by Evie Dunmore
“Why?”
“Because even I do not trust myself such.”
“Charming,” she said wryly. “And your first rule?”
His tone was kind, but his eyes held a rare seriousness. “Don’t fall in love with me.”
Chapter 27
How many letters have we presently?”
Lucie’s inquiring gaze fell on Catriona. It wasn’t Monday, but the additional workload caused by creating new magazine content and refurbishing a publishing house required additional meetings. She’d soon be able to span the length of her drawing room with her list of tasks.
“The count is at fifteen thousand, three hundred,” said Catriona. “Give or take the reports delayed by poor mail service.”
“Very well. On to our next point.” Well, drat. She cleared her throat. “Are there any new ideas on how to publish our findings?”
As they were shaking their heads, her fingers tightened uneasily around her fountain pen. Now would be a good time to announce that she had, at least in theory, regained the majority ownership over London Print. Unfortunately, it felt quite impossible to tell the truth about how she had acquired it. Besides, she was, by now, rather fond of their new idea to gradually undermine the content of the periodicals. She should, however, have made a much more dedicated effort to finding a solution for the report.
It was her dalliance. Lingering preoccupation over their shared nights had begun to distract her during her days. Tristan had procured a room for them in Adelaide Street, half a mile from her home. The terrace house had a respectable façade and a well-concealed back entrance, and the housekeeper was never seen. She hadn’t asked Tristan how he knew about such a place, which clearly only served one purpose: facilitating illicit encounters. For a week now, she had walked there near every night after dusk, had let herself in and left the door unlatched for him. Then she waited. For his footsteps. For the visceral clench of her belly when he appeared in the doorway. For the first bump of his lips against hers.
On all accounts, an affair with a scoundrel in a rented room was the pinnacle of tawdriness. Her detractors had classed her correctly all along, that she was not made right as a woman, that she was wicked. She knew because she felt right, lying sated on his chest, on a mattress that creaked, when she should have felt horrid. There was no honor in what they were doing, and yet she became alive in his arms in ways she had not expected to be possible; it was as though she were fully growing into her skin under his touch, stretching herself, in fact, when she had believed herself fully formed. She also never knew a word of judgment from his lips. His mouth only gave her pleasure. And since he was impossible to shock, she freely shared her thoughts, without any prior reflection on what would be an acceptable thing to say. In his arms, she breathed so deeply, she went dizzy from it.
“Lucie?”
She blinked at the three expectant faces looking back at her.
“Right,” she said. “I am currently at a loss over other options for publishing our report.”
This was not a lie; besides, the papers for the share transfer were still being drawn up by a rather confused solicitor Beedle—
“Lucie?”
Now they were looking at her with covert bewilderment.
“What is it?”
“We, erm, we are no longer discussing the report,” Hattie said carefully. “We are currently discussing the St. Giles Fair.”
“Apologies. Of course. The fair.”
The annual fair on one of Oxford’s main streets, attracting visitors from all of England.
“It is in three weeks’ time, correct?”
“Correct,” said Annabelle. “Will we have a booth? A banner? Shall we hand out leaflets?”
Lucie blew out a breath. “It’s a gamble, politicking at a fair.”
Granted, the St. Giles Fair was well visited, hence their chapter should be present. However, the circus music and overall exuberance constituting the atmosphere of a fair made suffragists and their pamphlets look particularly dour, as though they were bent on vanquishing the joy in people’s lives, or so she had repeatedly been told on no uncertain terms when making a show at such events. And with its location at the heart of Oxford, there was a high risk of professors seeing women activists who were also students at the university, and the university frowned upon women’s suffrage.
“We should do it,” Catriona said. “I heard they will set up the wire with the flying trapeze again. Do you remember last year, when women and girls were allowed to use it for one day, and then the proprietor was asked to only admit men and boys? I imagine there will be plenty of women watching with resentment, remembering when they were allowed to partake.”
Hattie nodded eagerly. “Low-hanging fruit,” she said. “Who doesn’t want to take a turn on a flying trapeze?”
Those were good points. She should have thought of them herself. It was unlike her, to overlook recruiting opportunities.
“Fine. Let us prepare some leaflets and tailor the message around the trapeze rather than something overtly political,” she decided. “Annabelle, would you have time to help prepare this?”
Because she really didn’t have time—she needed to be in the London offices tomorrow to interview the next batch of potential typists and secretaries, and the still-untouched bicycle campaign for Lady Harberton was hovering over her head like a Damocles sword.
“I shall draft you a leaflet,” said Annabelle. “Which reminds me: you have an alignment meeting with Lord Melvin on Montgomery’s amendment proposal in Westminster in two weeks’ time.”
Lucie’s pen made an unenthusiastic swirl into her diary. Another inch lengthening her task list. She could almost forgive her mind for straying ahead yet again to what the night might bring.
Would he come?
She had begun to wonder why he did, why he had not tired of it yet. Last night, she had wondered whether it was because possessing her body was not enough for a man of his appetite. She had wondered whether he was out for her very soul.
* * *
Tristan was stretched out on his back, still pleasantly sleepy, and relishing the feel of Lucie’s hair flowing over his bare chest. Winter rivers over sun-warmed rock. The poet in him choked a little on the gauche image. She did inspire atrociously purple similes and sentiments, but beggars could not be choosers, and at least, at last, words were coming to him. She would of course balk at the idea of being a muse, passively inspiring a man just by the grace of her existence.
She slept, so he picked up a strand of her hair and let it slide through his fingers. He would never tire of doing so, would forever feel the temptation to wrap her locks around his wrist, his neck, his cock, until he was entangled in a sensual web that was all Lucie. But morning shone through the curtains at Adelaide Street, and from afar came the noises of an already busy street: buckets clanging, hooves clopping. Such was the peril of little rooms reserved for pleasure; one lost track of bothersome realities and time within their walls.
He carefully nudged Lucie onto her back and propped himself on his elbow to admire the view. She had not put her nightgown back on before falling asleep last night, allowing him to look his fill, so naturally, he did. He had fantasized about her breasts for years. Her stiff gray gowns had not revealed a thing, and so his mind had run rampant, envisioning everything from pretty nipples on a boyish chest to her binding an unexpectedly generous bosom. He liked them as they were, because they were hers, and he finally got to lick them. He did just that, lowering his head and putting his tongue to work on a soft rosy tip until it stood to attention.
Lucie stirred under his kisses. He raised his head and watched as her lashes gradually lifted.
Holding her in his gaze, he slid his hand down over her belly toward her thighs, and his caresses became intent. She shifted, her feet drawing restlessly over the sheets as his fingers danced over the softness between her leg
s until she gave him a tiny moan.
“Good morning,” he murmured, and made to kiss her again.
She batted his exploring hand away with a cracking little slap.
He blinked. “Now I’m confused.”
She closed her eyes again on a groan.
He leaned over her, frowning. “Are you quite well? Speak to me, Lucie.”
She cut him an accusing look. “It must be bad for our health.” Her voice was still drowsy with sleep. Perhaps she was dreaming still.
“Our—what is?” he asked.
“The frequency of us . . .” She huffed and drew the sheet up to cover herself. “You said it sometimes takes more than a night or two to slake a desire.”
“I did.”
“How many? How many nights?”
He drew back slightly. “A peculiar question, this.”
She was staring up at the ceiling, her arms crossed over her chest with maidenly modesty. She had been far from maidenly last night; she had ridden him as though her life depended on it, and he felt heat pool in his cock just thinking about it.
“This . . . urge,” she muttered. “It isn’t going away. Do not say anything smug.”
“It is early days,” he said, and astoundingly, smugness was not on his mind. A mix of desire and alarm, perhaps, for she was right; the urge to couple with her was not abating. If anything, it grew stronger, and it was new for him, too. He had been trying to ignore it as best as he could.
“Twelve,” she said. “It has been twelve days.”
“Look who’s counting.” He entwined his fingers with hers and raised her hand to his lips.
She squeaked when he sucked her little finger into the heat of his mouth. Behind closed doors, she was full of little noises—dainty, fiery, noncynical ones, all of them intriguing. Never, however, when she came apart in his arms. Then she was silent. Even last night, when he had all but roared his pleasure. She was holding herself back, or something did despite herself, and it grated on him, though he was careful not to address it. There had to be reasons when the most outspoken woman he knew was silent.
He released her hand and said: “I was not honest with you.”
Immediately, she tensed. “How?”
“Some urges cannot just be shagged back into obscurity.”
“Oh.”
“We may have a difficult case on our hands. Sometimes, it is a hunger that will only cease if you starve it. Indulging it makes it worse.”
She contemplated this in silence, and eventually left him lounging in the bed to wash at the basin in the corner.
The room is wrong for her, he thought as he watched her carefully navigate the small space, and how she dried herself with a towel that was threadbare from too many washes. He wanted to bed her somewhere more befitting. A proper master bedroom in a country house, preferably one that he owned, with staff that brought her a breakfast tray in the mornings. She usually woke feeling ravenous.
Knowing her now, he reckoned that rather than being bedded on silk and down, she would prefer for him to tell her about his personal situation. Honesty was her second rule. Honesty probably meant him telling her about his father trying to marry him to her cousin, and him being India-bound with his mother to leave Rochester’s tyranny behind once and for all. But where to begin with such a thing. Twelve days ago, even a week ago, it had been his personal affair, which had been none of her concern. He could not quite tell when they had crossed a line that made him suspect she would feel deceived and hate him if he told her now. He only knew, instinctively, that the line had been crossed. And that he did not wish for her to hate him just yet.
She had finished her ablutions, and restlessness took hold of him as he watched her pretty limbs disappear beneath layers of clothing.
“I won’t see you tomorrow night,” she said as she buttoned up her jacket.
The pang of disappointment he felt at the words was surprisingly strong. But he gave a nod—she did not owe him an explanation for not wanting to see him. Hell, he had just handed her all the reasons she needed with his little speech on how to starve desire.
He still sensed a hesitation in her, so he tilted his head in encouragement.
A rosy flush spread down her neck. “I expect I shall be indisposed,” she murmured.
It took a moment for her meaning to filter through, as such a thing was hardly a topic of conversation among men and women. It was strangely touching that she would address such a private matter rather than leave him wondering in regards to her whereabouts.
He cleared his throat. “I presume you won’t see me for a week, then.”
She nodded and turned away to cast a final assessing glance into the small mirror. In a minute, she would walk out. And he would not see her. For a week.
“Forgive my asking,” he said, “but are you indisposed during the daytime, too?”
She looked back at him, still pink-faced. “Why?”
“I should like to take you on an outing.”
Her brows lowered in confusion. “An outing—just an outing?”
“There’s no just about it,” he said. “My outings are spectacular.”
She was biting her cheeks not to laugh.
“Let me take you punting, the day after tomorrow,” he said.
A flare of excitement lit her gray eyes to silver, but then she shook her head. “People would see us.”
“Not if I take us upstream. There is nothing west of Lady Margaret Hall but rabbits and cows.”
She liked the idea, and wasn’t sure she wanted to like it; the struggle was written plain on her face.
“There would be a picnic,” he said casually. “Strawberry tarts are in season.”
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, visibly torn, and he knew he had her. He didn’t even try and hide his smirk. She was, in many ways, as much of a glutton as he.
Chapter 28
Strawberry tarts. Her mother used to be adamant that her sweet tooth would lead to her demise, but drifting along on the Cherwell beneath a clear blue summer sky was an unexpectedly enchanting path to doom. The sun was warm on her face. The air was still and filled with the scent of wild apple blossoms and the lazy ripple of waves as Tristan propelled them up the river.
She was watching him through slitted eyes. He was a dark silhouette against the glistening sun, his strong arms ceaselessly working the punting pole with languid, even strokes, and he was hers for the day. Taking her on an outing, as if he were her beau. She felt giddy and a little dazed. It was doom, all right.
Having forgone a straw hat, he shielded his eyes with his hand. “You may come up now.”
She had climbed aboard upstream of Lady Margaret Hall’s punt house to avoid being seen, and had thought it prudent to lie flat until they were out of sight of the footpath. The back of her light blue dress had been protected by a tartan blanket Tristan had brought.
She rose to a sitting position and placed the bonnet back on her head. “Oh, this is lovely.”
Lush greens framed the riverbanks, and weeping willows dipped the tips of their branches into the glittering water. Her shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath. She hadn’t been surrounded by such calm . . . in a while. She tugged the glove off her right hand and let her fingers trail in the cool softness of the Cherwell, and she felt Tristan smiling at her.
He eventually steered the punt onto a crescent-shaped patch of white sand where they could spread the tartan blanket.
“Let’s see what my good man Avi deems essential for an outdoor luncheon,” Tristan said as he went down on his knees to open the basket latches.
She slid her arms around his neck from behind and peered over his shoulder. “Intoxicating beverages, methinks.”
Overwhelmingly, the basket space was taken up by a swaddled crystal pitcher, bottles of Pimm’s, champagne, and lemonade, and a di
sappointingly small jar with strawberries. A longish object wrapped in brown paper turned out to be a peeled and sliced cucumber, to be added to the cocktail along with the strawberries.
Tristan scratched the back of his head. “I shall have to be clearer in my instructions next time.”
“Don’t be cross with the poor man,” Lucie said pointedly. “He probably just packed what he normally packs for your outings with the scores of other women.”
“My jealous one,” he said, and shrugged out of his jacket to prepare the Pimm’s in the pitcher.
His concoction turned out to be rather potent, and a few glasses and many champagne-logged strawberries later, Lucie’s head was spinning. Tristan had stretched himself out long on the blanket and was using her lap as a pillow.
Looking up at her, his features were soft with languor. “I’ll have you know that there aren’t scores of other women,” he said.
She laid her bare palm against his sun-warmed cheek. “The papers and scores of women say otherwise.”
He leaned into her touch like a lazy cat. “Both lie,” he said, his eyes drifting shut. “Just think, I haven’t been in the country much since my deployment. My poor cock, it would be exhausting, bedding everyone who claims that I did.”
She shook her head. “Why on earth would women lie about it?”
“I suppose once word gets out that you are good at bedsport, enough people like to imagine that they took part in it. A lot of fellows are terrible at seduction in and outside the bedchamber, you see. A lot of marital beds are cold.”
Instinct told her there was truth to his words, and her stomach gave a nervous lurch. She did not need reminding that the storm of sensations she experienced in his arms was a rare thing, if not impossible to replicate. And a thought struck her that turned her insides cold: how did one go on living well and fully present, knowing that the brightest ecstasies lay already in the past?
She sat very still as the sparkling colors leached from the riverbank. Surely, her greatest ecstasy would be casting her first vote in a parliamentary election, the fruit of her life’s labor. And that moment most definitely lay ahead. Kept steadily moving out of reach like a rainbow, in fact. . . .
