by Jane Feather
Lionel smiled at her, knowing what she was feeling, knowing that it was new for her. He kissed her again, his cupped palm holding her sex, warm and strong. She felt her own dampness and a sensation that was almost painful in its intensity. She bit his lower lip and tasted blood.
He knelt up as she lay awash in her own pleasure. He loosened his hose, pushed aside her skirts with sudden roughness. His hands cupped her bottom as he lifted her hips and slid into her wet and welcoming body as easily as a hand into a kid glove.
And now it was a different sensation. Pippa, her hazel eyes fixed on his as they hung over her, held her breath as she absorbed the newness of this. She had coupled with Stuart many times, but this was something quite different. Her whole being seemed to have a part in it. Every tiny piece of her body was intimately involved in this loving.
And the delight was different from a minute ago. Now Lionel's pleasure was a part of her own. She gloried in the feel of him inside her, the strong vibrant throbs of his penis against the sheath that held him. She tried to curl her legs around him, to hold him more tightly within her, but the tangled mass of her clothes got in the way, snaring her feet, trapping her knees.
“Damnable clothes!” she gasped. “This should not be done with clothes.”
He smiled lazily down at her. “Not always,” he agreed. “But sometimes it adds another dimension.”
He drew back a little and she felt him leaving her. A little breath of disappointment escaped her. Then he was back, slowly, so very slowly, and she lifted her hips, the cleft of her body smacking hard against his belly; her eyes finally snapped shut and she was aware only of her own body, of this amazing, astounding delight that made her curl her toes, tighten every inch of her legs, her belly, did strange and wonderful things to her ears, and made her scalp tight. Then it let go and she was soft and unformed as melted candlewax lying on her bed of new-cut grass.
Pippa lay with her eyes closed. She wanted to sleep, to roll onto her side and sleep, her body curled over the wonderful thing that had happened to it, a wonderful thing that was slowly slipping away from her.
Lionel knelt up, laced his hose, gazing down at the still figure, her skirts rucked up around her. There was something endearing about the thinness of her ankles, her calves and thighs. He thought she was asleep. Her sandy eyelashes were crescents against the pale freckled countenance that retained the glow of lovemaking. Her headdress was awry, the black velvet and emeralds glowing against the grass beneath her. Her beringed fingers lay hapless beside her still form.
He rearranged the tangle of skirts and petticoats and as he did so her eyes opened. “I think I fell asleep.”
“I think you did,” he agreed, leaning over to brush a straying lock of cinnamon hair away from her eyes. “Are you ready to get up?”
Pippa sat up. She glanced around and saw that they were under some kind of shelter. No sides, just a tin roof, and she was lying on a mountain of grass cuttings.
“Is this a compost heap?”
“Not yet,” Lionel said with a chuckle. “Simply the makings of one.”
Pippa straightened her hood and the emerald-studded frontlet. She observed, “I have never been made love to on a compost heap before, but then again I now realize that I have never been made love to before.” Her smile was quizzical as she held up her hands.
He took them and pulled her to her feet. Her observation required no response except the private pleasure it gave him.
“I must look quite disarrayed,” Pippa said, brushing grass off her skirt. “I have grass in my hair, don't I?”
“Yes . . . perhaps if you take off the hood . . . ?”
“Without a mirror I could never put the pins back again,” she said. “More importantly, my hose is twisted, and that, I should tell you, sir, is very uncomfortable.” Without blinking, she hauled up the layers of skirts and petticoats and straightened her white silk hose, twisting and turning so that he glimpsed the length of thigh, the curve of a buttock.
His body stirred anew.
Pippa settled her skirts around her again. She glanced at him, suddenly unsure of herself again as an unpleasant thought assailed her. Had he pitied her? She had poured out her soul. Had pity led him to succor her in that way?
“What is it?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Will I pass muster if I make all haste to my chamber?”
“What is it, Pippa?”
His voice was steady, determined.
She walked out from beneath the shelter of the tin roof. The midday sun beat down on her head. She tried to put words to the morass of feelings, intuitions, hurts. Lionel had not hurt her, but the fact that he had tried to assuage her hurt seemed in itself paradoxically painful.
“I am very grateful,” she said, hearing the stiffness in her voice. “You did what you could to make me feel better. My husband considers me less than the dust beneath his feet. You gave me back my pride. I am very grateful.”
Lionel leaned against one of the wooden posts that supported the tin roof. Pippa was right. It had started like that, but that reason had not lasted beyond the first touch.
“Pippa, I don't love women just to make them feel better,” he stated. “Sadly I'm not so selfless.” He rested his head against the post at his back and continued with the detached dispassionate air he used in most situations. “I've found you desirable from the first moment I saw you.
“Now, maybe that's an aberration on my part.” Here he shrugged. “But who am I to say? I will only say that I have never made love to a woman out of pity. And you insult us both by such a presumption.”
Pippa touched her breast jewel and found the cold smoothness of the gem beneath her clutching fingers oddly comforting. She looked at him, comforted too by the calm remote air that was Lionel Ashton at his ordinary self.
She was desirable, many men had found her so. Unconventional in her looks and her manner, maybe, but she had had enough urgent sighs, enough compliments, enough bold offers to confirm her in the knowledge that her womanhood was appreciated.
Between her legs was the absolute confirmation of that desire. Not a sticky residue of a hasty and unwanted but necessary coupling, but of a wonderful shared explosion of pleasure. They had loved, she and Lionel. And she knew herself to be lovable, to be desirable.
“Forgive me,” she said, stepping close to him. “I didn't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth.” She reached up to kiss him. “You are a gift, Mr. Ashton. And I thank you.”
“I believe we had an exchange of gifts, Lady Pippa,” he said, raising her hand to his mouth. His eyes laughed at this absurd game they were playing. “The next exchange should be a little more designed, I believe.”
“No clothes,” Pippa said with a grin. She was lighthearted, unable now to recapture the gloom, the dreadful depression of her spirits that had dogged her.
“I would love you naked, Mr. Ashton.”
“And I you, madam.” He bowed.
“You carried me in here, sir, perhaps you should carry me out.” Pippa was laughing, remembering the novel sensation of being held against him, his arms so strong around her.
But his expression changed, darkened. “No, I don't think so. Go quickly. I will wait here for ten minutes.”
Pippa left him, made her way back to the path that encircled the kitchen garden. He had carried her. No one had carried her in that way since she was a child. Why had he snubbed her?
She was not watching where she was going and found herself in the orchard, deserted except for gardeners. She straightened her hood again, aware that such adjustments would do little to conceal the grass that seemed to have clung to every fiber of her dress. There was dirt beneath her fingernails.
She walked steadily, head held high, looking neither to right nor left as she proceeded down the aisles between the trees. It didn't really matter what gardeners thought of her disheveled appearance, but ignoring them seemed the most dignified way of managing the situation.
When she eme
rged from the orchard she took a pathway that led into the blacksmiths' courtyard of the palace. Amid the clang of hammer on anvil, the smell of hot coals and sweating horseflesh, the hurry and bustle of busy people, her appearance was barely noticed. She ducked through an arched entrance into the palace and took a series of servants' staircases that eventually deposited her in the corridor where her own chamber was to be found.
Martha was not in the chamber, and Pippa, after a glance at her image in the mirror, could only be thankful. She kicked off her grass-stained slippers, unpinned her hood, and shook out her hair. Grass cuttings littered the floor. She nudged them under the bed and the tapestry rug with her bare feet. Then she laughed at herself for such a childishly guilty maneuver. She was not accountable to anyone . . . not even to Stuart. No longer.
The thought gave her pause. She examined her conscience and could find not a smidgeon of remorse for her infidelity. She was still bitterly angry with Stuart, and the hurt remained if she probed at it. He had treated her as less than human. But should she confront him? Or should she let matters drift, take their course, enjoy her own life, and leave her husband to enjoy his? He would not be hurt by his wife's clandestine liaison as long as it remained clandestine. Yes, for the moment she would do just that. She would maintain the public facade and take refuge in her adventure of love with Lionel Ashton.
Of course, that would not last forever. . . . But, no, she would not think like that. She would live in and for this moment. And she would share it with no one, not Robin, not even Pen.
Pippa stripped off her clothes and shook them out of the window. Bits of grass drifted down to the terrace beneath but none of the languid walkers seemed to find anything strange in the green rain. It was so hot it was probably too much effort to look up.
She felt wonderfully sleepy, her limbs heavy, and the thick feather bed sang a siren's song. She lay down under the light coverlet and closed her eyes, feeling the sun warm on her lids, as her mind lazily revisited the glorious hour with Lionel. She remembered how it had felt when he had lifted her in his arms. How she, who was not in the habit of playing the helpless miss, had not only allowed herself to be carried, but had found it an arousing experience. She smiled to herself again, and turned on her side to sleep.
But sleep strangely would not come. A shadow hovered at the edges of her memory. She couldn't see it clearly to identify it, but it kept her on the edge of sleep. She tried to recapture the glorious relaxation engendered by lovemaking, but something had spoiled it. Unease clouded recollection.
She sat up impatiently and hugged her knees, worrying at the shadow, trying to give it some shape. Lionel had carried her. It had made her laugh at the time. So why now did the recollection produce this unnameable discomfort?
Nothing became clear. Pippa lay down again, idly gazing up at the scene embroidered on the tester. A pair of lovers by a stream, surrounded by peacocks and swans; in the background a stag on a distant hill. A very pretty idealized scene, and one that held no clues to her present mood.
After a while, though, the scene soothed her with its familiarity. She decided that it was not surprising that she should feel upset, off-kilter by the events of the morning. In the few short hours since dawn she'd experienced enough upheaval to unhinge the most placid of temperaments. And hers these days was far from placid thanks to the peculiarities of pregnancy. Most of the time she didn't know whether she was going to laugh or cry in response to the most mundane event or remark.
Calmer now, she turned on her side and this time sleep embraced her.
Eleven
Robin peered at the contents of the linen press in his chamber in the family house at Holborn. The house was quiet, his parents and half sister were still in Derbyshire and there was only a skeleton staff left in London.
His page stood beside the bed holding a pair of gold embroidered hose and a linen shirt, regarding his master with curiosity. It was most unlike Lord Robin to spend such an inordinate length of time on choosing his wardrobe. A wooden tub of rapidly cooling, scummy water stood in the middle of the chamber, evidence of Lord Robin's sudden interest in personal hygiene.
“There are grease spots on this doublet,” Robin said in disgust, tossing the green velvet to the floor. “I would think, Jem, that you would have more of a care for my clothes than to put them away soiled.”
Jem said nothing, and kept to himself the reflection that this had never been mentioned before as part of his duties.
“You had best take out every garment and examine it carefully. They are to be sponged and pressed where necessary,” Robin instructed, burrowing deeper in the press, his voice muffled by dusty cloth. “Ah, perhaps this will do.”
He backed out with a doublet of russet silk. “There was an ochre velvet cloak that went with this, I'm sure of it.” He tossed the doublet onto the bed and burrowed into the press again.
“Here!” Triumphantly he emerged with the cloak, holding it up to the lamplight. “'Tis somewhat creased, but that is easily remedied.” He tossed it to Jem, who just managed to catch it.
“Take it to the stillroom maid and ask her to press it . . . and the doublet. Hurry now.” He clapped his hands imperatively.
Jem relinquished the hose and shirt, gathered up the doublet and cloak, and hastened from the chamber.
Robin examined the fresh linen on the bed, white linen underbritches, white shirt. They looked clean but he seemed to remember that his father's underwear smelled of lavender from the little sachets of dried herbs that were always scattered among the garments in the armoire and linen press.
Robin could detect no delicate hint of fragrance coming from his own undergarments as he put them on, but they were certainly clean, and the shirt had received the attentions of the flat iron.
His skin was most certainly scrubbed and sweet. He glanced complacently at the tub, and the square of scented soap that the stillroom maid had supplied. He had even soaped his hair. He ran his hands through the still-damp curls and stroked his beard, wondering if he should trim it. It was a little straggly, he decided.
He sat down at the table and drew the mirror towards him. His image wavered in the beaten copper. He drew the lamp closer and leaned forward, the small scissors in his hand. He snipped away at the uneven strands and then wondered if he'd gone too far. Perhaps he should shave it off altogether.
That was an overly radical solution, he decided, taking up an ivory comb and tidying his beard. Hearing Jem coming back to the chamber, Robin glanced over his shoulder. “Tell me, lad, is this even?” He pulled at both sides of the beard.
Jem peered closely. “'Tis a mite longer on the left, I think, sir.”
“God's bones!” Robin muttered. “The more I snip the more uneven it seems to get. Here . . . you do it.” He handed the scissors to the page.
Jem took them uneasily. “I'm no barber, sir.”
“No, well, neither am I,” Robin said impatiently. “You can't do worse than I have done.”
“Right, sir.” Bending close, Jem took a few tentative snips. He stood back and surveyed his handiwork. “Looks even now, sir.”
Robin turned back to the mirror. He tugged at the ends of the beard. They seemed to be roughly of the same length. “Well, it'll have to do,” he said, getting to his feet. “Pass me the hose.”
Jem did so, watching as his master insinuated his stocky but muscular legs into the tight-fitting netherstocks. Robin tucked the shirt into the waist of the gold embroidered panes that formed the upper part of the hose, and laced up the waistband. He put on the doublet and adjusted the set of the small ruff at his neck with fussy little pats that astonished his page.
“That should do it,” Robin muttered, more to himself than his companion. He slung the short cloak around his shoulders, and turned to face Jem. “So, what do you think?”
“About what, sir?”
“Oh, don't be obtuse, lad! How do I look?”
Jem put his head on one side. “Like someone going a-courting,
sir,” he observed.
“Impertinence!” Robin said, but without rancor. He had invited an opinion and he never expected Jem to hold his tongue in such instances.
He buckled on his sword and dagger, took up a pair of lace-edged jeweled gloves that had been a present from Pen, and set a flat, dark green velvet hat on his still-disordered curls.
“Get you to bed, Jem . . . or to the tavern if you've a mind. I'll not be needing you again until morning.”
“Thank you, Lord Robin.” Jem grinned. “I wish you good success, sir.”
Robin shook his head and left the chamber. The tall case clock on the stairs was striking ten o'clock. He paused in the hall to collect a neatly wrapped parcel from the side bench and let himself out of the house. The air was close, the sky for once clouded, and he could smell thunder in the air.
He stood on the driveway sniffing the wind. He had intended to take Luisa on the river but if a storm was brewing then he couldn't expose her to the elements.
He strode to the stables to fetch his horse. “Set a pillion pad behind the saddle,” he instructed his groom. Luisa had her own mount but Robin guessed that she had not considered the difficulties of liberating it from the stables in the middle of the night under the eyes, sleepy or not, of Ashton's grooms. He was also not sure how well she rode and had decided he would feel safer if she was mounted behind him. They could explore the city streets, and always take shelter in a tavern if the weather broke.
He rode to Lionel Ashton's mansion. From the front it was even more imposing than from the river approach. Stone lions guarded the gates, and lamplight spilled from cressets set over the great oak front doors. A wall enclosed the property but Robin in an earlier reconnaissance had discovered the narrow lane that ran around the wall and gave access to the river.
He dismounted and led his horse into the lane, where he tethered him to a sapling. Placidly the animal began to crop the tired grass at his feet.
Robin trod softly towards the river. The heat was oppressive and sweat gathered on his forehead. The wall ended just before the riverbank, where the bushes from the mansion's garden offered a thick protective barrier to the property itself.
