PortraitofPassion (8 page)

There was a moment of silence. A moment so quiet and still,
it was as if even the birds and insects had stopped to listen to the beautiful
lady, so wistful and fierce.

“But surely you needn’t spend your money on a house,” Olivia
replied. “You are young, you will marry someday, and live with your husband in
his house.”

“I will be seven and twenty in less than a month,” Bea
replied and reached forward to pat Olivia’s hand. “Happily on the shelf. No, I
shall have my own home, one that belongs wholly to me, one that can never be
lost to me.”

“I could introduce you to any number of gentlemen,” Olivia
offered.

Beatrice threw back her head and laughed. “Oh Olivia, you
are a dear,” she replied when she was able to speak.

Olivia was taken aback for a moment, and then as Simon
watched, she seemed to come to her senses.

“Oh forgive me, what a silly thing to say.” Olivia blushed
at her well-intentioned and obviously ridiculous offer.

“Not to worry, Olivia,” Beatrice assured her. “We move in
different circles and always will, I am certain. But I appreciate the
sentiment.”

“I’m sure I could assist you though.” Henry surprised
everyone when he said it. Simon moved his eyes from Beatrice’s smiling face to
Henry’s. There was something about Henry’s smile. Simon couldn’t figure out
what it was. Something he recognized from somewhere, or something he’d never
seen before. He wasn’t sure which it was, but suddenly he felt short of breath.
His cravat felt too tight, his entire body too warm. He shook his head to clear
it and when he looked again, that nameless something was gone and Henry was speaking
again.

“I have any number of acquaintances I could introduce you
to, Beatrice,” he insisted. “My solicitor’s son James, he’s a good man. Near
thirty and quite handsome. Or Dr. Nelson, you remember him, Olivia, treated me
when I broke my leg two years ago. I don’t believe he’s married. Then there’s—”

Beatrice interrupted him to say, “Henry, please, I’m sure
they are all nice gentlemen, but really I am not in need of a husband. Nor do I
want one.”

“But why not?” cried Olivia.

“I have no inducement to marry,” Bea explained. “I am
financially secure.”

“Surely you desire a family of your own?” Olivia replied.

“I have a family,” Beatrice said firmly. “I want a home to
bring them to. What need have I of a husband?”

“But—” Olivia began before she was cut off once more.

“Were you not five minutes ago saying how you envied me my
independence? My ability to make my own way in the world?” Beatrice reminded
her softly.

“What about love?” Simon asked. Three pairs of eyes flew to
his face. Moorehead seemed to be intently studying the gazebo roof. Simon
suspected he was valiantly holding back laughter. With some embarrassment he
went on to ask, “Isn’t that what you ladies dream of?”

“Love? What has love to do with marriage?” Olivia blinked,
obviously startled by her own words and what they revealed.

“My point exactly. How many married couples do you know who
love each other?” Bea asked. “I don’t mean the lukewarm sort, based on
friendship or companionship or shared interests, but really love each other?
Passionately, with their entire beings, with absolute devotion, both body and
soul?” She looked from Olivia to Henry and finally to Simon. She held his gaze
for a moment, the question there in her eyes.

“I must admit, I cannot think of one couple of my
acquaintance who shares that sort of love,” Simon replied, and it was true. His
parents had loved one another, but it had not been the all-consuming love she
described.

“Does that sort of passionate love really exist?” Henry
asked.

“Certainly,” Moorehead replied, “but not within marriage!”

Simon and Henry both burst out laughing while Olivia looked
down with a smile. Simon could see the blush creep up to stain her cheeks.

“Oh Bertie,” Beatrice cried. “Shame on you! Olivia will
never accept another invitation to play with us if you say such scandalous
things.” But her eyes were twinkling and her dimple was winking.

“No, no,” Olivia insisted. “I am not so naïve that I do not
know that gentlemen, and I daresay ladies, find love outside of their marriage
vows.” Olivia gave a quiet gasp and then reached out to hold Beatrice’s hand in
hers. “Did your parents love each other that way?” she asked softly.

“My parents?” Bea asked with a nervous little laugh.

“Yes, your mother and father, did they love each other
passionately?”

Beatrice turned to look at Moorehead. Simon thought he saw a
question in her eyes, a sort of desperate pleading.

“Children do not always see their parents for what they
are,” Moorehead finally said. “They see what the adults in their lives wish
them to see. But yes, Bea’s parents loved one another, passionately, devotedly,
until the day her father died.”

“There, you see,” said Henry, “passionate love can exist in
marriage.”

Simon thought that indeed he did see, or he was beginning
to.

“How did we ever get on this topic?” Henry demanded, jumping
to his feet to stretch this way and that. “Who among you would care to join me
for a stroll about this lovely garden?”

Slowly they all made their way about the garden, along the
path beside the fountain, where Simon watched Beatrice bend down to trail her
fingers in the water. She looked up and caught him watching her. She smiled, a
secret little smile. Trouble, he thought as he smiled in return.

“Shall we attempt the maze?” she asked as she held his gaze.
She turned to include the others. “I warn you it is small but well done. I have
found myself lost in it on more than one occasion. Bertie does not allow me in
it alone, for fear I might never find my way out.”

“Not me,” Moorehead replied with a smile. “You young ones
have fun while I wander into the house for a moment. I will rejoin you
shortly.”

Olivia once again looped her arm through Beatrice’s and they
made their way, laughing, toward the entrance.

“A wager to make it more interesting?” Beatrice asked as
they gathered at the entrance. It was indeed a small maze, Simon could see. The
passages were dark and narrow.

“I find myself still in want of a certain gold cravat pin,”
Henry said in agreement.

“A girl can never have too many bonnets,” replied Beatrice
as she patted the silly one upon her head.

“And I saw the prettiest little pearl-handled brush and
mirror set just the other day,” Olivia added, getting into the spirit of the
game.

“Simon?” asked Bea. “What is your desire?”

Simon gave her an arch of his brow in answer before replying
for the benefit of his cousins, “I happened to spot a handsome silver-tipped
cane just the other morning.”

“First one out wins and last one out loses,” Beatrice said.
“As I have traveled this maze, I will allow you the lead. Ladies first.”

Olivia walked into the maze with a cheery, “See you on the
other side.”

Henry went next, followed by Simon, who traveled as far as
the first turn before looking back at Beatrice to make sure she was following.
She stepped in behind him. He turned right then left, and silently waited. And
waited, until finally he retraced his steps but Beatrice was nowhere to be
found. Oh well. It was too much to hope for.

He turned this way and that only to come upon one dead end
after another. In the distance he could hear Olivia and Henry laughing, but no
sound from Beatrice. He turned to retrace his steps once more.

Suddenly a small hand reached out from behind him and
grabbed his hand, giving it a soft tug and releasing it. He spun around in time
to see the hemline of a pale-blue dress and one dainty pink slipper disappear
down a passage to his left. He followed down the dark, shady lane and turned
right and then left and there she was. She stood in the dead end before him,
smiling, and Simon did not stop to think, he did not wonder where the others
were, or how soon they might be found out.

He walked to her silently and simply grabbed her by her
shoulders and pulled her up hard against him. She tilted her head back with a
warm, husky laugh. He saw her eyes widen a second before his lips lowered to
hers.

He felt a jolt of desire, heat that ran through his body the
moment his lips touched hers. She met him kiss for kiss, her arms stealing up
around his neck to dive into the hair at his nape. He brought his arms around
her and lifted her up so that her breasts were flattened against his chest. One
hand held her tightly about the waist, while the other went wandering, from
shoulders down the curve of her spine, pulling her even more tightly into his
embrace.

He licked the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue.
Let me in, he silently begged.
Oh Beatrice, let me in.
And she did, she
opened to him and when he thrust his tongue inside, she met him boldly. He
angled his head to delve deeply and caught her soft moan on his lips. His hands
moved down to cup her bottom, her luscious bottom hidden from him in that silly
blue frock. He pulled her up hard against his cock. She fit him perfectly, the
juncture of her thighs a perfect nest for his rigid flesh. Again she moaned,
and then to his great surprise—though why he should be surprised he surely
couldn’t say—she tilted her hips and rubbed against his hard length.

“Christ,” he growled as he trailed his lips to her neck to
find the pulse that beat there. He kissed and caressed her with his open mouth
and she arched her neck to give him better access. His moan was deep and wild.
He couldn’t get enough of her. He held her tightly to him and rocked against
her, dragging his pulsing shaft over her through the barrier of their clothing.

“Simon,” she moaned, dragging his mouth back to hers.

“Again,” he demanded against her hungry lips. “Say my name.”

“Simon,” she whispered, “please, Simon.”

A burst of laughter, Henry’s, and she stilled in his arms.
She didn’t pull away and he didn’t release her, but she lifted her head to look
at him and he saw her half-closed eyes and passion-bruised lips. They stood
there, her arms wrapped around his neck, her hands in his hair, his hands
gripping her bottom still pressed to his aching flesh, their gazes locked.

With one final, hard kiss, and one final push against her
soft flesh, he released her enough to hold her gently by her shoulders.

“You go first,” he whispered. “I need a minute.”

She turned and took one unsteady step toward the sunlight at
the end of the dark passage. Unable to help himself, he followed her and
quickly wrapped his arms about her waist, bringing her firm, round ass against
his cock. His hot mouth latched on to the side of her neck, his teeth gentle
but firm. She let loose a low, deep moan and arched her back, pushing firmly
against his arousal. His hands came up to her breasts, and cupping one in each
hand, he gently squeezed. His thumbs found her nipples through the light fabric
and teased the peaks until they were stiff little pebbles.

He lifted his lips from her neck and sucked in a huge
lungful of air.

“Go,” he whispered against her ear. “While you still can.”

Beatrice stepped forward and turned to give him one quick
look over her shoulder. In her eyes he saw a promise. He knew she saw the same
in his hot gaze.

Then she turned away and slowly walked forward and turned to
the right and was gone.

Simon bent forward, resting his hands on his knees, and
dragged air into his lungs. Christ, she was amazing. He tried to remember if he
had ever been so aroused by a mere kiss and knew he had not. He had been close
to coming. He would have come in his trousers like a schoolboy, grinding
against her if they hadn’t stopped when they did.

He had no idea how long he stayed there, bent over, waiting
for his erection to subside. When he straightened, there stood Henry, watching
him with a smile.

“Good God, man,” he said with a great booming laugh. “You’re
amazingly lost.”

“Yes,” Simon agreed with a smile. He was amazingly lost and
beginning to suspect that he may not want to be found.

“Come on then. Beatrice won and it looks as if you’ve lost.”

“What?” Simon cried. Surely she could not have made it out
first.

“She was sitting upon the bench, pleased as a cat in the
cream, when I emerged with Olivia right behind me.”

The next morning as Beatrice cantered through the park with
Gerald, one of Bertie’s grooms at her side, she reflected on the events of the
previous day. She laughed remembering the look on Simon’s face when she had
opened the door to greet him.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gerald said. “Did you say something?” Bea
turned to look at him and slowed her mount to a walk. He was a handsome young
man with wavy black hair and eyes so dark as to appear black. He spoke with a
slight Cornish accent, reminding her of Tom Jenkins. Reminding her of home.

“Oh no, Gerald, just thinking,” she replied with a smile.

“Of something that tickled your fancy?” he asked, smiling in
return.

“Just so,” she agreed.

“Me mum used to do the very same thing, just start into
giggling outta the clear blue. Pa teased her something fierce.”

“Where are your parents now?” she asked. She had spent a
good amount of time in his company, as Bertie insisted she take him with her
when he was unable to join her for her morning ride. She had agreed with two
conditions. The first was that he did not wear livery, but rather his own
riding clothes, as she did not want to draw attention to them on their rides.
The other stipulation was that he ride with her, not behind her as convention dictated.
She had never become accustomed to servants hovering around and behind her in
silence. She preferred to have a companion.

“My father passed on some five years back, Miss Beatrice.
Mum went to live with her sister in Surrey. They share a tidy cottage and take
in some mending to help ends meet. Both their husbands were navy men, so they
receive a small annuity from the crown, but it’s not near enough.”

“No, I don’t suppose it is,” Bea replied. “And you send what
you can, I’ve no doubt.”

“That I do,” he said. “I’m most lucky to be working for the
viscount. He pays a mighty fair wage, enough to help me mum and still some left
over to treat myself, and he doesn’t work us too hard. Not like some of them.”

“And to what do you treat yourself?” Bea asked with a grin.
“Besides your fine clothes?” She eyed the perfect fit of his buckskins and
black coat. He was finely dressed and could easily be mistaken for a young
gentleman about town.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said before furtively
looking about as if to be certain there were no eavesdroppers nearby.

Beatrice threw back her head and laughed, his play-acting
was that funny.

“But this secret must not make the rounds,” he went on.

“I’ll not tell a soul,” she promised. Then getting into the
spirit of his game, she looked about the park. As they had set out at first
light, there were only a few other riders about. “And I see no spies lurking
behind the trees.”

“Well, if you’re certain,” he drawled.

“You must tell me,” she implored as she leaned over and placed
her hand upon his arm. “I’m on pins and needles.”

“Me mum sewed this fine coat and the shirt too,” he said in
hushed tones.

“But that’s wonderful,” Bea cried. She was no expert on
men’s clothing, to be sure, but she would have said his coat was tailor-made.

“She sews my shirts and cravats and an occasional coat. I go
down to Surrey to visit as often as I’m able and never come away empty-handed.”

“Perhaps I could travel with you when next you visit her,”
she said. “I shall soon be in need of some new dresses, simple ones to wear in
the country.”

Beatrice thought about Gerald and his mother as they made
their way home shortly thereafter.

“There is a whole wide world out there that lives beyond
the strictures of Society. A world populated by scholars and artists and
tradesmen, and tradeswomen for that matter, merchants, farmers, clerics
…”

And groomsmen, she thought now, and their mothers. She often
remembered her mother’s words from so long ago. Since leaving the sheltered
embrace of Idyllwild and moving about in the world, she had come to believe
that those who dwelt outside of Society, whether by choice, or by birth, or by
happenstance, were happier for it.

“And they live happy or sad lives, fulfilling or lonely
lives, married or unmarried, not worrying at all what those ladies and
gentlemen of Society are doing or saying.”

Her thoughts turned to yesterday’s conversation about love
and marriage.

“What has love to do with marriage?”
Olivia had
asked.

It had been on the tip of Beatrice’s tongue to explain to her,
to Henry and Simon as well, that love within marriage did in fact exist. That
she had seen an old sheepherder and his wife embracing in the fields. She had
listened to the despair in a wife’s cries at the funeral of her husband killed
in a factory accident. She had watched young courting couples walk hand in hand
and dance together with abandon. She had painted more than one portrait to
remind a loved one that they were missed.

She had held her tongue, suspecting they would neither
understand nor care. She had found that aristocrats, be they English, French or
Greek, paid no mind whatsoever to what went on among the lower orders,
preferring to live in ignorance.

“Your mother and father, did they love each other
passionately?”

Olivia had certainly startled her, both with her words and
the intent look in her beautiful gray eyes. Beatrice had been so taken aback,
she doubted she could have spoken even if she could have found the words. Could
she have shared some portion of the truth? No, she decided now. One portion of
the truth would have led to more questions.

The truth was that for all she’d seen of the world, for all
that she’d witnessed of that rarest of emotions, she could not begin to
comprehend love. She knew without question that her mother had loved her
father, had lived for his rare visits, had cried with every leave-taking. And
Papa? She had to believe that he had loved her mother. To believe differently
was to cast her entire life into dark shadows, into a pit of shame and
bitterness. Beatrice refused, she simply refused to allow for the possibility
that her childhood was anything less than the bright splendor she remembered.

With blind faith she believed that true love could be found
both within and without marriage. She did not believe, however, that it was
likely to be found within the marriages created in the world to which her
London friends had been born, and in which they would live their entire lives.

She could not imagine Olivia straying from her vows to Lord
Palmerton, whether or not that gentleman kept a mistress or visited the
brothels, as was rumored.

It seemed Henry would marry the shallow Miss Fairchild and
in all likelihood follow in his father’s footsteps to find love outside the
union.

And Simon? Would he be like his father? Would he choose a
proper wife, a good woman, a warm and caring woman with no passion to offer?

“What about love?”

Simon had attempted to play it off as a joke, but she
wondered if he did not truly yearn to break with the customs of polite society
and marry for love rather than pedigree and profit. Surely he would marry, he
had a title to pass on to his heir. He had no brothers or sisters.

When Beatrice and Gerald arrived home, Bertie had not yet
returned from whatever business had drawn him from the house before dawn. She
was reluctant to go into the silent house where she would have only her own
thoughts for company. She lingered in the cool shade of the stables after she
had put away Lancelot with fresh water and oats. She removed her hat and sat
upon a bale of hay and leaned back to relax against the wall behind her. Gerald
went from stall to stall tending to Moorehead’s horses, singing an old ballad
that Beatrice remembered from her childhood. She had listened to Tom Jenkins
sing the very same song as he went about his work.

Beatrice closed her eyes and hummed along with him. She felt
herself drifting to sleep and thought to rise and make her way inside for a
bath and a nap. Instead she slid down on to the warm hay, rolled on her side
with a soft sigh and, utterly content in the stables surrounded by the sounds
and the smells of her childhood, fell asleep. She awoke some time later to find
Gerald crouched in front of her, gently shaking her shoulder.

“Miss Beatrice, you’d best wake up.” He spoke softly as if
afraid to startle her.

“Oh Gerald, I was having the most marvelous dream.” She
blinked up at him until he came into focus. “I dreamt I was home. I was in the
stables and Tom was singing to the horses.”

“A marvelous dream, to be sure,” he said. “Don’t you worry,
Miss Beatrice, you’ll be home soon enough.”

Beatrice took his hand and allowed him to help her to her
feet and lead her out into the sunshine.

“My goodness, it’s bright out here,” she said, shielding her
eyes with her hand to allow them to adjust to the sunlight. “How long was I
sleeping?”

“An hour or more,” he replied.

“Gerald, you are a dear to have allowed me to sleep. I feel
wonderfully refreshed.”

“Wait here,” he said and turned back into the open doorway.
He returned carrying her hat.

“You’ve hay in your hair,” he told her and proceeded to pick
the offending bits from her sleep-tousled coiffure. When he had groomed her to
his satisfaction he placed her hat upon her head and adjusted it at a jaunty
angle. Beatrice laughed softly and held out her hand to him. He clasped it and
bowed over it.

“Until tomorrow,” he said, grinning at her.

“Until tomorrow,” she agreed before turning toward the
house.

* * * * *

Beatrice reclined in the big tub in the bathing room
attached to her room. She had found that a good long soak in that great tub
could help to relax her natural restlessness. Most days she could find a
measure of peace and put aside her worrying and plotting, even if just for an
hour.

Unfortunately, now was not one of those times.

Her mind was filled with images of Simon. She thought back
to their time together yesterday. She had felt his eyes upon her all through
the afternoon, like a caress.

“I want you too
.” She was amazed that she had found
the courage to speak the words aloud to him. But she had. And she did. She
wanted him desperately. When he was near, her desire was a living, throbbing
thing that made her heart race, her ears ring, and her skin burn. When she was
away from him and allowed herself to think of him, to remember the way he
touched her, as she did now, she felt lightheaded and anxious. Anxious for the
next time she could see him, kiss him and feel his warm body pressed so
intimately to hers.

“I want to come into you and hear you cry out my name.”

She had cried out his name in the dark shade of the maze and
he had demanded she repeat the cry. She had been delirious, unable to think,
able only to feel. His lips upon hers, his tongue delving into her mouth, his
arms clamped about her, her breasts pressed tight to his chest. And then, oh it
had been glorious, his arousal shamelessly pressed against her. His hands, his
beautiful, hot hands pulling her more tightly against him, pressing her core
against his hard flesh. She had felt the beginnings of a climax, those first
sweet tingles and she had mindlessly chased it, wantonly rubbing herself more
firmly against his hardness.

Had they not heard Henry’s voice and stopped when they had,
she shuddered to think what might have happened. Had he pushed her to the
ground and thrown up her skirts she would not have stopped him. She would have
recklessly opened her legs and pulled him into her body. She had wanted to feel
him above her, inside her.

He had looked at her then, his eyes burning, his face drawn
taut and hard.

“Go. While you still can.”

She was not entirely innocent, though she guessed that Simon
thought her more experienced than she was. Certainly if he hadn’t thought her a
shameless wanton before, he would after their frenzied encounter in the maze.
She was nearly twenty and seven. She had known desire. She had felt its pull.
She had reveled in a man’s kisses and caresses. She had felt the power that
comes with knowing she was desired in turn.

She had never felt the burning need that Simon had ignited
in her. It was so far beyond anything she had ever experienced that it might
have been a different being altogether. The force of it, the sheer demand of it
had knocked her senseless.

She hoped she had smiled and laughed and responded to Henry
and Olivia normally when they congratulated her for winning the race through
the maze. She had forced herself not to look at Simon for fear the hunger
consuming her would be in her eyes. She led them all into the house to make
their farewells to Bertie. If she could have found a way to escape the others
with Simon, to find an empty room somewhere, a bed, a sofa, the floor, she
would have pulled him with her and demanded he take her.

She did not know if she behaved normally or not. She could
remember very little from the time she stumbled from the maze until she closed
her eyes and leaned her forehead against the door she had closed behind her
picnic guests. She braced her arms upon the cool wood to keep from sliding down
into a puddle on the floor.

“Went that well, did it?” Bertie asked from behind her.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to look at her dear friend,
who studied her with a warm smile.

“It went that well,” she replied before she flew into his
waiting arms.

He hugged her tightly for a moment before leading her into
the parlor to discuss the day’s events. He did not ask for details about her
time in the maze, nor did she offer any.