A dozen times he'd almost gone to her room in the dead of night. Her exotic beauty lured him like the moon lured a lunar tide. The one taste he'd had merely whetted his appetite so that each night he felt more ravenous than the last. He was in one hell of a state. He'd tried easing his hunger with other women, but soon knew the only cure for what ailed him was Kitty ... Kitty!
Perhaps it was for the best that she was going back north.
At least he'd be able to concentrate on business again. But he felt so reluctant about letting her go. He wanted her back at Half-Moon Street
as his exclusive property, but she pretended she'd have none of him and he'd be damned if he'd go down on his knees and beg her!
On the other side of the house Kitty lay awake thinking of Patrick O'Reilly. In spite of his wickedness he was the only man she would ever want. If he'd ask her to marry him, she'd say yes in a flash, but fat bloody chance there was of that. He just wanted her for his fancy piece and she was relieved she was leaving for Bolton before she gave in to temptation.
She dashed a tear away before it dared to form and wrapped her arms about her aching breasts. Then she sighed and gave herself up to her dreams, which with any luck would fly her to Patrick's waiting arms.
On the station platform Kitty was rather nervous of the huge iron monster, chugging out clouds of dirty smoke, ashes and cinders. The noise was a clattering assault on the eardrums and everything was confusion and disorder as baggage was loaded before the passengers. Kitty carried a lap robe for over O'Reilly's knees and a wicker lunch basket of food. Suddenly a cinder blew into her eye and she let out a little scream and tried to rub it away.
"Don't do that," Patrick commanded. He took out a white linen handkerchief and lifted her face without so much as a by-your-leave and extracted the foreign body. The moment he touched her, Kitty began to tremble. As he looked into her eyes, she blushed a deep pink and lowered her eyelashes. "Look at me," he ordered. Her eyelashes fluttered upward momentarily and he said, low, "Do you forgive me?"
She caught her lip between her teeth but could not speak, so she shook her head vehemently. "To hell with you then!" he said savagely.
Soon the dirty buildings fell away and they were traveling through green hills and then fields of golden ripe wheat, dotted with red poppies. Fanners were haymaking and the scenes were so peaceful that Kitty fell into a sort of daydream. In a way she had hated to leave the excitement of London, and she hadn't enjoyed saying her farewells to the girls last night. Barbara, bless her, almost had been in tears. Julia was so full of the wedding, of course, she could think of nothing else. Kitty, realizing the next time she saw Julia, she would be a married woman, felt it her duty to forewarn her of what to expect from Jeffrey. She broached the subject by asking, "Julia, aren't you just a little bit afraid of marriage?"
"Afraid? Of course not," she said and laughed. "I can't wait. Married women have much more freedom, you know."
"I suppose so, but you will be expected to share your husband's bed," persisted Kitty.
"Oh, no, I shall insist on my own bedroom. Oh! I know what you're hinting at-the intimacy business," laughed Julia.
"Oh, Julia, don't laugh. It will shock you so deeply. You have no idea what it's like to be with a man that way."
"Don't I?" Julia arched her brows. "What quaint notions you carry around in that head of yours, Kitty!"
She was brought abruptly back to the present as Jonathan O'Reilly shook her arm for the second time.
"Yer off somewhere wool-gathering, lass. Be a good girl and open that lunch basket and let's see if we've got 'owt worth eating, eh?"
There was some cold chicken and some small jars of calves' jelly for invalids. A dozen small red tomatoes had been carefully packed to keep them separate from the russet apples.
"What muck!" Jonathan complained. He brought out his wallet and handed some money to Terry. "Here's a quid, lad. At the next station go and get us some pork pies and a bottle of hock."
Kitty almost protested, then realized that he would have his way no matter who put forth objections. However, an hour after he had partaken of the heavy pork pie, he was rolling about with indigestion.
Kitty was very anxious for him. "Mr. O'Reilly, you don't think you are having another stroke, do you?"
"Nay, lass, it's the wind. Next stop get me some peppermints. Ask for Mint Imperials; they should do the trick. I'm often plagued with wind. You know, life's funny-when I was a little lad I went hungry many a time, and now that I can afford anything I like, it doesn't like me. By gum, I'm feeling poorly."
By the time the little party wound its way to Hey House, all three were suffering from exhaustion. Terrance soon made himself scarce and after Mrs. Thomson helped Kitty get O'Reilly to bed, Mrs. Thomson took her into the kitchen, where a bright coal fire blazed.
"Take a load off yer feet, child, and I'll get you a cup of tea. If himself rings in the next half hour, you just ignore him. He can be a mithering old devil"
"Oh, Mrs. Thomson, I'm glad I'm back," said Kitty helplessly.
"They say that there London just seethes with vice. It's nothing but a den of iniquity. Did anything happen to you out of the ordinary?"
Kitty looked at the bright eyes, avid for a juicy tidbit. She said slowly, "Just one thing: I stopped being a little girl."
Chapter 8
October 1 was a cool, clear day. The wedding went off without any hitches until the reception was well under way. Julia followed Patrick from the crowded salon into the library, where they would be alone.
"My God, Patrick, how could you keep it from me that Sir Charles Drago is a widower, and here in London again? Do you realize when his father kicks the bucket, he'll be the Duke of Manchester? Just think, I could have been a duchess! You made me settle for a viscount," she accused.
"I ought to take my riding crop to you, you mercenary little bitch! How can you say such things when you've just exchanged vows? By God, I wouldn't wish you on a fine man like Charles; he deserves better. Have you taken the trouble to thank him for that magnificent set of Wedgwood china? Thank God I don't have the managing of you anymore. Damned women are all alike--want your cake and eat it too!"
"Well, there's no need to be offensive to me, Patrick. I swear, I think you must be foxed," she hissed as she swept from the room.
Patrick sought out his friend in the crowd. "Society weddings are all alike, dead boring."
Charles finished off his drink and set the glass aside. "I'm just back from Drago Castle. Things are bad in Ireland, Patrick. "
"I know. Father shipped all our people to Lancashire to work in the mills. Not a very rosy future, but better than dying in the streets."
"County Armagh is very bad. Of course, we've a lot more people than you, but they're leaving in droves. They clustered about me thick as flies for news of the West Indies. I've advised any who can beg, borrow or steal passage to go. Some of them are willing to indenture themselves for years in lieu of passage. It fair breaks my heart to see them leave their native sod. It's hard work on a plantation, but there's plenty to eat and they'll never be cold again."
"Charles, you are depressed. After we get rid of the happy couple, let's go along to Madam Cora's and sample some of her soiled doves."
Charles would rather have died than admit to Patrick that he hadn't been able to perform with a woman for over a year now. He knew it was from the dissipation of life in the tropics. Too much liquor; too many native women. Overindulgence had rendered him impotent, but he said quickly, "Delightful idea! What could be better than good music, good food, good wine and a bad girl?"
In the early hours of the morning, Jeffrey lay awake with his hands behind his head. Despite the maidenly modesty Julia had displayed, he knew that he hadn't been the first. She had enjoyed it just a little too much for that. It was an age of complicated standards, where one type of behavior was accepted from men, but the female population was sharply divided into two groups. Bad girls were expected to be lustful,
but good girls weren't supposed to know anything about sex whatsoever. In polite society, trousers were called inexpressible, underwear was referred to as unmentionables and legs were whispered of as limbs. It was an age of hypocrisy where even piano legs were covered. Thus it was a shock to Jeffrey to doubt his wife's chastity. A quiet and prudent man, he decided some things were better left unsaid. But he also decided he would never give her the opportunity to be unfaithful to him. He would get her with child immediately, which would give him the upper hand by putting her at a physical disadvantage. He began to feel better. After all, there were advantages besides her money. Having a responsive, passionate woman in bed with you, especially when that woman was your wife, was a thing to be desired. He reached over and ran his hand possessively down her back and over her buttocks. She roused from sleep, turned toward him and opened up to him eagerly.
Jonathan O'Reilly did not consult his doctor in Bolton. After spending the first day home in bed, he arose as usual the second day and went to the mill.
Kitty seized the chance to go visit her grandfather. She took her tarot cards so he could give her a reading. She was too superstitious to read for herself.
"What burden is weighing your shoulders down, lass? Unload it."
Kitty, relieved to have a sympathetic ear, blurted, "I was seduced . . . against my will!"
Her grandfather looked at her keenly. "By the father, or the son?" he asked shrewdly.
"Patrick John Francis O'Reilly," she whispered.
He nodded, "Good. Better you should have your first experience with a young stallion like that."
"My God, men are all alike. You all stick together!" she shouted wildly.
"Gently now, little one. Young men are virile; it's a fire in the blood. They lose control once they're teased and aroused."
"I didn't tease and arouse him!" she said indignantly. "You were born with the instinct. You fan your great lashes and they sweep across your cheeks, then you flutter them upward and smile, so a man's heart turns over in his breast. Your sharp, little white teeth show between your parted lips, then the tip of that pink tongue darts out so a man would die just to put his mouth on yours. You sigh so deeply your titties swell over the neckline of your gown and your black silk curls bounce about your shoulders so a man's fingers can't resist the impulse to play with them. You are too tempting for any man with red blood in his veins."
Kitty was speechless. Was this the picture she presented to the world? He was exaggerating, like every Irishman who ever drew breath, but only a little, she finally had to admit.
"So there's no use crying over spilled milk. Is he going to set you up?"
"I don't want to be his mistress. I hate making love! But oh, I wish he would marry me." Her own words shocked her, for she had not realized until this very moment that she still loved him in spite of everything. When a man entered a woman's body, he penetrated her soul and left behind a trace of himself that could never be completely erased.
"Be sensible, Kitty!" He spoke sternly for the first time.
"Patrick couldn't marry you if it were his dearest heart's desire. A man in his position has a responsibility to his family to marry well. He's related to the nobility through Julia's marriage now. Surely you wouldn't expect him to sacrifice himself for a Gypsy wench who serves in his house as a scullery maid?"
"Don't be so brutal," cried Kitty, her face white with pain.
"Life is brutal, Kitty. We have happy moments and happy hours, but not happy lives. Come to terms with it, learn to bend with the wind or be broken by it," he said quietly. "If you dislike being intimate with a man, choose someone older. Older men aren't filled with the burning lust that plagues young men. Choose a man who will not be demanding in bed and before long you will be so unsatisfied you will crave a man with vigor."
"Will you read the cards for me?" she asked.
"I'll do the Celtic cross." He began to turn over the cards, speaking as he laid them out.
"Queen of swords-very dark coloring-many clouds and storm warnings, nothing will come to her easily.
"King of pentacles--self-made man, king of all he surveys, an authority figure, one who won't be managed by a woman."
He turned the third card. "The Lovers-but alas, it's reversed. Means unrequited love, lovers' quarrel, breakup, separation."
He turned the fourth. "The Star-idealism of the young, wishing on a star."
He turned the fifth card. "The fool-you have a choice in life-no matter which path you choose, there lies your destiny; learn by your mistakes.
"The magician-symbolizes the four elements: earth, air, fire and water. Your destiny will include all four.
"Death…"
"Stop! I don't want to hear any more," cried Kitty.
He gestured to her to be quiet as he peered intently at the cards. "It could mean a physical death, but also that things get worse before they get better. Always remember, Kitty, death is followed by resurrection."
Kitty looked dismayed. "I shouldn't have bothered. I only wanted to know about marriage."
He chuckled and took her palm. "You'll have at least three husbands; it says so right here."
She shook her head, still distressed but trying to smile.
"I've got to get back now. Take care of yourself, Grandada."
Jonathan O'Reilly fell into the habit of dining with Kitty every evening. Then they would play dominoes.
"How about half a crown on this next hand, lass?" said Jonathan, laughing. "But what will you put up?"
"Oh, I don't need to put up anything; I'm going to win!"
She was as good as her word and deftly pocketed the half crown.
"By gum, you're sharp. You've been in the knife drawer again. I'd like to see the man born who could outsmart you, Kitty. You're just like a tonic, lass." He beamed at her.
"You really have made a remarkable recovery. I can't get over it. It's as if there never was anything the matter with you," marveled Kitty.
"Very likely wasn't a stroke in the first place," scoffed Jonathan. "Doctors like to make you think you're sicker than you are, then they can stick you with a big bill. I wasn't born yesterday. There's not many as can put one over on me." He winked. "Like you, eh, Kitty?"
"Oh, you really were ill, Mr. O'Reilly. Your aura went the most ghastly shade of brown."
"My aura? What's that, lass?"
"Well, you know, it's the light that surrounds you. The color can tell all sorts of things about your health and your character. "
"That's just Gypsy hocus-pocus .. Surely you don't really believe in all that."
Kitty said with a laugh, "Don't tell me you aren't superstitious-you're always throwing salt over your shoulder when you spill it and you go around knocking on wood."
"You've caught me out," he said and smiled. "Tell me about this aura."
"Well, while you were ill it turned muddy brown, but now it's gone to a sort of pale orange shade, so you are a lot better. When you are in full health and running the mills and ordering everyone about, it glows a bright yellow. That shows you have a lot of energy. When you lose your temper, the edge becomes tinged with red."
"Me? Get angry? Never!" he protested. "Tell me: Does everyone have one of these auras?"
"Yes. Julia's is red and Barbara's is a lovely shade of blue."
"What's yours?" he asked.
"I've been told it's a pale violet," she said, and thought silently, and Patrick's is a deep, vibrant purple. She suggested, "Would you like me to read your palm for you?"
He offered his hand, palm up, fingers curled upward. "Right away I know you are careful with money. Your hand is cupped to keep what you already have. If you fling your hand open with the fingers spread, it means that money just runs through your fingers. Do you see the difference? You have a very square hand. That means you are practical with a good deal of common sense. Your palm is longer than your fingers, which shows you are a doer rather than a dreamer. You would have made a success out of any line of work you went
into. Your thumb is very strong and thick at the bottom. That means you like to be the boss. Your mound of Venus is very fleshy."
"Where's that?" he questioned.
"Here, this fat pad at the base of your thumb. That means you love luxury. You overindulge in food and other things. The tips of your fingers are a little blunt, which indicates that you are stubborn and would have your own way if it killed you." She laughed.
"Enough of my character. What about my fortune?" he prompted.
"You've already made your fortune, Mr. O'Reilly. As to your future, all I can tell you is the usual Gypsy hocus-pocus. You will meet a dark, mysterious stranger. You are going on a very long journey. You will be granted three wishes," she joked.
There was only one wish he was interested in. Kitty had been on his mind a lot lately. He wanted to obey his longings and give in to the physical impulse of fornicating with her, but he was fearful of getting a taste, then having the sweets withdrawn, to leave him starving. She'd be off with the first rich young blade who propositioned her. What did he have to bind her to him? "Bugger it, I'll ask her to wed me," he decided. "My children will play hell when they find out," he thought, and his face lit up with anticipation at the thought of the scenes they would create. He didn't want a life of furtive sex, hurried gropings in the dark and creaking floorboards to alert the servants. No, by God, he wanted to be able to pull her onto his knees and fondle her in front of everyone if he so fancied. After all, how many years did he have left? He was going to throw his cap over the windmill. They'd say he was in his dotage, but let them! Meanwhile he'd be enjoying that silken little wench.
The next day he put up the mills for sale. Bugger it all, he would retire! At dinnertime he could contain himself no longer. "You have it within your power to make an old man very happy, Kitty. Will you wed me, lass?"
Enticed Page 9
