Starling

by Virginia Taylor

  “Burgundy, puce, mauve, pale bluish-green, blue, of course, anything cool. Even lavender.”

  Lavender giggled. “You’d look like a peacock in my colors. I think you’re safer sticking to brown.”

  “She looked gorgeous in that soft blue the other night,” Mary said. “Didn’t she, Paul?”

  Paul nodded. “And lovely tonight in that mauve and lilac floral.”

  Alasdair gave a tight smile. “Lavender’s being a little too tactful, my love. I think you’d look like a whore in showy purples, don’t you?”

  Starling considered his statement. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “What’s a whore?”

  “A rather gaudy bird found in taverns or on street corners.”

  “Wild or domesticated?”

  “Able to be tamed, but rarely kept caged.”

  “You seem to know a lot about them.”

  Alasdair opened his mouth to answer, but Mary said quickly, “That’s enough, Dare. Paul, tell her what a whore is.”

  “Me? Why me? Dare can tell her later.” Paul folded his arms. “All right. I can see he’ll carry this on all night. A whore is a woman of the night, not the sort of person we’d discuss over dinner. What am I thinking of? Not the sort of person we’d ever discuss, ever.”

  “A woman of the night? What does that mean?”

  “You can drop the subject, now, Starling,” Alasdair said, placing his napkin on the table. “I think you’ve made your point.”

  “Is she a bad woman, Paul?” Starling raised her chin. “Is that why we can’t discuss this?”

  “Whores are immoral women,” Paul answered with clear reluctance. “They earn their living by charging men for the use of their bodies.”

  “What are the men who buy their services called?”

  “Desperate.” Paul laughed. “They’d have to be, to pay a woman.”

  “I see. The immorality is in accepting payment. Men can use whores, but they don’t really need to. If they’re motivated, they can find women who don’t charge. I imagine these unpaid women aren’t called nasty names, either, and they and the men who buy whores’ services can be discussed over dinner because they’re not immoral.”

  “They are,” Mary said, glancing at Paul. “The church teaches that there should be no congress between males and females without the sanctity of marriage. It’s as immoral to make any sacred act into a transaction for money as it is to have marital relations without the commitment of marriage.”

  “That’s what I was taught.” Starling kept her gaze on Mary’s face. “But while men want women...” She raised her palms as if helpless. “The rule of supply and demand is not only true in retail, but it’s also true in life. I don’t believe we should condemn women for making choices we might not, of necessity, make.”

  “And a more unsavory subject couldn’t be found to discuss over dinner,” Lavender said with disdain. “I’m sure the gentlemen are not interested in hearing about women who only want their money.”

  “They’re not if they know that’s their only attraction. But I suspect men have the same ability to fool themselves as women do.” Paul gave Alasdair a significant glance as he pulled out Mary’s chair for her. “Can I interest anyone in a game of billiards?”

  “Does a person need to be experienced to play?” Starling asked, replacing her napkin on the table.

  “Nothing more than willing.”

  “I’m willing. If you can teach me the game, I’d love to join you.”

  “I’d like to learn, too.” Lavender aimed an apologetic glance at Alasdair from under her long eyelashes. A conversation about whores and women wanting men for their money would be lost on a woman who’d never known poverty. “My father might have been wrong when he said ladies can’t play billiards.”

  Surprised by Lavender’s acknowledgment, Alasdair reached out one finger and touched the pad to her cheek. “Fortunately, I happen to be an expert teacher.”

  Starling’s lips clamped. With a tilt of her chin, she led Paul to the billiard room.

  Alasdair entered the room with Lavender and Mary. The latter took a seat in a single chair beside the fireplace and stared expectantly at the billiard table. Lavender clung to Alasdair’s arm, also watching while Paul found a suitable cue for Starling and showed her the best hold. He then set up the balls for her on the lamp-lit table. Glancing at Alasdair, he said, “Your turn.”

  “Generous of you. Lavender, are you ready?”

  The beautiful blonde gave him a soft smile and moved to the table.

  Alasdair put a cue into her hands and curled her white fingers under his. She stayed close enough to let her breasts touch his arm.

  Starling ignored Lavender’s byplay and went on with the business at hand, learning a new game. Clearly, she didn’t mind what he did.

  Alasdair wanted her to mind. He wanted to show her that Lavender was more than interested in him. A real new bride would be shocked to see another woman trying to fascinate her husband, and to be credible, Starling ought to be fighting for his attention.

  He frowned, shocked by the thought that he was acting like a disgruntled husband.

  Chapter 13

  For the first time, Alasdair noticed how hard Lavender worked to keep his attention. She brushed against him at every given opportunity. As a host, he had been lax. Without realizing, he’d turned his interest to Starling, continually mulling about the experience she must have to make him want her so badly. A wise man would let her leave. A wise man wouldn’t twist his tales until he sounded addled in the hope of forcing her to stay with him.

  “Is that what this is about?” she’d asked. “You want me to be your whore?”

  A foolish man would have answered yes and taken her and sated his damned hunger.

  Trying to respond to Lavender, he let her hand linger on his as he showed her how to strike the ball. Starling didn’t once glance their way. A little possessiveness from his wife wouldn’t be out of order. He wouldn’t mind in the least if she grabbed him and slapped him. If she fought for him, verbally or physically, he could have an excuse to snatch her away, race her to the bedroom, hurl her on the bed, and get between those long legs of hers. Once he’d had her, he could forget about his ridiculous yearning and concentrate on Lavender.

  The game began with Mary being the first one out, and Paul the next. When Alasdair’s time out arrived, he went through the French doors onto the balcony, determined not to stand around admiring Starling’s derriere as she bent over the table chasing the ball. He clenched his fingers into fists and rested them on the stone balustrade, wishing he hadn’t lost control of the entire situation.

  A female who was less than respectable had no right to amuse him with her remarks, make him laugh out loud at her blatant provocation, or inflame him to the point where he had practically begged her to stay in his house and keep teasing him until he couldn’t string two sensible words together.

  He smacked his fist against the railing, wishing he’d never thought of teaching Mary a lesson. The only person who had learned a lesson here seemed to be him. He was an expert all right: an expert in entangling himself with completely inappropriate women. Why couldn’t he simply say to Starling, This is ridiculous. I’m as randy as all hell and I can’t take the woman I love because if she knows, she’ll use me the way she used me before. So, since you’ve had men before, and I’d hardly be despoiling a virgin, could you please, please share your lovely body with me just once?

  He groaned, rested his elbows on the hewn stone balustrade, and put his head in his hands He couldn’t beg. That was the root of her attraction, of course. He’d never had to beg a woman in his life...not even Lavender.

  Clenching his jaw, he tried to count the stars in the black sky, lost his way, and attempted to identify birdcalls. His diligence was rewarded by the soft tap of a female step and the gentle curl of arms around his waist. She snuggled into his back the way she did in bed. He breathed out and str
aightened. Clasping his hands over hers, he said, “I don’t know if I can take much more. I’m abiding by the rules but fast getting to the stage where I’ll accept even this as an invitation.”

  A little noise of contentment warmed his back. She disentangled her hands from his and flattened them on his abdomen. Fighting the compulsion to move her fingers for her, he rested his palms on the stone again, leaving her to explore if she wished.

  Her hands moved closer to his groin. His breath began to rasp. Finally, she walked her fingers near his aching cock.

  “Please,” came from his lips as a groan.

  She laughed.

  Then he glanced down and almost reeled with shock. Over his trouser flap rested one pampered white hand. Instantly subsiding, he turned to face Lavender. If he had made an ass of himself by letting Lavender know that Starling didn’t want him... He smiled as if he’d known her touch her all along.

  Lavender eased into his reluctant embrace. “Can’t we get away from the others? I’m sure they won’t notice. They’re too interested in the game.”

  He shut his eyes as he rested his face against her perfumed hair. If he took Lavender, he wouldn’t want Starling. His eyes widened with remorse. He’d reversed the two women in his mind. “Now isn’t the time,” he said, guilt making his voice sound thin. He put her away from him.

  “You said you want me.” Her lovely eyes, dark in the night, glistened. Her mouth flattened at the corners like a child about to have a tantrum.

  “We are away from the others, sweetheart. Let’s enjoy each other’s company.”

  She gave him a long, assessing smile; lifted her face; and pressed her moist lips against his. Her seeking tongue repelled him. He would have pulled back, but her hands took each side of his jaw. Her body pressed avidly against his. More numbed than excited, he straightened his back, slanting a placating mouth near her lips.

  “Lavender,” said a soft, impartial voice. “It’s your turn.”

  Alasdair lifted his head and saw Starling. “She’s wanted here,” he said in a shaky voice.

  “Please yourself.” Starling turned away.

  He gritted his teeth and dropped his hold on Lavender, who appeared utterly astonished.

  “Doesn’t she mind?”

  “She’ll punish me later.”

  Lavender gave a wide, triumphant smile. “You really do want me. You’ve been putting me off for days, and I thought I ought to leave, but if you can face your wife’s fury, you certainly still have feelings for me. As I do for you.” She squeezed his hand and left, following Starling into the billiard room.

  He trailed, watching while she took up her cue.

  “We’re winning,” Paul said to Lavender. “One good shot from you and we’ll have these two crying into their pillows all night.”

  “We don’t mind if you win,” Mary said. “You haven’t cheated or jostled the table or done anything underhanded. He usually does,” she said, nodding at Starling. “This is your warning for the next time you play with him because by then he’ll be desperate. He’s only nice the first time so that he can fool you the second time.”

  “That seems to be a masculine trait.” Starling glanced at Alasdair.

  Lavender sighted her white ball with the cue and let fly. She missed. “Do better if you can,” she said in a light voice to Starling.

  Starling leaned forward, concentrating; then she shot her ball forward. The red slammed into two whites, sending one into the center pocket and the other, rather more slowly, to the back pocket, where it hesitated, teetered, and dropped in.

  “Amazing,” Paul said with a gloomy expression on his face.

  “It just goes to show what a person can do when she tries.” Starling pretended to manicure her nails with the end of her cue.

  A chuckle issued from Paul. “See that, Alasdair?” He replaced Lavender’s cue in the rack. “Your wife’s not just a pretty face.”

  Alasdair inclined his head. “Far from it.”

  Lavender folded her arms across her chest. “Games,” she said with a tilt of her eyebrows. “They’re so boring. I didn’t want to play in the first place.”

  Starling placed her cue in the rack. “It was beginner’s luck.”

  “It was determination.” Alasdair swiveled around and leaned one hip against the table. “You don’t need to be so modest when Lavender says she doesn’t care.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t care. I said that the game is boring. I doubt that a lady would ever have a natural aptitude for it. Starling,” Lavender said, smiling prettily, “that maid, Ellen. You were right. She is better with my hair.”

  “You look lovely tonight,” Starling replied, and Lavender’s eyes widened.

  Lavender had done well...for a spoiled brat. Alasdair didn’t doubt she’d make a good wife. She had, after all, been brought up as a lady with all the attendant virtues, goodness, kindness, and consideration for others.

  Unlike Starling, who clawed her way using instinct and guile. And her soft, lush, clever mouth.

  * * * *

  Alasdair read in bed for half an hour, turned down the lamp, and drifted into a restless sleep. Snippets of dreams, meaningless and disturbing, wafted through his mind. He kept waking to shake them off. The last, an erotic fantasy in which he performed endless and impossible feats of sexual stamina, found him tangled with Starling and strangled by a sheet.

  He untangled the linen from around his neck but stayed in sweaty silence against her back. Investigating her hip, he found only the fabric of her nightgown. He moved his nose to the nape of her neck, breathing in the hot smell of sleeping woman. His breath stirred her hair, tickling him around his face, and he nuzzled closer. He could make her want him. He’d tasted desire on her and only her inhibitions held her back.

  He proceeded cautiously, first rubbing his knees into the backs of hers, then rocking her hip against his arousal. She wriggled away from him and made a sound of protest. Resigned, he rolled onto his opposite side.

  He slept eventually but not until he had thought over and discarded his every plan of action. None would work, not on a perceptive female like Starling and not when he could manage another week before asking Lavender to be his wife.

  * * * *

  Starling opened her eyes and saw the flesh of Alasdair’s chest, so she closed her eyes again. She could hear the loud steady beat of his heart. Fortunately, in his sleep, he wouldn’t know that she had draped herself over him again. One arm stretched over his chest and one knee rested on his thighs. Her other arm curled under her body with her hand opened against his rib cage. He drew her like a magnet.

  She took a deep breath into his shoulder. Asleep he was gorgeous, big, warm, and snug. His chest was smooth and hard. A girl would be mad not to want to run her hand over his skin, and being completely sane, she did. His steady breathing ceased. He drew in a deeper breath. He had been awake, not asleep. His fingers tightened around her shoulder.

  She made a sleepy sound, pretending her touch of him had been unconscious.

  “I give in,” he said. “If you want me, I’m yours.”

  She ached. She wished he meant he cared for her, but she knew exactly what he was saying. With a half smile he lifted her knee higher, brushing her inner thigh over those parts of him that proved him a desirous man—very desirous, hard and waiting.

  Her flesh quivered. His body excited her and her heart thudded as he took her thigh across his male appendage, back and forth gently. He left her leg high above his hip and slid a warm and sure hand up the back of her knee under her nightgown. Her breathing sped up and she heated. She couldn’t deny for one moment that she liked his touch. Without doubt, he would not breach her virginity...unless she wanted him to.

  Despite knowing him for a promiscuous man, careful with his money and willing to lie, she also knew him for a compassionate and thoughtful man, slow to anger, quick to smile, and ready to help anyone in need. Then, too, he was fine looking.
Many of Meg’s customers had been dirty, unshaven, and crude, but Meg said their appearance didn’t matter. In the end, all men were alike.

  Starling frowned. Alasdair was no money-waving customer, and she was no whore. They were simply two people who had been left together in a bed night after night. Anyone, given those circumstances, would experience the same companionship she did. Tears prickled behind her eyes. She lied to herself.

  She craved his touch, his kisses, his smiles, and his big, careful hand stroking her hair. She wanted him to see her the way he saw Lavender, as a beautiful desirable woman, worthy of more than forty pounds. She wanted him to respect her opinions and take note of her wishes, and she wanted him to trust her.

  As soon as his hand reached her bottom, he spanned one soft portion and turned himself into her. With her nightgown now to her waist, she was at a disadvantage. She pushed at his shoulders. “No, don’t.”

  “Shush.” He rolled on top of her.

  Beneath him, legs sprawled apart, she had no leverage. She squirmed. His weight doubled hers. A quick movement of his hips took his hardened arousal from her belly to the juncture between her legs. Left with only the power of her words, she knew true intimidation when he captured her mouth. She couldn’t concentrate on his kiss. If she couldn’t stop him, she would be lost. He would thrust inside her and spill his seed. She felt him slide his heavy pecker against her and she panicked. Tearing her mouth from his, she said, “No. You can’t. I’ve no douche.”

  He lifted his head. “What?”

  “I can’t have a baby. You can’t give me a baby. Please, stop.”

  “I haven’t started.”

  “Let me go, Alasdair.” She wriggled ineffectually and stilled when she realized that her movements shifted him closer.

  He lifted himself to the full extent of his arms and closed his eyes. Swallowing, she flattened her hands beneath his shoulders. Although still in the same position, at least he’d hefted his weight from her. Somehow that consideration gave her more confidence. She lifted her knees, hoping she could buck him off, now partially free.