by Nia Farrell
I could have stayed there indefinitely, reveling in the feel of his possession, but I was a good girl. I swallowed my disappointment, found my feet, and raised up, tightening my sphincter as he pulled free, in hopes of minimizing the mess. As usual, I was naked and he was clothed, or mostly clothed. He’d discarded his jacket and waistcoat, but kept on his shirt and cravat above the waist and everything else below it. Judging from the heat emanating from my bottom, the friction of the summer-weight wool of his trousers had turned my skin a lovely shade of pink. I was just as certain that his trousers were soaked, washed by the tides that still threatened to roll.
Where Edward was concerned, I was insatiable. Of course, the feeling seemed fairly mutual. Even now, his cock was only slightly softened, jutting up between us, pressed as I was against him. I thought he would set me aside but he surprised me, keeping me in his lap, for all the further damage that might be wrought upon his suit pants.
I immediately felt a sense of chagrin that was edging dangerously close to guilt. What was between the two of us was a private, precious thing, yet there would be no keeping secrets if this was how Edward wanted me, naked in broad daylight with servants about. Servants who were responsible for laundering clothes and cleaning floors and replenishing bottles of the lightly scented mineral oil-based lubricant that Edward favored for easing his way when he tunneled inside my darkest passage, usually while biting my back and calling me Lane. Every staff member in the household would know, if they hadn’t already guessed, the nature of my relationship with Edward, even if it bore no label.
I must have fidgeted, because the next thing I knew, Edward grasped my hips and pulled me tight against him.
“Stay,” he ordered, that deep baritone voice deceptively soft and deliciously low. He slid his hands, one down, one up, pressing against my abdomen and claiming my neck with a possessive hold, wrapping his fingers lightly around my throat.
“Soiled or ruined, it does not matter. I shall have to share you soon enough, but here, now, it is the two of us, hmm? No family. No social obligations. No patrons, sponsors, or critics. No senior department heads or fledgling students. I want to savor this while I can. Store up another memory to pull out and reexamine on nights that you work late or days when you are required elsewhere and I shall stare across an empty table and wish like hell that you were here.”
I could not look at him. I could not. It was the most moving thing that Edward had ever said to me, and I was damned if I was going to cry.
And so I let him hold me, until the sting of tears abated and the third floor room had grown uncomfortably hot, despite my lack of apparel.
“Edward,” I whispered.
“Hmm?”
“I need the water closet. Let me go, please, so that I can dress.”
He heaved a sigh and allowed me to rise. I glanced down as I did. “Oh, dear.”
They looked ruined.
“Worth every pound,” he said. “You are not to fret over it. Stop biting that lip or I shall bite it next, and I guarantee it will not be pleasant. Positivity, Elena, is a requirement, not an option. Let me see you smile. There. Much better.”
I gave Edward what he wanted. How could I not, when he’d done so much and asked so little of me? Just the thought of him biting my lip and what would surely follow was enough to abandon any thought of disobedience. Kissing his hand, I dressed with all due haste, afraid that we may have tarried too long.
I made it to the water closet and emerged greatly relieved.
Edward had donned his waistcoat but left it unbuttoned, giving me unfettered access to his braces. Unable to resist the temptation, I slid my hand against his shirt and tugged him down as I rose on tiptoes. “A bath?” I asked prettily, carefully nuzzling his afternoon-shadowed chin. “Would you order me one please, Sir?”
He murmured his approval. “Of course. When would you like it?”
I slid my fingers up, brushing the pebbled tip beneath his shirt and answered, “Whenever you wish it.”
The bath was drawn in my quarters. Edward declined to join me, citing pressing issues that needed addressed. I took the liberty of soaking until my fingertips were pruned and the water was growing chilled. Clean, refreshed, and hungry as a bear emerging from hibernation, I dressed myself and made my way downstairs in hopes of finding a servant who could guide me to the kitchen. Used to deprivation, I’d learned that a chunk of cheese and an apple made a small meal and would tide me over nicely until supper was served, whatever time that would be.
There was so much to learn. The layout of the rooms. Meal times. Schedules. Household staff. Family members. Friends and acquaintances. The neighborhood and the city itself. What was within walking distance, and what was not.
And there was so much to do, even before Daniel arrived with the contents of my studio. The Royal Academy of Arts and the British Museum topped my list, but sooner or later, I would have to meet Edward’s father and offer my condolences on his loss. That would, in truth, be genuine. I could not fathom losing one spouse, let alone two. If he loved my mother as Edward claimed, he would either embrace me for being part of her or shun me for ignoring her. Like or loathe, I feared there would be no middle ground.
I reached the first floor and found it abandoned. Edward’s study was empty. His library, drawing room, parlor, and dining room the same. But the smell of something baking wafted from the half-basement lower level that, among other things, contained the servants’ quarters.
I followed my nose to the downstairs kitchen where Edward’s cook was working. Apple and cheese, I told myself resolutely. To beg one of the small pastries being set on a rack to cool would be impolite.
“Miss Davenport!” The cook—Babs, I remembered—beamed when she noticed me by the threshold of the door. I had not crossed it but hovered there, hesitant to interrupt her work.
Babs was slightly rotund, slightly gray, and barely five feet tall, with a round face, ruddy cheeks, and merry blue eyes that danced with good humor. Her skin was far fairer than Young Frank’s, whose sun-kissed color would likely pale in the winter. The son seemed to have his mother’s good nature, but he’d clearly gotten his height from his father’s side, and probably his coloring. Young Frank had an unruly black mane of hair, startlingly pale blue eyes, and a wide, expressive mouth. His knuckles were scuffed, his fingers gentle as he handled his mother’s pet hedgehog.
“Off now with you,” she chided him, shooing him out and leaving us alone. Why she felt the need for privacy, I could not say. Perhaps it was for my benefit, should I have questions unfit for a young man’s ears, about female needs and such.
“Supper is served at seven, Miss. I know it’s a bit ahead of what other gentrified households keep, but the Professor is an early riser. Exercises early, eats early, starts work early, either here or at the university, depending on the day and the season. You missed tea time. Would you care for something to tide you over? The tarts are fresh from the oven.”
“Oh, my,” I breathed, imagining their taste. I sighed and asked for cheese and an apple. “Thank you,” I said when she’d done my bidding. “Having a little something on my stomach seems to keep it from ulcerating. Plain fare works best. I eat quite a bit of oatmeal. Cheese. Milk. Fresh fruit. That sort of thing. Canned fruit if fresh is scarce. May I depend upon you to see to it?”
Babs nodded eagerly, her face wreathed in a smile. “Of course, Miss! You’ll never go for want, not while I’ve keys to the cupboard!”
She showed me the pantry. Showed me her room, if ever I should need her in the night. Showed me the system of pulleys attached to bells used for summoning different members of the staff. The one in my bed chamber was for Lucy, for now. Babs seemed to think that I needed a true lady’s maid, not a housekeeper pressed into double service, let alone service for which she was not suited.
“She don’t know hair,” Babs clucked. “She don’t know fashion. She’s a good girl, and a hard worker. Keeps the upstairs right nice, she does, but you’ll b
e needing someone who can make you shine even brighter than you do, Miss Davenport. Oh, la! It’s so good havin’ you here!”
The way she said it, I could tell that news of our dalliance on the third floor had spread to the lower levels of the house. Yet I saw no judgment, only purest pleasure on her face. She clearly adored Edward, and if I had made him happy, well, that seemed to have made her happier yet. Inexplicably, tears stung my eyes and I blinked hard, pretending I’d gotten a lash or something into one.
Needing space, I took my apple, an English biscuit, a wedge of cheese, and a glass of mint-infused water upstairs to the dining room. Free to choose, I seated myself at one end of a long, broad mahogany table that easily sat twenty. The matching French Rococo chairs, instead of being done up in the usual fabric, were upholstered in black leather, imparting a masculine feel to the set that seemed very Edward indeed.
I took a bite of apple and popped in a bit of cheese, letting the flavors commingle, appreciating each individually but relishing the combination. Shaking my head at using food as a metaphor for Edward and myself (or Edward and Daniel, my inner voice chimed), I finished my repast, leaving my plate as instructed but taking my half-full glass with me, sipping as I explored the length and breadth and height of Edward’s home.
I hadn’t realized it, but he was a collector of both art and artifacts, his love of history evident in the subject matter of oil paintings and sculptures that occupied walls, niches, shelves, and pedestals throughout the house. Just wandering through, taking everything in, stirred my creative juices.
I headed for my room and my carpet bag of art supplies.
Edward found me in the third floor studio, sitting on the floor, exactly where he’d finished inside me earlier in the day.
“Hello, you,” I breathed, feeling my body quicken at the look upon his face, the memories of our encounter evident in the gleaming turquoise of his eyes.
“Hello, yourself,” he countered, angling his golden head. “You have been busy.”
Yes, I had. My sketchbook was opened, a bowl of shavings sat close by, and my fingertips were black from the charcoal and graphite that I’d been using.
Edward’s lips curved with good humor. “Supper is served, my dear. Come, let’s get you cleaned up.”
My art supplies, save for the bowl of shavings, went back into my bag. Helping me stand, Edward bent down, took hold of the leather handles, and escorted me back to my room. I washed as best I could, but my fingertips were somewhat stained and there was simply no help for that. If we were in company, I would have changed dresses and worn gloves, but the good professor expected no such formalities, not when it was just the two of us. The black bombazine gown that I wore was appropriate for first mourning, even if the feelings raging beneath its surface were not.
We lingered long over supper, dining by candlelight at one end of the table, a bouquet of fresh cut flowers lightly scenting the air. The red wine served with the beef went straight to my head, and I found myself leaning on one elbow, chin propped in my hand, trying to listen to Edward’s day beyond the distraction of his mouth.
“Tomorrow?” he repeated.
“Mm…what?”
He chuckled, a delicious rumble that sent gooseflesh rippling across my skin. “Visiting Father tomorrow. Will that work for you, or have you other plans?”
I chewed my lower lip. “Yes. No. Nothing that won’t wait.” Until Daniel came, I was limited on what I could do, unless Edward took me shopping for paints, brushes, and canvasses enough to tide me over, but I refused to ask that of him, not when he’d done so much already.
The fruit pastries served with fresh-churned ice cream were the perfect ending to our first meal, yet for the life of me, I could not enjoy Babs’s dessert in the manner it deserved. The looming prospect of meeting Edward’s father weighed heavily on my mind, and I excused myself as soon as I finished, citing a need to lie down, which was the truth. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball on my bed and wallow in my misery.
But Edward refused to let me suffer alone. He was so very kind, and patient, as courtly as a knight who had his lady’s favor but asked for nothing more. He undressed us both and climbed into bed behind me, pulling me into the circle of his arms.
Cradled against his body, I could feel how much he wanted me. But Edward held me, just held me, making no demands. He was willing to let this be all for now, if that was what I wished.
What I wished.
Yes, therein lay the problem. What I wanted was the impossible. A mother who’d loved me enough to stay, who hadn’t left, who hadn’t died. I didn’t exactly hate her, but resentment festered beyond the hurt. At its core was the sense of betrayal, that she’d moved on from Father and found another man. A part of me understood that these things were my problems, not hers. I only hoped that meeting Dr. Wainwright might let me move beyond them, and offer the balm that I needed to help heal the past.
Sometime around midnight, still lying on my side, I stirred to the feel of a mouth and hands and a hardened rod of veiny flesh tracing my slickened folds from behind. Grasping my thigh, Edward lifted my leg, probed my opening, and claimed me in a single thrust that filled me completely and made me gasp with the sheer length and strength of it.
If Edward was determined to take my mind off of things, he was doing a damned fine job of it. I let him take me, possess me, as surely as if I were a slave that he’d bought at auction, his to do with as he pleased.
“I want your mouth,” he growled when he was close to his own climax, having coaxed two from me already. Pulling free, he turned me onto my back, straddled my shoulders, and breached my lips, his salty emission bursting against my palate and down my throat, his big body shuddering as he emptied himself on my tongue.
I swallowed it all and kissed his crown when I was done, cupping his heavy testicles and giving them a loving squeeze before he dismounted me. He lay down beside me, only this time we were facing each other. I wished I had the light to see in his eyes what I felt from his fingertips as they stroked my cheek and winnowed through my hair, traced my shoulder, and settled on my hip.
He pressed his lips to my forehead, a kiss far from sexual yet just as intimate. “Sleep,” he ordered.
I obeyed.
Chapter Nineteen
Dr. Philip Wainwright lived near Hyde Park, a delightful bit of real estate that I planned to visit in the near future, hopefully with a carpet bag of art supplies in tow. His home, somewhat smaller than Edward’s, was made smaller yet by the dual use of space. The downstairs had been subdivided and a side entrance added to accommodate his medical practice. His personal household occupied the lower level half-basement, the other half of the downstairs and the full range of the two floors above.
Dr. Wainwright was a handsome man, every bit as good looking as his son, with silver hair, expressive blue eyes, and smile lines etched deeply into his clean-shaven face. I could certainly see his attraction. If any man could heal a widow’s grief, surely it was a physician, who would understand and be able to meet her every need.
“Elena,” he chimed, sounding almost relieved. But then I realized, both Lane and I looked like our father and were named for him (bearing his middle name as ours, Lane Joseph and Elena Josephine). Indeed, there was very little evidence of our mother in me, save for my white, even teeth and my voice. She had been a great beauty and much in demand, with flaming red hair, brilliant green eyes, ivory skin, and a smile of blinding brilliance. Well bred, come from a moneyed family on her father’s side and a titled one on her mother’s, yet both had disowned her when she’d eloped with my artist father, who could lay claim to neither.
Everything that I knew about their history came from his lips, not hers. She’d never spoken of her family (nor written to them, as far as I knew) since cutting the cords that sought to bind her when she dared to choose her own future.
Hmm. I might be more like my mother than I cared to admit.
“Dr. Wainwright. It’s good to meet y
ou, sir. I wish it had been under better circumstances. My condolences on your loss. Edward says that she went quickly. I am grateful that you were there to ease her passing.”
“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat, striving for delicacy. “And my condolences on your losses. Edward has told me something of your, um, circumstances. I must say, you are a remarkable young woman, and a very talented one, in his estimation. Given his art collection, that is no small praise, hmm?”
I realized that Edward must have spoken with him yesterday. I was curious, what, exactly, had Edward told him about me?
I looked up at Edward. He smiled and said nothing, the scoundrel.
“Thank you,” I told his father, hesitant to say more. If I erred, it would at least be on the side of caution.
He smiled, all benevolence. “My daughter sends her regards and expresses her regret at not being able to come today. Her youngest has a slight fever, and she will not leave until it has passed.”
“How many children does she have?” I knew but the barest of facts—that Edward’s mother Elisabeth had died in childbirth with his sister Constance, and that Constance had married Dr. George Marshall, their father’s protégé. It wasn’t as if Edward was secretive or that I was uninterested but, well, we’d been focused on each other, to nearly the exclusion of all else save President Lincoln, American politics, my military service, his work, and my art.
Dr. Wainwright fairly beamed. “Three,” said the proud grandfather. “Lawrence is seven and wants to be an Egyptologist. Adelaide is five and learning to ride. Betsy is three and quite the handful. An intrepid explorer. Always into things. Afraid of nothing except the underneaths of beds and chiffoniers.”
I smiled at that, having been scared witless once by a nightmare of things crawling forth from those “between” spaces—a closet, in my case, as well as under the bed. To reassure me, Mother had put vials of holy water in them so no evil could pass and had given me a St. Michael’s medal, placing me under the Archangel’s protection. I’d worn it until Fredericksburg, when Daniel was wounded and I saw that he needed it more.
