by Jane Feather
“Both, I suppose,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered what men in general might read for pleasure, I know that my brother has read some Walter Scott, but I can’t imagine him reading Jane Austen or Mrs. Gaskell, or most of these.” She gestured to the shelves behind her. “They have a too small and generally too domestic canvas for a man’s more . . .” She hesitated, looking for the word. “More muscular interests, I suppose.”
Guy laughed slightly. “I enjoy the sharpness of some of the social observations and the quick wit of much of the dialogue in many of them. And I find reading women novelists rather illuminating. They give me—” He broke off as Babbit came in with the champagne. “Thank you, just leave it on the sideboard, I’ll deal with it.”
The door closed on the butler and he busied himself with the cork, easing it carefully from the bottle so that it came free with barely a pop. He lifted a glass from the tray, holding it at a slight angle as he poured the pale bubbles so that the wine didn’t froth over the top of the glass.
“You were saying?” Petra prompted him, taking the glass he handed her.
He frowned as he poured the second glass. “Oh, yes . . . I was saying that I find reading women writers illuminating. Their work gives me a greater understanding of what your sex generally finds interesting and important. Both of which tend to be much broader than the impression men generally garner from the usual run of social encounters.”
Petra absorbed this, gazing down into the effervescence in her glass. “I can see how that could be,” she said thoughtfully.
“A toast.” Guy lifted his glass. “To a greater understanding.”
Petra drank the toast before asking, “A greater understanding of what exactly?”
“Ah.” Guy regarded her over the lip of his glass. “I very much want to understand you, Petra. A lot happens to people in ten years, and while I still recognize in you the girl you were, it’s clear to me that you were barely formed. And now . . .” He shook his head with a small smile.
“Now?” she prompted, very curious to hear what he would say.
“Now, while I appreciate no one is ever their finished self, for as long as we breathe we keep growing and changing, you are very different from what, or rather who, you were. And I want to learn who you truly are because I am already deeply drawn to that person.”
So much for playing games, Petra thought. How could she possibly indulge in her vengeful little scheme in the face of such candor? Even if she still wanted to. And she wasn’t at all sure about that anymore. She took a sip of champagne to give herself a moment’s breathing space. Something was required of her, some answering statement and there was only one way she could truthfully respond.
“Perhaps, if you were to kiss me again it might help to clarify my thoughts,” she said.
“With the greatest of pleasure.” Guy set aside his glass, reached for hers and put it on the desk. “It might be easier without the hat.”
“Oh, yes.” Petra caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her fingers quivering a little as she pulled out the long hatpins before tossing the straw hat onto a chair.
Guy took her hands in his, drawing her in to him, cupping her face, tilting it up. For a moment his face hovered over hers, his dark eyes holding her gaze, until Petra felt she was losing herself in those dark pools. As his mouth took hers and his hold tightened on her slight frame, his hands moved down her back in long, seductive strokes. Without taking his mouth from hers, he lifted her against him and with a deft twist of his body sat down on a leather chesterfield holding her across his body, his hands now roaming freely, cupping her breasts, a finger teasing the nipples beneath the thin silk of her blouse so that they rose hard against the silk.
Petra’s fingers caressed his face, twisted in his hair as she reached against him, no longer capable of coherent thought, lost in the urgent heat of these moments when her senses were flooded with the scent of his skin, the pressure of his hands, the warmth of his breath. She felt his fingers on the tiny pearl buttons of her silk shirt and then the cool caress of the air on her bared skin. She caught her breath as his fingers moved over the rounded flesh, flicked at the erect nipples. His hand moved to her back, under the loosened shirt, and played an intimate tune along her spine, before flattening to slide up to her neck in a warm firm clasp, all the while his mouth held hers, his tongue engaged with hers in a dance of delight, in a darting exploration of the contours and recesses of her mouth until she could no longer separate herself from the tantalizing invader.
At last he lifted his head and smiled down at her, a finger stroking her swollen kiss-reddened lips, lightly caressing her flushed cheeks. “Any clarification?”
Petra’s gaze was still unfocused as she murmured, “Not really. A little more might help.”
Guy’s expression changed, his gaze sharpened. He inclined his head in mute acknowledgment and brought his mouth down to hers, but this time his lips were hard and firm, demanding in their pressure and Petra felt herself rising to the challenge of this kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair as she half lifted herself against him, pressing her mouth into his, opening her lips again for his tongue, even as she pushed her own into his mouth for her own exploration. She was barely aware of how it happened but suddenly she was lying on her back on the sofa, Guy kneeling on the floor beside her. His hands were on her body, sliding the blouse from her shoulders, baring her breasts for his kisses, long leisurely strokes of his tongue over the soft mounds, kissing her erect nipples, lightly grazing the aching points with his teeth. There was a moment when he raised his head, looked a question even as his fingers teased her nipples. There was a moment when she nodded silently to the mute question, and then she slipped into a world where only sensation ruled and her body’s responses were both strange to her and utterly right.
Her hands helped him as he undressed her, barely lifting his mouth from hers until finally she lay naked on the sofa, aware of the soft cool of the leather beneath her as he came over her, kneeling astride her, lifting her legs onto his shoulders so that his hands had free access to the soft moist folds of her sex. Her body leaped beneath his touch and she gripped her bottom lip between her teeth as his finger slid within her, delicately probing, sending waves of hot sensation darting through her belly. The single thrust of his penis when he finally entered her seemed to fill her to the full and she lay still, not breathing as her body grew accustomed to the strange invasion, to expand around him, and when he started to move, slowly, gently, within her she moved to his rhythm without conscious will.
He left her body suddenly and she felt bereft, hanging on the brink of something but she wasn’t sure what, and then she felt his fingers again bringing that strange hovering sensation to fulfillment and waves of pleasure swept through her belly and loins, leaving her weak and smiling.
Guy slid off the sofa and bent to kiss her. “How do you feel?”
“Strange and wonderful,” Petra responded, still smiling. She reached up to touch his face. “I didn’t know what to expect the first time.”
“I didn’t hurt you?”
She shook her head and struggled to sit up. “Not in the least. But I expect I lost my maidenhead years ago. I’ve been riding astride since I was fifteen, except hunting or in Hyde Park. Oh, and I have a bicycle in the country.”
“Such a modern woman,” he teased gently. He extended a hand to pull her to her feet. “Let’s put your clothes back on.” He bent to pick up her discarded stockings.
“Pour me some more champagne while I put myself back together,” Petra said.
“As you command, ma’am.” He bowed, which, given his own semi-clad condition, made her laugh.
She seemed clumsier than usual, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her chemise and shirt, and her heart was beating faster than usual. Petra closed her eyes for a moment, trying to center herself. She’d assumed that her first experience of the mystery of sex would take place on her wedding night. Not that she’d given its ti
ming much thought. Now she wanted to go home and reflect on the significance of the last hour. She took the champagne glass Guy offered her and sipped the cool, crisp bubbles.
Guy looked at her with concern. “You’re looking tired, sweetheart, and I imagine those bruises are probably troubling you. There’s nothing I’d like better than to tuck you up in my bed right now, but with Charlie in the house . . .”
“Yes, of course,” she said, draining her glass, feeling somewhat vague and uncoordinated. “I am engaged to join a party at the Haymarket this evening. I need to go home.”
Guy went to the door and opened it. “Babbit, send someone for a hackney.”
“I can walk,” she suggested without conviction.
Guy ignored the comment, placing her straw hat carefully on her disheveled head, equally carefully inserting the pins. “It’s not perfect but it’ll do for the moment,” he declared, taking her arm. “Ordinarily, after lovemaking, one enjoys the afterglow during a certain period of relaxation. It’s a shame present circumstances don’t allow for that,” he commented dryly. “Next time, I’ll be rather more prepared.”
“Next time?” Petra queried, rousing herself from her stupor.
“Oh, yes, my sweet,” he said softly. “There will most certainly be a next time.” With an arm around her shoulders, he eased her out of the library, across the hall and into the waiting hackney.
Petra leaned against his encircling arm as the carriage took them the short distance to Brook Street. The only thing she knew for certain was that there would be no excursion to the Haymarket for her tonight. There was far too much to think about, not least what this afternoon meant for the future.
Chapter Ten
Over the next weeks society at large became accustomed to seeing Petra Rutherford in the company of Guy Granville. Rupert Lacey came back to Cavendish Square one evening and entered his wife’s bedroom as usual without ceremony. “Do you know what’s going on with Granville and Petra, Diana?”
Diana swiveled on her dressing stool. “They enjoy each other’s company.”
Rupert surveyed her, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t be obtuse, wife.”
Diana laughed. “I admit it seems to go deeper than that.”
“Well, Granville’s reputation with women isn’t going to do Petra’s much good,” Rupert said bluntly. “Is she his mistress?”
Diana considered the question. “I haven’t asked her,” she said after a moment’s thought. “And she hasn’t volunteered the information. So, quite honestly, I don’t know.”
Rupert frowned. “That’s not like Petra. I thought you three shared your most intimate secrets.”
Diana’s fingers trawled through the open jewelry box on her dresser while she thought how to respond. She and Fenella had both remarked upon how unusually reticent Petra was about her dealings with Guy. She’d dismissed any inquiries with a light laugh and the statement that she was enjoying herself and saw no reason to change anything. She had admitted that her plot to give him a dose of his own medicine had fallen by the wayside, but had reassured her friends that her eyes were wide open when it came to Guy’s dubious reputation. He wouldn’t blindside her again. However, the paucity of her confidences troubled her friends. They both understood that Petra was in uncharted waters and was sailing them alone. But neither would either of them press for confidences she was not ready to share. It wasn’t the way their friendship had ever been. They were there for one another when needed, but respected one another’s privacy.
“Petra knows Guy’s reputation,” she said finally. “She knows what she’s doing.”
“Well, I hope so. They’re taking odds in the clubs that she’s his mistress and that as soon as Granville thinks things have gone far enough, and he might be expected to declare himself, he’ll do what he always does and disappear abroad. Probably into the ever-open arms of Clothilde Delmont.”
Diana frowned. “I don’t get the impression Petra’s afraid of that.”
“Maybe not, but she’s not experienced in the ways of the Lord Ashtons of this world,” Rupert said dryly. “I think you should warn her, or at least drop a few hints. I’d hate to see her hurt.”
“I don’t think she’ll let that happen to her again,” Diana told him.
“Oh? When did it first happen?”
“Ten years ago. Petra’s no naïf, Rupert. She knows what Guy’s like, or at least was like. I think she’s on her guard.”
“Well, let’s hope so. I must get dressed for dinner.” He bent and kissed his wife lightly before disappearing through the connecting door to his dressing room.
Diana stared thoughtfully into the mirror. Why was Petra so unforthcoming about her relationship with Guy? She didn’t conceal the pleasure she took in his company and indeed he was faultlessly attentive to her, almost always at her side in public. They seemed to share a private way of communicating, as so many couples did, and it was true that her friends and acquaintances had imperceptibly come to accept them as a couple. The next step was inevitable for most people in that situation. There would be an engagement. But Petra didn’t seem at all concerned about the future, just appeared to be wholeheartedly enjoying the present. And her friends couldn’t begrudge her that.
But it was true that society was speculating. And it was true that Guy Granville had a reputation as a philanderer.
Diana sighed. Rupert was right. She and Fenella owed it to their long friendship to bring up at the very least the subject of what Petra expected to happen next.
* * *
Petra stretched languidly in Guy’s big four-poster bed. The afternoon sun streamed through the open windows throwing bars of light across her naked body as she lay only half covered by the sheet.
“Now that is a most wonderfully wanton sight.” Guy turned from the window coming over to the bed. “You have the air of a most contented and indolent cat, my sweet.”
Petra smiled, rolling onto her side, propping herself on her elbow, her head resting on her hand as her eyes greedily devoured his nakedness. She didn’t think she would ever have enough of that lean muscularity, the flat belly, his long thighs and his delicious bottom. “Come back.” She patted the mattress in invitation. “I haven’t finished my dish of cream yet.”
“Oh, you are a witchy woman,” he declared, his eyes taking on a smoky hue. “And heaven help me, but I can’t resist you.” He came down on the bed beside her, sliding his arms beneath her as he rolled onto his back bringing her with him so she lay on top of him, her hazel eyes laughing down at him.
“What now?” she asked, moving her hips seductively against his loins. Her mouth hovered over his, her tongue suggestively moistening her lips before moving in quick little darts against his, touching the corner of his mouth, outlining the shape of his mouth with the tip.
“You seem to be doing very well on your own,” Guy murmured, his hands stroking the length of her back, caressing the curve of her bottom, as she captured his mouth with hers, her tongue demanding entrance, before moving on a seductive exploration of the warm sweet cavern.
He lifted his hips, his penis pressing upward, insistent against the soft mound of her sex. She shifted slightly, opening her thighs for him, her breath coming fast as she felt him slip within her welcoming body, claiming her for his own. It was a glorious possession and she reveled in every deepening thrust within the tight sheath, moving with his rhythm.
“Kneel up. You’ll have more control,” he instructed softly, clasping her hips.
Petra did as he said, kneeling astride him. She looked down at the point where their bodies were joined, at the hard pulsing penis pushing into her opened body, and thought she’d never seen anything so gloriously erotic. She lifted her hips, then very slowly brought them down again, enclosing him inch by inch, reveling in his low moan of pleasure. A heady rush of pure sensual triumph washed through her at the knowledge of how much power she had to give or deny his pleasure at this moment. She was now in possession, Guy belonged to her in these mo
ments and as her climax rushed upon her she leaned forward, changing the angle of her possession, heard his joyous cry at the moment of his release. Her own cry blended with his as she fell forward on his body, her forehead resting on his shoulder, her legs straightening as the wonderful weakness washed through her, turning her limbs to jelly.
Guy held her gently, too drained by climax himself to do more than stroke her back in gratitude. “Oh, witchy woman, indeed,” he managed finally. “You unman me, sweetheart.”
“Do I?” Petra murmured into the hollow of his neck, thrilling to the idea. She had realized from the beginning that sex was an act of power and possession, it needed a possessor and one willing to be possessed. Until this moment it had seemed axiomatic that men were the possessors, their female partners the willingly possessed in the act of love. But Guy had just shown her that the parts could be switched with even greater pleasure for both partners.
“I didn’t know it could be like that,” she said, lifting her head slightly. “I thought men were always on top.”
He laughed, the muscles in his chest and stomach rippling against her skin still pressed into his. “Oh, there are many variations, sweetheart. And I intend we should try them all.” He slid his arms between their bodies and lifted her, rolling her onto the bed beside him. “I could stay here all day with you, but the world is intruding.”
Leaning over her, he kissed the corner of her mouth, before getting off the bed. “It’s almost five o’clock. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please. I’m thirsty after all that strenuous activity,” she answered with a smug smile, leaning forward to pull the crumpled sheets up to cover her. “What are you doing this evening?” she called after him as he went into the adjacent dressing room.
“I’m engaged to dine with some friends,” he responded. He pulled the bell in the dressing room and asked the answering footman for tea. Petra’s presence in the four-poster bed next door was an open secret but no one ever saw her there. Her comings and goings were not secretive, but what she did when she was in the house was never made obvious. And Guy was confident in the discretion of his household staff.
