over whatever friction existed between
mother and son. All would be well.

He was in the process of donning a long, silk dressing gown
when he heard a loud banging downstairs.
Henry.
He tied the belt
securely, shoved his feet into slippers and walked from his dressing room.

“Is someone going to answer that knocking?” he called out as
he descended the stairs. He saw Jacobs come running from the back of the house.

“Sorry, my lord,” he said as he flew by. “I was in the
cellar assisting cook.”

Simon reached the last step as the butler opened the door.
In marched an unknown woman draped from head to toe in a dark, hooded cape.
Simon stopped on the landing, his mouth open in surprise.

Before he could inquire who was visiting him, the hood was
drawn back to reveal Lady Hastings.

“Finally,” she screeched at her nephew. “Where in blazes
have you been?”

“Aunt,” Simon replied, stunned by her curse, mild though it
was.

“I suppose you’ve been with that harlot all day. I had half
a mind to march into that den of sin and drag you out.” She shoved her cape at
Jacobs and walked into the front parlor.

Simon slowly followed her, silently counting to rein in his
temper. She would learn to treat Beatrice with respect, he vowed.

He found the lady standing in front of the unlit fireplace
staring up at the painting on the wall above the mantel. A crumbling old
fountain nearly hidden in drifts of snow.

Just Before The Spring.

“She has a modicum of talent, I’ll give her that.” Simon
heard his aunt’s murmured words and thought that she was talking more to
herself than to him.

“Would you care for a brandy?” he asked, crossing to the
sideboard.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Easton,” she answered. “Get your drink
and sit down,” she ordered.

Simon poured a healthy measure of brandy into a snifter and
sat in a chair across from the sofa. His aunt continued to stare at the
painting for a few minutes more before she sat primly upon the sofa across from
him. She sat with her spine stiffly held away from the cushion behind her, her
knees and ankles together, her hands clenched in her lap.

“She was an artist too,” she said and Simon heard anger in
her clipped words.

“Who?” he asked in confusion.

“His whore,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Her mother.”

Simon saw that his aunt was looking straight ahead, right at
his chest, clearly not seeing him at all. Her gray eyes were huge in her thin
face, her mouth pinched tight. She rubbed her hands against one another in
agitation.