by Jane Feather
Nell bobbed a curtsy and left in a waft of injured sensibility.
“I had thought you were going to dismiss her as soon as you were unlaced,” Rupert said, sitting in an armchair by the window, regarding Octavia through half-closed lids.
“I’m very tired,” she said, unconsciously stroking her throat. Then the movement reminded her of Philip’s hands around her neck and she stopped.
“Do you mind if we don’t … I mean … I would like to go to sleep,” she finished limply. Never had she turned Rupert from her bed and until this evening she could never have imagined wanting to do so.
“So you shall,” he said evenly. “Bring the ottoman over here and sit down so I can brush your hair.” He gestured to the carpet at his feet.
There was something about her that alarmed him—a dull, fatigued resistance, almost resentment, that he sensed came from deep within her.
A man who carved his way through life with the sheer force of his personality, Rupert could think of only one way to override this strange mood of Octavia’s: with the power of his own will.
Octavia reluctantly pushed the ottoman across the floor with her foot and sat down.
There was silence in the room as Rupert’s hands moved through her hair, tossing aside pins and pads, until the powdered and pomaded mass tumbled to her shoulders.
“How much did you pay the hairdresser this evening?” he asked casually, picking up her brush and drawing it through the sticky locks.
“Five guineas. Why?”
“It probably explains why most people try to keep his work intact for as long as possible,” he observed with a chuckle.
“Are you excusing me of extravagance?” She tried to turn her head to look up at him over her shoulder.
He placed his palm firmly on the top of her head, turning her head forward again. “No, I’m not. I was merely making an observation.”
The brush was coming more freely through her hair now, and despite herself, Octavia began to relax, white powder fluttering over her shoulders to the carpet. Rupert always enjoyed brushing her hair; he made of it a sensual ritual.
Her head bent beneath the rhythmic strokes, the brush stroked the back of her neck, and a wave of lethargy washed through her.
Rupert brushed until her hair fell in a gleaming canopy over her shoulders beneath the white nightgown. He dropped the brush to the floor, and his fingers dug deep and strong into the muscles of her shoulders and along her spine.
“I can’t do this properly over your nightgown,” he said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud as it broke the languid silence. “Take it off and he on the bed.”
Octavia came out of her trance. She still wished to he alone tonight. She didn’t want to be seduced and stroked and persuaded. Not when all she could think of was tomorrow and that Rupert wanted her to sleep with another man.
“I’m very tired, Rupert,” she managed to say, but it didn’t sound as strong as she wanted it to.
“I know you are. Now, do as I say.”
Rebellion stirred, flared, at the cool authority Octavia knew so well. She pushed herself away from his knees so that she was sitting bolt upright on the ottoman. “Rupert, I don’t feel like making love tonight.”
“Did I say anything about making love?” He put his hands beneath her armpits and hoisted her upward. “If you don’t wish to make love, then neither do I, Octavia. It’s not an activity I could enjoy without your pleasure, as I’d have expected you to know by now.”
He was scolding her like an obtuse child even while he pulled her nightgown over her head in one swift movement. “I know you’re tired, and I know you’re wound as tight as a coiled spring. I intend to do something about the latter, so be a good girl and submit gracefully.”
He laughed at her indignant expression. This was familiar territory.
“Go, Octavia.” He turned her toward the bed with an admonitory pat, and when she glared at him over her shoulder, he swung her off the floor and onto the bed.
She bounced upright. “You’re not listening to me. I want to be left alone.”
“What kind of oils or unguents do you have?” he asked calmly, strolling to the dresser. “Something that will lubricate my hands?”
“Lud! What’s the matter with your hands?” she exclaimed in disbelief. She seemed to be losing her rational mind as well as her ability to assert herself. “Are they chapped or something?”
“No, you silly widgeon…. Ah, this should do.” He picked up an alabaster jar of perfumed oil that Octavia used in her bath.
“What are you going to do?” She was still sitting upright on the bed, wearing nothing but her hair flowing over her shoulders, her tawny eyes no longer tired or dull.
“Boil you in oil, if you’re not cooperative,” Rupert said with a grin, putting the alabaster pot on the bedside table. As she continued to gaze at him in vexed confusion, he began without haste to take off his clothes, placing them neatly on the chaise longue. When he stepped over to the bed, Octavia saw with a shock of bewilderment that he was not in the least aroused.
“I have no desire to stain my clothes with perfumed oil,” he explained cheerfully, taking up the alabaster pot. He made an imperative circular movement with his forefinger. “Lie on your belly.”
“No…. I mean, why?”
“Because you want to go to sleep, so I’m going to help you to sleep,” he explained with an air of exaggerated patience. “However, in the interests of harmony and tranquillity I suggest you don’t oblige me to repeat myself.”
“A plague on you, Rupert Warwick. You’re a … a veritable Visigoth!” Octavia declared, flinging herself onto her stomach with a very poor grace.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he returned, swinging across her body and sitting firmly on her bottom. “I’m merely somewhat forcefully looking to your comfort. I wouldn’t call that the act of a barbarian.”
“Oh, I would,” Octavia declared into the pillow, clenching her backside in an effort to heave him off.
He merely laughed, settling himself more securely as he poured oil into the palms of his hands. “We’ll see if you think that in a few minutes.”
His hands began to move over her shoulders, the soft perfumed oil smoothing into her skin as his fingers cleverly worked the tight muscles, pushed into her spine and along the column of her neck. Octavia sank into the feather bed, her eyes closing, resistance floating from her.
Rupert smiled to himself, feeling the change in her. How often had he done this for his mentor during their ramshackle years together? A lifetime of abusing his body with drink and debauchery, of sleeping in damp attics and howling drafts, had reduced old Rupert Warwick in his last years to a mass of aches and pains, plagued with gout and arthritis. Rupert had learned how to give him relief, but working on this slender satin body was a very different experience. And he could see no reason, now that he thought about it, to stop at her neck and shoulders.
His fingers moved down her spine, pressed into the hollows in the small of her back. Octavia groaned, but he could sense no resistance. Inching back so that he sat astride her thighs, he caressed her buttocks, his palms rotating the firm, round cheeks.
He was careful to keep his attentions sensual but not sexual—to avoid the two entrancing dimples low down on the curve of her bottom—and the effort involved in the sacrifice set his blood afire.
He moved down her legs, massaging her thighs, again carefully circumventing the sweet secrets between them. Strong fingers kneaded her calves and the soles of her feet. He could tell she wasn’t asleep by the little ripples running over her skin, although she was limp and formless under his hands.
Octavia was floating, lost in a blissful trance. When his hands turned her onto her back, she was as malleable as clay. She was vaguely aware of his thighs resting lightly now across her own, but his hands were on her face, delicately smoothing over her eyelids, over her cheekbones, her forehead. The smooth, circular movement of his palms caressed her breasts in turn,
and then his hands were on her belly, delicate yet firm, sending deep currents of languid pleasure streaming through her veins.
He took her hands and pulled on her fingers; his thumbs pressed hard into her palms, stroked over her wrists, moved upward over the softness of her inner arms.
Vaguely, Octavia knew that she was smiling as she drifted way above her body on some delicious plane of purely self-absorbed pleasure. When he turned her onto her belly again, she burrowed into the mattress, then felt the length of him measured against her back.
“I have less control than I thought, sweeting,” he whispered against her ear. “Do you mind?”
“No,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Come.” Her thighs parted to accommodate him, and he slipped his hands beneath her belly, lifting her onto the shelf of his palms as he slid within.
Octavia’s smile of languid pleasure grew as his flesh massaged her inner body as skillfully as he’d handled the rest of her. And the warm wash of bliss that flooded her veins brought an overwhelming peace and gratitude that swept away the dull miseries of fear and resentment. There was no longer a lonely future to imagine—only this glorious physical present.
She was asleep almost before he left her body, and Rupert lay beside her, listening to her deep, even breathing in the silence of the house. His hand, heavy with his own relaxation, rested in the small of her back. He would find a way through this tangle. He would achieve his object, but he would not sacrifice Octavia to do it.
Punctually at two o’clock Philip Wyndham’s carriage arrived before the door at Dover Street. Octavia had been watching from the window of the first-floor salon, and for all her mental preparation, her belly lurched as the vehicle drew up. The footman jumped from the ledge at the back, opening the door, letting down the footstep, before ascending the steps to the front door of the Warwicks’ house.
She felt sick, her skin clammy. Rupert was out but expected to be back for dinner at four-thirty. How long did afternoon assignations take, as a rule? Was two and a half hours an adequate length of time? Philip had experience of these matters and he had set the time, so presumably he considered from two to four to be perfectly sufficient for the satisfaction of an afternoon lust. But how would she greet Rupert over the dinner table? Would she casually give him the ring and continue with her roast partridge as if nothing significant had occurred? Would he take it with a nod of thanks and drink his claret as if nothing significant had occurred?
Octavia drew on her gloves, smoothing the fine York tan leather over her fingers, and went downstairs. Griffin was waiting with her cloak. She responded automatically as he wished her a pleasant drive, and went out into the warm sunshine to be greeted by the Earl of Wyndham’s impassive footman.
She entered Philip Wyndham’s coach. The man put up the footstep and closed the door. The coachman’s whip snapped, and the horses broke into a trot down Dover Street.
No, Octavia thought with a cold and miserable finality. Once this business with Philip Wyndham was done, then her relationship with Rupert Warwick was done too. There could be no repetition of such a loving as last night’s once she had been in the bed of another man. Even when she’d yielded with the consent—nay, the encouragement—of her lover. Even … ? Or did she mean, because?
She let her head fall back onto the squabs and closed her eyes. It didn’t matter which she meant. Once she had the ring, she would have fulfilled her side of the bargain. She would not be able to bear Rupert’s touch again.
The coach drew to a halt and she waited, her heart thudding, a faint mist of perspiration on her skin, her hands wet in her gloves. The door opened, and the square of bright sunlight made her blink.
Octavia drew up the hood of her cloak. She alighted in St. James’s Square before the imposing facade of Wyndham House. The front door opened as the footman escorted her up the short flight of scrubbed white steps. Her hand ran lightly over the wrought-iron balustrade, and she resisted the urge to cling to it, to curl her fingers around the slender railing and cling like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.
She stepped into a marble-paved hall. A butler bowed. A maid curtsied. No one said anything. It was almost as if maid gestured to the double staircase that curved gracefully upward to meet on a circular landing at the head. Then the girl hurried ahead of Octavia up the stairs.
As she put her foot on the bottom step, Octavia caught the rustle of silk out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head sharply. Letitia Wyndham stood unmoving in the shadow of a doorway. Her luminous eyes were emeralds in a pale face.
Octavia turned away from those eyes and followed the maid. She felt now as if she inhabited a void—a cool, still vacuum in which she moved, making no impression on her surroundings. Her feet weren’t really touching the stairs, her hand wasn’t really running along the banister. Her steps weren’t now really taking her along this carpeted corridor, weren’t bringing her to these white and gilded double doors. Doors that opened at the maid’s touch.
The girl stood aside with another curtsy, and Octavia moved past her into the room, her skirts brushing against the door frame.
It was a bedchamber. A large, elegant apartment. Philip Wyndham sat in a deep armchair beside the empty hearth, a book on his lap. He rose and bowed as Octavia entered.
“My dear, you are come.” There was a huskiness to his voice she hadn’t heard before.
Octavia curtsied. “As you see, sir.” She drew off her gloves.
He came toward her, his step as light as a dancer’s, his willowy frame moving gracefully. He pushed the hood from her head, then clasped her face with both hands and brought his mouth to hers in a rapacious assault that filled her anew with the terror and revulsion she thought she’d learned to overcome since the first time he had kissed her.
He released her head and unhooked her cloak, throwing it onto a chair, then stood back, regarding her unsmiling, his eyes harsh with hunger. His gaze ran over her, taking in her dress, the pale-blue silk caraco over the skirt of dark-blue figured cotton. His eyes lingered for a minute on the laced bodice; then he moved one hand in leisurely fashion, twitched at the lace with a deft twist of his wrist.
Octavia’s breasts moved freely under the loosened bodice, and her heart beat hard and fast as she waited for him to make the next move.
His mouth curved in a tiny smile of satisfaction; then he turned from her and crossed to a pier table where stood a decanter and glasses. “Madeira.”
It was a statement, not a question, and Octavia merely inclined her head in assent. She took the glass he gave her and sipped the mellow wine, hoping it would give her courage.
Philip was in dishabille: no coat or cravat, a loose dressing gown of brocaded satin over his waistcoat, shirt, and britches. Octavia’s eyes were riveted to his waistcoat, almost as if she could see through the beige-striped silk to the pocket and the little pouch beneath.
She put her glass down on a small table and stepped up to him. Delicately, she slipped her hands beneath the dressing gown, pushing it off his shoulders.
He stood still, sipping his wine, his eyes narrowed. She ran her hands over his torso, and her fingers immediately detected what they sought. Her heart jumped. It was so easy to locate now that she knew where it was.
She began to unbutton his waistcoat, very slowly, button by button, praying that if he detected her anxiety, he would attribute it to passion.
Then he suddenly grasped her wrists. “No. I don’t care for women to take the initiative in such fashion.” His voice was oddly cold and his eyes were arctic gray.
Octavia let her hands fall to her sides. She felt like a whore who’d offended her client. “Your pardon, Philip, but I find myself most eager,” she murmured, catching her lower hp between her teeth, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
He smiled, and a wild rage filled her so that she wanted to hurl something at him to wipe that complacent, triumphant smirk from his lips.
One-handed, still holding his glass, he began where she’d
left off, unbuttoning his waistcoat, shrugging out of it with a graceful movement of his shoulders. The garment fell to the floor, and he kicked it aside with the toe of his shoe.
Somehow she had to be able to pick it up. Maybe a little domestic tidying…. If she smoothed it and folded it …
“Remove your gown.” The rasped command shattered her frantic speculations. Her fingers trembled on the loosened laces of her bodice, the hooks of the skirt, the ties of the panniers beneath.
He pulled her to him, his hands hard as they explored her body beneath her chemise and petticoats. Octavia was numb. She took herself out of her head, concentrated only on the waistcoat on the floor, on the moment when she could casually pick it up, brush her fingers over the lining, palm the little pouch.
She became aware that he was pushing her backward. She felt the bed behind her thighs; then she was toppled over until she lay sprawled on the coverlet and he stood over her, his hands on the waist of his britches.
This was to be no dance of love, no leisurely preparation, no stoking of the flames.
She tried not to look as he pushed his britches to his feet and kicked them aside. He tugged at the buttons on his shirt, and for the first time she detected urgency in his movements. Shirtless, in only his woolen drawers, he knelt on the bed. He pushed up her petticoat, revealing her silk-clad thighs. His fingers were on her garters. Another inch, and she would be exposed to those cold gray eyes, her body bared and vulnerable for the assault of that hard, bulging flesh pushing against the wool of his undergarment….
There was a sudden violent crash followed by a cascade of noise, a high-pitched scream, a long, drawn-out wail of pain and terror—and the room was engulfed in a cloud of thick black soot.
“By Christ!” The Earl of Wyndham was suddenly as limp as a drowned hen, his face a picture of astonishment and chagrin. Then he hurled himself off the bed and Octavia struggled up, choking as the thick, greasy black flakes rained down on the bed. A bubble of almost hysterical laughter rose in her throat, and her eyes watered with the effort to control it as she struggled to work out what had happened to shatter the earl’s lust with such devastating effect.
