Passion and Pride (A Historical Romance)

by Amelia Nolan

  The full act of penetration seemed to go on forever, he was so long. And thick. She had forgotten how lovely he felt, how completely he filled her, how perfectly his body fit inside her own.

  She had almost completely taken him inside her when the first waves of ecstasy racked her body. She breathed harder and deeper as she rocked back and forth, rotating her hips, feeling the joy of being totally and completely filled up as waves of pleasure shimmered through her back, her belly, her thighs, and her sex.

  She eased up higher and angled herself so that the soft, pliant head of his shaft pressed against the most pleasurable parts within her. When Blake had made love to her in England, he had done so many things right, and she was so inexperienced, that she had not know exactly what it was that he was doing right. Only in the intervening years had she discovered enough about her body to determine what gave her the greatest pleasure – and now she was determined to do whatever the hell she wanted.

  His shaft was only several inches inside of her when she began rocking faster and faster, hitting the spot inside her that made her lose control the fastest. After only a minute she felt another crashing wave of pleasure, this one even more intense than the first. As her legs trembled, she plunged deeper on his shaft and gasped as his girth filled her again. She began to grind her hips, loving the overwhelming sense of fullness. She had also forgotten how deeply he could go inside her, a sensation she had not had since the last time they made love.

  Finally she allowed his hands to rove over her body. New delights added to her euphoria as he caressed her chest, lightly rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger until they were hard as his manhood. He began to grip her breasts more firmly, cupping and squeezing them in his palms, and his own raging desire for her body drove her to even greater heights.

  She arched her upper body over his face, allowing her breasts to dangle tantalizing before him. He leaned forward hungrily and sucked first on one, then the other. A thrill shot straight from his lips, down her spine and deep inside her belly.

  She took one of his fingers and put it all the way in her mouth, wetting it, sliding it in and out of her lips in the same rhythm as she slid up and down on his manhood. He was penetrating her twice over. Actually, she was enveloping him, swallowing him, twice over. She loved feeling the length of his finger across her tongue, the tip of his finger stroking and tickling the roof of her mouth, even as she plunged his massive prick deeper within her.

  He began to breathe faster.

  She stopped moving.

  “No,” she whispered huskily, and raked her nails across his bare chest. “Not yet.”

  He nodded, not entirely convincingly, and gritted his teeth as she began again.

  Within another minute, wave after wave of pleasure began to throb through her body, coming one on top of another, so quickly that she could not tell where one ended and the next began. She arched her hips so that she could feel the pressure of his shaft wherever she wanted it, wherever it felt the best from moment to moment, second to second, using him for her pleasure with no thought of his. After a few seconds she heard someone moaning, and realized it was her.

  It went on for so long, this slow, rhythmic, blissful dance, that she finally could not keep going. Exhausted, she looked down into his pleading face and realized he still had not come.

  “All right,” she whispered with a smile, “it’s your turn.”

  She was surprised when he reached up and, overcome with passion, pulled her down against his chest, his lips crushing against hers. One hand clasped her back and pressed her down against him, and the other hand cupped her right buttock.

  He raised his hips and began to thrust forcefully, violently, passionately inside her, double-time, triple-time, his flesh slapping against hers with the extreme urgency of his need.

  All the slow, sensual, languorous pleasures of the last half hour were forgotten as a different sensation – a frenzy, an abandon, an animal whirlwind of lust and need – built furiously inside her, spiraling out of control.

  It was his need – his utter, complete, desperate need for her – that overwhelmed her, that brought the pleasure inside her to a white-hot point of ecstasy. She cried out in a high-pitched wail as that glorious shaft filled her over and over and over again, taking her higher and higher and higher, until they were one body, one soul united by desire, her skin sliding wetly over his, his mouth pressed hard against hers, and all she could feel was him, against her, around her, deep deep inside her.

  She exploded. There was no other word for the joy that filled her to overflowing, that contracted every muscle, that spilled over into every pleasurable part of her body and spirit.

  He could not contain himself, and cried aloud with her. As her own agonies of bliss rocked her body, she could feel his member pulse within her, even larger than before, fast contractions, one after another, a lightning-quick series of pulses that only made her raptures more intense.

  Finally he slowed his thrusts within her, and she collapsed wearily on his chest. They lay like that for a moment, the dew of their bodies causing their skin to kiss, as tiny aftershocks of pleasure still jolted her body.

  Despite how long he had been inside her, his member did not go completely soft. It was not as thick, and the pressure was not as great, but she enjoyed feeling him inside her, knowing that they were still joined.

  After a moment she lifted her eyes to look at his. It was only when she saw he was blurry that she realized she was crying.

  He tenderly kissed away the tears on her cheeks, and when he moved to her mouth, his salty lips on hers were the softest thing she had ever felt in her life.

  They kissed each other like that for another moment or two, slowly, as though wanting each second to last an eternity.

  She shifted her body – and realized that he was still inside her.

  He looked into her eyes, and slowly rolled her over onto her side, following her, and then was on top of her.

  He kept kissing her softly – first her lips, then one cheek, then the other.

  All the while he slowly, rhythmically moved his body between her legs. She could feel his manhood growing to its full girth inside her again. The pleasure increased as his thickness expanded, and the slight soreness she felt from before was overwhelmed by the desire to do it all over again.

  He began to vary his thrusts – sometimes deep, sometimes shallow, sometimes fast, sometimes maddeningly slow. It was the not knowing – whether he would make her gasp with a quick burst of pleasure, or moan with a long, slow easing in and out – that made her want him all the more.

  His full weight pressed against her, and she loved it – the feeling of him bearing down upon her, into her, his body rubbing against her most intimate parts in a way that only increased her bliss.

  She grabbed at his back, her nails bearing down into his flesh, and kissed him greedily. He changed the angle he entered her, and she gasped in his ear as he began to hit her most pleasurable spots. She wrapped her legs around his. Her hands gripped his ass and she felt the muscles buck and strain beneath her palms as he drove that glorious prick inside her, stroking her and filling her in ways no other man ever had or could.

  Her pleasure built again, faster and faster, until wave after wave slammed through her body as he drove deeper and thicker and more pleasurably inside her, every stroke sparking a new contraction of bliss, every thrust giving her a new spasm of joy. She screamed, and her cries pushed him over the edge. He groaned in her ear, and she felt him burst inside her again. This time he lay in her arms, barely moving, nuzzling her neck, and she felt him soften and shrink and gradually withdraw from inside her.

  She could have lain like that forever, her legs wrapped around his, her fingers absentmindedly stroking his hair, his body and hers matched breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat, as they clung to each other after so long apart.

  63

  They lay resting in each other’s arms for a very long time.

 
Finally Evan picked up his head from her shoulder and stared into her eyes. “I had forgotten how much I missed you.”

  “Did you try very hard?” she asked wryly.

  “I did,” he answered, his voice entirely serious. “I nearly drank myself to death.”

  “All the while carousing with vast numbers of women, I’m sure.”

  “No. I would retreat to the east wing with a bottle and read your novels, over and over and over again.”

  She froze. “You’ve read my books?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “You’re an amazing writer. Your written words sound so much like you in real life… maybe that was why I was unable to forget. I didn’t want to.”

  Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she had to blink them away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed, as he sat up next to her.

  She shook her head, unable to talk – but she smiled. When she finally regained her voice, she whispered, “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  She shrugged and was silent.

  “For what?” he repeated.

  When she did finally speak, there was a tremble in her voice. “I always wondered, when we were together, why you never showed any interest in what I did.”

  He caressed her face. “Because I was a fool.”

  She laughed. “Well, there’s no denying that.”

  “No, there isn’t,” he said with a smile. “But when you come back, I’ll make sure that this time I – ”

  She frowned. “‘Come back’? What do you mean?”

  “When you come back with me to England.”

  She sat up in bed, alarmed. “I’m not coming back.”

  He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Are you mad?!”

  “Are you?”

  “Don’t you see how the world has gone insane outside your very window?”

  “I see a society in the midst of a great and glorious change, never before attempted in the history of the world.”

  “I assure you, many societies have murdered and terrorized their populaces before.”

  “Spoken like a true aristocrat.”

  “Oh, so now you are a revolutionary?”

  “I don’t think the poor and downtrodden should have to give their lives to support parasites with fancy clothes, money, and titles.”

  He stared at her angrily. “Is that how you see me? A parasite?”

  She relented. “…no.”

  “Then how do you see me?”

  “As the man who threw me away because he was a lord, and I was a common servant girl,” she whispered, her voice full of pain.

  Evan recoiled as though she had stabbed him. “I was a fool, I was a bloody, damned fool. I know that now – you know that I know it – ”

  “But has anything changed?”

  “Everything has changed!”

  “So we are to be married as soon as we set foot on English soil?”

  Evan sat there, his tongue tied.

  “We can get married in Westminster Abbey,” she continued bitterly, “and you can invite the Duke of Wales, and the Marquess of such-and-such, and all the Barons and Earls you know. And at the altar you can turn to them and say, ‘Here’s the little servant girl who used to clean my house! And she writes scandalous stories, to boot!’ It will be a wonderful, wonderful wedding. Your friends can all sit in the pews, dressed in their finery and jewels, and since no one in France will be able to attend, everyone I know in England can stand outside in the rain, wearing the only suits and dresses they own – ”

  “Stop,” he said, his voice hoarse. “For God’s sake, stop.”

  “Have you come here to propose marriage?”

  “I came here to save you.”

  “From what?”

  “From being killed!”

  She looked at him like he was insane. “Who would kill me?”

  He pointed at her window. “Them! The rabble! The mobs! The Jacobins! The revolutionaries!”

  “They’re not going to kill me. They’re not going to kill anybody,” she scoffed.

  “What about the Bastille?!”

  “They destroyed the worst symbol of a corrupt, vicious regime.”

  “What about the heads they paraded around on pikes?”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “All that is over.”

  “But Marat – ”

  “Marat is an ignorant fool. No one will listen to him.”

  “They are listening to him now! Robespierre, Danton – ”

  “They’re not going to kill anyone, least of all me. I’m one of them.”

  “You’re an Englishwoman in a country that despises the English, where the new rulers are growing more hateful by the day!”

  “That is how it appears to the eyes of a nobleman who is scared for his own property back in England, perhaps,” she snapped. “But then again, marrying a common girl and being disinherited was enough to frighten him to death.”

  Again, Evan fell silent.

  She rose from the bed, walked over to her wardrobe, and pulled out a soft, flowing robe.

  “Go home, Blake,” she said sadly. “You have your life there, and I have mine here.”

  “What about us?! What about this?” he demanded, gesturing to the bed, to himself, to her.

  She put on the robe. “It was lovely… and I will remember it when I am an old woman on my deathbed. But it was ultimately the same as our time together in England: something that cannot last. And we both know it.”

  She walked to the door of her boudoir and looked back at him. Tears were flowing down her cheeks.

  “I love you, and always will… but please, leave and don’t come back. I tried to get over you for two years. Now I know I never will. But please… let me try.”

  She walked through the door and closed it behind her.

  He stumbled out of the bed and ran to the door, naked. “Marian!” he hissed, trying the handle, which was locked. “Marian, please!”

  On the other side of the door, he could hear her sobbing.

  After a few minutes of pleading, he finally fell silent, dressed, and let himself out.

  64

  Damn it to Hell.

  Evan walked out into the courtyard of Marian’s building.

  Twice in two weeks he had been thrown out of a woman’s house.

  The first time, it had wounded his pride.

  The second time, it crushed his very soul.

  It all came down to his past misdeeds. Any time she brought up marriage, he could say nothing in return – because she was right.

  Pemberly was a fool for thinking he could persuade her to come home.

  And he had been a fool for listening to Pemberly.

  What if… what if I married her?

  Part of him wanted to do that very thing – to go up and propose to her now, to go and find some priest and have them wed on the morrow.

  But then logic and rationality took over again.

  All the old reasons spoke out in turn: disinheritance. Poverty. Banishment.

  The odd thing was, their voices were more muted than they had ever been before.

  I came here to save her, not to wed her, he insisted to himself.

  …but what if…?

  He could not make a decision now – it would be folly. He was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.

  Tomorrow. He would be able to think it through more clearly tomorrow.

  It was midnight, and because of the noise they made on the cobblestones, carriages were not allowed in the streets of Paris past ten o’clock. Thus he began the long walk home to Dardanelle’s.

  It was odd, though: there were bells ringing in the distance. Something like church bells, though monotone, and not quite as loud. Like they were announcing something… or summoning someone.

  As he left, Evan did not notice the two dark figures standing in the shadows across the street. One wore a military uniform, the
other rags and a red cap.

  Lt. Villars pointed at Evan once he was out of earshot. “Follow that man. Let me know everywhere he goes over the next twenty-four hours. If you do that without fail, you will be amply rewarded. If soldiers stop you, show them the letter I gave you, and they will let you pass.”

  The bearded, ragged man bowed humbly, then set off down the road.

  After both figures disappeared into the distance, Villars stared up at the window on the top floor. A lamp flickered for a few minutes more in the window, then went out, leaving only darkness.

  65

  Evan woke to the sound of distant thunder.

  He lay there in bed, groggily remembering the events of the previous evening: the salon. The carriage ride. Making love to Marian… and then being forced to return to Dardanelle’s house.

  His heart nearly broke as he remembered her last words:

  I love you, and always will… but please, leave and don’t come back. I tried to get over you for two years. Now I know I never will. But please… let me try.

  He had failed. She would never return to London with him now.

  The thunder rumbled again – but it did not sound right. It was too short and sharp, without the normal, dying echoes.

  He sat up and noticed something else exceedingly odd: sunlight was streaming into his room.

  He got up, went to the window, and opened it.

  It was a beautiful day, clear and bright. In the far distance, smoke was rising up through the air over the tops of buildings.

  The sound wasn’t thunder.

  It was cannons.

  Out in the street, people were rushing past, yelling, carrying pikes and pitchforks.

  He dressed hurriedly and went downstairs.

  The servant showed him into the drawing room, where Madame Dardanelle sat trying to soothe her two children.

  “Madame?”

  “Oh, Monsieur Blake, it is terrible, terrible!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “They are attacking the palace!”

  “Who?”

  “We do not know, we do not know!”

  “Where is your husband?”

  She started to answer, but at that moment the front door opened. The publisher walked in, his face anguished.