The Cornish Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  Trembling with nervousness lest Philip come back too soon, Megaera began to remove her clothes. She could have rung for a maid to help her, but a year of dressing and undressing herself in her smuggling clothing had made her swift and skilled at buttons and ties in a way most unusual for a girl of her class. Most of them had never dressed or undressed themselves in their lives, and Megaera had found it awkward at first, but she was used to it now.

  Actually there was little enough to do. The black velvet spencer could be drawn off easily. The low-bosomed gray twill gown was a little more difficult because of the myriad tiny buttons that closed the sleeves. However, it was a well-worn dress and the button loops slipped over the buttons without trouble. Automatically Meg hung up her spencer and gown. That was another thing ladies did not do, but obviously one could not leave unusual garments lying about for a maid to pick up. Megaera was so accustomed to hanging her smuggling garments in a locked press in Edward’s room that she sometimes hung up her own dresses—which horrified Rose.

  Underneath the dress was virtually nothing, although not so little as some really fashionable ladies wore. Megaera was not one who drew on a pair of knitted silk, flesh-colored tights, pulled a diaphanous, short-sleeved gown over them, and considered herself fully clothed despite freezing weather. She wore a delicate tucked and ribbon-trimmed chemise and a straight petticoat with a flounced hem over knee-length, lace-edged drawers, which hid the garters that tied her silk stockings just above her knees.

  Young and slender and with a body hardened by much walking and riding, Megaera did not bother with a body band to flatten her stomach or a breast band to lift her breasts; the one was as flat, the other as high and firm as any woman could desire. As she stripped off her undergarments she cast a single look down at her body and smiled. No one could disapprove of that milky skin, delicately veined with blue, or the small dark-rose nipples that crowned her breasts.

  In the next moment, however, she frowned. A nightdress was going too far. Besides—the frown smoothed out—her pantalets and chemise were really much prettier than any of her nightdresses. She pulled those delicate garments back on and found a soft blue crepe peignoir frothed with ecru lace. It had been part of her trousseau, but she had only worn it three or four times. Her lips grew hard for a moment. The time during which she had wished to please and attract Edward had been very brief, and it was seldom that she needed a peignoir even during those few weeks. Usually Edward was out in the evening, returning only long after Megaera was abed.

  She pushed that memory away forcibly, but she had little time to brood in any case. She had barely taken off her shoes and stockings and replaced them with a pair of velvet slippers when there was a scratch at the door.

  “Who is it?” Megaera called, suddenly afflicted with a horrible sinking feeling.

  Had Philip found a group of male cronies to occupy his time? It was just the sort of thing Edward had done, even on their wedding trip. He would tell her to go to their rooms, saying he would be coming to join her—and then send a message by a waiter to inform her he would be delayed because he had found a partner for piquet or a group that wished to play basset. And Edward had never given her warning of his coming by scratching at the door.

  The answer to her question brought a flush of pleasure to Megaera’s face. She should have known better, she told herself as she called, “Come in.” Philip might be only a smuggler’s bastard, but he was a greater gentleman than Edward had ever been. He would not walk in unannounced, not even into the room of a woman who had agreed to act as his wife on only a few hours’ acquaintance.

  He proved himself a “gentleman” even more thoroughly when he entered. Although his eyes widened and he swallowed hard, he said nothing. Instead he came forward, lifted Megaera’s hand, and kissed it formally. Philip was a sensitive young man and he had seen not bold invitation but extreme nervousness on Megaera’s face. He was grateful to her for her delicate reply to a question he had no idea how to ask.

  “Each time I see you,” he said, “you are more beautiful than the previous time.”

  “Don’t say that,” Megaera replied, pretending crossness, but she did not pull her hand from Philip’s grasp. “It is impossible to maintain such a record.”

  “Not for you.”

  Gently he drew her closer. She did not resist, but he could sense tension in her. Nonetheless he kissed her, lightly in the beginning and then, when she did not try to escape him, more demandingly. At first she seemed totally passive; then, slowly, her free hand crept up his arm toward his neck. At this interesting moment there was a new scratch at the door.

  Reluctantly Philip lifted his head and stepped back, calling, “Just a moment.” He did not move away immediately, but looked down at Megaera, who met his eyes. She appeared a trifle dazed, but more at ease. Philip smiled at her. “I told you,” he murmured. “You are more beautiful than ever.”

  Then he kissed her forehead and led her to a chair near the window. “Come in,” he called when she was seated.

  The waiter entered carrying a salver that held two bottles and two glasses, which he set on the table. Philip nodded to him and said he would pour himself. Megaera noticed that the man did not linger, and she guessed that he had been given his pourboire earlier or that Philip had promised he would take care of the staff later. Probably both, she thought amusedly when she saw the alacrity and depth of the servant’s bow as he let himself out.

  “I was not sure just what you would like to drink, my dear,” Philip said, “or whether you would prefer that I did not drink at all.”

  “No, don’t be silly.” She shook her head. “You are the most considerate person I have ever met. You cannot forgo your pleasure to pander to my prejudices.”

  “My pleasure is pleasing you, not in a glass of wine, Meg,” Philip said. “I am drunk enough, having tasted your lips. Believe me, it will be no sacrifice to drink ale or cider instead of wine, and I have ratafia for you.”

  “That’s the prettiest speech I ever heard,” Megaera exclaimed. She tried to laugh, but her eyes were full of tears, and she had to get up and go over to look at the bottles to conceal it. “You have some very tolerable sherry here,” she remarked, striving for calm. “I know. I brought it into the country myself. I wonder which of my customers sells to this inn. I don’t distribute so far. I’ll have some of this, if you please.”

  The reminder that she was a smuggler was very deliberate. Philip’s consideration, the nearly formal tone of what could only be considered a courtship, was touching her more deeply than she desired. It was very necessary to remind herself that he could never be anything more than a casual lover. Red Meg could want him, but Mrs. Edward Devoran must not fall in love with the illegitimate offspring of a Breton fisherman. There was also the possibility that recalling Philip’s attention to her profession would change his manner. That would hurt, Megaera knew, but it would be most salutary.

  In fact, if her statement had any effect, it was the opposite of what she feared—or hoped. Philip followed her to the table and uncorked and poured the wine, smelling and tasting it before he offered a second glass to her. Then, instead of renewing the embrace, he gestured her back to her chair and took the one opposite.

  “There is one thing we have not considered,” he remarked, sipping the wine slowly. “I think it will not be possible to have the goods we have bought delivered either to The Mousehole or to the cave.”

  Megaera blinked, then her lips twitched. “Are you making polite predinner conversation?” she asked.

  Philip’s eyes twinkled. “Well, yes. Obviously this is not a subject particularly dear to my heart just now, but I dare not kiss you again because I do not believe I would be able to stop.”

  “Would that be so terrible?” Megaera asked, her eyes fixed on her glass.

  “Yes it would, my beautiful darling,” Philip murmured “I want very much to love you, but not in haste or with an ear cocked for the coming waiter. You wou
ld not like to know there was a man waiting outside the door guessing all too accurately what we were doing.”

  Megaera shuddered. “How ugly.”

  “Yes, and besides, the lovely dinner I ordered, picking and choosing with such care what I thought would please you, would be all spoiled. That would be an appalling finale to an appalling performance, do you not think?”

  “I certainly do!” Megaera agreed, laughing, delightedly. “What a clever devil you are. First you turn me down and then you make me glad of it. And you’re right about the goods, too. I must think of a place where they can be left without arousing suspicion.”

  “I am afraid I can be of no help in that, except… If we only had one wagonload, I could hire a wagon and drive it myself, but I am afraid we will need more than one.”

  “You are clever, Philip I could drive the second wagon if we need one.”

  “Could you? It is not the same as handling a string of ponies. I am not sure you are strong enough, my love. Those cart horses are very powerful, and the hired beasts have often been abused, so that their mouths are shod in steel.”

  “Yes, probably, but they’re also worn down. You could pick a placid team for me. Surely they would be less trouble than a pair of whisky-frisky, high-bred, overfed carriage horses.”

  “And when have you driven a high-bred pair?” Philip asked.

  Megaera bit her treacherous lips and turned her head away. She knew she should tell Philip that the coachman in the house where she had been employed had been cozened into teaching her to drive, but she could not. She preferred simply not to answer. Let him think what he liked. As long as she could she would not tell a direct lie. Philip saw her distress and remembered immediately that she was very secretive about her background. He reached across the table to touch her hand.

  “Sorry, Meg, that was not really a question. I know you do not like prying, and I had no intention of doing so. Forgive me?”

  “With all my heart. I wish…”

  But that was a lie. Megaera did not wish she could tell Philip the truth because she did not believe things could be the same between them if he knew she was the daughter of a baron and the heiress of a considerable estate—if she could ever free it from debt. Surely that would make him either self-conscious or conceited. It is not every smuggler’s bastard who had the daughter of an old and honorable family as a mistress.

  The thought was so ugly that tears filled Megaera’s eyes, but she was saved from needing to explain by the arrival of dinner. It took two waiters and a maid to carry all the trays of dishes and arrange them, and by the time they had done so, Megaera had forgotten all about the degradation of her fine old family name and was laughing helplessly.

  “Philip, you are mad,” she protested. “Is this your tastefully selected dinner? Do you think I am a wolf or a lion? Or are you expecting an army to join us?”

  He looked around at the multitude of dishes with a faintly bemused expression. “I do seem to have overdone it a bit,” he admitted, then glanced at her with a glinting smile.

  “I am afraid my mind was not completely on the dinner. The landlord kept suggesting things and—and I am hungry. They all sounded good.”

  “I’m hungry too,” Megaera confessed, still laughing, “but… Well, we shall do our best.”

  They did, making up for a very scanty luncheon, but without visibly diminishing the quantity of food. However, Philip had the brilliant idea of keeping back the dishes which did not need to be hot to be tasty. They talked easily about food, about wine, about the business they were doing for Pierre. When they could eat no more, Philip rang to have the dishes, except for two or three, removed. He refilled the glasses with wine and, as he bent over her, Megaera sniffed.

  “Have you taken to wearing scent?” she asked.

  “Scent?” Philip repeated blankly. “Do you think I am a man-milliner? No. What can you mean?”

  “I don’t know, but you do smell delightful. I noticed it before, but I thought I was imagining things. You must have touched something in the warehouses I suppose.” Her eyes danced. “Very nice. I would encourage you to continue to use it, but it’s a little too delicate for your coloring?”

  “Good Lord,” Philip said, reaching into his pocket. “I forgot. I meant to give you these when we first came in. Look, Meg, they are only trumpery, but are they not pretty?”

  He laid the things he had bought for her on the table with so innocent an expression of pleased surprise that no woman in the world, no matter how hardened to selling her favors, could have mistaken his delight in giving a pretty toy for an attempt to pay for what he hoped to receive. Since such a transaction had never entered Megaera’s mind, there was no shadow on her face to spoil her cry of pleasure.

  “I shall treasure them always,” she promised, tracing the glowing mother-of-pearl inlay.

  “Well, no, they are not worth treasuring, but they are pretty, and the scent—”

  “They are treasures to me, Philip,” Megaera said. “I think I will never own anything as precious.”

  “Meg, darling…“ Philip’s voice, sounded frightened, and he drew her up to him and held her tight against, him.

  She clung fiercely, fighting tears and despair. She could not love him. She could not! A night’s pleasure now and again, that was reasonable, but she could not love him, nor allow him to love her.

  Until that moment Philip had been thinking—as his stepmother would have said with crude French cynicism—with what was in his breeches. He was a considerate, well-bred young man. Kind even to the girls he paid, he had responded unconsciously to Megaera’s delicate behavior with gallantry. He knew he preferred being with her to being with any other woman in his entire experience, but he had not considered what that meant until Megaera’s simple avowal had pierced his heart.

  As he thought them Philip was aware that the words were a silly, conventional cliché of women’s romantic novels. But they were also horribly descriptive. Quite literally he had felt as if someone had thrust something sharp through his chest. As beautiful as she was, had no one ever given poor Meg even such worthless trinkets before? Only Philip knew that was not what she meant. It was how they were given, why, and by whom that had invested carved, wooden beads with a value far above emeralds and diamonds. In fact, had the things had any intrinsic value, Meg might have been bitterly hurt.

  Having got so far in his thoughts, Philip dared go no further to wonder why he was so filled with joy by Meg’s confession of love—for that was what her words had meant. It was easier to shut his mind. Instead of facing the terrifying notion that a St. Eyre had fallen in love with a woman who ran a crew of smugglers, he pushed her face up to his and fastened his mouth to hers. Desire, that was what he felt—not love, desire.

  There could be no doubt that he felt desire and that Meg was responding to him. Their embrace was so violent that after a moment the buttons on Philip’s coat began to cause her acute pain. She struggled to continue kissing Philip and still ease the pressure, but he let her go as soon as he felt her movement.

  “Your buttons,” Meg gasped before Philip could ask what was wrong.

  It was a most fortunate interruption. The too-intense mood was broken. Both were able to laugh while Philip tore off the offending garment and it provided the perfect excuse for removing Megaera’s clothes. Murmuring sympathetic nonsense, Philip opened her peignoir and began to kiss her “bruises”. His lips found her breasts, but the tucked and ribboned chemise, enchanting as it was, impeded progress. Philip slid the peignoir over Megaera’s shoulders, and the costly garment fell to the floor unheeded in a crumpled heap. The chemise straps followed, but Megaera’s fine upstanding breasts, nipples now erect with excitement, supported the chemise and it would not slip by itself.

  Not at all discouraged by this impediment, Philip went to work on it—but not by any crude expedient such as pushing the chemise down with his hands. He did allow his fingers to pluck gently at the back, but
lips and chin worked at the front—kiss, push, kiss. Megaera’s hands fluttered uncertainly to Philip’s shoulders, to his hair, to his cravat. Here they steadied. The process that directed her actions could not be called thought. The excitement that was sweeping over her had suspended, rational decision, but Megaera knew what she wanted anyway. She had an intense desire to see and touch Philip’s skin.

  She drew the pin from his cravat and dropped it to the floor. The folds loosened at once. Her attempts to pull it off were somewhat uncertain, distracted as she was by the waves of pleasure Philip’s mouth was creating, but she got it loose and dropped it just about the time that one rosy nipple was bared. Philip seized on it at once, nibbling gently with lip-sheathed teeth. Megaera sighed shudderingly and she caught at Philip’s shoulders because she felt her knees were about to buckle.

  Although Philip was by no means calm he was not as lost in a sea of sensation as Megaera. The sensations were, after all, quite familiar to him. He was thus still capable of keeping a fixed purpose in mind, and that fixed purpose was to make this experience as perfect as possible for his partner. Oddly enough the need to think and plan to restrain the satisfaction of his desire heightened his enjoyment enormously. He was aware that he had no hold on Meg, that he must make her willing to participate again by his own skill as a lover.

  He was also aware that her reactions to him were completely real, totally honest. This time he was not a paying client who must be flattered and cajoled into coming again and into paying a little extra. Although he did not think of it consciously, the realization came to him that what he had assumed was pleasure in his company and performance might well have been no more than acting. Even if it were not, it could have no meaning. Clients were not chosen for their youth and good looks. As a relief from the old, the ugly, the cruel ones, Philip might be pleasant.