“Désirée,” he said, after clearing his throat, “your friend has misled you, I fear. The woman who lives here cannot be her aunt—at least…
“No, of course not,” Désirée replied. “I know this is not her aunt’s house. It is Georges’s doing, and it is not really wrong. They are married, Georges and Jeannine. It is—their parents would not hear of the match, so they had a civil marriage. It was some stupid quarrel from many years ago. Of course, if Jeannine gets with child, the old people will have to give in. But to get with child, she must find a time and place to be with Georges.”
“I see. But Désirée—”
“Do not tell me it is wrong for me to come here. I thought you understood. I desire the same pleasure Jeannine has.”
“Your husband will give you that, Désirée,” Philip said, choking down both disappointment and a desire to laugh.
“I have no intention of having a husband,” Désirée said coldly. “Do you think I am such a fool I do not know when I am well off? With Papa I can do as I like—always. Why should I give myself to a man who will think he has the right to tell me what to do, use my property as his own, tell me what I can spend of my own money—and everything else, including how often to breathe.”
For a moment Philip stared at her openmouthed. “You have a point,” he said, and then, “but a husband may be as fond as a father, and to yield up your—your—”
“Jewel of virtue?” Désirée laughed at him. “That is lost already.”
Suddenly Philip understood why Désirée had been so obliging as to accompany Jeannine. No doubt if he had not been available, Georges would have brought along a friend, perhaps a different one each time. Well, if that were true, there was no need to deny himself, Philip thought. He drew her into his arms again, kissing her, opening a way between her teeth with his tongue. The fashions of the times being what they were, he did not need to undress Désirée to get at her breasts. She seemed surprised, almost impatient, when he began to caress them, although she soon sighed and began to press his head more tightly into her bosom.
Delicately Philip began to unhook her dress. Unable to wait, she pulled loose and removed it herself. Philip was startled and slightly repelled. The sensation did not increase but became mixed with lust when he realized she was not wearing anything underneath. Her pelisse had concealed her before they entered the house, and he had been too troubled to notice once he had met Jeannine’s “aunt”. It was a nice enough body, although coarser than Meg’s, but it was flaunted like the commonest whore’s. Without more ado Philip stripped, but he was disturbed. This girl might not be a virgin, but she was not experienced—of that he was sure. He turned toward her, trying to think of a way to explain that there was no need to behave crudely, that a little delicacy was more exciting to a man than blatancy.
Philip never spoke, however. The avidity in Désirée’s eyes as she stared at his genitals struck him mute. It was exciting and disgusting at the same time. Not that Philip thought it indecent for a woman to admire his sexual organs. Meg had praised him and patted him, even spoke directly to the “redheaded soldier standing to attention”—but that was in fun, teasing and laughing. That was not all Meg saw in him. To Désirée, on the other hand, he was not a man with thoughts and feelings. He was no more than an upstanding penis.
It was purposeless to worry about the fact that her father had been kind to him. If it was not he who shafted her, it would be someone else. There was no need, either, for him to wonder whether she would grieve when he was gone. The only thing Désirée would grieve over was the length and breadth of his rod if the next man she found was less well endowed. Least of all was there any need for gentleness, for sweet words or loving looks. Philip, who had always taken time to praise and admire his whores so that they should feel valued, simply walked into the bedchamber of the suite, pulled back the covers, and waited for Désirée to lie down.
It was an exhausting afternoon, although Philip did not need to waste time or energy restraining himself until his partner should be satisfied. She came to climax almost as soon as he entered her and twice more before he was himself finished—and he took no long time about it. However, she did not compliment him or even remark on her own enjoyment. Philip could not help remembering Meg’s praise and the way she clung to him when they had finished making love. Désirée tipped him off her as soon as he stopped moving, before he had caught his breath.
Instinctively Philip began to say how pretty she was. It was his habit to speak a few words at least. He had been cautioned by his father about the cruelty and crudity of simply turning his back and going to sleep when he was finished with a woman.
Désirée looked a little surprised. “Are you ready again?” she asked.
Philip choked. “No, not quite yet. I only meant to—to—”
“Is there something you want me to do to make you ready?” she wanted to know.
He laughed. It was impossible not to do so, but he was even more repelled. Meg could rouse him by the merest look or touch. In fact, the simple knowledge that she desired him, without any action or words, acted as an aphrodisiac. Yet he sincerely pitied Désirée at the same time. If she continued to act this way, no man would ever really desire her even though she was quite pretty—a small, dark piquant face, large-eyed and small-chinned with a tiny pouting-lipped mouth and good skin.
“Different men like different things, Désirée,” he said. “I like to talk a little, to tell a woman that I find her charming, that I enjoy her.”
“But you do not need to bother with that with me,” she replied. “I am quite willing without that nonsense.”
“It is not nonsense,” Philip said sharply. “Most men do not like to be regarded as—as animated penises.”
Désirée’s eyes opened wide with shock. She had probably never heard that word spoken by a man before, but she knew what it meant.
“A man likes to think he has chosen a woman and she has accepted him because she finds something of value in him.”
“But that is love,” Désirée protested. “I do not want love. I love Papa. I do not want to leave him. What would he do without me? Do you not see that it would be wrong in me to allow a man to think I cared for him?”
Although Philip realized that Désirée wanted to eat her cake and have it too, he was moved by her honesty. He told her how to handle him, and soon enough he was ready for her. He also suggested that she ride him. That way he could hold off longer and she could do what would best satisfy her. Indeed, Philip sincerely hoped she would exhaust herself so thoroughly that she would leave him in peace until it was time to go. To forward that purpose he lay with closed eyes, earnestly trying to think of a way to leave Boulogne.
It was not surprising that he did not find a solution to his problem, but he did manage to delay his orgasm until Désirée collapsed into stillness, sobbing with exhaustion. Then he turned her over to satisfy himself. He was quite annoyed when she tried to push him away before he was finished. It was easy enough to ignore her protest and hold her still until he came to climax, but Philip was thoroughly disgusted again. He had never met anyone so completely selfish and self-centered as Désirée—except his own mother. It was not honesty that had spoken, he thought cynically—although the words were couched in terms of her father’s need and a putative lover’s feelings—Désirée simply did not wish to be inconvenienced by the responsibilities of marriage or the importunities of a man who hoped to win her.
This was it, Philip decided angrily. He would rather have his virility questioned than serve as a stud again to a woman who was not even willing to allow him to satisfy himself, not to mention pretending a wish to please him. Without a word he rose from the bed and went into the other room to dress. Désirée had not made a sound after the angry protest he had ignored. He assumed she had dropped off to sleep. He felt in urgent need of a little repose himself, but was more than content to stretch out as far as he could on a sofa that was more elegant than comfortable.
&n
bsp; He thought again of Meg, of the peace and sweetness of lying beside her when their lovemaking was ended. That was truly making love. He had been a fool to yield to a physical need and a sense of curiosity. It was no longer true for him, he realized, that all cats look alike in the dark. Now he could really understand why his father never seemed to want any woman other than Leonie. Then he grinned briefly, because of course, Leonie was jealous as a cat. She looked like one too, her yellow eyes gleaming with rage, ready to spit and scratch if she suspected her husband’s attention might have wandered. Philip had defended Roger to her once, and she had shrugged her shapely shoulders.
“So he is innocent this time, but—du vrai, he is too handsome that devil, and too adventurous. It does no harm to remind him that I am not a complacent wife—not I!”
And truly it did no harm. His father was a little upset and indignant when Leonie flew into a jealous rage, but he was flattered also. With a pang Philip wondered whether Meg would be jealous. He missed her acutely. The longing for her, now untainted by sexual need, was so urgent as to come near to physical pain. And each time he thought of Meg he was made more uneasy by remembering what she did. It was not safe—no matter how careful she was. He had to stop her from smuggling. Pierre could find another partner. Philip grew more and more worried each time he thought of Meg surrounded by those rough men. And was he really sure Black Bart would stay away from her?
He must leave Boulogne! But now he was worried that Désirée might want to use him again. He felt sick at the thought, but she was just the type to be spiteful and accuse him of something if she thought he was trying to escape her. It was infuriating that he could not think of a good reason to leave, but his mind would not work and his eyelids felt weighted with lead.
The next thing Philip knew he was being shaken awake. He had a moment’s confusion and another brief sensation of near horror when he recognized Désirée but before he could betray himself he saw that she was also fully dressed.
“It is nearly time to go,” she said. “You will have to come here alone tomorrow, and I will meet you. Georges will not be able to get leave two days together, and I do not trust anyone but Jeannine.”
Philip opened his mouth to refuse. He was really infuriated by the girl’s calm assumption that he was a sexual machine that would function at her order and—assuming his story to be true—had nothing better to do on his vacation than service her. However he remembered in time his last thought before sleeping, that she was likely to be a spiteful bitch, and instead of refusing outright be shook his head as if he were not yet completely awake.
“What?” he asked blurredly.
Désirée repeated herself in more detail, explaining that she did not wish to bother finding another excuse to take him with her in the carriage, particularly when she had no female companion. He could ride out himself. She would forget her reticule. If he were waiting for her inside, the coachman, who never came into the house, would not know she had met him.
“It will not take us long,” she said baldly. “I can be out in half an hour or so, and it will cause no surprise that I should stay that long.”
By the time she was finished, Philip had seen his chance. He was furious, but he smiled as sweetly as an angel and agreed to everything. He would leave Boulogne at first light. Let her come and find that he had not kept the appointment. Perhaps that would make her understand that men were neither bulls nor stallions and should be treated as human. He would have liked to go back to Boulogne at once, but was not given any choice in the matter. They moved on about half a mile and had dinner with Madame Miallis, Jeannine’s aunt.
It was not as unpleasant as Philip had feared. Georges was a nice enough man, who jestingly railed at Philip’s pretended profession. Apparently Jeannine had, told him about Philip’s finding the smugglers’ cache. “You had better watch your back,” he said. “There are those who are not fond of Customs in these parts, especially of strangers who intrude into what they consider their private affairs.” Then he smiled. “And I do not know how we poor soldiers are to clothe our wives if you gentlemen really stop imports from England.”
Philip made some stuffy reply about Lyons silk being better and cheaper and that smugglers should be in the navy where their maritime skills would be of use. He had a little difficulty getting these pious sentiments out, aware that be sounded like a prig, but fortunately Georges took the whole thing as a joke, laughing loudly and winking as if to say he understood that Philip could not afford to say anything else.
That avenue of conversation being closed, to Philip’s great relief, another opened concerning the doings in the camps Bonaparte had established around Boulogne. Georges was a very junior officer and did not know much, but what he told Philip served to confirm the information he had gleaned from listening to Bonaparte’s conversation with the men who had accompanied him the previous day. The men were being taught to swim so that fewer should be lost by drowning if boats were upset during the landing. All the talk was of currents and roadsteads, about wind and anchorage. In Georges’s opinion, at least, there were no doubts as to the success of the enterprise. He assumed they would move in the spring, when they would have a hundred and fifty thousand men trained, but claimed in ringing tones that he was ready to leave on the morrow.
Philip was afraid even so poor an observer as Georges would notice how spurious his enthusiasm was. Fortunately the lack was taken to be envy because Philip, desk-bound as he was, would not share in the glory and the spoils of the conquest. Philip gratefully accepted the excuse and even mumbled something, about considering changing his service. The talk ground along, and finally it was time to go. Georges kissed his wife. He said nothing about when he would see her again. Philip assumed either it was already arranged, or perhaps Désirée acted as go-between so that she could provide for her own liaisons.
The carriage was waiting when they came to the door. The two girls kissed Madame Miallis, and Philip bowed politely and thanked her for allowing him to visit. Then, at last, they were on their way. This time Désirée made no objection to Philip taking the forward seat. He was well enough pleased to do so, having no inclination to have Désirée in his lap again. In fact he could hardly bear to talk to her. He closed his eyes and pretended fatigue, not caring whether or not the girls would giggle about it. Actually they were also quiet after a few sentences exchanged. The carriage rolled on over the rutted road, bumping more than it had on the way up to Ambleteuse. The moon was bright and full, but it was still harder for the coachman to see than in full daylight and the horses were moving a little faster on the downhill slope.
Philip opened his eyes cautiously and sighed softly with relief. In spite of the bumping, the girls seemed to be asleep. He would not have minded following their example, except that a bad lurch might throw him onto them. Just as he thought it, there was a very bad bump. However, instead of Philip pitching forward, it was Désirée and Jeannine who slid off their seats because of the slope of the road. Philip put out his hands to catch them. In that instant a pistol went off, the coachman shouted with alarm, and the carriage came to a jolting halt in response to a loud voice, which ordered them to “stand and deliver”.
Chapter Fifteen
Just as he heard the shot Philip had grabbed the girls. Instead of bracing them back into their seats, he pulled them roughly to the floor of the coach. Both screamed shrilly. Ignoring their shrieks of pain and protest, Philip put a knee into Désirée’s back and pressed down hard with his left hand on Jeannine’s head. He could not hear what was being said to the coachman because of the cacophony of screams, but he had his gun out and cocked. Cuffing Jeannine hard, he snarled an order to be quiet unless she wanted to be shot.
Then his left hand was free and he could lower both windows. He was barely in time. A shadow fell along the road at the right side of the carriage. Philip leaned out and fired. There was a bellow of surprise, but it did not come from the man Philip had aimed at. He was now one with his shadow, flat on the
road. The female shrieks that had quieted a bit after Philip’s order to Jeannine began anew.
The second man came up fast, more cautiously, squeezed against the other side of the carriage, but Philip had not waited. He had opened the door and leapt to the ground on the same side as the man he had shot. There was one on horseback, too, his guns trained on the coachman. It was fortunate that Monsieur Fresnoy’s horses were placid animals, for the way the reins trembled would have sent a high-spirited pair plunging ahead at a gallop. Philip was afraid even these horses would bolt, but he had no choice. Raising the long-barreled Lorenzoni, he aimed and fired. The man on horseback screamed and fired his own gun, but he was already falling forward, clutching with a weakening hand at his horse’s mane.
Philip sprang back from the carriage as the horses, unnerved by the noise and the twitching reins, finally bolted ahead. He worked the reload mechanism of his gun frantically, knowing he would be completely exposed on the open road. However, he did not need to fire again. The man who had been pressed against the side of the carriage had not been expecting it to move. He had been knocked down when the horses bolted, and a rear wheel had passed over his legs. He was screaming in agony, but Philip wasted no time on him. Instead he ran to catch the horse of the mounted man, which had not been able to get up any speed because the dead rider had fallen with his arm tangled in the reins and the beast could not free its head.
Philip worked at untangling the rider in frantic haste, flung himself into the saddle, and rode off after the carriage. He had a vision of certain curves in the road that came dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. If that idiot coachman should faint or be unable to get his horses under control, the equipage might plunge right off into the sea below. Just what he could do to prevent this, Philip was not sure. Luckily his inventiveness was not put to the test. When he came in sight of the carriage, he saw that it was moving fast but certainly not out of control.
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 27
