"Naturally," Jon said. The smile that followed could only be described as Machiavellian.
Outside, Jon took Sarah's hand and they crossed the road and followed a path that led to the water. They negotiated a narrow path that cut between beach grass as it descended toward the water, then strolled along a narrow sandy beach, edged in wave-washed rocks, and hidden from view of the road and the cottage by an embankment bordered by low wind-twisted evergreens and thick underbrush. A short distance away, Jon pulled Sarah into his arms and kissed her. It wasn't a long, lingering kiss as she had expected, but a quick, playful one. Then he hiked his leg up on a drift log and tugged off one boot, then the other.
Sarah looked at him with a start. "What are you doing?" she asked.
He glanced at her, and replied, "Removing my boots so I can cool my feet in the water."
Sarah stared in uncertain silence as he stripped off his socks. She could not remember ever seeing a man's naked feet so close, not that she was shocked. She'd just never seen male feet... exposed like that. She'd also never thought of a man's feet as being sensual. But there was something sensual about Jon's. They were broad and sinewy, the skin on them surprisingly pale, almost translucent, the top of each toe bearing a little dusting of dark hair.
Jon wiggled his toes, and when she looked up, she knew he'd seen her staring. He gave her a wicked smile. "Aren't you going to join me?" When she made no motion to remove her own shoes, he said, "You're not getting timid now, are you? You're the one who announced that women should be able to display their limbs just as men. Well, I'm displaying mine. Are you beginning to question your own doctrine?"
"Of course not," Sarah snapped. She sat on the drift log and removed her shoes, then looked up at Jon and waited for him to turn his back.
He raised his hands in acquiescence. "Right. I know the rules." He turned away from her and said, "It's not as if I haven't seen your feet before, or thought about them. Or your beautiful legs... about how slender and white they are, and how splendidly narrow your lovely ankles are. Ah, and those dainty little toes. Very suckable."
"If you don't stop talking like that I shall go back to the house," Sarah said.
"I can't control the nature of my thoughts," Jon replied. "And right now they seemed focused on your suckable toes." He sighed, then added in a pitiful voice that rang of mocking amusement, "It's difficult being a slave. But I suppose it can have its rewards... at times."
When Sarah spoke again, her voice, now muffled by the sound of the surf, came from the direction of the water. "You may turn now," she called out.
Jon glanced around to find her wading ankle deep in the surf, her mass of golden-red hair snapping in the breeze, her skirt raised just enough to clear the water. He crossed the beach in several long strides and marched into the water after her. Seeing him coming, she hiked up her skirt further and scampered away, water splashing around her legs as she ran. Cupping his hand, he shot a spray of water at her. She let out a little yelp, lifted her skirt to her knees, and rushed through the surf where it lapped against the shore. Jon raced after her and scooped her up in his arms. "So you think you can get away from me," he said, bundling her against his broad chest and carrying her out of the water.
Sarah clasped her arms around his neck. "You’re mad, you know. Really quite mad."
"You're right," Jon said, eyeing her smooth calves as the wind billowed her skirt, whipping it above her knees. "Mad about you." He carried her to the base of a steep embankment which rose high, shielding the beach from the road above, and set her down on a drift log. "And being mad," he said, "I have worked up a lather." With one tug he'd pulled his shirt over his head, the gesture leaving him standing bare-chested in front of her, then pulled her into his arms.
Sarah braced her hand against his bare chest and tipped her head back, allowing him to plant a kiss on the hollow of her throat. Then he made his way up, kissing the curve of her chin, and one eyelid, then the other. "Your skin is as soft as the underside of a dove's wing," he said.
Sarah suddenly start giggling.
He pursed his lips. "I can see that my efforts at romancing you with poetic nothings are falling on deaf ears."
"No," Sarah said, laughter in her voice. "It's just that it occurred to me that the underside of a dove's wing would be its... wingpit."
"Umm... well, perhaps that's not very romantic. I'll use a more direct approach." Jon trailed kisses down her neck while also unfastening her bodice, and she made no move to stop him. She couldn't. It was all she could do to remain standing. He continued down until the top of her lacy chemise was exposed to his view. Pulling her chemise down, he exposed her breast, then took a firm, puckered nub into his mouth and began to suckle.
Moans reverberated in Sarah's throat as tremors of delight rippled through her, intensifying, making her want something urgently and desperately, yet not knowing what it was. Then Jon kissed her lips, not a light, playful kiss as before, but a hard, demanding kiss while stroking her tongue with his, making her dizzy and confused and aching with need. Their lips still clinging, he edged her down to the mossy embankment alongside the beach, and when they were stretched out together, he kissed the side of her neck and across her breasts, while his hand curved around her ankle and began slowly pushing her skirt up to expose her calf.
The cool air on Sarah's damp leg had a sobering effect.
Her eyelids drifted open, but she made no move to push Jon's hand from her leg, transfixed by the contrast between her white flesh and his sun-bronzed hand as it moved leisurely up and down in long, languid strokes. "You have a beautiful leg," he said, pushing her skirt higher, until her knee was exposed to his view. With the tip of his finger, he drew lazy swirls around her knee cap, while saying, "I want to see all of you, every delectable inch." His hand continued upward, drawing her skirt with it, until the entire length of her leg was exposed to his view...
He bent over and started kissing his way up her leg, starting at her calf and moving up. Sarah's heart began to hammer, perspiration dampened her brow, and a knot twisted in her stomach as the harsh onrush of reality reminded her of exactly what she was allowing Jon to do, and where she was allowing him to do it. As he placed a kiss on her thigh, she braced her hand on his head to stop him, and said, almost breathless. "Please stop."
She looked around, having the horrible feeling that someone was watching, someone with evil eyes that held a hideous delight in what they saw. Pushing his head away, she said, "You should not have done that here. Someone could be watching."
"There was no one around when we came down here," Jon said, "and we're well hidden behind rocks and brush, but perhaps you're right." He pulled the hem of her skirt down to cover her legs, then nudged her hands aside as she attempted to gather the ties of her chemise, and said, "I'm the one who took you apart, so I'll be the one to put you together." As he began fastening the ties, he said, "I propose we send Mandi to town."
Sarah looked at him, puzzled. "For what?" Then her face flushed hot with the sudden realization that she had not chastised Jon for what he'd been doing, but rather for where she was allowing him to do it. The sharp glint in his eyes told her that he’d picked up on her error and would continue where they’d left off the first chance they were alone.
He would do it, that is, unless she put a stop to things.
Shoving his hands away, she said, "I am perfectly capable of dressing myself," then went about the task of fastening her bodice with shaky fingers. "And I don't want you doing what you did again." She closed her blouse, then went to retrieve her shoes.
Jon followed, commenting pragmatically, "What I was doing was awakening the sensual woman inside so you could learn the true pleasures to be found in your own body."
Sarah's face flushed. "I don't want you talking like that either." She quickened her pace, her bare feet kicking up sand as she marched in determination toward her shoes.
"You're the one who said that a woman soon falls into a state of listlessness and i
nsipidity if she's without employment suitable to maintain health and happiness and satisfy her mind and body. Had you ever considered that perhaps it's not the lack of suitable employment that makes a woman feel unsatisfied, but the lack of something much more basic?"
Sarah's cheeks burned. "That's ridiculous."
"What are you afraid of?" Jon asked, lengthening his strides. "Discovering that you have secret places that might awaken and become dependent on a man for pleasure? That you might even start to lust after that pleasure?"
"That is disgusting," Sarah snapped. I will never lust after a man. Nor will I ever be dependent on one for... what you said."
"I didn't say it. But it's called—"
"Stop!" Sarah covered her ears. When she knew Jon wouldn't say the forbidden word, she sat on the drift log and snatched her silk stocking from her shoe, then waited for Jon to turn.
Jon planted his hands on his hips. "No, Miss Ashley, I will not turn around. Either put on your stockings while I watch, or return to the cottage on naked feet. Your choice."
Hot tears of fury stung Sarah's eyes. But even as Jon angered her, the thrill of him watching was causing strange sensations between her legs. Turning slightly, she lifted her skirt and rolled one silk stocking up her bare leg, her entire body feeling as if on fire as his gaze burned into her. She reached for her other stocking. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, without looking up.
"Because you're lying to yourself. Because you refuse to acknowledge your own needs. Because you're a witless little ninnyhammer," Jon said. "Take your pick."
"I see," Sarah mused. "You didn't get your way with me so you're angry. I suggest you go to one of those dance halls Mr. De Cosmos talked about and find a woman to take care of your problem because this ninnyhammer has no intention of doing so. In fact, I'd like you to leave."
To Sarah's surprise, Jon yanked on his socks, pulled on his boots, shrugged into his shirt, and left her standing on the beach staring after him.
Damned, single-minded man!
With several sharp jerks, she shook the sand from her skirt and headed back to the cottage, furious at Jon for twisting everything she said into something sexual, and enraged with herself for allowing him to arouse in her an ache she couldn't seem to quell. His little male tantrum accomplished one thing, however. From now on, she'd find it infinitely easier to maintain her distance. It was obvious he wanted her for only one reason, and that reason was not to become his wife. Not that she would ever consider such a preposterous idea. Being any man's wife was inconceivable. Unthinkable. At least it seemed unthinkable... at the moment...
After she'd finished putting herself together, and was certain there was nothing about her dress that hinted of having a dalliance with Jon, she made her way back up the beach and negotiated the narrow trail up the embankment, then crossed the road, surprised to find Mandi standing on the porch. On seeing the distraught look on Mandi's face, she assumed it was because Mandi saw Jon marching off in a huff. Then she realized it was something much more serious. "What's wrong?" she asked.
Mandi handed her what appeared to be a hastily-scrawled note. "Ah found this sittin' on the porch under this rock," she said, a fist-size rock in her hand.
Sarah took the note, which was hastily written in pencil, and read: Hope you enjoyed your tryst on the beach with the governor. Iknow Mr. De Cosmos will find it of interest. H and T.
"It's from Hollis and Tyler. They're still here," Sarah said, almost in a whisper. Her stomach knotted, her face burned as if on fire, and she felt suddenly light-headed with the thought of what Hollis and Tyler had witnessed. If she would allow Jon to do the things he had while on a beach, of course they'd assume the worse. Hot tears of shame welled. She crumbled the note, and said in a wavering voice, "They saw me on the beach with Jon."
Mandi took her arm and guided her into the house. "It'll be all right," she said. "There's nothing you and the guv'nor could've done on the beach that would make no mind no how. So don't fret. Besides, from the way the guv'nor went racin' off on his horse, Ah 'spect he didn't even get a kiss. And even if he did, there ain't no one who cares about a little kiss."
"No... no one would care about a little kiss," Sarah said, staring out the window as the vacant road and the surf beyond. If only it had been just that. A little kiss.
Mandi took her by the arm and tugged her from the window. "It don't do no good to cry over spilt milk so stop frettin' and let's gather what we need for tomorrow."
Sarah knew Mandi was right. She could only hope that Mr. de Cosmos would still be her ally after he heard the twisted story that she was certain Hollis would relay to him.
On the other hand, a detailed account of the actions of the governor having a tryst on the beach with a woman who professed to want to be independent of a man could be just what de Cosmos might what to use against Jon. Only time would tell.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The following day, Sarah and Mandi set up a table and arranged displays, launching Sarah Ashley's Fashions from the front corner of Brown's Domestic Dry Goods. Sarah's excitement on at last being able to display her garments was tempered by apprehension over what Hollis and Tyler would do next, and anger at Jon for stripping her of her self-respect and walking off in a huff, leaving her feeling empty and forlorn and consumed with the terrible loneliness that seemed to haunt her more frequently of late.
What was happening to her? She didn't want Jon to want her, yet she did. He didn't want her as a wife, yet the realization made her feel dissatisfied and yearning for something she couldn’t grasp. And she couldn't dismiss the indecent thoughts that kept invading her mind, until she burned with a desire she didn’t want to recognize. Worse, she wanted him to do all the things he'd done, again... and again... And she was too ashamed to even tell her diary.
The next several days were spent at Wellington Brown’s store, where she and Mandi arranged and rearranged the display table to best exhibit the handbills, fabric swatches and pattern designs. Two garment racks featured a shirtwaister and a bloomer costume of the finest silk and embroidery work, an outfit intended to draw both attention, and appreciation. The final touch was a beautifully-made, wooden placard inscribed with the words Sarah Ashley's Fashions, which Wellington Brown presented to them--though Sarah knew he’d done it to impress Mandi--and which they placed in the front window near the entry door to the shop.
***
Word of the enterprise spread quickly, and several days later a small group of women, organized by Mary Letitia Windemere, waited anxiously for the store to open. When nine o'clock struck, Wellington Brown unlocked the door and stepped out of the path of the eager women.
Mary Letitia was the first to enter. With a select group of women trailing behind, she walked up to the table and eyed the bloomer costume on display, taking care to focus on the costume, not the woman with the copper-gold hair sitting behind the table. She ran her hand over the ceil-blue, poult-de-soie tunic and traced a finger over the fine silk embroidery. It wasn't anything like she'd expected. It was really quite lovely, at least the fabric and embroidery work was. The costume itself was most unconventional. Indeed, quite garish. But then, the woman behind the table was obviously not a member of Anglo-Saxon aristocracy. She'd arrived in Victoria in a great gale of typically middle-class American boorishness.
Not to seem too eager, Mary Letitia let her gaze pass quickly over the woman, taking care not to ogle, but pausing just long enough to meet a pair of large green eyes. So this was Miss Sarah Ashley. Also not what she'd expected. The woman was far more attractive than she’d imagined. Perhaps even... beautiful, which bothered her greatly. But then, Jon had once told her she was beautiful. And he would again, she vowed.
Was Jon truly smitten by this woman? Rumors were that he was. But seeing the woman in person, Mary Letitia seriously doubted that anything would come of it. She was far below Jon's station, destined to be only a paramour. Or perhaps she already was, if there was any truth to the gossip circulating. Jon woul
d, after all, only take a gently bred woman for a wife, which Miss Sarah Ashley was most definitely not. A gently-bred woman wouldn't make a spectacle of herself by sitting behind a cheap little table, peddling clothes. Giving the woman a cordial nod, Mary Letitia asked, "When would a person wear such attire?"
Sarah Ashley's enthusiastic smile was really quite dazzling. "The costume can be worn for playing croquet and all manner of lawn games," she said. "It's also appropriate for strolling on the beach. And I predict that bloomers will soon be worn with a fitted jacket as part of the riding habit, so women can ride astride like men."
Soft murmurings rustled through the group.
Although mortified at the thought of such a suggestion as riding spread-legged on a horse, Mary Letitia resolved to maintain a friendly, pleasant facade. It really wasn't too difficult now. Miss Ashley was clearly a temporary diversion for Jon. Before long, he'd come to his senses, and when he did, she resolved to be there for him. After all, the silly little spat that served to drive the two of them apart would by then be forgotten.
"Please," Sarah Ashley said, glancing around, "help yourselves to the handbills. As you will note, bloomers are convenient and comfortable, especially as a working dress. They can be worn inside boots that rise above the ankle, they can be trimmed in fur or fancifully embroidered at the cuffs, or they can hang loose about the ankles."
Mary Letitia read the copy and studied the picture on the handbill, noting that the advertising circular resembled the tawdry thing that had appeared in The Colonist. Actually, it wasn't so much tawdry as it was tasteless, she decided. The rest of the copy was sheer nonsense. Imagine, presenting to the women of Victoria such twaddle as wanting to vote or hold political office. How utterly ludicrous. She watched with mocking curiosity as Sarah Ashley dragged a disreputable-looking trunk from under the table.
"I also have some sample bloomers that I’d be willing to give out free of charge to anyone interested in wearing them," the Ashley woman said, lifting the scuffed lid.
Come Be My Love Page 14
