Love Once Again

by Joann Simon

  "Do you now." Mawson grinned. "Plannin' on gettin' hitched?"

  "I was talking about you, as well you know."

  "I don't believe in rushin' into anything."

  "True, a year's courtship is a bit hasty."

  "Ayuh. Been on my own for over thirty years. Pays to be a bit cautious."

  Christopher laughed outright. "Any more cautious, Mawson, and you will be saying your wedding vows in a white beard."

  "Don't know that's a bad idea either." But Mawson winked broadly.

  With Mawson's time so fully and happily occupied, Christopher looked to Robert Bayard on those evenings when he felt inclined to have a night on the town. Himself a bachelor, Bayard was more than happy to accommodate him, and the two frequently shared dinner or an evening of drinks at one of the businessmen's establishments in the city.

  Christopher's absorption in his growing business was his only outlet, and he had yet to seek out the company of a woman. Still, he was a virile and healthy male, and his abstinence had been an extended one. Though his pain at the loss of Jessica had diminished little, purely physical needs more and more frequently were forcing themselves into his awareness.

  On a warm evening in July, Christopher left his offices to meet Bayard in the dining rooms of Younger's Tavern on Pine Street. It was a gentlemen's restaurant and a popular meeting spot for the conclusion of business deals. That night the smoke-filled rooms were crowded, but Bayard, being a regular customer, had been ushered to a table in the far corner of the paneled interior. The two men had a pleasant dinner—cuts of juicy roast beef, new potatoes, and fresh vegetables from one of the up-island farms. Replete, they settled back to talk over a decanter of port. By the time the last of the wine was poured, both were very mellow, yet neither felt inclined to end the evening.

  "What do you say," Bayard suggested. "I had planned to conclude this evening at Madam Noir's. Why not join me?"

  Christopher smiled. He had heard of Madam Noir's, one of the more fashionable brothels in the city. There a man could enjoy a tumble between the sheets with one of a number of carefully chosen and beautiful young ladies; and should he desire, he might also enjoy musical entertainment, liquid refreshment, or a fine dinner. "Taking advantage of one of my weaker moments, Robert?"

  "Not at all. Have a nightcap with me. You will be under no obligation."

  Shrugging his assent, Christopher drained his glass. Why not? he decided, but by the time they had walked a few streets north and the night air had begun to clear his head, Christopher had second doubts about his decision. He was about to voice his change of mind and turn back toward his town house when they reached the discreet entrance of the establishment where a uniformed doorman stood to the side of the marble stoop, casting a critical eye over prospective customers. Apparently Bayard and Christopher passed inspection, for he bowed and held the door for them as they stepped inside. Christopher was impressed by the elegant taste exhibited in the furnishings of the front hall; this was not at all what he had expected. A fashionably though modestly dressed woman stepped out from the side of the hall and spoke in soft tones.

  "Good evening, gentlemen. May I take your hats? And what might we do for you tonight? A late dinner?"

  "No, " Bayard smiled. "The gold room I think, Matilde, for after-dinner drinks."

  "Very good. If you will follow me."

  She moved off down a short hall to the left, past a large candlelit room from which issued the sounds of low conversation over clinking china and silver; on to a second doorway, where she paused and opened the door to a long, rectangular room where couches and chairs were grouped cozily. The only lighting was from candles in wall sconces and in the chandelier above the center of the room.

  "Marie Jeanette will be singing later, gentlemen," their hostess informed them.

  "Very good," said Bayard.

  "Have a good evening." She moved silently away, and Bayard led Christopher forward.

  "By the fireplace here would be comfortable, don't you think, Dunlap?" He seated himself in one of the upholstered chairs, and Christopher took a seat on the couch.

  "Quite interesting, Robert. I admit to being pleasantly surprised."

  Bayard chuckled. "Wait until the evening progresses."

  On the low table before them were full decanters of French brandy and wine, silver boxes of Havana cigars, all hings intended for a gentleman's relaxation.

  "Brandy?" Bayard asked.

  Christopher nodded, continuing to survey the room and its few occupants. Seated here and there were several other well-dressed men, at their sides attractive women dressed to the height of fashion, their gowns of the finest cut and fabrics, suggestively flattering. There was quiet conversation, yet the candlelight gave the illusion of privacy. He was still bemusedly observing the other guests when two young women seemed to materialize from nowhere—an exotic brunette and a silvery haired blonde.

  The brunette spoke. "So, Robert, you are out on the town again. I am delighted I was free this evening."

  "Ah, Diedre," Bayard responded. "How could I long forsake the pleasures of your fair countenance. Come, have a seat. May I introduce a dear friend of mine, Christopher." The brunette, smiling, motioned to the young woman beside her. "And this is Catherine."

  The blonde acknowledged the gentlemen with a soft turning of her lips, her eyes clearly registering pleasure when they rested on Christopher. With a soft swishing of skirts, the women seated themselves, Diedre in the chair nearest Bayard, Catherine on the couch beside Christopher. Bayard poured each of the ladies a glass of wine.

  "You have chosen a good evening to join us," Diedre said pleasantly, apparently the more gregarious of the two.

  "The entertainment will be excellent." "So Matilde informed us."

  Christopher, listening to the conversation going on next to him, was very much aware of the woman seated next to him. Undeniably attractive, she had a lovely figure, clear skin, even features, and lovely deep-blue eyes. She leaned forward to take her glass of wine, and the gesture alluringly exhibited the deep cleavage between her creamy breasts.

  She looked up into his eyes.

  "Tell me, sir, have you been in New York long?" "Well over a year."

  "I wondered. I have never seen you here before." "No, I have not yet visited this establishment." "Welcome, then, and I hope you will enjoy yourself." Christopher's lips twitched. "I will endeavor to do so." The blonde smiled knowingly. "What is your line of business?"

  Their conversation continued easily. The ladies were well versed in politics and the arts, so the talk was intelligent and interesting to both men. In London circles Christopher had been exposed to similarly articulate courtesans, but because he hadn't expected to find their like in New York, he was intrigued and let himself be carried along by the pleasant atmosphere more easily than he might have otherwise. The scent of perfume drifted in the air, filling his nostrils. How long it had been since he'd smelled close at hand that luscious, female scent.

  He poured himself another brandy and sipped it slowly, enjoying the languorous mood the alcohol brought on. A small white hand tentatively touched his sleeve. He looked over to his companion's warmly suggestive eyes gazing up at him, silently seeking. Without volition his gaze drifted lower to her decolletage, the pearly mounds rising and falling with each breath she took, forcing him to remember the feel of satiny skin, the delightful pleasures of a woman's curves in his arms. As she slid her body closer against his on the couch, cuddling into the circle of his arm, the enticing warmth of her seemed to burn through the layers of his clothing. He felt himself grow hard with a need he'd too long denied; a need that increased into urgency as she laid her hand on his thigh, then in a moment brushed her fingers along its length.

  His arm tightened about her shoulder. He felt her lips at his ear, heard her whisper: "Shall we?"

  He nodded, and without even saying good night to Bayard, who in any case was engrossed with the woman at his side, Christopher rose and followed her fr
om the room.

  Within minutes they were in an exotic bedroom, its main furnishing, a satin-draped bed, crying out to be used.

  The young woman—he didn't even remember her name-slid into his arms. She lifted her face, her lips full and moist. Hungrily he met her lips with his own as she pressed and slowly moved her hips against his now throbbing loins. Her fingers expertly slid beneath his jacket and pushed it off his broad shoulders; then she loosened his neckcloth, the buttons of his shirt.

  "What a handsome man you are," she sighed, discarding the shirt, her hands returning to caress his bare flesh, rubbing through the mat of hair on his chest, over his shoulders and down his muscled back, around again to his abdomen, her fingers teasing beneath the waistband of his breeches, unfastening them . . . slowly caressing lower, all around his throbbing manhood, but never touching it.

  He groaned in an agony of delight, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of her gown, tearing them in his haste, pulling the flimsy material off her shoulders, down to her waist, freeing her swollen breasts. He grabbed impatiently at the soft flesh, his thumbs rubbing over the nipples until they stood hard and erect.

  "Slowly," she whispered, catching his hands. "Let me take care of you. It will bring you more pleasure that way."

  Bringing her breasts up against his chest, she eased her hands around to the small of his back and pressed his breeches down over his buttocks. He shivered at the sensation of her touch on his flesh, down the back of his thighs.

  Coaxing him back to a seat on the edge of the bed, she knelt before him and quickly pulled off his shoes, then reached her hands up to draw his breeches the rest of the way off his legs, slowly, her fingertips skimming his thighs and calves.

  She stood to undo the last fastening of her gown so that it slithered off her hips and dropped to the floor, leaving her smoothly curvaceous body glowing like ivory in the candlelight.

  She stepped toward him, and he tried to reach for her; but she motioned him back and again knelt before him, between his thighs. Her lips and tongue began a deliciously leisured ascent over his tingling leg muscles, along his sensitive inner thighs . . . teasing closer and closer to his manhood . . . her tongue finally flicking with tiny strokes at his taut and burning member until he was moaning, his hands clenching the edge of the mattress. And still she wouldn't let him reach for her, as she lifted her head and instead nestled the soft silk of her breasts against his loins; tantalizingly she eased their fullness up and down along either side of his staff.

  Christopher could take no more. With a strength born of urgency, he reached down and drew her up, pressed her down against the satin bedcovers. Yet even in the throes of his passion, unbidden, the image of Jessica flashed before his eyes. His Jessica . . . his beloved Jessica! Quickly he covered her waiting form with his aching one; thrust into the warmth of her, deep and hard, pressing for the contact he craved, again and again, in growing ecstasy, until he felt his passion exploding in dizzying waves; until, spent and drained, he lay inert upon her.

  For several moments he didn't move. He was conscious of her hands soothing the muscles of his back, but only vaguely. The release of his physical need, so long contained, had left him exhausted. Slowly he rolled to his side. Dazedly focusing on her smiling lips, he looked down at the woman to whom he'd just made love, and felt a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach. This was a stranger. The image of Jessica that had burned itself into his mind had been no more than that—an image . . . a fantasy. He shook his head and lifted himself on his elbow.

  "What is the matter?" the young woman asked, puzzled. "You look as though you have seen a ghost."

  "Perhaps I have," he said, throwing his feet over the side of the bed. God knows, this wasn't the first time in his life he'd relieved his needs on a doxy, high-class one though this woman was. In England, mistresses had been an accepted part of a well-to-do man's life. But this was the first woman he'd made love to . ... even been tempted to make love to . . . since Jessica. For some reason the realization frightened him; made him understand, with a stab, just how irrevocably he'd lost her. Perhaps what sickened him most was that he'd thoroughly and completely enjoyed taking this woman as though he were a rutting animal. Not that he had ever felt there was any sin in enjoying sex—it was natural, healthful—but that he should have had to drink himself into oblivion, then vent his passion on the first woman he could get his hands on . . .

  He strode around the bed and reached for his breeches.

  The young woman sat up, alarmed by his actions. "Did I do something wrong? You're not satisfied?"

  He couldn't take his self-loathing out on her; she had done what was required of her . . . more than what was required. "No, you did nothing wrong. It is a personal matter. You were very generous, and I shall be generous, too." He reached for his billfold and extracted some notes, which he placed on the dresser top.

  "You don't have to do that. I expected nothing extra. You seem a fine man, and I enjoyed giving you pleasure."

  "And I thank you." Christopher hurried on with his dressing, tieing his white neckcloth with far less than its usual neatness. "Please do not blame yourself for my hasty departure." He shrugged into his jacket, adjusting it across his shoulders. "As I said, it, is a personal matter."

  "Will you come again?" Her voice was almost pleading.

  For the first time since he'd left the bed Christopher looked directly into her large, beseeching eyes. "I do not think so." Quickly he turned and, before she had a chance to say more, left the room.

  CHAPTER 8

  Though Christopher never again ventured into the establishment to which Bayard had introduced him, his social life was broadening through his business contacts. As word spread of a handsome, unattached gentleman rising rapidly in the ranks of city businessmen, hostesses were only too anxious to include Christopher on their guest lists.

  His inborn charm and his polish, to say nothing of looks that set women's hearts to palpitating, soon had half the female population of social New York in thrall.

  Although the entertainments were diverting, his main purpose in attending the functions was to cement business ties. Christopher's heart remained entirely his own. Even as he swirled around a dance floor, partnering an attractive young woman in the steps of the newly popular waltz, he remained unmoved, immune to her charms. No woman, even the cleverest, sparked the fire in him that Jessica had aroused without even trying. His disquieting reaction to his sexual encounter at Madam Noir's led him to tread carefully; still, he realized that many other men had suffered losses as great as his and had yet gone on to build new and lasting relationships.

  Jessica was surely lost to him. Why did he have no desire to start again—to at least try to find some happiness with another woman? Was it that the old vein of cynicism that had once gripped him in London was again taking hold?

  Before Jessica, he had believed that true happiness was impossible to find, a state of mind that had no basis in reality. If he ever did form another attachment with a woman, it would be purely a matter of convenience.

  Christopher's polite aloofness only incited women's interest all the more. Amused by the flirtatious overtures directed his way, he was careful to let no one young woman take his courteous responses too much to heart. The majority of young, gently bred ingenues were too shy to press themselves on him, and the more sophisticated women he could handle easily, experienced as these women were in the subtleties of social repartee.

  Of course, occasionally there was an exception to the rule, as happened one evening at a dinner party at the Lennox home on State Street. Christopher had made the acquaintance of one particular young woman previously at a large party a few days earlier, and because he had found her light on her feet, he had asked her up for two dances during the course of the evening. He'd thought nothing of it at the time; he had paid her no special attention while they were dancing except to ask the usual polite questions. In his estimation she was a child, if more outgoing than the regular ingen
ue.

  As he entered the Lennox drawing room that evening he would have had to be blind not to notice the young woman looking up with excited interest. He shrugged it off, and later, as he circulated the room, paused for a moment before her chair to say good evening.

  The young lady dimpled prettily. "A much more delightful one since you have joined our company, sir." "You flatter me."She giggled, then lowered her voice to a more intimate tone. "Mama said it was very forward of me to accept two dances with you last we met, but I might be forgiven with such a fine gentleman as yourself."

  In a chair behind, Christopher could see the young woman's mother smiling; actually, he was sure, gloating. He had been this route before in London, and groaned inwardly. "It is your charm, ma'am, the gentlemen are seeking, and I am being heartless in denying the others your company."

  "No, never," she blushed. "You tease me, sir, and you are far too modest. You are quite the handsomest and most admirable man I have met."

  "Do you think so?" Desperately glancing up from her enraptured face, Christopher sought for an avenue of escape; found it across the room. "Ah, there is my good friend, Bayard. I must have a word with him. I know you will excuse me.""Oh, most certainly. I have heard of the importance of your business interests."

  Bowing quickly over her hand, he strode away, but his relief was short-lived when he learned, as the company adjourned to the dining room, that he was to be seated beside the same young woman at dinner.

  She chattered unceasingly as they took their seats, undismayed by his coolly noncommittal remarks. By the time they were midway through the first course, Christopher would happily have gagged her with his napkin. He prayed for some interruption to divert her single-minded onslaught into the details of his personal affairs.

  "But surely, sir, you must have led an adventurous life," she persisted eagerly, "only so recently in New York and already your fortune made."

  He glanced down into her innocent blue eyes. "It is not common knowledge, but if you promise not to breathe a word ..."