Reckless in Red

by Rachael Miles

Her sleep, however, was troubled with dreams, dark dreams of a French mob throwing her into an empty grave and burying her, not with dirt but with paintings, until the weight of them suffocated her.

  She awoke to Clive beside her, the carriage door open, and the coach at a stop.

  “Lena. Wake up.” He sat next to her, legs in the narrow well left by the ottoman, having pulled her to his side.

  She shuddered, pushing off the last remnants of the dream.

  “You were dreaming. From the terror of your cries, we thought you were either having a very bad dream . . .” He wrapped a caring arm around her shoulders, and she allowed herself to welcome the strength of him. “Or you had discovered an asp in the carriage.”

  “An asp.” She thought of Mrs. Edstein and stiffened under his arm. He removed his arm from her shoulders. “You have a vivid imagination.” She couldn’t help the bitterness of her tone.

  “Well, then, seeing you are unhurt, I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” He began to pull away. “You have slept a long while. We should reach the inn in Derby shortly.”

  “Clive.” She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t go.”

  He looked at her hand, then her arm, then her lips, and finally her eyes. What she saw in his was pure desire.

  “I suppose your dream gives us an excuse to travel together.” He leaned out and called up to the coachman, “All’s well, Fletcher, merely a nightmare. But I’ll remain here till Derby.” He pulled the door shut.

  The moment the coach began to move, Lena pulled Clive close, pressing her lips hungrily to his. Lonely and sad, she wanted Clive’s touch. She was not the abandoned girl she had been, but a woman able to forge her own path and make her own decisions. And she had decided to love him.

  “This isn’t wise.” Clive stopped her kisses, pulling back to read her face.

  “Are you always wise?” She pressed forward once more, insistent. When he refused her his lip, she settled for his jaw, then ear, then the space between his jaw and neck not covered by his cravat. She felt the groan deep in his chest. “Do you really wish to refuse me? A man known to keep a harem?”

  “You are in trouble. You are vulnerable.”

  “I make my own way. I do as I wish.” She nudged the cravat down, kissing the underside of his jaw. Pulling out the knot of his cravat, she made her way lower, teasing the side of his neck with her tongue.

  He pulled her away, hands on her upper arms, and searched her eyes. His face was hungry, but solemn. “What do you want, Lena?”

  “I want this, now, here. Nothing more.” She waited for his reaction.

  They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. She leaned forward, putting her lips closer to his, but not touching. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. Then his lips were touching hers, slowly, sweetly, as if he wished to savor each one individually. She met him, kiss for kiss, mirroring his pace. She ran her palms up his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his clothes. He followed her lead, tracing the lines of her body, shoulders to hips.

  Pulling his cravat, she leaned back onto the pallet. He followed. Soon his body covered hers. The welcome weight of him rested between her legs, and she pressed her hips upward, feeling his desire against her own. His hands found her breasts, caressing, and heightening her desire.

  Their hands grew greedier, their kisses more insistent, their tongues more abandoned. Suddenly kisses and touching were not enough to satisfy her growing desire. She wanted him naked, flesh to flesh, laid bare before her.

  Her fingers began unbuttoning his waistcoat. She had undone three of the six buttons when his hand stopped her. His kisses stopped as well.

  He breathed into her ear. “We can take our pleasure here, but we will do it with our clothes on.”

  When she started to object, he touched one finger to her lips. “I will not be rushed. At the inn, I intend to call dinner to our drawing room. After we have eaten our meal, I wish to undress you, slowly. I wish to see each inch of you before we couple.”

  “Why?” Lena pressed her hips against him again, causing a deep growl. “We have time and a perfectly serviceable bed here.”

  “An hour at best. My plans involve a seduction of several hours.” He breathed against her neck, taking little bites on the lobe of her ear. “That can begin here.” He slid his hand between them, pressing against her sex, rocking back and forth until she squirmed in delight.

  He rolled off her, never stopping the caress of his one hand, while the other made its way under her skirt. His fingers felt the inside of her ankle, then, finding the opening in her drawers, teased her thighs. When he finally touched her, flesh to flesh, she almost cried out, but his lips stopped the sound.

  Kisses and caresses together heightened her desire. His fingers expertly found the exact spot that made fire burn up her spine. And she let him, let his kisses claim her lips, ear, neck, breasts. Without removing her clothes, he’d found a way to reach the tender flesh of her breast, and his mouth paid homage to her there. Soon she could think of nothing but his touch. She felt the rhythm of her body increase. Felt everything, his lips, his hand at her breast, his fingers on her sex, each one urging her to release. Then she found it, a shattering joy that left her spent in his arms.

  When she came back to herself, he was smiling, a rich genuine smile that warmed and caressed her heart. “There, my sweet.” His voice was like chocolate, deep and full. She could drink it in—him in—forever.

  “Now you.” She put one hand to his crotch, feeling the strength of his desire, and the other pressed him back against the pallet.

  At that moment the coachman tapped twice on the roof.

  “We are within sight of the inn.” He began to repair her clothes, and she his.

  “When we retire to my drawing room, you will not be removing my clothes.” She paused as she began to button his trousers, but his hand stopped her.

  “If you have changed your mind about our liaison . . .” For the first time since she’d known him, his voice sounded uncertain.

  “Stop being so conciliatory and let me finish. You will not be removing my clothes until I have removed each piece of yours. We are unequal now, but we will be equal then. Remember: I grew up in France after the Revolution. Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood were the values of my youth.”

  “I grow to appreciate your Revolution more each moment.”

  * * *

  The inn Clive had chosen was quiet, near the Derwent, but north of St. Mary’s Bridge, far enough from the silk and china mills that the neighborhood was still quite rural. The innkeeper—a stout, garrulous man who’d lost an arm in the wars—met them at the carriage. Clive descended to talk with him, and soon the innkeeper ushered them through an exterior door and up a stairwell.

  “Lord Edmund’s paid for his regular suite through the end of next month. Quite a nice note he wrote, telling me to give you the suite, though I certainly wouldn’t have questioned that you and he are brothers. On a tour, he said you were. Newlyweds.”

  Lena started to object, but given her intentions for the evening, she decided against it. Instead, she took Clive’s arm, as if she had every right to do so. His arm was strong, and she let her fingers trace the firm contours of his muscles. The innkeeper led them to the end of the hall, then turning right, he started up another short flight of stairs. Each one creaked loudly.

  “I’ve tried to remedy that creak, but there’s no fixing it. We’re going through that door at the end there, then around the corner into the hall where your rooms are.” The innkeeper led them, talking the whole way. “They are our most secluded rooms, past all the other guests, so no one should disturb you. Your brother likes that when he’s in residence, private he is. He even asked me to install that locking door at the top of the short stairs. I’ll lock it on my way down. How long have you been married?”

  Lena looked up at Clive, smiling as if the sun and moon rose in his face. “Just a fortnight.” She let her voice go a bit breathless, and Clive, arm ar
ound her shoulders, drew her body into his side.

  “Ah, newlyweds. I remember them days.” The innkeeper nodded. “It’s four bedrooms in all, two front, two back, and two sitting rooms in between. You’ll find fires already on the hearth in the suite at the back.”

  “I was going to suggest we take the back rooms, in case my brother returns while we are here.”

  The innkeeper handed Clive a set of keys. “You and the missus will want dinner in your rooms?”

  “And a bath for my wife,” Clive added as the innkeeper was almost to the door. “If it’s acceptable to you, we’ll take dinner in the front sitting room, and the bath in the back one.”

  “Certainly, my lord. That will be no trouble at all.”

  The pair listened as the innkeeper walked to the end of the hall and down the short stairs, which creaked with every step.

  “I would wager you that Edmund likes that creak best of all.”

  The sitting room was nicely appointed, if plain, and the window looked out over a robust kitchen garden at the back of the inn. “If we need to escape quickly, we can always climb out this window. There’s a low roof here, but it’s still a bit of a drop to the ground.”

  Clive stood behind her, his hands on her upper arms. “Already looking for a way to escape?”

  She turned in his arms to face him. “If I were looking to escape, I wouldn’t tell you that the grape trellis below looks fairly sturdy. How does your brother know about this place? And how did he send our innkeeper a note if we only decided to travel yesterday?” She began to untie his cravat.

  “My brother Edmund keeps a log of every posting inn and tavern from Liverpool to London, and since I know his handwriting as well as my own, it wasn’t difficult to write a note recommending us.” He stood still, watching her face as she worked.

  “So you told the innkeeper we are married, not your brother.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “I did. It seemed the most reasonable decision—if your enemies followed us from London, they would be looking for a single woman, not a married one. And Edmund praises this inn for its cook, its relative distance from the main thoroughfare, and its discretion.”

  “Discretion? That’s an interesting word.” She began to undo the buttons on his waistcoat.

  “How so?” Clive tried to help, but she batted his hand away.

  “A man wishes for discretion when he is traveling with his mistress, not when he is accompanied by his wife.” She pushed the waistcoat open, starting on his shirt’s buttons.

  “The day Edmund marries, a line of women will weep at the church door.” He watched each deft movement of her fingers.

  “Do you suppose that will prove awkward for his bride?” She untucked his shirt to reach the lower buttons.

  “The Brothers Grimm tell a story about the Pied Piper of Hamelin, whose music was so captivating that he stole away all the village children. Perhaps, if he ever wishes to marry, I could do the same, drawing away all Edmund’s old lovers, until the bride is safely at the altar.” Clive watched as she undid the last of his shirt buttons, then pushed his shirt open.

  “Wasn’t it rats?” she asked, her fingers tracing a shape on his chest.

  “Rats?” The slide of her fingers across his flesh made his brain move slowly. “Yes, rats. Then he stole the children.”

  “Ah, yes, taking the children was a punishment when the mayor refused to pay him. I remember now.” She leaned forward and kissed his bare flesh. “Do you play the pipe?”

  “The pipe? No.” He watched her head, kissing one spot, then another.

  “Do you play any instrument?” She lifted one of his wrists and unbuttoned the shirt sleeve, then repeated the action on the next.

  “No. I thought perhaps charm would be enough.”

  She pushed his shirt and waistcoat back off his shoulders in one motion, pulling his shirt off at the wrists. “You certainly are charming.” She kissed his chest again. “I find this particularly charming.” She kissed his nipples. “And this.” Then standing on her toes, she kissed the base of his neck. “And this. I like this line here between your neck and chest, very much.”

  Just as he was about to pull her toward him, she stepped back. He waited, watching her expression, intent, focused, and somewhat devious. He wondered what game she was imagining they might play.

  She rubbed the rim of his trousers between her fingers, but did nothing. Without intending to, he moaned aloud. She responded quickly, rubbing his flesh through his trousers. He tensed with pleasure. Never letting up the pressure, she quickly unbuttoned the flap on his trousers, freeing his member. She smiled at the length and girth of him.

  “We are not yet equal.” She let her fingers move against his flesh.

  Groaning, he stopped her hand. “I would prefer to pursue equality, more . . . equally.”

  She stepped back, watching him watching her. Then she began to disrobe, slowly, first fichu, then bodice, then skirt, until she stood before him in only her shift.

  “Don’t stop.”

  Smiling, she shook her head. “We are now equally undressed. For me to remove more of mine, you must remove more of yours.”

  Clive tore at his boots, his socks, his trousers, until he stood before her entirely nude.

  She had imagined how he might look without his clothes. She’d rejected Donatello’s David as too soft, Michelangelo’s as too static. Eventually she’d settled on a Roman copy of a Greek statue she’d seen at the British Museum: a discus thrower—his body in motion, his muscles engaged in the instant before a burst of power. But even the lines of that stunning statue seemed a failure when compared to Clive. In one instant, she wished she had her pencil to capture his perfection. In another she wished never to move, never to stop gazing at his perfect proportions and his obvious desire. In the third, she ran into his arms.

  As her shift met the rest of her clothes on the floor, Clive stopped, gazing at her, just as she had gazed at him. “You are so beautiful.”

  His words warmed her cheeks, her breasts, her belly. And soon it wasn’t merely his words, but his hands and his body.

  She stared into his eyes, seeing her reflection in them. Was she part of his soul, or just a passing fancy to be replaced when he found another puzzle to solve? Did she care?

  He couldn’t be hers, but she could love him. And in that way she could make him hers, if only for the moments when his body was buried deep in hers.

  She lifted her hips to him, pressing her lower body against his. Their rhythm was as old as time, a dance lovers had known since Adam met Lilith in the garden. As an artist she preferred Lilith to Eve, the rebel to the wife. She bit his neck teasingly. Their joining was a burst of color, emotion, sensation, and she wanted to cry mine mine mine, but instead she only called his name, a guttural sound, full of her ecstasy as it took all thought away.

  * * *

  “If this is how you treat a lover, I envy your wife.” Sitting up, she pulled the sheet toward her and tucked it under her arms, covering her breasts. “I can see how women might wish to be part of your harem.” She brushed his hair back from his face.

  “There is no harem.” Clive pulled the sheet away. She let it go, both relieved that the judge had been wrong and surprised at her relief. He kissed her arm to her shoulder, and she reveled in the sensation. “Not really.”

  “Not really,” she repeated, her desire fading abruptly. She pulled her arm away. She shouldn’t be hurt that he’d had other lovers—perhaps still had other lovers—but she couldn’t deny the sick feeling high in her stomach. “Either one has a mistress—or twelve—or however many one must keep simultaneously to make a harem—or one doesn’t.”

  “It was three, but it wasn’t a harem.” He tugged at the sheet to see her body again.

  She put the pillow between them and wrapped her arms around it. “Am I the fourth?” She kept her tone light, teasing, but inside she wanted to run. Why did three matter more than one? It was the nature of his sex and his class to
take a mistress, even to keep a series of mistresses. Was it the fact that his appeared to be simultaneous, rather than sequential?

  He brushed back his hair and rolled out of the bed onto his feet in what seemed like a single motion. “The situation is a little bit complex.”

  She watched as he pulled on his trousers, one glorious leg then the next disappearing under his clothes. He fastened his trousers, but he kept his chest bare, even though the room had suddenly grown cold. He picked up her shift, and Lena held out her hand.

  She pulled the shift quickly over her head. “You are not obligated to tell me anything about your life.”

  “But I am obligated. If nothing else, this”—he pointed to the rest of their clothes still in a pile on the floor—“obligates me.”

  “Then I free you of that obligation.” She walked to the pile and began to separate out her clothing. “Like my French sisters, I am an emancipated woman. I am beholden to no man for my wages or my employment. I support myself with my own labor, and I choose who I take to my bed.”

  He pulled her toward him, holding her at arm’s length, so she was forced to look into his face. “I am obligated to you by affection and by passion. I have hesitated because only the duke knows the truth about my ‘harem.’” He said the word with distaste. “I trust that you will not reveal it.”

  She nodded her head as she spoke. “You have my word.”

  “When I was a younger man, I had a sweetheart. Her family promoted the match, but my father refused, calling it a schoolboy infatuation and denying me any form of communication with her. I sent her one last letter, telling her I would never stop loving her, and that if she ever needed my help, I would come to her side.”

  Lena’s heart fell. It was worse than she’d imagined. He loved another.

  “Her family moved to London for the season. At first, I grieved, but my father was right. After a few weeks, I barely thought of her, and by the time she was married, I felt merely embarrassed that a few kisses stolen in the garden had led to such overblown declarations of undying love.”

  Lena felt her heart lift a little. “This sounds like the opposite of a harem.”