Ghosts of Winter

by Rebecca S. Buck

  “You’re wearing different perfume.”

  “You must have a very sensitive nose.”

  “I love to smell you.”

  “You’ve been smelling me since the first day we met.”

  “True.” I blushed a little at the knowledge she had noticed. “What’s this perfume?”

  “It’s called Jicky, it’s French, and it was created in eighteen eighty-nine.” Her tone was flirtatious and alluring, as though the innocent words were a tease.

  “Is it very expensive?”

  “Incredibly.” She sounded as though she relished every syllable of the word, rolling it around in her mouth.

  “Is everything you own expensive?”

  “Absolutely. I have high standards, you see, as I’ve told you before.” It was impossible to miss the seductive challenge in her words.

  “Do you really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s hope I live up to them.”

  “So far, so good.”

  We could have spoken about anything in those moments, and it would have been intensely erotic. The effect of this conversation was to turn my insides into magma which I knew would have to erupt before long.

  Anna seemed to be studying my breasts. She dipped a long finger into her wine and reached out to rub her moist fingertip over my swollen nipple. My chest rose and fell heavily, since it was perfectly clear her mouth would soon follow her finger. Her tongue swept firmly over my hardened flesh, and then her lips began to tease. I ran one hand through her smooth, soft hair, as my other stroked over her shoulder to her back.

  When she sat up again, her glasses were slightly askew. I grinned and straightened them for her. She was truly beautiful, and I had to kiss her again. I pulled her to me firmly and pressed my mouth to hers, my tongue penetrating her, as she kissed me back with just as much enthusiasm.

  She moaned louder this time, and I felt light-headed. We’d reached the point of no return, there would be no more teasing or drinking wine. Suddenly her kiss strengthened as she snatched control from me and pushed forward, forcing me onto my back on the floor. I submitted willingly, her mouth still on mine, feeling the warmth and weight of her lean body above me.

  I reached down to loosen her trousers, slipping my hand inside far enough to feel she was completely shaven. I was so close to touching her wet heat when she stopped me. “Not yet.” She sat back and helped me out of my jeans and underwear, her eyes all over my newly exposed nakedness. She trailed a finger from my breasts, circled my navel, and slowly slid it between my thighs where I knew she would feel the copious evidence of my arousal. She took her glistening finger and slipped it between her lips, her eyes on mine. I could barely breathe. “Better than the wine.”

  “Even the expensive wine?”

  “Absolutely, but I’d like another taste, to be sure.” Her hands pressed against the inside of my thighs as she moved between them, bending her head lower. For an excruciatingly long time there was only that pressure of her warm hands on my legs and the caress of her breath against my swelling wetness. Then her mouth was on me, gentle teasing mounting gradually into firmer sweeps of her tongue. When she took me between her lips and sucked, I was lost.

  “Oh God, Anna…” I cried, as the intense focus of painful, hot arousal burst and overwhelmed my whole body. She didn’t move her mouth away, drawing out my climax with her tongue until I was nothing but a shuddering mess. Then she curled her body around to lie with her cheek on my stomach, as I tried to recover my breath. I ran a hand over her shoulders, which were still enveloped in the silk of her shirt, and stroked her hair. When I could finally speak again, I murmured, “Well, you’ve certainly set a high standard.”

  She raised her head and smiled her satisfaction at me.

  “Don’t you think you can live up to it?”

  “I didn’t say that. I have faith in myself.” Spurred to confidence by everything that had passed so far, I reached for her waistband. “Take these off.” Her naked figure was smooth and sleek, all of her skin pale pink and irresistible.

  “Now come up here, I’ve wanted to taste you for nearly as long as I’ve been smelling you. Let me prove I can meet your standards.” Pleasure and aroused anticipation dominating her expression, she knelt over me and bent to kiss my mouth. She parted her thighs and put one knee next to each of my shoulders. Her thighs were warm on my cheeks as she lowered her body slowly, and I reached for her with my tongue. Her taste was far more intoxicating than any wine, and I lost myself in proving I had it in me to far exceed the standard she had laid down.

  We were occupied with each other until well after it was dark outside. Anna agreed, twice in a row, I did live up to her standards and set out to raise the bar herself. I thought about nothing and nobody else, captivated by how intense Anna’s usually carefully hidden passions could be once unleashed. Sensations and urges I’d thought dead in me were revived, stronger than I’d ever known them before.

  We finished the wine, ate half of the chocolates together, and fulfilled our physical desires in as many ways as we could think of. Eventually, still entwined and on the floor, we pulled one of the blankets over us and relaxed. It wasn’t long before Anna was asleep, one leg slung over my body, breathing steadily. Listening to her breaths, my mind thinking lazily over everything we had done, I was soothed into sleep myself.

  Winter Manor, 1751

  Lord William Fitzsimmons Winter leaned on his ornamental walking cane and gazed up at the façade of Winter Manor. Though late in the evening, it was June and only just dusk. The half-light made the house with its pale frontage appear ethereal, as though it might vanish if he were to blink. He looked with awe upon his creation, a thing of classical beauty, following the strict lines of ancient Greece, his dream land. He could not transplant himself to the Greece of Socrates, but at least, in Winter, he could capture a little of the perfectly proportioned style of those times.

  He’d inherited Winter Manor from his father five years previously, and the house which had occupied this spot had been a small, dark, and tiresome Tudor residence. He despised insular, rambling buildings and ordered its demolition almost immediately. For most of the period of the construction of his new home he’d sojourned in his London town house, relishing his ability to speak to his acquaintances of his impressive country house in the North. His good friend, Sir Robert Hodgson, who studied architecture as one of his many scholarly pursuits and understood his desire for Greek beauty, had sketched the plans for the building on his behalf, and had undertaken to supervise the project, for a quite extraordinary fee. Lord William rather liked paying over the odds for his house. It made him feel indulgent and decadent.

  He had been in the North for a month now, ensuring the finishing touches of his new home were undertaken to perfection. Overall, he was very pleased though well aware he’d allowed the more baroque aspects of his nature to run wild in the interior décor of the house—the sweeping luxury of curves and silks was hard to resist. He looked up to the clock tower, its curvaceous design at odds with the rest of the house. It was the one part of the house that broke the rules, his rebellion, and it made him smile, feeling rather wicked.

  The bitter smell of burning reached his nostrils, and he watched as two male servants lit the torches he’d had placed between where the driveway exited the avenue of trees and where his friends’ carriages would stop in front of the house. They would begin to arrive any minute, and Lord William was excited. It was his first house party at Winter, the first time he’d been able to entertain friends as master of his own country house, emerging finally from his father’s shadow. He’d invited only his closest friends today, and planned to unveil the house to his acquaintance at large at the ball he would hold in August.

  He glanced down at his appearance once more, though he had examined every detail in the looking glass several times over before coming out to the front of the house to wait for his guests. His finely embroidered coat was newly made for this occasion. The material wa
s heavy and expensive, the cut perfect, with panels to emphasise the fullness of his hips, but cut close to his slim body about his chest. He adjusted one of the cuffs, turned back all the way to his elbow, just to feel the silk lining of the coat once more. The waistcoat he wore beneath was of the same rich fabric, and both were trimmed with glistening gold braid. He bent to ensure his new soft leather shoes, with their large silver buckles, showed no imperfections. His white silk stockings were very fine, the buckles securing them to his breeches sitting evenly above his slightly muscled calves. He raised a hand to smooth over his powdered wig. It was impossible for him to look any better. Smiling to himself in satisfaction, he wryly acknowledged his own vanity.

  A clanking, rattling sound alerted him to the progress of the first of the carriages to arrive along the driveway. A pair of grey horses appeared, pulling a fine landau. Lord William smiled to himself again and waited for the carriage to come to a halt close to where he waited. A footman, liveried in green and gold, descended the steps to open the door and lower the step for the passengers to disembark from the carriage.

  “Dearest Georgiana! And Percy too, of course,” Lord William exclaimed as Lord and Lady Stanwell climbed from the carriage. Georgiana Stanwell, once plain Mary James, born in the St. Giles rookeries, the most horrendous and depraved part of the ever-spreading capital, was one of his closest London confidantes. With her raven hair and voluptuous figure, she’d escaped the gin-soaked whoredom of her mother and sisters to become a much-admired actress, when handsome, rich Lord Percy Stanwell had outraged his family and most of polite society by asking for her hand in marriage. Lord William delighted in the scandal attached to them, so markedly in contrast to the purity of the way they adored each other, and their friendship had been firmly cemented over the time he had spent in London, since their own town house was across the square from his own.

  “William. What a beautiful house you’ve built!” Lady Georgiana exclaimed.

  “I laid every stone myself, of course,” he returned. “That is the most exquisite stomacher.” He glanced down over the rest of her fine gown. “But my dear, I fear you’ve changed shape since last we met.”

  “Oh, wide and flat is so out of style now, William. Our skirts have to be round and full these days.”

  “It suits you perfectly, Georgiana, of course.”

  “Now, William, that’s my wife you’re paying lavish compliments to,” Lord Percy said. William patted him on the arm,

  “Are you jealous, Percy, dearest?”

  “Exceedingly,” Lord Percy replied. “I’d rather like a compliment or two myself.”

  “Then I must say I rather admire your ruffles, Lord Stanwell.”

  “Most kind.” Lord Percy chuckled softly.

  The footman closed the door behind them, and the carriage rumbled away to the rear of the house. “Welcome to my home. I thought tonight wine, sweetmeats, and cards would be a suitable entertainment. Tomorrow I will take you into the park and tell you in interminable detail of my intentions for the grounds. I have very interesting plans for a bridge over the river.”

  “I’m sure it will be fascinating,” Lady Georgiana replied with ostentatious insincerity. Lord William’s droll reply was interrupted by the arrival of another carriage into the flickering torchlight. His gaze darted over the livery on the door of the carriage, and he hoped his slight disappointment did not show in his expression. Clearly he was a terrible actor, for Lady Georgiana leaned close to him and whispered, “Not who you were hoping for, William?”

  “I am equally delighted to see each of my guests.” He smiled his acknowledgement of the truth of her words whilst refusing to look into her twinkling eyes.

  The footman opened the door of the newly arrived carriage and the occupants climbed down. Sir Robert Hodgson, who had designed the new Winter Manor, accompanied by his good friend Mr. Henry Branton, and that man’s timid younger sister, Eleanor. Sir Robert was in his early forties. His tightly curled wig was the colour his hair had once been, dark brown, and his clothes were, at least in comparison to Lord William and Lord Percy’s, rather plain. Henry Branton was more finely dressed, in one of the new style three-piece suits, his breeches, waistcoat, and frock coat all of the same patterned fabric. His pretty blond sister, whose face was flushed with excitement, wore a skirt of the type Lady Georgiana claimed to be now out of fashion, with wide panniers over her hips, but a rather flat profile if viewed from the side.

  “Robert! I see you’ve come to examine the use I am making of your work of art,” Lord William said to his friend in greeting.

  “I have no doubt you are making excellent use of it,” Sir Robert responded in his characteristic gruff voice.

  “Henry, good to see you. And the delicious Miss Branton. I may call you Eleanor, mayn’t I? You may call me Lord Winter.” Lord William winked at the young woman, and she flushed and giggled, apparently lost for words.

  “Are you going to keep us out here in the cold?” Lady Georgiana enquired of him.

  “It’s June, Georgiana, dearest.”

  “It’s my prerogative to be cold whatever month it is,” she returned. “Is there a reason you’re not allowing us into your new house?”

  “I am rather afraid you will contaminate the perfection of the air,” Lord William said in a serious tone. “But I would hate you to die of a chill, Georgiana, so I will allow you all inside after all.” Lord William turned towards the house, looking rather regretfully over his shoulder. All of the expected guests were not equal, just as Lady Georgiana had suggested, and there was one in particular he was waiting for.

  The party had just reached the point of the front steps where his new Greek statues gazed at each other. He was about to remark on how discontented he thought they looked, with their eyes locked eternally on each other, when he heard another carriage approaching.

  “You may all go inside,” he said, ushering his guests past him and through the front doors into the high-ceilinged hallway. “The servants will see you settled in the Drawing Room with drinks. I will meet our final guests and attend to you in a moment.” He caught the knowing look on Lady Georgiana’s countenance, her skirts brushing his legs as she passed him and entered the house.

  The carriage came to a halt and the footman attended to it. A woman emerged first. She wore the air of easy sophistication that signalled her nationality. The Marchioness Claudette of Danbridge had been in England since her marriage ten years ago, but she was still perfectly Parisian. Accustomed to luxury in her upbringing in the French royal court of Louis XV, she appeared to regard the whole world with something like distaste. Her gown was decorated with broad vertical stripes, and her waist was corseted into the narrowest dimensions. Her wig was powdered and piled in curls on her crown, her cheeks and lips rouged, and she wore a dark beauty patch to the left of her perfect full lips. She was breathtaking. Lord William kissed her hand and then turned his attention to the man climbing quickly down from the carriage after her. His smile grew broader, and he felt that dreadful surge of anticipation in the very pit of his stomach. George, Marquess of Danbridge smiled warmly at him, and it was impossible to miss the simmering heat in his eyes. Lord William was perfectly sure he was not imagining the intent in that even gaze.

  The Marquess of Danbridge was taller and broader than Lord William, though not greatly. His frock coat was dark blue and decorated with black and gold piping, with lace at the cuffs. He wore no wig, rather his full head of chestnut hair was swept back and tied with a black velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck. His skin was ageless, though he was four years older than Lord William. Though his jawline was firm, his mouth was fleshy and sensitive. Lord William was fascinated by the Marquess’s mouth.

  “George! Claudette! I was beginning to think we might not have the pleasure,” he said jovially.

  “We couldn’t deny you that of course,” the Marchioness replied in her musically accented English. “Your little house is rather charming,” she added, looking up at Winter appre
ciatively.

  “Only you would call it ‘little,’ Claudette, dearest.”

  “It is little. But little is not always a bad thing. It depends on the use the size is put to, don’t you think?” If the Marchioness meant the innuendo of the words, her expression gave no sign of it.

  “I agree completely,” Lord William replied, before turning his attention to the Marquess.

  “Wonderful to see you, George. I am very eager for you to see the Saloon, I’m sure you will approve of it. I drew a lot of inspiration from our last conversation—about Venice.”

  “You did, William?”

  “You’re very inspirational, George.” Lord William could feel the colour rising to his face.

  The Marchioness rolled her eyes dramatically and took both men by the arm. “Shall we go inside now, William?” She propelled them towards the doors.

  Half an hour later, the exclaiming over the quality of the plaster-moulded ceilings, the carved marble fireplace, and the fine blue silk lining the walls of the Drawing Room was complete, and the entire party sat down to a game of whist, declaring that the tour of the rest of the property could wait until daylight would show it to its best advantage. The only exception from their game was Eleanor Branton, who declaring herself to be “atrociously terrible” at cards, seated herself at the harpsichord in the adjoining Music Room, and provided an accomplished musical accompaniment to their entertainment, tinkling her way through one of Scarlatti’s sonatas.

  “Excellent claret,” Sir Robert said, sipping his drink as he contemplated his hand of cards.

  “It is French, of course,” the Marchioness replied.

  “Is everything French exquisite?” Lord Percy asked.

  “Everything, my lord.” The Marchioness offered him a slight, suggestive smile. “The English manage vulgarity with so much more success than we ever could, however.” She threw a card onto the table.