The Bachelor List (22 page)

“I've a wonderful pot-au-feu tonight, Mr. Ensor. I know how much you like that.”

“We're in your hands, Mrs. Baker,” Max said, holding Constance's chair out for her. “Or at least,” he added, taking the seat opposite her, “I am, as always. I'm not sure about Miss Duncan, she likes to make up her own mind.” His tone was teasing.

Constance unfolded her napkin and accepted the gibe with good grace. “Tonight I'll follow your lead, Max.” She smiled up at Mrs. Baker. “I too am in your hands.”

“Very good, madam.” The woman returned the smile and hurried away. Within a couple of minutes a waiter appeared with a bottle of claret, which he opened, tasted himself, and poured for them.

Max nodded his thanks. He said to Constance, “The Bakers used to work for my family. Mr. Baker was my father's steward and his wife was our housekeeper. They came into a little money and decided they wanted to run their own business.” He gestured to the small room. “This is the result. They're doing very well, and I come as often as I can.”

“It's charming,” she said. She took up her glass and surveyed him thoughtfully over the lip. She'd said they needed to learn more about each other, to deepen their relationship beyond its undeniably wonderful sexual component, and there was something about the intimacy of their surroundings that seemed to encourage confidences. She wondered if he'd chosen it for that very reason.

“So, when is this march to Westminster supposed to take place?” he asked. “It doesn't say on the leaflet and I didn't hear a date mentioned at the meeting.”

“I don't think it's fixed yet,” she said. “Why? Are you thinking of joining us?”

“I hardly think so.” He sat back as the waiter set bowls of onion soup in front of them, with a basket of crusty bread. Max took up his spoon and inhaled the aroma hungrily. “This is wonderful stuff. It cures whatever ails you.”

Constance dipped her spoon into the rich brown liquid. Cheese bubbled in its depths. “If I eat this I'll never eat anything else.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” he said with confidence. “You won't be able to resist the pot-au-feu.”

“It's very wintery food,” she observed, twisting strands of cheese around her spoon. She took a mouthful. “Oh, but it is
very
good. Doesn't make for elegant eating, though,” she mumbled through strands of cheese.

He laughed and leaned over to break the recalcitrant tangle with his fork as it dripped from her mouth. It was an intimate gesture, yet so natural that she barely noticed it.

She sipped her wine and wondered where this amazing ease had come from so suddenly. Exactly what kind of man was he? He was an expert and considerate lover; in bed he could be tender one minute and powerfully dominating the next. It made for wonderfully exciting love play. And in everyday life it was the same thing. He could be considerate, charming, entertaining one minute, and then arrogant, sarcastic, even pompous the next. She supposed that everyone had contradictions in their personalities, but Max's seemed more extreme than most.

“Why don't you just ask it?” he said into the silence that had gone on longer than she'd realized.

“Ask what?” She dipped her spoon in the soup again.

“Whatever question is burning on your lips,” he said. “I can see you're dying to ask me something. So go ahead. I won't snap your head off.”

“I was just wondering why, after your affair in India, you never found another woman. It's unusual for a man to be approaching forty wifeless.”

“Perhaps I just never found a woman I wanted to marry,” he said. He set his spoon down and refilled their wineglasses. “Perhaps I feel that women aren't really to be trusted.”

“That's a bit sweeping,” Constance said. “Just because one woman broke a promise doesn't mean they all do.”

“No, intellectually I know that. Let's just leave it that after the debacle in India I've never found another woman I wanted to get really close to.”

“And you're not lonely?”

He shook his head. “Far from it. I don't have any difficulty finding congenial companions, my dear.”

“Like me?” She could have bitten her tongue on the question but it came out anyway.

“Now, how am I supposed to answer that?” he demanded. “Either answer would be an insult.”

“Answer it anyway.” In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought.

He regarded her thoughtfully. “All right, I will. As it happens, you don't fall into the category of congenial companion. Partly because much of the time you're not in the least congenial, you're argumentative, and challenging, and very opinionated.”

“Oh!” Constance gave a crow of laughter. “You only like women who agree with you and hang on to your every word, is that it?”

“No, it's not.” He was smiling himself now. “This is an absurd conversation, Constance. But now I've started, I might as well finish. Those characteristics aside, I also find you exciting, somewhat puzzling a lot of the time, and when you choose to be, utterly captivating. There. Satisfied?”

She found she was blushing slightly. “I'm sorry I asked.”

“Answer a question of mine now.”

She nodded. It was only fair, although she was a little nervous as to what he would ask.

“You're a very passionate woman, both physically and intellectually. Don't
you
get lonely sometimes?”

Constance traced a pattern on the tablecloth with the tines of her fork. “I have my sisters. I'm not lonely in that respect at all.”

“And in others?”

She looked up then and said frankly, “I never give it much thought, or at least, I didn't, until I met you.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“It's a fact. One I hadn't acknowledged until just now.”

They fell silent as the waiter took away their soup bowls. Max wondered if the moment was ripe to ask her point-blank about
The Mayfair Lady.
But then he decided he would rather she told him herself. At some point he would try to tease a confession out of her, but he didn't want to spoil the present atmosphere.

The pot-au-feu was as delicious as Max had said it would be and Constance had no difficulty at all in finishing the plate. They followed it with a richly aromatic cheese from the Pyrenees, and Max ate a large slice of apple pie, which Constance regretfully declined.

He took a forkful of the flaky pastry with the thick slices of golden apple and plump raisins and held it to her lips. “You have at least to try it. Mrs. Baker makes the lightest, fluffiest pastry. Open up.”

Constance opened her mouth and closed her eyes. It was divine. She took up her own fork and helped herself to another mouthful from Max's plate.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like a slice of your own?” he inquired.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I couldn't possibly eat another morsel.” She reached across and dug in again.

“I give up.” He pushed the plate across to her. “Eat that and I'll get another for myself.”

“But I don't want any more,” she protested. “I don't have a sweet tooth . . . except,” she added with a rueful grin, “that this isn't at all sweet. It's just heavenly.”

It was past midnight when they left the restaurant and walked into the warm darkness. Constance felt strangely light-headed, the wine perhaps, but it might be due more, she thought, to the sensation that she had never passed a more delightful and companionable evening. And she hadn't even missed their usual sparring. It had been remarkably relaxing and peaceable.

“Home?” he asked, hailing a hackney carriage that was clopping slowly towards them.

“Yours or mine?” She climbed in.

“That's a question whose answer I'm inclined to leave to the lady,” he said, still standing on the pavement, waiting to tell the cabby where to go.

“Yours, then,” Constance said, still feeling slightly and delightfully dizzy. “You can drive me home later.”

“At your service, ma'am. Canon Row, cabbie.”

“Right y'are, guv.” The horse clopped on.

Constance turned her head lazily on the cracked leather squabs and watched Max's face in the alternating light and shadow as the carriage passed beneath street lamps. He reached out and touched her cheek, caressing the curve in the palm of his hand. The air was suddenly charged. Constance caught her breath as almost without warning lust engulfed her. She turned into his body, pressing her mouth to his. Her mouth opened beneath his, eager for the deep penetration of his tongue. She moved a hand to the bulge of his penis, pressing and rubbing the hard shaft through the fine material of his trousers. He groaned against her mouth. Heat swept up her body, setting her skin afire.

Max reached a hand beneath her skirt, sliding up the silk-clad length of her leg. His fingers insinuated themselves into the wide lace-edged legs of her drawers, crept upwards as she squirmed on the seat, found what they were looking for. She gasped, her thighs falling open in wanton abandon to give him easier access. Her belly clenched, her loins tightened, then she bit her lip hard to keep silent as the wave of pleasure peaked and receded.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “We're in a hackney cab.”

He laughed softly, although his breathing was ragged and his own eyes glowed, luminous with his own urgent desire. “I wasn't expecting that,” he said, withdrawing his hand slowly. The scent of her was on his fingertips. “Of all the incontinent urges.” He laughed softly again.

Constance straightened her skirts, smoothing them over her knees with fussy little pats that occupied her until her heart had slowed, although the languid afterglow of that brief but intense climax still infused her. “I feel guilty,” she said. “We didn't share it.”

“Oh, yes, we did,” he murmured, his eyes still glowing as they held her gaze. “Touching you drives me wild. You feel so lush and open, so hot and eager. I want to bury my mouth in you, lick every drop of your arousal, drive my tongue to your core. And I shall.”

He smiled a smile of pure sensual promise. “Just as soon as we get behind a closed door. I shall take every one of those elegant garments from you, one by one, and when you're naked I shall possess every inch of your body with my mouth and my hands. I intend to make you sob with pleasure, Constance. I intend to take you to heights you've never reached before. And when I'm finished, I promise you you will not be able to move a muscle.”

Constance swallowed, the sound loud in the darkness. Her body was once again surging, her belly in a tumult. She shifted on the seat, trying to quiet the lusting clamor of her loins that were filled with liquid fire. “No more,” she begged. “Don't say anything else until we get there. I can't bear it.”

His smile now was both satisfied and wicked. “I love watching you like this,” he murmured. “I love the idea that I can bring you almost to orgasm just by talking.”

“It's sadistic,” she said. “Pure sadism.”

“Oh, come now. I'm only bringing you pleasure.”

“Some pleasure is very close to pain,” she said. The conversation was giving her much-needed distraction, enough at least to enable her to get out of the cab with some composure.

“And by the same token, some pain is very close to pleasure,” he observed. “As the marquis describes so eloquently.”

“You've read de Sade?” This was much better, she told herself desperately. Concentrate on a topic that, if not exactly far removed from sex, did at least have an intellectual component. “He's banned, isn't he?”

“One can buy underground copies in Paris. Would you like to borrow
Justine
? It's probably the best.”

“Cannon Row, guvnor.” The cabbie called from the box as the carriage came to a halt.

“We'll finish this fascinating discussion some other time,” Max said, with that same wicked smile. “I have other things on my mind at present.” He swung open the door and jumped down, giving Constance his hand to alight.

She stood on the pavement looking up at the tall terraced house while Max paid the driver. The house was in darkness, Max had hired no domestic staff as yet except for a daily cleaner. Marcel, his valet, had the night off and would not make an appearance until early morning.

“Would you really lend me
Justine
?” she asked as he inserted his key in the lock. “I would have thought you'd consider it unsuitable material for a woman.”

“Don't try to distract me, sweetheart.” The door swung open.

“I'm trying to distract myself,” she said, stepping into the dark hall. She turned into his arms. It was a kiss that would devour her, an embrace that would swallow her whole like Jonah in the whale. She reached against him, standing on tiptoe to match her length with his. His hands spanned her narrow back, gripped her bottom fiercely, pressing her loins against his so that she could feel the pulse of his constricted penis. Her breasts were crushed against the starched white of his shirtfront. She wanted her clothes off, to feel the air on her skin, her body bared for his touch as he had promised.

As if he had divined her need, he stepped back, pausing to draw breath. It was dark in the hall, only a dim illumination from the lamp outside the door. He took her hand and pulled her behind him into the drawing room. The curtains were drawn back and again the street lamp offered a faint glow.

“I need to see you,” he said softly. He struck a match and lit the candles on the console table against the wall. The light was gentle and softening.

“We should draw the curtains,” she said.

“No one can see in.” He came up to her, took her hands, drew her over to the fireplace. He undressed her as he had promised, garment by garment, without haste, lingering over buttons and hooks, touching her skin as he revealed it inch by inch, kissing her shoulders, the pulse in her throat, the cleft between her breasts. Then she was naked and he was no longer leisurely. She writhed in his hands and beneath the mouth that explored and possessed her, opened her and probed her, branding her with a piercing pleasure that left her trembling, insensate, in thrall to the magic of this possession.

When he could bear his own need no longer Max pulled off his own clothes, maintaining contact with her body even as he did so, a stroking finger, a brush of his lips, the quick dart of his tongue while she stood as if robbed of all will. Then when he too was naked, she slid down his body, her hands running down his length, and took his penis in her mouth, giving back the pleasure he had given her and taking her own in the giving.