The Cornish Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  Meg, he was sure, had never been a whore. He guessed she was not a virgin because of her readiness to yield to him, but it was obvious from her actions that her sexual experience must have been very limited and that she had been a passive rather than an active partner. Everything she had done showed that it was he, as a particular person, rather than the act itself, she desired. And that, untainted by any commercial transaction, was both so flattering and so stimulating that Philip, who was normally a considerate lover, was pushed to an even keener sense of his partner’s needs.

  Having interpreted Meg’s quick clutch at him with perfect accuracy, Philip released her nipple and caught her up in his arms. She was light enough and cooperative enough—flinging her arms around his neck to hold herself close—that he could free one hand to push the screen away and pull back the counterpane and blankets. As he set her on the bed he slid his hands up and pulled the chemise off over her head. The cessation of active stimulation permitted Megaera to catch her breath. It did nothing, however, to diminish her desire to see Philip’s bare body.

  “Take your clothes off,” she said, far too deep in her physical need to be shy.

  Philip licked his lips and took a deep breath. Meg’s demand had driven him dangerously near a crude grab at quick satisfaction by exciting him far beyond his normal level of passion. The naked desire for him was very different from the prostitutes’ practiced—and, now he realized, indifferent—attempts to stimulate him. He yanked off his shirt, pulled off his boots, and shoved breeches and underpants off his narrow hips in one motion.

  Meg’s sigh, her half-parted lips, the wide-opened eyes that ran up and down his body in eager examination, made him tremble with desire. He was at the bed in an instant, touching, kissing, fondling. Meg sighed and quivered, stroking the smooth, dark skin—so different, so exciting—winding her fingers in the black curling hair that grew in a wide triangle on Philip’s chest. She returned his kisses, pressing her lips to his neck when his mouth was busy elsewhere. Abandoning his chest, Meg began tracing the thin line of hair that was different, flat and sleek, and descended from the down-pointing apex of the triangle and grew over Philip’s belly to widen into the pubic bush.

  Softly, under his breath, without releasing the breast he was alternately kissing and sucking, Philip began to groan. He could not hold off much longer. One hand found the button of her pantalets. He fumbled but found the minor hindrance exciting rather than frustrating. The girls in the bawdy houses never wore such inconvenient garments. Under their wrappers they were usually nude. Fortunately the button came undone before Philip lost patience and wrenched it off. One hand slipped under, seeking Meg’s Mount of Venus and what lay beyond. Meg began to whimper and twitch, thrusting uncertainly toward the touch that was driving her wild.

  Her response made at impossible, and clearly unnecessary, for Philip to wait. He lifted his head momentarily to see what he was doing and stripped off Meg’s pantalets, mounted her, positioned himself, and thrust. Meg cried out, partly in relief but also a little in pain. She was not a virgin, but it had been a very long time since she had had congress with a man. For all her desire and her eagerness, she was stretched by Philip’s considerable endowment. He paused at once, breathing painfully hard, obviously very surprised.

  “Sorry,” he gasped. “I am sorry. I did not guess—”

  “Never mind,” Meg whispered, winding, her legs around him to help him along. “I love you. I want you. Love me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Philip took full advantage of Megaera’s urging. His surprise had cooled his initial heat, and he moved cautiously until he was sure he was no longer hurting her. It took longer than he had expected from her eagerness to satisfy her, but she came to climax at last, crying out and clutching convulsively at her lover. Philip then abandoned himself to his own pleasure. This seemed to give Meg as much delight as her own orgasm, which was another pleasant surprise to Philip. Oddly, Meg went even further. When Philip had caught his breath and began to lift himself off her, she held him tight. “Did I not content you, darling?” he asked, somewhat startled and worried, knowing there was nothing more he could do for a while.

  “Oh, yes,” Megaera sighed. “Nothing so wonderful ever happened to me before.”

  “How you flatter me,” Philip said. His voice was light, but be was quite sincere. “But, love, I will crush you if I lie atop you now.”

  “I don’t care. I can’t bear it to be over.”

  Her naïveté was adorable—and totally convincing. Philip knew that either he was her first lover or, if she had been used before, it was just that—she had been used, not loved. He kissed her lips gently, then her forehead, cheeks, and chin, little light kisses of affection rather than passion.

  “Do not talk so silly, my darling. Love is never over. It only rests to renew itself. Let me turn so I will not hurt you. I assure you that you cannot wish to lie closer to me than I wish to lie to you.”

  He rolled sideways, pulling her with him; surprised to feel himself growing harder instead of slipping out of her. There was no drive to the sensation yet, only a lazy urge not to withdraw. Philip was perfectly content to remain coupled, and Megaera could hardly believe her own joy. Edward had succeeded in arousing her several times, but he had never brought her to climax because he never cared enough to notice. Even if he had, he would not have bothered to hold back his own pleasure to satisfy her. And when he was finished, he was finished. There were no sweet words, no soft kisses, no postlove fondling. Edward simply withdrew, left her, and went to sleep in his own room.

  At first Megaera continued to cling as if she expected Philip to push her away (that had happened to her too), but it very soon became apparent that he had spoken the truth. She could see that he was enjoying her, admiring her, truly as eager to listen to her soft murmurs of love as to reply to them with kisses and caresses. It was all so full of joy. Philip laughed at her fascination with his dark skin, with the way the hair grew on his body, but he laughed kindly, inviting rather than rejecting her attentions. Slowly the gentle touches of investigation grew more directed. The kisses lasted longer, lips parting to invite the tongue’s invasion. They made love a second time, more slowly but with even greater intensity because they were more sure of each other and did not need to hold back anything for fear of offending.

  When they were finished this time, Megaera did not cling. Her contentment was thus even greater because, although Philip lifted himself off her at once, he drew her back into his arms and held her most tenderly. After their exertions they slept very soundly. Nonetheless each was dimly aware of the other’s presence, neither having ever before slept a night through in the company of another person. It was strange to wake in the morning touching one another, and a joy so incomparable that it was near to pain for each to see the delight in the other’s face.

  They made love once more with the dim light of early morning stealing around the edges of the curtains, and slept again, to be awakened by the maid’s voice reminding them that they had asked to be called by eight of the clock. Philip groaned, answered the girl, then turned and looked at Meg pathetically.

  “Are you really going to make me go out and hire a wagon?” he asked. And then he put back a tendril of hair that had fallen over her face and sighed. “You are so beautiful, Meg. I cannot believe it, but what I said—oh half jesting—it is true. Each time I look at you, you are more beautiful than before.”

  Megaera’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not dare answer in kind. She was treading very dangerous ground. Everything Philip said, everything he did, raised him higher in any comparison with the men of her own class—at least those with whom she had an intimate acquaintance. And Philip was sounding more and more as if he really loved her. No, she could not encourage that. It would be cruel to allow him to believe she could be his. Only she could not—not if her life had hung on it—hurt him at that moment. All she could do was avoid the problem.

  “I hope,
” she said as tartly as she could, “that your eye trouble does not interfere with your selection of the cart horses.”

  “What eye trouble?” Philip asked, so puzzled that he let her go and leaned back.

  “The eye trouble that makes you see me so peculiarly.” Megaera forced herself to laugh, but it came out as a shy, gentle sound rather than the hard, cynical chuckle she had hoped to achieve.

  Philip laughed too, but he sighed resignedly and got out of bed when she held off his attempt to kiss her again. “Slave driver,” be groaned. “I never met such a woman. What does Pierre have which I do not have that inspires you to such devotion?”

  “An unlimited supply of brandy and wine,” Megaera replied, but her voice was happy.

  She had escaped any declaration of love on Philip’s part. He was only teasing her now. She lay a moment longer to let Philip finish using the chamber pot, then got out of bed too. The disorder in the room made her blush faintly. Her peignoir lay where Philip had dropped it in the middle of the floor; her slippers came next, one at a time, as she had pushed them off while Philip carried her to the bed; her pantalets and chemise were on the floor also, but beside the bed. Megaera giggled as she suddenly thought one could follow the “rake’s” progress by the position of the discarded garments.

  Philip’s clothing was even more widely scattered because he had flung each article away in haste when he undressed. He had pulled on his drawers and breeches and then opened the door to take in the morning tea tray. Now he was wandering around, picking up and putting on a stocking here, a boot there, mumbling to himself about how things had gotten into such peculiar places. Megaera paused in her own dressing to watch him, almost sick with the intensity of her tenderness. She had not realized her feelings could be so fierce nor so strongly aroused by such simple, silly, everyday actions. Then she turned away sharply, knowing she must not permit herself to think or feel that way.

  She had both petticoat and dress on when a more obscene epithet, quite loud, drew her attention. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Sorry.” Philip looked abashed at the language he had used. “I have pulled two buttons off my shirt. It does not matter. My waistcoat will hide it.”

  “If you can find the buttons, I will sew them back on,” Megaera offered.

  Philip looked around vaguely, clearly without much hope, but one button showed up nearly at the toe of his boot, white against the dark carpet. Megaera found the other almost as easily. It was only then that Philip asked how she would sew them on.

  “With needle and thread,” she replied laughing at him. “No rational woman goes abroad without a paper of pins and needle and thread in her reticule. If she has them, there is hardly ever a need, but does she dare step one foot out of the house without them, then some great clumsy brute puts a foot on the flounce of her skirt instantly.”

  “But you do not have a flounced skirt,” Philip remarked.

  Some of the things women did and said puzzled him. Usually he paid no attention, having little interest in matters that seemed of enormous importance to them and of monumental insignificance to him. Now it was different. He found himself passionately interested in everything Meg did and said. He wanted to know her thoughts and why she thought them—even about needles and thread. He wanted to know everything about her. Meg looked blank when he spoke and then raised her eyes to heaven as she took the shirt from his hands.

  “Philip, you are still asleep,” she said. “All I meant was that a sensible woman is prepared for tears or a seam coming undone. A woman’s clothing is made of more fragile materials and also has more of a tendency to get caught in things than a man’s. And some gowns are flounced. One always carries needle and thread.”

  “Oh.”

  She glanced up briefly from her threading of the needle and looked hastily back at her work. The expression on Philip’s face was dangerous, terribly dangerous. “No,” she gasped. “It is impossible. You must return to France when Pierre comes.”

  There was a minute of silence so deep that it was apparent Philip was holding his breath. Then air sighed out of his lungs. “Yes.” The word was spoken so softly that Megaera hardly could hear. Her hands trembled and she pricked herself. She could sense that Philip was no longer looking at her. She sewed, half blinded by tears that she would not permit to fall, bit the thread, started on the second button, then dared a glance at him. Philip had walked to the window and was looking out.

  “It is not in my power to refuse to go,” he said. “It is not a question of money, Meg. I have an obligation. I cannot explain it, but you must believe that if it were a matter of choice I would never leave you. Give me these two weeks, Meg—or however long until Pierre comes back.”

  The sick terror that had gripped Megaera after she spoke receded. She had thought that either Philip would be furious or that he would laugh cruelly at her for thinking he wanted more than a night’s pleasure. The answer she had was a terrible double-edged sword, Megaera knew, but just now she did not care. All that mattered was that one edge had killed her fear and given her happiness. Later she would pay and pay bitterly for this present joy, when the other edge came to bear and loneliness cut her. For this moment the relief was so great that she closed her mind to the future. All she permitted herself to think about was the tender pleading which confirmed that Philip felt as deeply about her as she did about him. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Philip was beside her immediately, pulling the shirt out of her suddenly idle hands, seizing them, kissing them. “I will come back,” he promised. Then he realized he might not be able to come back. He might be caught, imprisoned, even killed. “If it is possible,” he amended. “I… God, I want to tell you, but it is not my secret, Meg. You understand, do you not?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do understand.”

  Megaera thought she did, assuming Philip was speaking of some obligation to his father. She assumed, also, that Pierre might be involved in more activities than simple smuggling and that Philip might be indispensable to those other activities. It. did not occur to her that Philip might be in danger, only that Pierre might send him far away—to India, or the West Indies, or to Louisiana.

  And Megaera understood obligation to one’s parent, even when that parent had done little besides engendering her and causing trouble. Surely if she could endure her father, refrain from making him a prisoner in his own home, struggle to keep him from drinking himself to death even though that death would be a release for her, then surely Philip owed a “father” such as Pierre a devoted duty. It was wrong for Pierre not to have married Philip’s mother, perhaps, but Megaera knew there must have been a good reason for it. Pierre was an honest man; he would not slough off a responsibility to a pregnant woman or his child. In fact Megaera knew he had not done so by the warmth and affection openly displayed between Pierre and Philip.

  “Oh, Meg,” Philip exclaimed, “you are the most wonderful woman alive, I swear it! Anyone else would have pouted and wept and fallen into a fit of the vapors because I did not set her above my duty. I do not know how I… Never mind. We have two weeks. That can be a very long time. Let us not think about anything else.”

  “But we must,” Megaera reminded him with a smile in her voice. She pulled her hands gently out of his grasp and picked up the shirt. “I must think of how to spend the rest of Pierre’s money, and you must think of how to transport the goods, at least as far as the blasted tree.”

  “Yes, but first we must think of breakfast. I hope this tea is not stone cold. No, it is not, but there is nothing here but toast fingers. Give me that shirt, Meg, and I will go down and order breakfast.”

  “There is all that food from last night,” Megaera protested. “We never touched it after—” She stopped abruptly and blushed.

  Philip laughed. “No. Not that I was not hungry,” he said wickedly. “It was just that I knew I would fall flat on my face if I tried to get out of bed. You wrung me out finely my love.”

&
nbsp; “Liar,” Megaera retorted. “It was only that your mind had fallen into a hole and… Oh dear! Stop laughing like that, you monster. You know I didn’t mean that.” She paused while Philip choked on his own mirth, then said with dignity, “In any case, there is plenty of food.”

  He looked under the dish covers while Megaera fastened the thread on the second button, then took his shirt and put it on. “The cold meat is fine for me,” he agreed, “but do you not want eggs and streaky rashers, or—”

  “No! Goodness, Philip, if I remain in your company long I will be too fat to walk. You will need to wheel me about in a barrow. Consider my poor pony. Tea and toast is quite enough for me. I must go down to the jakes. Will you fasten my sleeves, please? I find they are much easier to undo than to do up.”

  “How convenient,” Philip murmured, kissing her on the ear as he began to button her sleeves.

  After a moment he started to wonder who did up all the tiny buttons if Meg found them difficult. In fact, those on the right sleeve must be almost impossible to do with the left hand alone. Surely it was necessary to hold the, sleeve together with one hand and button with the other? Could Meg have a maid? Nonsense, Philip told himself. It was ridiculous. The buttons were only difficult for him because he was unused to such tiny things so close together. Women knew how to manage from long practice, and the only reason Meg had asked him to help was, no doubt, that she was in a hurry to use the jakes.

  When Megaera returned they breakfasted, Philip substantially and Megaera lightly, then went out to complete their round of the warehouses. Neither had ever been so comfortable or content. The underlying tension of the preceding day—the desire and uncertainty—was gone. Passion remained, but both knew it would be satisfied at a proper time and place, and it gave a warm, heady spice to the day’s doings rather than making them nervous. Deep back there was a shadow of course, but it did not come forward to cloud the mind and heart while one was busy and happy.