by Amelia Hart
Oh. He was touching her. His fingers were deft and so knowing, and it was all too fast for her to make sense of it, of being held in place by him alone in the darkness while he touched a part of her that was so private, hers alone.
"Mr Holbrook-"
"Colin. Say my name."
She clasped his shoulder in a fierce grip, urging him closer. "Colin, you must stop."
"Say you do not like it, and I will stop."
Oh, that was quite-
Oh.
"Mmmm," she hummed.
"So soft. So wet. Do you know how wet you are? Heaven. So responsive."
His murmurs made no sense to her. She did not try to understand them. Only held him and breathed in little moans and sobbing sighs as he did something extraordinary with his skillful fingers, a world beyond what she knew of sensation, foreign and utterly compelling. She tried again, with an enormous effort of will. "N-naughty. Wicked. You mustn't-"
"I must. I can't resist you." His voice was very dark and soft, like velvet. "But I won't harm you, I promise. Only this."
"I can't think when you- Oh, what are you doing?"
"God, little one, I can't believe how hard I am for you. But only this. I swear it. No more. Unless you want more. Shall I stop? Say my name again."
"Colin."
"Shall I stop?"
"No."
"Ah, yes, sweetling. I've been burning to have you like this for days, weeks. I've dreamed of you. Give it to me. Little dove. My own. Give it to me."
He was fervent, commanding, and she searched for the answer within herself, to give him what he wanted, what she wanted, this feeling of urgency overwhelming. "Ah. Oh. Oh my. Oh."
So intense a pleasure rose up in her, so excruciating it was almost pain. It engulfed her, drowning out the soothing reassurance of his voice, his warm encouragement, a husky litany of praise. There was tension, a feeling she might break apart. "Ah," she cried, suddenly afraid of this, of herself.
"That's right. I have you. Let go."
"No."
"Say yes. Say yes. Let it happen," he urged, his arms around her holding her safe against the night.
"Yes. I- Oh, yes."
It was the most peculiar thing, like a bolt of light up her spine and through her brain, a shaking and rippling she realized was pleasure. Her legs gave way completely. He held her steady, lifted her a little, so she was draped on him, her face tucked into the crook of his neck. She breathed in the scent of him, clean skin, linen, pomade and musk, compellingly masculine, and tried to catch her breath, her own chest heaving like a smith's bellows.
His hand cupped the nape of her neck, a tender touch, and he kissed her shoulder.
For an eternal moment she was dazed and happy, held and soothed.
Then she regained possession of her senses.
"No wonder," she murmured.
"Pardon?" he asked, his voice thick.
"No wonder women are so stupid over you. If you can do that to them." She paused, but he was silent. She took a deep breath, then another, striving for rationality. "It explains a lot. Well. I shall consider myself better educated, at the very least. Would you put me down, please?" The words came out as if she was requesting a cup of tea, polite and distant.
He hesitated a moment, then did as she asked, let her slide down his body that felt so hard and lumpy against her. His arms were still around her and she thought his eyes searched her face, though he was featureless in the darkness. "I expect you've done that a hundred times. A thousand," she said, as composed as she could manage.
He swooped on her and kissed her, an onslaught of passion that took her breath away.
"No," he paused to say fiercely. "This is not the same."
For a moment she clung, wishing passion were truth and she could believe him. Then she pushed him away, and he let her with reluctant compliance. "Of course it is. It is precisely the same. A very lowering thought, but I shall learn to cope with that. It seems I have not the fortitude I thought."
"Do not think badly of yourself," he demanded imperiously.
"What? Shall I blame you, like some weak-kneed ninny?" She put on a mocking tone of shocked dismay. "It was the rake who did it. Not I. That naughty man led me astray."
"I did," he said, very low.
"No. I shan't blame you. I take responsibility too. I should have given you a good, swift kick."
"Should you?"
"Most decidedly. And run away screaming. Or at the very least, run away. Did I do so? No. Therefore I also carry the blame. I know what you are."
"There is no blame." He was impatient, his hands massaging her shoulders as if he could not quite bear to let her go. "Nothing has happened."
She broke his hold, eased back a scarce inch. "Oh, I take leave to differ," she said with a touch of frost.
"I mean-" she saw him drive his hand through his hair, silhouetted against the starry sky. "That is, nothing of significance."
"I suppose that depends on one's perspective."
"I do not mean it like that. You have not been damaged. I have not done anything to change your state."
"Ah. I see. We are referring to removing my maidenhead, I perceive."
". . . Yes."
"I'm glad you find this reassuring. For my own part, I would rather lack the experience I now have. It is something I anticipated sharing only with a husband."
"I'm sorry to have spoiled your goal." He did not sound sympathetic. Piqued, rather.
"As I said, it was a mutual effort. I too bear the blame. It all happened very quickly."
"Not as quickly as that." She thought he said it through gritted teeth.
"I'm sorry. Is that offensive in some way? Pardon my ignorance. I had best go. Please remember what I said earlier. Goodnight."
"Wait. You can't go now."
"Of course I can."
"No. Everything has changed."
"Nonsense. You said yourself nothing happened. We shall regard it as precisely that. Nothing. Let us each pretend nothing occurred."
"No. We shall not pretend anything. You gave yourself to me. I showed you how we can be together. A line has been crossed."
"Then I cross back to the other side of that line. I don't know what you have in mind but I want no part of it. I am quite content with the status quo, if only you will be a gentleman," she emphasized the word, "and cease your persecutions."
"Persecutions?"
"Shhh. No need to speak as loud as that. I have had enough. Leave me alone."
"Julia, it is I who have had enough. I understand you've little enough reason to have faith in me. Yet I love you. Ardently. Passionately. As I have never loved a woman before, or thought I ever could. The depth of this emotion still takes me by surprise. But Julia, believe me," he caught her hand, "this does change everything. I am not one to worry much about the formality of marriage. All I want is you. Still, marry me. Make me the happiest of men."
"I-" she blinked at him, straining to make out his features in the darkness. "Are you serious?"
There was a pause. "Never more so." The tone of pleased expectancy had faded a little from his voice.
"I am astounded." She was silent, breathing hard. "I never expected this from you. You are fixed in my mind as a determined bachelor. I- Well I'm flattered I suppose. But no, thank you. Good night."
"Julia." Now he was shocked. "Is that all you will say?"
"What else would you have me say?"
"I can think of any number of things."
"I'm sure I shall also, probably before the night is through. I'm sure I shall wish I had been more polite or dignified. You may say my dignity has been ruffled by these events. I find I am not in the mood for platitudes. Imagine them said, and good night."
"Not platitudes. My God, have you nothing more of substance to offer me? I give you my heart, and this is all you will return?"
She hesitated, bit her lip, tried to think of a way to be kind. "Pray don't be offended. I'm certain you mean well, and certainly you are very att
ractive in many, many ways, but you are not the man to make me happy, and you never will be."
He found her hands and held them, squeezed them in his bare fingers. "Only give me the chance to prove you wrong, and I shall."
"No, thank you. An entire lifetime is too much to risk on such an uncertain chance. If and when I enter into matrimony, it will be with someone I admire and respect and-" she heard herself sound lecturing again, and could not bear it. "Oh, I have spoken of this to you already. You know my reasons. I do not need to go through them again."
"They have changed. Everything has changed. Surely you must see that now. You cannot experience that," his emphasis made his meaning clear, "and not know it is so."
"This is ironic, coming from you, Mr Holbrook. But no, nothing has changed." She tried to withdraw her hands but he held her firmly, which she did not like. Her own voice was tart as she told him, "I suppose it is a question of priorities. You may be a man who sees physical pleasure as more compelling and important than any other consideration. Yet I am not. I value other things more highly-"
"Only because you lack experience," he exploded in exasperation. "Do you think every married couple finds pleasure in each other's arms? Of course they don't. I would not enjoy the lifestyle I have if the women of the ton were satisfied in their husbands' beds."
"Delightful."
"Truth. You think you will find this- this-"
She wrested her hands suddenly from his grip. "Companionship."
"Fine. Companionship. You think you will find it and be happy for a lifetime, never knowing if your body will ever sing again as it just did. As I made it do."
"I acknowledge your rare skill," she said sardonically. "Yet I do not mistake that for a lifelong bond. It was very pleasant, and now it is done. It has not made you the sort of man I would ever choose for a lifetime."
"Why the hell not?"
"Your morals, Mr Holbrook. Your lackadaisical morals. Your essential nature. We are no match for each other." She sidled around him, closer to the light, thought she could perhaps run for the door. But no, she was probably disheveled.
"If you are concerned with my history, do not give it another thought. Those women meant nothing significant to me. Certainly not in comparison to the regard I feel for you."
"What if our positions were reversed? What if I had enjoyed the beds of half the gentlemen of the ton? Could I tell you they meant nothing and have you agree?"
His nostrils flared, visible in the candlelight from the windows, as he had followed her nearer the door. His hands clenched into fists, his jaw thrust forward and he stared at her under lowered brows. "Firstly," he said, acidly, "it was not 'half the ladies of the ton.' Nowhere near that number. Not even I could hope to pleasure so many."
"What a relief," she interrupted sarcastically.
"Secondly," he went on through gritted teeth, "no. You are quite right. If even one man had enjoyed your favor that way I should like to shove his teeth down his throat with my fist. Then shoot him. Then run him through a few times for good measure."
"Very civilized of you," she loaded the words with scorn.
"Dammit, woman, how can you talk of civilization to me and raise the specter of another man possessing you in the same sentence? You are not rational."
"No, you are not rational."
"Fine, then, I am not rational. You drive me insane. First you say you will not have me without marriage and then you say you will not have me in marriage. How will you have me, then? What must I do to satisfy you?"
"Why nothing. You cannot satisfy me. For I cannot trust you will be true to me without years of proof, and I will not marry you if I cannot trust you."
"Years of proof? Are you saying," he said with a heavy frown, "that I must be promised to you, and celibate, until you can trust me? For what . . . years?"
"See," she said, her lip curling. "It is impossible, is it not? I cannot possibly marry you."
"But the cases are quite different." He shook his head, still frowning. "In marriage I should have you. Your body and yes, every other part of you, to delight me and keep me always constant. There would be no struggle there. It would be easy."
"Easy is it? I see. Tell me, my lord, to how many women have you remained constant, in your illustrious career? And for how long?"
"The question has never arisen," he said stiffly.
"So how long is it? Six months?" she mocked him. He said nothing. "Three months? No? How about one month, my lord? Have you been constant to a single woman for a whole month, ever? Even once?"
"I will not lie to you," he said softly.
"Not even a whole month. My lord, your words are very pretty, and I have a woman's heart that would like to believe you. I would like it of all things. But I am no idiot and I am not made for such society marriages as you. When you marry it will be to a woman who will turn a blind eye to your habits." She kept her voice steady even as she felt a streak of pain run through her at the thought, unexpected and fierce. "To give myself to you would mean only heartbreak. I am not made for it, Mr Holbrook. I tell you again, no, and I hope you will believe me."
He strode away from her, his steps jerky, spun and came back.
"Then what will you do? You cannot be certain of another offer."
"Thank you for such flattery."
"I do not say it to be cruel. Indeed I count myself lucky beyond words others do not see all I do in you. Otherwise you might be happily married already, long since. But I . . . love, I cannot bear to see you mewed up in this place, caring for the children of another, no joy of your own, no tenderness or love. Please let me take you away from this."
"I do not need rescue," she said steadily. "I am not such a poor creature as you think me. I have been happy in my post, and once you cease plaguing me I shall be happy again. I love these children and I do yet have hope I may meet a man who can match my ideals."
She watched his face twist at her words. He closed his eyes and then opened them again. She saw what looked like pain there and it made her question her conviction for a brief moment. Still, she was certain she was right. No man could spend an entire life being only one way and then change in the space of a month and be ever afterward different. It was not possible.
She could never wed herself to one such as he. Let her body cry out for him as it would, she would not give way.
"Will you give me no hope at all, then?" he said quietly.
"Now it is my turn to say I do not wish to be cruel," she said gently. "You are not the man for me. You cannot make it so merely by wishing it. There is no hope. Leave me in peace."
He stood very still for a long time. One minute. Two. She waited, wondering if he would speak, trying to appear as calm and steadfast on the surface as she wished she was in her heart.
Finally he drew in a sharp breath. "If I must prove it to you, then I shall. You will see I don't speak lightly, nor take you lightly."
"You cannot prove it to me. There is no way," she said.
"I shall. Wait for me."
"I- What? I am to wait for you? No. No! There will be no waiting. Do you hear me? We can never be a match. It is foolishness to think it. Surely you see this."
But he merely listened to her in grim silence, and when she was done speaking he turned and walked away, his usual lithe grace gone from his stride, along the terrace to one of the doors that stood open onto the night. He entered the house and passed from view.
Released from his presence, she too took a breath, and then a second one that broke in the middle and became a sob. Pressing her palm hard into her mouth to stifle any sound, she whirled and ran further into the garden, tripped on the path, caught herself before she fell, and fled beyond the ranks of trees and into the rose garden. She hid in the arbor, trying all the while to hold back her tears, and failing.
Why cry? Stupid. Such a fool she was, to want a man like him, to feel she had just made a fatal error. Of course she had not. He would never be a faithful husband, never in a dozen l
ifetimes. He would break her heart over and over if she was idiot enough to trust in his empty words. He did not even know himself. Not as she knew him, faithless hedonist that he was.
But oh, when had he come to matter so much to her? She barely knew him, far less admired him. Yes, he had a quick wit and he was charming enough, facile and good-humored. But that was the bait to his trap. She was only a passing fancy for him, a craze born of frustration to have what he was so seldom denied. Her refusal to succumb added a spice of the exotic to plain, sensible Julia Preston and he, reckless, heedlessly impulsive man, imagined it to be love.
Foolish she might be, but not as much as that. She shuddered at the horror of her own imagination: seeing him grow bored and discontent, turning away from her and back to his games of pursuit. Ignoring her for the delight of some fresh quarry, more beautiful, more exciting than his tedious wife . . .
No, she had not made a mistake.
"What are you crying for?" Mrs Trent's voice was harsh. Julia started up from the seat onto which she had folded. "What have you done? Have you let him ruin you?"
"Ruin me? I . . . Of course I haven't. What do you take me for!"
"I take you for exactly what you are: a frustrated spinster, with a young, handsome man sniffing about your skirts. Have you lifted them for him?"
Her mouth dropped open and she flinched back. "Good heavens, you are crass beyond all expectation. Who are you to say such things to me?"
"I am your employer. You will not take such a tone with me. I do not tolerate scandal under my roof-"
At this Julia let forth a choked cry of scorn, the hypocrisy too much to bear from this adulterous woman. "No? Madam, you astound me." She could hear her own contempt, and the dread she felt was not enough to stop her tongue.
"What do you mean? What have you heard?"
"Not heard. Seen."
The two women faced each other, toe to toe in the dark, and Julia listened to the faint sound of her adversary's quickened breath.
"I do not . . . I don't know what you are talking about," Mrs Trent said.
"You know perfectly well."
"Will you . . . Don't tell . . ." There was another pause, and when Mrs Trent spoke again, her tone had changed, hardened and cold. "I do not believe we have a position available for you anymore, Miss Preston. Your conduct these past weeks has been extremely unbecoming, and if asked I could never give good report of you. You will leave immediately. If you are gone by this time tomorrow with no other word said, I will be gracious enough to remain silent about your wrongdoing. Do not try my leniency."
