“I like interesting women,” he said quietly, his tone sliding over me like a cool spring rain.
“Yes sir, I am sure a man of your experience has met many interesting women.” I glanced up at him, and though he gave me no response verbally, the sparkle in his gaze spoke well enough of my suspicions.
“You have a wit and passion that sparks in your eyes. Has anyone ever told you that? Further, I find you most intriguing.”
“Sir, this is not prudent.” However, I was weakening by the second.
“I’ve heard Master Archibald’s cellar is quite well-stocked. Perhaps you could show me the cellar and you and I could discuss further a conversation that may be more…suited to our mutual interest?”
“That would be quite impossible, sir.”
His mouth curled with a wicked grin, his steady gaze pinning me in place.
“Indeed, the very idea of ‘impossible’ arouses me greatly, miss. Does it you?”
I averted my eyes. “I must see to your rolls, sir.”
“Indeed, madam. They are warming even as we speak.”
He was most persuasive, and the gleam in his eye caused me to accept his dangerous proposal. “Lord Archibald will be reading after dinner in the library, after dessert.”
“How divine.” He cast his gaze heavenward and returned to meet mine. “You no doubt have a much better way to spend my last Christmas in England. Please, won’t you have mercy on me, miss?”
I lowered my voice to a bare whisper, my gut cautioning me against what I was about to say, but driven as much by lust. He leaned toward me, listening, but his gaze clung to my lips. “I need to find the brandy for the midnight toast. My master keeps his best in the far corner of the cellar.”
His mouth lifted into a delicious grin. “You may need assistance. It’s not safe to send a young woman alone into the cellar. You might turn your ankle and lie on your back for hours not properly attended to.”
Another round of applause erupted, causing me to straighten and step away from him. I knew this torrid liaison was unwise. For him, the retribution was far less severe than it would be for me. He was about to leave London and travel overseas for the likelihood of several years.
I smiled. “We will toast to your journey and for a safe return.” I pulled my shoulders back, giving him a look that punctuated the business side of our agreement. Indeed he knew well that I wanted this with as much determination.
“Very good, until the reading, then?”
He glanced once more over my shoulder and lifted my hand, turning it to kiss my palm. I admit, yes, my heart fluttered.
“I will see now to your rolls.”
He bowed and I sensed his gaze on me as I walked through the kitchen door.
I waited breathlessly in the chilled cellar. Outside through the murky window of the street above, I could see the snow beginning to pile near the window casing.
Jensen, most fortunately had disappeared, Miss Farrington stated, to enjoy the festivities in town. I offered to fetch the brandy as she worked hunched over the table upstairs preparing the plum pudding to go with the midnight toast. She waved her hand, a signal I’d come to know meant to not bother her.
I hugged my arms, aware of the scurrying of a mouse beyond the dim light of my kerosene lamp. The earth was firm, solid earth, and the casks for the wine stood against two walls floor to ceiling. Quite impressive a collection, most of it gifts from clients appreciative of his financial dealings. One section corded off in a small room separate from the rest was a few expensive champagnes and a few coveted bottles sealed with a thick, red wax seal—his imported French cognacs.
I lifted two bottles from their wood crates and upon turning to set them on a table, nearly dropped them at the sight of the uniformed soldier. Once again, he was quick to my aid.
“Is Dickens a long-winded writer, miss?”
He pressed close, dipping his head to capture my mouth. His tongue sought in haste to penetrate my defenses, and I clung to his arms holding myself upright. His breath was sweet infused with wine, his passion far sweeter as he slanted his mouth over mine with a satisfied sound.
“Did you not wish in the least to take note of Master Archibald’s notable cellar?” I breathed out in a sigh as his lips trailed the side of my neck.
He glanced up, his hands firm about my waist, and gave a quick look around him, offering a low whistle of appreciation.
“You were careful not to let Miss Farrington see you, sir?”
“It’s Andrew, and yes I told her I was going out for a breath of fresh air.”
“Perhaps it’s best if we dispense with names?” I suggested.
He held me at arms’ length, giving me a grin, mixed with curiosity.
“You seem like a woman knowledgeable of social customs, miss. Will you not permit me to know your given name? Surely we are not animals?”
He was right of course, and I am no longer a child certainly, nor untouched by a man. We are both old enough to be fully aware of our attraction and where it was leading.
“Cozette, Mr. Andrew.” I lifted my hands to my hair and removed the pins, letting my light brown tresses tumble over my shoulders. “How do you like your women, then? Shy and demure, then, or do you prefer to have control entirely? Perhaps, bold and forthright, matching you thrust for thrust?”
For a moment, I thought he might turn and flee, unsure what to make of my aggressive manner. He reached for the end of my hair, rubbing it gently between his fingers.
“I prefer a woman who wears no mask, who comes to me as she is, nothing more.”
“Then you are indeed a rare man among men.” I untied my apron and found a nail jutting from a foundation mooring. I hung it for safekeeping. The light moved as he brought it to a table near the straw bed I’d seen earlier. His hands drew slowly around my waist, curving upwards until his palms covered my clothed breasts. He nuzzled my neck, as he caressed me through the stiff cotton of my uniform.
“I could use your assistance, miss, with these blasted buttons.”
He turned me in his arms and with careful persistence, battling with his teasing kisses and tormenting hands, I managed to unfasten his jacket so that it hung open, giving glimpse of his exquisite body beneath.
I held his gaze as I drew it over his muscular shoulders. Underneath he wore a thin, sleeveless undershirt, tucked smart into his dark pants. His arms glistened bronze in the flickering light, the front of his dress trousers tented firm with his arousal.
I rubbed my hand the length of him and smiled as my fingers closed over his bollocks.
“Good lord, woman, you’ll have me in my drawers.”
He grabbed my wrist and held it behind me as he captured my mouth with a hunger that aroused my anticipation of him moving inside me.
Without the confines of his collar, his hair swept low across the top of his broad shoulders, his skin smelled of his musky, male scent and the chill of winter.
“Do you require my further assistance, Mr. Andrew?” I stared up at him, my backside propped against the table.
“Perhaps we should make the playing field more even?”
He turned the buttons of my blouse removing it with an intake of his breath as he hung the blouse over the apron. My breasts puckered tight to the cold, as I wore a crocheted camisole beneath, a lovely gift given to me from my mistress’s clothing that she no longer wished to keep.
“Exquisite,” he muttered as his fingers traced the lace openings and finding my pink nubs rubbed his thumb over each with a slow skillful motion that had me desperate to open my legs.
“Ah, not just yet, though when I feel you are ready I will not tarry. Make no mistake, Miss Cozette, my passion runs true in all my attributes.”
As I dearly hoped.
My heart pounded a cadence in my head, as he unlaced my corset bindings and spread the cloth so he could suckle each breast. My body pressed to meet his mouth, as my hand cradled the back of his head.
“So soft, and you smell
of evergreen,” he whispered with a smile. “How very fitting to the season.”
His mouth on my heated flesh made me squirm beneath his attentions. His hands deftly unfastened my skirt and I braced against his shoulder as he drew it over my ankles.
“You are a vision, Miss Cozette. One that I swear will be with me always as I shiver in the wild northwest, surrounded with nothing but wildlife and men.”
I wore only my drawers and my black stockings that came over my knees, grateful at that moment that Miss Farrington had suggested to wear them. The cellar was quite cold despite the heat from Andrews’s eyes. He wasted no time in removing my drawers, pausing to place a kiss on the soft patch of my curls.
He stood and cupped my face, gently brushing my lips, teasing, tempting, taunting until I thought I might go mad to have him tight inside me. I grabbed his waistband and relieved him of the buttons holding up his trousers. Delightful to my anticipation his drawers provided freedom for his erection standing at grand attention.
In retrospect, I think him far better equipped than his father.
“I feel pressed to tell you, Mr. Worthington, that you are not my first.”
He responded by nuzzling my ear as he slid his finger deftly over my creamy slit. “Nor are you my first, madam. We share no miscommunications in this. What transpires in the confines of this cellar must begin and end here. Are you quite prepared as I am to strike a bargain on this?”
The truth when spoken with such clarity, honest as it was, squeezed my heart for the measure of a beat. I nodded, lifting my mouth to his in a quick kiss, drawing away and holding his gaze, making clear I understood his meaning.
His mouth slanted over mine softly, summoning my surrender to his charm. His fingers threaded through my hair as he stared down at me.
“Then let us have no pretense, but make this a moment we shall remember when we are old.” He was a sweet boy and from his first smile, I admit my heart found a soft spot for him. I guided him to the blanket-covered straw and stretched out before him, opening my arms in a lover’s reach, even as I did my knees.
He dropped between my legs to his knees, smiled and eased over me, entering me swiftly. For his youth, he was a most patient lover. His movements were slow and easy as he lavished attention to my breasts. My body heated as he pressed deeper, filling me with glorious pleasure. I lifted my knees, hooking my ankles about his waist.
His quiet moan preceded the momentum of his thrusts. Faster he rode me, as my body grew tight, my fingers digging into the flesh of his hips.
Together we tumbled over the dark abyss of passion, searing in its heat, resplendent in its afterglow.
“Shall I ever forget this night and the woman with such hauntingly beautiful eyes?” he whispered as he kissed me softly.
Surely, he spoke the truth. Fate redeemed itself this night, setting something aright in the world.
“You will charm your wife one day with such words, I’ve no doubt.” I brushed the hair from his forehead and smiled.
I was no longer fearful of the burden of Betsy’s trickery of the drunken man in the pub, rectified by the gentle, passionate heart of his son.
He left before me, careful to come back in through the front door. His smile was genuine as I later served him a glass of cognac for the midnight toast.
Lord Archibald raised his glass.
“May your hearts be full, your health well, and your new year…profitable.”
“Oh, Robert,” Mistress Archibald scolded but she was smiling.
“Happy Christmas to all.”
“Happy Christmas,” my handsome soldier replied. He held his glass high with the rest, but his gaze held mine from where I stood at the edge of the room. It was a happy Christmas, indeed.
~A.C.B.
January 12, 1874
I shall not have long to write, as there is much to do in setting up the house. My mistress, Miss Farrington, Jensen and I have only today returned from London.
Just three days after Christmas, Master Archibald assembled the staff in the parlor, along with the mistress, and told the sad news to us all.
A note had arrived from Mr. Coven back at Willow Manor. He told us very disturbing news. While taking a short ride on one of the horses he noticed a curl of thick smoke trailing up into the winter afternoon sky. As he neared, he realized that it was coming from the stables. He went on to describe the thick smoke rolling from the entrance to the stables and had to remove his coat to hold it over his face in order to ascertain what the cause of the fire was.
Apparently, the fire started by accident from a spark popped from a burning log onto the straw floor. He was able to contain it with water from the horse troughs and beating it with his coat. Unfortunately, Molly, the only horse in the barn, was tied to her stall and could not escape. She died of smoke filling her lungs and despite Mr. Coven’s efforts, he was not able to save her. I knew Mr. Coven would be devastated.
I was brokenhearted to hear of Molly’s passing. Her gentle brown eyes even now I picture in my mind, nodding her head gently as if to say hello.
Master Archibald ordered that we would begin at once to pack the house and return to Willow Manor. We would not be staying through the season this year under the dire circumstances. He wanted to assess the damage and meant to proceed with a full investigation into the incident, where he hoped he wouldn’t find Mr. Coven in neglect of his responsibilities.
Jensen volunteered once again to see to our safe passage if the master wished to travel on ahead to inspect the damage at Willow Manor. He agreed and by morning, he’d secured arrangements of a carriage.
I cannot see why Master Archibald would not absolve Mr. Coven of suspicion in this matter. Of his many attributes, responsibility is chief among them. He is one of the most responsible and caring men I know. Let not these words ever cross his eyes, for surely he would only have one more point with which to annoy me.
Upon our return, Miss Farrington told of how Mr. Coven explained that he’d taken Molly’s body by wagon down to a quiet spot in the valley and buried her there. He’d crafted a small memorial on her behalf constructed of her oat bucket and bridle.
While tending to the master bedroom this morning I noticed movement outside and looked out of the window. There was Mr. Coven standing in the meadow, his dark hair whipping in the fierce winter wind. His hands were stuffed into his pockets as he gazed down at the spot where he’d buried Molly. Few men would have the compassion to check a grave of a horse, to see that no animals had disturbed it.
As I thought of his kindness, it took me a moment to realize that his gaze had turned to the house. I could not tell from that distance if he saw me but I sensed, if only in my imagination, that we held gazes for a moment, companions in our grief.
Head bent against the wind, he turned then and trudged up the hill, appearing quite alone against the bleak, winter landscape.
Fortunately, Lady Archibald does not believe the fire is a result of Mr. Coven’s negligence. I believe she may have more faith in his character than does Master Archibald. We are sure to find out more perhaps from the master’s investigation into the matter.
I had thought I would be preparing the garret rooms for Jensen and Mr. Coven, but both declined, stating it was best until the investigation was complete that they should stay in the stables.
From this news, I gather that Mr. Coven himself may suspect foul play and deep inside, I too, wonder the same. Yet who would be so bold to invoke such devastation? I have my suspicions, but for now, keep them to myself.
~A.C.B.
March 31, 1874
I am scattered. My mind is filled with thoughts of François and how we parted. Despite his arrogance, I find that I miss the thrill of his passion. I had hoped there might be news, perhaps a card or letter from India, wishing me well at the holiday. Then again, perhaps I am the fool ignoring the true reason for Lord Deavereux’s attention? Adding to my concerns is my lack of proper sleep. More than once, I have dreamed of the fire
and imagined Molly’s pitiful whinny, seeing Mr. Coven battling the flames and all the while, I see in the background a shadow standing by and not lifting a finger to assist. I do not know what it means, if anything. Dreams are perhaps only dreams and very little more.
I surmise François is yet busy with his travels and I am not happy to admit that a measure of jealousy burdens my thoughts with how many other women he may have introduced to his special Indian chair. It frustrates me that I allow such torture when I think of him. It would be far better for me to forget about him altogether; would that my body allowed it.
Of late, Mistress Archibald has spent more time in the stables with Jensen. She says she wants to understand the workings of the business and be of better help to her husband. Master Archibald has returned to work, but has hired a man from Southampton to investigate the fire. There have been no further incidents and it would appear that our suspicions are nothing more than an accident.
My mistress was in the kitchen this morning as I emerged from my quarters. She was already going over the events of the day with Miss Farrington.
“There’s tea and oatmeal this morning, Miss Cozette,” Mrs. Farrington greeted me.
I curtsied to my mistress.
“Good morning, Miss Cozette, remember that I’d like fresh flowers for the parlor today. Lady Graham is coming for a visit and she’s mentioned that she might bring her nephew, Mr. Thomas Rodin. You recall, the artist from Paris?”
“Yes mum. The lilacs are in bloom and very fragrant. The miniature roses are beginning to bloom as well.” I did not mind at all fetching flowers for display throughout the house. It gave me great pleasure to walk among the many colors and scents in the spring.
I ate and made haste with my duties, opening the shutters and sweeping the carpets using Mistress Archibald’s favorite tea leaves. I took particular care in gathering the right mix of colors in my floral arrangements, clipping grand bouquets of sweet-smelling purple lilacs and fern for arrangements throughout the parlor. The mistress enjoys the extra touches, but cautions that too much borders on ostentatious. As such she had me remove two of the arrangements in the parlor and take them to the piano room and library where they could infuse the house with their pleasant scent.
The Diary of Cozette Page 15
