by Juliana Ross
“Mrs. Boothroyd has written a guide to household management. A far superior alternative to Mrs. Beeton’s book.”
“How exciting! And just the sort of thing I should love to read. When will it be ready?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered easily. “But she is making excellent progress with her work.”
He hadn’t lied, of which I was glad. But he hadn’t told her the truth. Nor could he, not unless he wished his niece or nephew to be born a month early, in front of us all, right there on the sitting room floor.
“How lovely,” Alice said. “Elijah—can you ask Cook when dinner will be ready?”
“Any minute now, I gather. Do you need anything? Does your back hurt?”
“Not in the slightest. I only thought to take Mrs. Boothroyd upstairs to see Clara. She’s asleep, of course,” she clarified, turning to me, “but I do love to show her off.”
“You’ll tire yourself,” he protested. “Let me go.”
She agreed, rather regretfully, and I determined then that I would praise Clara to the skies, even if I could only see a tuft of hair peeking out of her blankets.
I followed Mr. Keating upstairs and along a short corridor to the nursery. The room was softly lit, the fire banked low behind its screen, and the nursemaid was busy with her knitting, her eyes fixed on the sleeping child. I wasn’t sure of Clara’s exact age, but she looked to be about two, perhaps two and a half. Her hair was dark, though not as dark as her father’s, and I glimpsed a dimple on her cheek as she smiled in her sleep.
“Did she settle quickly?” Mr. Keating whispered.
“Yes, sir,” the nursemaid answered. “Was good as gold. I told her you and Lady Alice would be up later to kiss her good-night.”
“Thank you, Mary. My wife will come up after dinner.”
Safely back in the corridor, I whispered my praise to Mr. Keating. “She’s darling. How I should love to see her when she’s up and running about.”
“We’ll have you to stay after Alice’s confinement. She’ll be glad of the company, I know.”
“It’s good to see the two of you so happy. John was very fond of you both.”
“He was a remarkable man.” His pale gray eyes fixed on mine, silently conveying the weight of his grief. “I have...well, I’ve been meaning to ask if I might dedicate my forthcoming book to his memory. But only with your permission.”
I stopped short, not knowing what to say, my throat clogged with emotion. “I am honored,” I said at last. “And grateful beyond measure.”
There was no time for more. We rejoined Tom and Lady Alice just as one of the maids—they kept no butler, nor were there any footmen—announced that dinner was ready. We processed into the dining room, timing our steps to the slower gait of our hostess, and arranged ourselves around the round table that had been set plainly for four. No silver-gilt epergnes dripping with out-of-season fruit, no hothouse flowers with their overpowering scent. Only plain white linen, old-fashioned Georgian silver and transferware plates with views of the Alps.
“Elijah dislikes the design,” Lady Alice said, noting my interest in the china. “But I think them very pretty.”
“The perspective is all wrong,” he grumbled. “You’re the artist, Alice. I can’t see why it doesn’t bother you.”
“And you have no sense of whimsy,” she countered.
The room had been decorated for the season, with sprigs of holly and boughs of evergreen swagged over the mantel, windows and threshold, and Cook had prepared a festive meal to match: lobster rissoles, roast ribs of beef and Nesselrode pudding to finish.
“Will you decorate a tree?” I asked as our main course was cleared away.
“Yes, but not until Christmas Eve. Clara has been going mad with excitement at the thought of it. Where will you celebrate the holiday? Will you be with your family?”
“Sadly, no. I only have the one brother, and he lives in India. I expect one of my friends in the village will have me to luncheon on Christmas Day.” I changed the subject after that, not wishing to dwell on what was sure to be a lonely and rather melancholy holiday, my second without John. Nor did I wish her to invite me to stay, as I sensed she was longing to do. A quiet Christmas, a solitary Christmas, would suit me perfectly well.
After dinner, with Tom and Mr. Keating preoccupied by some weighty topic of conversation, Lady Alice and I returned to the sitting room so she might be more comfortable. I brought her a footstool and found a pillow for her back and steeled myself for the inevitable.
“I’m so glad that Tom has taken you under his wing,” she began.
“He has been very kind to me.”
“He said you come to London once a month.”
“Yes. So that we might discuss my work directly, without having to wait for the back-and-forth of letters.”
“Why on earth doesn’t he go to you? Surely it would be easier for him to make the journey. Wretched man.”
“He’s much busier than I. And I do enjoy seeing a bit more of the world.”
“Of course. And you’re right that he is busy with his work. To think that he has achieved so much, and in such a short time.”
“How long ago did he found Peregrine Press?”
“It was about a year before I met Elijah...five years? Something like that. We were so relieved to see him settle down and stick to something. My parents, especially. They used to despair of him.”
“Really? It’s so hard to imagine your brother as anything but...well, anything different from how he is now.”
“Papa confessed to me, not long ago, that he’d once thought Tom would end up as a gamekeeper on someone’s estate, slowly becoming as wild as the animals he tended. Or that he’d go on yet another expedition to some far-off place, and be eaten by a rhinoceros.”
“Aren’t they herbivores?”
“I’ve no idea. Let’s say a crocodile, instead. At any rate, I told Papa that he shouldn’t have worried. I always knew that Tom would find his feet.”
“But you must have been anxious for him. When his fiancée died, for example.”
“He mentioned her? Yes, that was hard, a very hard time. He disappeared for a while, heading out on one journey after another. When he came home, more or less for good, he had changed. I think losing her, and then losing several of his friends to accidents and illness...well, it marked him in some way. On the surface, he seemed like the same Tom he’d always been, laughing and silly and ever so warmhearted. But underneath...I’m not sure. I think—”
“Yes?”
“Oh, never mind me. I forget what I was going to say.”
“He appears perfectly content to me.”
“I think he is. I suppose the only thing now is for him to marry. Then he could have children of his own and stop spoiling Clara. You’d think she was a princess, the way he treats her.”
I saw it, then. The way she looked at me. As if she knew it was too early to hope, for I was so newly a widow, and John was ever-present in our minds, but still she hoped that I might form an attachment to her brother, and settle with him and make him happy.
I looked at my lap and picked at a stray thread. I smiled, which made my face hurt, and said, “Hmm.” I didn’t dare look her in the eye.
Tom had been too attentive to me at dinner. His behavior had been perfectly proper, but all the signs had been there: the way he hung on my every word, the praise he had for my talent as a writer, his description of how I hadn’t so much as blinked when I’d first encountered his giant of a dog. How delighted he was that Grendel had taken to me so quickly.
So of course she wondered, and hoped, and would do everything she could to encourage her brother. And she had no idea—I prayed would never know—of the shameful truth. Tom and I were lovers, but we were not in love. We would not marry. There would
be no children for him to spoil.
I did not love him. I refused to love him.
She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn. “I beg your pardon. I am so enjoying our evening, but the baby makes me awfully tired. I do apologize.”
“Shall I fetch your husband?”
“Yes, please. I’ll need Eli’s help with the stairs. But you mustn’t leave, not on my account.”
I went to the dining room, where the men still sat, engrossed in their conversation, and cleared my throat to warn them of my presence. Both shot to their feet.
“Is it Alice?” Mr. Keating asked.
“She’s fine. Only quite tired and ready for bed. I think we ought to be on our way.” This last pronouncement I directed at Tom.
“Yes, of course. Let me say good-night to Alice.”
We said our farewells in the sitting room, exchanging Christmas wishes and promises to soon meet again. We left the two of them huddled together, still as entranced with one another as the day they had met, Mr. Keating’s head bent close to Lady Alice’s as he whispered words of endearment to her. I looked at them and thought I might expire, then and there, from the surge of envy that overtook me.
It made no sense, for I didn’t want what they had. I didn’t want a husband to love and babies of my own. For with love came fear. Fear of pain, of heartache, of death, of loss. Of loneliness that seized at one’s soul and left one blind to the light in the world.
The Keatings were happy, yes, but their love made them foolish. I, too, had been foolish, before John had died. I had believed that love would conquer all.
I had been wrong.
Chapter Thirteen
It was quiet in the carriage, both of us lost in our thoughts. Too quiet, for it let my doubts fester, my anxiety blossom. If only he would reach for me, show me how to obliterate the words in my head with the opiate of passion.
“Tom?”
“I know. Come here. Let me hold you a moment.”
He hugged me close, as tightly as was possible in the shaking, jolting, narrow seat of the lightly sprung brougham. I lifted my face to his, wordlessly requesting a kiss, and he obliged, his lips caressing mine so tenderly I thought I might cry. I couldn’t bear for him to be so kind. So I set my hand between his legs, squeezed his growing erection, and prayed he would take up my offer.
“Were you thinking of this all night?” he whispered in my ear.
“Yes.”
“The roads are too rough for me to fuck you, not without one of us suffering an injury. But I could...”
His right hand caught at my skirts, gathering them up, delving beneath the folds and layers until it rested against the thin fabric of my drawers. It moved higher and higher, so slowly I had to bite my lip to stop from crying out my frustration, and then his fingers brushed against the slit in my drawers, slipped through and discovered the truth of my desire.
“My God, Caroline, were you like this all night?”
“Yes. Before, too.”
“Can you spread your legs any wider?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it.”
As soon as my legs were parted his hand was between them, petting me, soothing me. So cruel of him to tease.
“I need more,” I told him. “Put your fingers—”
“I know. You want my fingers here.” He pushed into me, penetrating me roughly. “You’re so wet...I can’t believe it.”
“Deeper,” I begged, and he obeyed.
“What shall I do with my thumb? Is there anywhere you wish me to touch? You have only to say.”
“You know very well where to touch me, you wretch.”
“How shall I touch it? Softly, like this?” He brushed his thumb over the straining pearl of flesh, but so lightly I barely felt it.
“Insensitive, unfeeling wretch.”
“Harder, then. Like this?”
Oh, God. Exactly like that. “Yes. Perfect...it’s perfect.”
“Do you want to come? Or do you want to wait until we’re back in our rooms?”
“I want to come. Please, Tom.”
“Very well. But only if you promise to show me what you wrote about in your last chapter. You know what I mean. Say it.”
“You want me to fellate you.”
“Yes. Suck me off.”
“Oh, God—”
“We’re almost there. You had better come now, else the coachman will find us like this. My hand up your skirts. You, moaning like a cat in heat. Come now, and be ready for me when we’re alone again.”
* * *
I was naked. I was on my knees. Tom stood before me, wearing only his trousers. He’d said I must remove them. Said it was part of the demonstration.
I had only the haziest notion of what I must do, although I had affected a fine degree of knowledge in the pages I’d sent him. I wasn’t a complete novice, for in the early days of our marriage I had taken John’s cock into my mouth a few times, and had liked it well enough. But he’d never seemed particularly enthused by the act, preferring to make love to me in a more conventional fashion, and as a result my skills as a—what would the term be? A fellatrix?—had all but evaporated. I decided to abandon my pride and tell Tom the truth.
“Will you tell me what to do?” I asked. “I haven’t...that is, I’m not sure...”
“Shh. Don’t fret. Begin by unbuttoning my trousers. That’s it. Now do the same with my drawers. Push them out of the way. Just enough to get your hands on my cock.”
I had trouble with the buttons, for he was fully erect already. As I undid the topmost fastening of his drawers, his cock sprang free, pressing tight and high against the ridged muscles of his abdomen. It was beautiful and intimidating in equal measure.
Rather than wait for his instructions, I grasped him and, after easing his drawers past his hips, reached between his legs and cradled his stones with my other hand.
“Does this feel good?”
“Wonderful. Are you ready to put your mouth on me?”
Rather than answer, I wrapped my lips around the head of his cock and sucked, hard. A drop of semen welled from the slit at its tip and dropped, salty-sweet, onto my tongue. I was suddenly greedy for more.
He was too big for me to swallow whole, so I compromised. I stroked the base of his cock, just as I had seen him do before, my grip firm and steady. At the same time, I kissed and sucked the top four or five inches of his member, timing my movements to the rhythm of my hand, all the while massaging his stones.
“Can you go deeper? I want to see how much of me will fit in your pretty mouth.”
I nodded, willing to try.
“Try to relax your throat. If you feel like you’re choking, push me away.”
He took my hands and set them on his hips, then pressed forward slowly, carefully, letting me grow used to this strange invasion, inching away when my throat began to spasm. Forward again, deeper still, until the crown of his cock was wedged against the very back of my throat and my jaw was trembling in suppressed agony.
“This is the most erotic thing I have ever seen,” he whispered. “Thank you.” He pulled back, almost out of my mouth, then forward a few inches, no deeper. “Grasp hold of me again. Yes, but tighter than that. And suck as hard as you can. See how hard you can make me come.”
After his deeper invasion, it was easy to take only half his length in my mouth. His cock felt so familiar to me, as if I’d done this to him countless times before and knew exactly how to wring an orgasm out of him. Once or twice I faltered and let my teeth graze his length, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I thought he might even like it, those moments of pain and surprise so quickly soothed by the balm of my tongue and lips.
“I want to come in your mouth, Caroline. Will you let me?”
&nb
sp; I couldn’t answer, for I would have to take his cock out of my mouth, and that I would not do. Not now, not when he was so close. I closed my eyes and sucked him harder, stroked him faster. Belatedly I remembered his stones, which I’d neglected for the past few minutes. I cupped them in my left hand, let them roll against each other, felt them rise and tighten. He was close, so close.
His hips jerked forward once, twice, and he groaned as if he were dying. A burst of semen filled my mouth, hot and surprising, and I swallowed it quickly, hungrily. His cock kept pulsing, even after I’d licked him clean, but I wouldn’t stop, not if it brought him pleasure.
“There, now. That’s enough. Come here, my darling,” he whispered. He scooped me up, soothed my trembling limbs and carried me to the bed. We lay entwined, atop the coverlet, until our bodies cooled, our heartbeats had slowed and rational thought was again possible.
“I did detect a problem with your pages,” he said presently.
Nothing else could have woken me from my stupor so effectively. “You did? Whatever was the matter? Did I not prove that fellatio can be a pleasing experience for a woman?”
“It’s not that. The problem is that it’s incomplete.”
“I don’t understand.”
Had I somehow missed some vital part of the equation? I had assumed it was as straightforward as it appeared. Remove a man’s trousers and extract an orgasm by using one’s mouth. The end.
“You spoke only of fellatio. And that only applies to a man. What of a woman’s right to receive pleasure?”
“You mean that men...that it’s common practice for a man to put his mouth there?”
“You truly are ignorant of it? Did you never—”
“No, never. I don’t know what to say. I mean, we were very happy in that respect, John and I. I never thought anything was lacking.”
“Nor was it. You were very young when you married, weren’t you? Perhaps he was as ignorant as you.”
“Perhaps. Still...I find it hard to imagine. I should think it very disagreeable. Rather, ah, lacking in hygiene.”
