by Louise Allen
He pulled up the window as they moved off again. Phyllida looked pale, but it was probably only the effect of the heavy shadows. So, she had decided to stop resisting and come to him, to accept that the marriage was inevitable. His body was already primed, heavy with desire, his blood hot with the aftermath of the encounter with Prewitt, the exhilaration of the dances with Phyllida. But there was something more than the prospect of satisfying his desires, of securing her acceptance. Somewhere along the line he had developed feelings that ran deep for this provoking, secretive, unusual woman.
‘You have made a decision?’ he asked, wondering at the nerves that made him suddenly short of breath.
She raised her head from her contemplation of her clasped hands and said, ‘Yes.’
For such a firm syllable it sounded anxious. Nerves, too, no doubt, Ashe thought, deliberately making no move to touch her. He wrestled, briefly, with his conscience. He ought to take her home, send her up to bed with a chaste kiss on the cheek. But instinct was telling him to make certain of her. If she gave herself to him, then she would be committed to this marriage.
It was only a short drive. The carriage pulled up and he helped her down, sheltering her with his body from the bustle that still crowded the pavement. The crowd that was out here, at this time, was no company for a lady. Several women caught his eye and threw out unsubtle lures. They were not called Haymarket Ware for nothing and this was their prime hunting ground as he had learned, very early in his night-time explorations of this new city.
‘I should have told them to turn into Jermyn Street,’ he said. ‘I had forgotten about the quantity of whores that infest this area.’ Against his protective arm he felt her flinch. Presumably her forays into the East End had all been in daylight and she had not seen the worst of it, or perhaps the poor drabs who serviced the slums were less brazen and gaudy.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Phyllida said. ‘It was more discreet. Besides, we are almost there.’ They turned into Jermyn Street, passing the shutters of the numerous luxury shops, the pavement dimly lit by the light from the apartments above. ‘These are mostly lodgings and chambers for gentlemen,’ she explained. ‘I had thought of doing up the rooms above my shop and renting them out, but I find them valuable for sorting stock.’
He bit back the comment that she could let them out along with the shop once they were married or sell the lot. Something told him that giving up her business was not going to be easy for Phyllida.
‘And last year, when Gregory and I seemed to be arguing about his gambling and parties the whole time, they made a peaceful refuge,’ she admitted.
‘He has settled down now, with a vengeance.’
‘I know. I hardly believed it at first. He said he looked in the mirror, realised he wasn’t getting any younger and began to think about what he was doing with his life. He met Harriet at just the right moment and what is so wonderful is that they truly seem to be in love.’
‘You had no hopes of that when you were looking for a rich wife for him, though. Why are you so pleased about it now?’ A group of young bucks, more than a trifle top-heavy after an evening at their club, were weaving along the pavement towards them. Ashe moved Phyllida into a doorway and stood in front of her.
One of them stopped. ‘Hey, look, it’s Clere! Come and join us, we’re off to find some company, if you know what I mean!’ He roared with laughter at his feeble sally, then peered past Ashe into the shadowed alcove. ‘Ah, see you’ve got your own. Good man!’
‘Another night, perhaps, Grover,’ Ashe said, forcing joviality into his voice.
They reeled off down the road, waving and shouting advice as they went.
‘I am sorry about that.’ He handed Phyllida down the step again.
‘Perhaps every lady should be taken out to the Haymarket at night at least once to see what gentlemen are truly like.’ There was an edge to her voice that puzzled him.
‘I am not given to rampaging drunkenly through the streets seeking out cheap whores, if that is what you mean.’
‘I am sure you are far subtler and have much more expensive tastes,’ she responded politely.
‘That was not what I meant. I do not court a lady I am not faithful to, nor would I marry one and keep a mistress.’
‘Oh.’ Then, more softly, ‘Oh.’
Ashe looked sharply at Phyllida, but her face was unreadable in the shadows. Surely that little exclamation had not been one of dismay? Surely no woman wanted her husband to take a mistress?
‘Down here,’ she said, turning into an alleyway before he could put the question into words. She led him into a yard and up to what must be the back door of the shop. ‘Wait while I get the key.’ She bent, there was a scrape of brick on stone, then she straightened with the key in her hand. ‘Ugh. I hide the spare behind a loose brick and I encourage a nice slimy puddle just in front of it to help keep it safe.’
She let him in, shaking her fingers fastidiously as she did so, but turned before the inner doorway and led the way up a narrow flight of stairs and into a room that covered, Ashe estimated, the whole area of the shop below.
‘There is a tinderbox on that table. Can you light the candle? I always fumble for ages with it and end up breaking a nail.’ Phyllida went to close the curtains and then fidgeted about the room, her jewellery and the golden embroidery on her clothing making her look like an exotic moth in the gloom.
Lord, but she is nervous, Ashe thought as he struck a spark and nursed the wick into flame. He must be very, very careful, gentle, this first time for her.
The wick flared up and he touched it to the other candles around the room. It was not the bleak storeroom he had feared it might be, but a strangely practical, very feminine den. The walls were hung with tapestries, tattered and worn, but rich with shades of old rose and blue and gold. The curtains at the window were deep-red velvet, obviously salvaged from some grand suite of bed hangings. His feet sank into carpets, spread to overlap and cover the wear and holes.
There was a desk and chair, a deep armchair, a daybed and a bookcase overflowing with books. ‘This is a beautiful room,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of chambers in my great-uncle’s palace, snug, private little caves of luxury.’
‘The luxury is threadbare and not all it seems. Few things are what they seem.’ There was that bitter note in her voice again, as though she was mocking herself.
‘Phyllida, what is wrong? You know I would never force you. It would make me very happy to make love to you here, but if you want to leave, I understand.’ Ashe pulled out the desk chair and sat down. Not a gentlemanly thing to do when a lady was still standing, but he did not want to loom over her.
‘I need to tell you something.’ She sat down on the end of the daybed with an inelegant thump as though her legs would not hold her up any longer. ‘You will not wish to marry me once you hear what it is.’
‘That I very much doubt,’ Ashe said robustly, even as he tried to ignore the stab of apprehension in his gut. Debts, that was all, nothing to worry about there.
Phyllida stood up again and this time he rose too, something in her face warning him that she was serious. Whatever this was, she was not exaggerating its importance to her.
‘I am not a virgin,’ she said, as though pleading guilty in a court of law.
Ashe blinked. That was not so bad. ‘Neither am I, oddly enough.’
Her lips thinned. ‘Men appear to set much value on virginity.’
‘Are you still involved with him? Am I likely to meet him?’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘Then, if you can refrain from comparisons which would wound my pride, I do not see it as a problem.’ As soon as he said it, he saw the attempt to introduce some humour into the exchange was a mistake.
‘Hardly! You do not understand, and I am not explaining it properly.’
‘Was there a child?’ Ashe struggled to understand, to read the messages her voice, her rigid body, were sending him. He tried to take her hands, but she batted his away.
> ‘No, thank God.’
And then he realised. ‘Phyllida. Were you unwilling? Mere jaan.’ My darling. He caught her in his arms, held on to her despite her attempts to twist free, cradled her against his chest until she stilled and let her head rest against his breast. ‘Sahji, jaani.’ He murmured the love-words as he stroked her hair. ‘Tell me who it is and I will bring you his heart and his manhood on a platter.’
‘It was a long time ago. When I was seventeen,’ she said, her voice so low he could hardly make out the words.
Worse and worse, if anything could make it so. So young, so innocent.
Phyllida straightened. ‘Let me go, please. I…’ He opened his arms and she sat down again, her hands tightly clasped. ‘You sit down too, Ashe. I told you because you had a right to know and because I do not think I can make love, not without it all coming back, not without panicking. I am sorry I let you believe that was what I asked you here for tonight.’
He sought for the words to say this right. ‘When I kiss you, you respond, Phyllida. In the carriage, when I caressed your breast, that was not feigned, the fire I felt in you. When that man attacked you, hurt you, it would have been nothing like making love with someone who cares for you.’
‘I don’t… I cannot marry you, not knowing if I can bear that part of it. I should have told you at once, when you proposed this marriage.’
‘You did not know me very well. Now, I think, you trust me rather more.’ It was not a question, but she nodded. ‘You know I would never force you, Phyllida.’ That time he did want a response and steeled himself for her hesitation. He had been a rogue, to put it at its lowest. He had done his best to persuade her into his bed, despite her reluctance. Then it had almost been a game, now he was not certain he could forgive himself.
‘Of course I know.’ She seemed startled that he had to ask and, as she looked at him, her unhappy face softened into a smile of such tenderness that his heart melted. ‘But it might come to that, or not have children.’
Ashe got up and walked to the window, needing to move while he absorbed that realisation. An heir. The son to whom he would hand the estate that would be saved from decline, the title he would one day hold. The daughters, the other sons. He had never given them any thought, except in the abstract. Suddenly they were tangible, ghost children who might never become real.
‘Then I will abandon persuasion for seduction,’ he said. ‘We know I can kiss you, hold you, even caress you a little and you are not afraid. It was a terrible wound, but it was not fatal—you will heal with the right medicine. We will take all the time it needs and you will be in control.’ He knew he sounded confident. Inside he was unsure, but determined. He had committed himself to this woman and he was not going to abandon her now. Ashe walked back and hunkered down in front of her, took her hands. ‘Will you think about it?’
‘I will not marry you unless…’ She took a deep breath and looked at him. ‘I have never been with any other man, you understand, so I do not know if I would be able to make love. I might be creating a problem that does not exist.’
‘No one would be unaffected by such cruelty,’ Ashe said. ‘But if you learn that making love has nothing to do with what happened, then I believe you will be able to separate the two.’
She nodded. ‘I did not expect you to be so understanding. I did not know how to tell you, although I knew I had to.’
This was what had been behind the ambiguity he had sensed in her agreement to marry him. She had not decided if she could tell him of this and, being a woman of honour, would not marry him unless she did.
Phyllida leaned forwards and linked her hands behind his neck. ‘Shall we try? Make love to me, Ashe.’
He did not answer, simply letting her pull him closer until he could caress her mouth with his, gently, deeply, increasing the demands of his tongue as she began to melt against him. He pushed just a little ahead of her tentative responses until he felt her relax entirely, begin to tease him a little with nips and sucks and the wandering caresses of her fingers at his nape.
Ashe eased back and unbuttoned his coat, let it fall to the ground, then took her in his arms again and kissed her while his fingers dealt with the fastenings at the front of her tight jacket. She did not resist when he slid it from her shoulders to reveal the swell of her bosom above the constriction of the choli, so he kissed across the creamy skin while his fingers caressed her bare midriff.
If she would relax a little he could ease her back on to the daybed, but there was still a tension in her that warned him that might be a step too far. How could he reassure her?
He lay down himself, on his back, and smiled up at her. After a moment she gave a little nod, as though she understood, and bent to kiss him. She was endearingly clumsy, he thought, then realised with a shock when she changed the angle of her mouth and her position on the bed that his reaction was, to put it mildly, patronising. She was thinking too hard, but she was working out what pleased her and, he realised as he fisted his hands in the covers to stop himself grabbing her, she was working out what pleased him at the same time.
Her hand brushed his right nipple, almost certainly by accident, but he was so tense that the sensation shook a groan out of him.
‘Ashe?’ Phyllida’s eyes were wide and dark in the candlelight. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No,’ he lied. This was exquisite torture.
‘Don’t you want to get on top of me?’ she worried.
Yes. ‘No,’ he lied again. He could hear the fear threading through her voice. That bastard would have thrown her down, crushed her with his weight, trapped her. Somehow he had to let her feel in control, as if she could escape at any moment.
‘Do you like it when I do this?’ He cupped her breasts boldly, let his thumbs find the nipples tight under the silk.
‘Oh, yes.’ Her lids drooped, her lips parted in a sensual sigh that had his already-hard body almost arching off the bed. He found the ties at the waist of her skirt and loosened them until he could slip his fingers down over the curve of her belly. The delicate skin shivered and twitched to his touch, but she did not fight him. ‘Ashe, I… ache.’
‘Good.’ He tugged gently to bring her down to lie beside him and buried his face in the angle of her neck, filled his senses with jasmine and the betraying scent of her arousal. Slowly, he told himself. So slowly. ‘Will you let me pleasure you?’
‘How?’ She stiffened, curled away from him. ‘You won’t—’
‘No. I won’t move from lying here beside you. Just let me touch you.’
He could feel the effort it took her to trust him, to let him brush the nest of curls, to ease one finger between the soft, damp folds. He found what he sought and stroked, just there, as her hips came off the bed with the shock of it.
‘Ashe!’ Phyllida had expected discomfort. Whatever a man did there, however gentle, would hurt, surely? But the shaft of sudden, shocking pleasure lanced through her as if a lightning flash had run from his fingertip to her womb, to her breasts, to every quivering nerve in her body.
‘Priya,’ he said, his voice husky. ‘Sweetheart. Just let go, allow yourself pleasure.’
Allow? She twisted, frantic with not knowing how to deal with the onslaught of delight when she had expected pain, out of control in a way she had never imagined, overcome by her own body’s reactions, not his strength. She was aching and needing only the heat of Ashe’s body next to her, his arm holding her safe, his wicked, wicked fingers driving her insane.
‘I don’t know how,’ she gasped.
‘Let go,’ he repeated. ‘Your body knows.’ And he kissed her and suddenly the pleasure peaked into an almost-pain that made her cry out against his mouth, arch her body hard into his hand to make it last for ever and then she lost herself, utterly, as she clung to him, knowing she was dying, not caring.
‘Phyllida?’ Ashe’s voice, soft and dark as the caress of black velvet, as sensual as sin, as gentle as… the man I love.
‘What happen
ed?’ She was still lying beside him on the daybed. In his embrace, still dressed, although her clothing was disordered. Her body thrummed with a deep, sensual relaxation and quivered with tiny aftershocks of pleasure.
‘That was an orgasm.’
She blushed. She knew the word, had even looked it up in a dictionary. ‘But that is something men experience.’
‘Both partners in lovemaking can experience it.’ He pulled her close, shifting her position so her cheek rested comfortably on his chest.
‘But you did not.’
‘No. I can wait.’
Phyllida looked down his body. He was clearly aroused. It hurt men to be in that condition and frustrated, she had heard that somewhere. ‘Can you?’ She put her hand on the hard ridge, the thought of which had so frightened her, and he gasped. She had the power to make Ashe groan, to arch into her hand as though begging her. If he could give her pleasure with a touch, could she do the same for him?
‘Let me.’ Before Ashe could protest she tugged at the ties of his trousers, slid her hand inside. She had expected the hardness, the heat. She had not realised the skin would be soft, that it would be so sensitive that it seemed to grow as she closed her fingers around it.
She was clumsy, she knew that. Clumsy and shy, but not afraid of him, or of what she was doing. After a moment of resistance Ashe fell back on the bed and let her have her way with him. He moved into her hand, showing her the rhythm he needed, giving her the confidence that she was not hurting him and she could be firmer, bolder. He gasped, his body arched, he thrust hard into her circling fingers and then fell back on the bed as the heat flooded over her fingers.
Phyllida curled into his body, loving the total relaxation, the musky scent, the way the feel of him changed in her hand as his body calmed. After a minute his arm tightened around her and he pulled her close so he could kiss her. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, that must have shocked you,’ he murmured.
‘I liked it,’ she mumbled into his shirt front, too shy to meet his eyes. ‘Ashe, I think it might be all right after all. When we do it properly, I mean.’
