Reckless Griselda (3 page)

Then, he pressed his hands to her cheeks and kissed her on the lips, with such eager warmth that for a moment Griselda did not know what to do. Or rather, her mind did not know what to do. Her body seemed to know perfectly well, for she kissed him in return. She felt like a bird who had only ever flown in the limited compass of a gilded prison, but who knew in her soul how to soar in the heights. She reached for his shoulders and let him wrap his arms about her waist and raise her to her feet. His lips were still hot against her and now as they stood by the fire, their bodies were as close as their lips.

Words were not necessary. They were as unnecessary as the knowledge of his name. She only felt the insistent call of her own desire for him: that seemed to transcend everything. She had never felt so alive as in that moment – every sense was magnified. The linen of his shirt which her fingers gathered up in an involuntary spasm felt smoother and finer than any linen she had felt before.

And all the time he came closer and closer, pressing his body against her, with quiet but repetitive insistence. Even through the thick skirt of her habit she could sense the urgency of his passion and she could smell him so clearly now – his sweat mingling with the smell of the wood burning in the grate.

He unfastened the buttons of her habit jacket and bent to kiss her breast, pushing open the lawn ruffles that trimmed her habit shirt. His kisses were gentle, yet urgent, like the touch of the summer rain outside. He kissed her where no man had even touched her before, in the delicate valley between her breasts, the tip of his nose as cool as his lips were warm. He undid the buttons holding up her habit skirt and it pooled to the floor with her petticoat, leaving her to shrug herself out of the tight restraint of her habit jacket. She had not put on her stays again – she had had no maid to lace her in and her habit shirt and shift did little to hide her breasts from his eager exploration.She had never imagined that they were so sensitive, yet when his fingers brushed against her nipple she felt a tingling deep inside her that made her clench her muscles with longing.

“Shall we?” he said with a gesture towards the bedchamber door.

Dry-throated, she nodded.

Resting on the bed, propped against a pile of pillows, she felt relaxed to the point of abandonment. She let him bury his face in her breasts, and stroked his hair as he kissed them with such tenderness. Then, growing bolder, she pushed her hands under his shirt and caressed his warm, firm back, exploring every ridge of bone and muscle, watching his face flinch with pleasure as she touched some particularly acute spot. Kneeling over her, he pressed his cheek to hers and begged her to continue. She slipped her fingertips beneath the linen of his under-breeches, feeling the warmth of his bare flesh. A few gentle touches of that and he groaned with pleasure and began to kiss her ardently again, now with a sort of frenzied haste, and stretched himself along side of her, pressing himself against her.

Then growing impatient of further barriers, he got up, stripped off the rest of his clothes and completely naked now, straddled her.

She gazed up at him. In his nakedness he was magnificent. The sun had escaped the clouds again and for a few minutes the room was suffused in rich yellow gold light. He was a magnificent hero in an old painting – muscular, lean and noble. She could picture him in the dappled sunlight of some classical glade – a Theseus or an Alexander resting for a moment between heroic endeavours. Yet, a glance revealed to Griselda realised how much those old artists had left out. All they were permitted to show was a strictly allegorical unsheathed sword lying on the ground by the hero.

Griselda had heard the frank talk of servants. She had lived in the country all her life. She might have been inexperienced but she was not entirely ignorant. And now it seemed her curiosity was going to be satisfied.

He paused for a moment, stopping to take both her hands in his and kiss them, with unexpectedly gallantry. It was as if he was asking for her leave to continue. Griselda, who would at that moment have walked the world barefoot for him, could only smile up at him, and then reached out again to push away the hair that seemed always to fall forward over his eyes.

He lifted up the hem of her shift. He bent and placed a kiss on her now bare stomach which made her giggle and shake, for his hair was tickling her. Then he pushed up her shift and kissed her lower down. This made her rigid with surprise for a moment, but only for a moment, for as he persisted, she found she could not stop herself writhing, her hips jerking. Without thinking about it, she raised her knees and widened her legs to this devastating invasion of his. She recognised the sensations he was drawing from her. Occasionally, at night, when restless and in a passion about something, she had touched herself there and found that she could work herself into a sweet but somewhat shameful state of pleasurable excitement. But it was nothing, nothing to this. She simply could do nothing but lie there, allowing all the feelings that this most intimate of caresses provoked to flow unchecked through her, like flames eating up a piece of dry tinder. Then suddenly it was almost unbearably exciting. She groaned, half wanting him to stop but knowing she could not bear it if he did. Then it came – a burning, deep explosion in her womb that made her flush all over and exclaim.

He came and kissed her lips again, pressing himself against her. She could feel the rock hardness of him against her thigh and could see the urgency in his eyes. He guided himself into her and she could offer no resistance – she wanted to feel the power of him inside her, to feel it touch the core of her. He gave one tremendous push and she felt some discomfort and pain, and it made her gasp slightly. For a moment he stopped, surprised.

“You’re a…” he began.

She pressed a finger to his lips.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I want you.”

He closed his eyes and pushed again, with the sense of a man granted something he felt scarcely able to deserve. She felt the reverence in it. There was nothing cheap about it. How could this be cheap, this deep, intimate locking together of man and woman? She stretched and encircled his legs with her own, feeling shattered and yet renewed at each deep slow thrust into her, her fingers massaging his shoulder blades. Then suddenly his movement quickened and she saw the strain of suppressed tension cloud his face. He grimaced, seemed to try and hold back for a moment but failed and came crashing against her one last time.

She felt it, felt his spasm as he fell panting onto her.

A few moments later he withdrew from her and lay close beside her, on his back. As she stared up at the carved oak of the bed canopy, at the blackened wooden garlands of lilies and pomegranates, she heard him say:

“I wish I knew who you were.”

“No,” she said. “No, that would spoil everything.”

When Tom Thorpe woke, he found the place beside him empty. She had gone. He propped himself on his elbows and stared about him, looking for traces of her presence, but there was nothing but a heap of crumpled towels by the washstand.

He staggered out of bed, wondering how he had slept so soundly. Usually he found it impossible to sleep during the daytime – even after such sensual exertions. Yet he felt drugged with exhaustion, as if he had tasted opium on her lips. He could never remember feeling so overwhelmed by the act as on this occasion. He had felt entirely satisfied but now his body was aching for her presence.

He went into the parlour to see if she was there. She was not, but she had taken some cold chicken and a piece of plum tart. The bottle of claret was untouched, however. He was just reflecting on this, cutting himself a slice from the tart as he did so – for he had discovered he was incredibly hungry – when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said, absently.

It was the landlady, who instantly gave out a shriek of horror at the sight of a naked man eating plum tart with his fingers.

“Sir, if you please!” she said, looking very pointedly away while Tom snatched up his coat and held in front of him. “I beg to remind you, sir,” she said, now daring to look at him, “that this is a respectable establishment.”

Tom could not help colouring slightly, feeling like a schoolboy who had been caught in the act by his dame. Fortunately this venerable lady could not make him report to his tutor for a flogging.

“Have you seen the young person who was with me?” he asked.

“Gone out to take the air, sir,” she said. “An hour ago.”

“What o’clock is it?”

“Past three.”

“Three?” said Tom, horrified. He was expected at Lady Amberleigh’s at five for dinner. “Did he…” he found himself stuttering over that, “say when he would be back?”

“No, sir,” said the landlady. “He was carrying his pack. If I were you, I should check to see if you’ve still got a pocketbook. He – if it were a he – looked no better than he ought.”

“That, Madam, is a very impertinent remark,” he said.

“I shall say what I like. I don’t care for my establishment being used like a common whorehouse.”

“You are quite misinformed,” said Tom, as innocently as he could.

“You must think me very green, sir,” she retorted. “I only hope you have the wherewithal to pay.”

“I shall pay you now, for I shall be leaving directly,” said Tom. He reached for his pocketbook which was in the tail pocket of his riding coat. It was still there, and as heavy as it had been when he had lodged it there that morning. He handed her two guineas after which she grew respectful and helpful once more. It seemed that she could tolerate flagrant impropriety if she was well rewarded. “Have my horse brought round, if you please.”

As he rode down towards Cromer he hoped he would overtake her, but then, why would she take the road to Cromer? She had given no indication that she might be going there. For all he knew, she could be on the road to London.

He rode back fast, feeling a little as if he had been taken with a brain fever. The whole incident did not seem quite real, although he could vividly remember the smell of her hair and the feel of her soft skin under his fingertips. It was like a dream, a projection of his deepest fancy. He had never had an experience with a woman like it and he reckoned he was a reasonable judge of such matters.

Tom Thorpe was seven and twenty, well born, with a large independent fortune. At eighteen, fresh from Eton, he had surrendered his virginity to a pretty countess of thirty-five, who had then grown bored with him when he had fallen too much in love. The Countess had required a lengthy convalescence and it was some years afterwards, when he had left Cambridge, that an Italian singer whose figure was better than her voice had permitted Tom to be her protector. However, she turned out to have a shocking temper and a bloodsucker of a husband whom Tom declined to support as well. This grieved him far less than the loss of the Countess but he had become a little cynical about such affairs, and far more circumspect in his conduct.

As he mounted the stairs to his lodgings in Cromer, he wondered whether his extraordinary behaviour that day was the result of too much fastidiousness. Other men kept mistresses and were made comfortable by them. It would surely have been better to acquire some quiet affectionate creature and keep her in respectable circumstances than try to suppress the appetite altogether. For he would not have acted so recklessly if he had such a woman as his second cousin, Lord Hunscliffe, kept in a cottage at Putney. He had dined there once or twice and admired Hunscliffe’s little son, who although he would not inherit their noble father’s title, had certainly inherited his nose and something of his forceful character. Mrs Harte (she styled herself with Hunscliffe’s family name) had been an excellent thing for Hunscliffe who would otherwise have caught the pox from indiscriminate whoring.

Tom had been inclined to think himself better than Hunscliffe but he was beginning to wonder if that was not arrogant of him. For today he had acted without scruple or hesitation. The fact she would not reveal who she was should not have excused his license – it ought to have entirely prevented it. And then to discover she was a virgin and carry on regardless. But how could he have done anything else at that point? He had never been so flattered in his life.

His servant, Gough, was waiting for him on the landing, agitated and worried as old people will be about young people of whom they are fond. Gough had once been the servant of Tom’s father, and having been with Tom since his father’s death and known him since he was a child, his welfare was a serious matter to him.

“I was sure you’d been thrown from your horse, Sir Thomas,” he said. “For you will ride that mare as if the world will end tomorrow.”

“No, Gough, I was not thrown from my horse, nor was I struck by lightning.” But even as he said that, he wondered if she were not a sort of lightning, a storm spirit, sent to put his mind into disorder. ”I have spent most of the day asleep in an inn. Nothing could have been less dangerous.”

Gough wrinkled up his nose.

“Asleep, Sir Thomas, in the afternoon?” he said, suspiciously.

“I wore myself out sketching, I dare say,” said Tom, wondering why he had to account for his actions to his own servant. He sat down and allowed Gough to pull off his boots. “Did you fetch my letters?”