I wonder if they talked about me.
Hettie sorted through the clothes she would take to Dragonwood, feeling relieved that the two men were getting on together, even while natural curiosity drove her crazy. They’d probably just discuss the exhibits, she decided, tossing a pile of delicate underwear into her suitcase. Starr would rather have his tongue cut out and be tortured on the rack rather than reveal any of their personal business to a relative stranger. No, she was always the one who’d always told tales out of the bedroom.
Still packing—first putting items in, then taking them out again—she thought of the days of Piers’ illness and the times she’d described to him the things that Starr had done to her between the sheets. It was a kind of conveyed voyeurism, wasn’t it?
And she knew perfectly well that Starr had been fully aware of her erotic accounts of his performances. She’d often suspected he’d done some slightly more exotic things than were normal just so she’d have something particularly spicy to tell Piers. He was a modest man, solemn and unassuming, but there was a certain quiet grandeur to him and Hettie rather suspected that he was proud of his supreme performances in bed.
And well you might be!
When Darryl returned he was full of praise for the British Museum. Hettie wondered as he spoke enthusiastically and knowledgeably of the various exhibits whether the antiquarian atmosphere had triggered any memories for him. Yet she saw no signs of distress or pondering. No sign that he was racking his brain. If he was beginning to recall his former life with his archaeologist uncle the memories were obviously easier now.
Over a quiet dinner she told him about the trip to Dragonwood and its informal nature.
“I’d like that very much, Hettie,” he said quietly, his expression suddenly very straight and incisive.
“Yes, it’ll be fun, won’t it?”
Hettie took a sip of her fizzy water to cover her confusion. He’s got that expression again. She placed the glass down again very carefully. It’s as if he’s reading my mind. As if he knows exactly why we’re going there!
“It’ll just be quiet though. Just you and me and Starr and a friend I was with today. You’ll like her. Doctor Madrigan. She’s been giving me some bereavement counseling. She’s very good.”
She was babbling. And telling white lies. It’d never been her widowhood she’d consulted Stevie about, and she had a sudden very vivid impression that Darryl was fully aware of that fact.
“I look forward to meeting her,” he said softly, his smile exquisitely intriguing and his brown eyes bright.
I just bet you do! Hettie trembled slightly as she turned her attention to a dinner she was too perplexed to eat.
The evening had ended strangely. A simple throwaway goodnight kiss from Darryl had set Hettie’s senses aflame, kindling the sexual heat in her that seemed to be simmering all the time now.
“Goodnight, Hettie,” he’d said, walking around to her where she still sat at table. He’d looked a picture, all in dark blue, in a soft silk shirt and Italian-tailored trousers. He was so handsome and so easy to want that under any other circumstances, she might simply have propositioned him. Especially when he leaned forward and pressed his lips against her burning cheek.
Nephews kissed aunts like this, and favorite grandsons put their mouths this lightly and slightly to the cheeks of their grandmas. But to Hettie it was a trigger, launching a wave of sexual energy that swept over her belly, her breasts, and her pussy. It was over in seconds and she was stunned. And afterward she couldn’t even remember if she’d actually said goodnight back to him.
Later in the darkness, she couldn’t sleep. She lay thinking of her body’s extreme reaction to Darryl’s innocent kiss and of Stevie’s advice and everything they’d discussed. Her senses were primed and she longed for Starr’s arrival.
Are you even going to turn up?
A glance at the illuminated clock revealed a late, late hour. Surely he’d have come by now if he were going to. Throwing back the covers, Hettie prepared to do something she’d almost done last night—go to Starr’s rooms and seek him out—but at that very moment, the door slid almost soundlessly open and a tall figure appeared in her room.
Greetings and questions clamored in her throat yet faced with him Hettie could not utter a word. She simply watched as he moved forward through the shadows and approached her bed. There was a glimmer of moonlight through the partially closed curtains, and it seemed to paint his long, muscular body with silver as he swiftly shed his robe.
If only I could see your eyes.
The plea remained silent though as he lifted the bedcover and took his place beside her.
If only I could see what’s in your heart.
But the moonbeams weren’t sufficient to reveal him and his face and his amazing blue eyes remained frustratingly shadowed.
I must ask him! I must know how he feels!
The questions tormented her as he efficiently stripped away her nightgown, then ran a long hand down the full length of her torso, lingering at breast and hip. She opened her mouth, not knowing what she was going to say, but before she could utter a word, he covered it with his hand. The same hand that had shaped her curves settled gently but firmly over her lips, sealing her to silence.
In the darkness, he seemed fierce, almost like angry primal man forbidding his woman to speak. And then a second later the hand was gone. Only to be replaced by Starr’s mouth, kissing her with a new and unprecedented savagery as if he wanted to expunge any words that might come between them.
Starr, what is it? Do you love me…or hate me?
Her cries remained unuttered as she thrilled to the animal intensity of the kiss. Her jaw ached. She felt as if he were devouring her as his tongue explored and possessed the delicate interior of her mouth. And as he kissed ferociously, his hand slid between her legs, taking possession there too. He caressed her thrillingly, rubbing quite hard and occasionally edging back and forcing her legs wider so he could gain better access.
As she groaned around his tongue, he pushed first one, then two, then three fingers inside her, thrusting and rocking them until her besieged flesh yielded its pleasure to him and she climaxed so intensely it was almost painful.
A second later, he was inside her, his cock as insistent and dominating as his fingers had been. He powered into her, the strokes deep and angry. Instinctively, she rose to him, glorying in his loving ruthlessness and orgasming again quickly and violently.
Her mind was a maelstrom of pure feeling, but at the edge of consciousness, she still heard the desperation in Starr’s hoarse cry of release.
Was that true emotion he was expressing? Or simply the physical, as ever, overwhelming him? Exhaustion overcame her before she was able to determine…
When Hettie woke up, she still felt troubled and frustrated despite the fact that Starr had made love to her so beautifully in the night.
After his first onslaught, she’d slept. But on waking several times, she’d discovered him still with her and he’d taken her again, each time quashing her attempts at communication with his lips or the power of his body.
And yet still she felt horny. She considered masturbating, but the height of the sun in the sky said she’d slept quite late and the sooner she got up, the sooner they could set off for Dragonwood.
A soft knock at the door heralded Starr with her morning tea.
It always amazed her how he could behave with such detached politeness in the morning, when the night before he’d fucked her into mindlessness.
“I trust you slept well, Ma’am,” he said quietly, lightening her strong morning brew with just the right amount of milk.
“Yes, thank you, Starr. Is everything ready for the trip?” she answered briskly. In the harsh light of day it seemed impossible to ask him anything at all. Impossible to attempt anything other than the normal, mannered relationship they maintained during daylight hours.
But in her heart, she cried out passionately.
How
do you feel, Starr? How do you really feel? What do I mean to you?
But for the moment she felt shackled by their unspoken rule, in which neither of them ever admitted that their relationship was other than mistress and servant. It was impossible to force the words from her lips.
“Yes, Ma’am. The cases are loaded and Darryl is having his breakfast now. He seems to be looking forward to the trip.”
Hettie looked at him sharply. Had there been just the tiniest hint of an edge in his voice? Was the man carved from granite laughing at her?
Or maybe really was he jealous?
Hettie’s senses leapt. She swallowed a huge gasp, fighting a wash of panicked emotion. It was too much to hope for. She was probably imagining things.
“So am I,” she said as evenly as she could, calling what might be an imagined bluff, “I’m hoping it’ll be a very productive stay. Educational even, perhaps?” Perhaps if she challenged him again and again, as much as she could, she could break through that solid marble wall of his?
“Very possibly.”
But there was nothing. Not even the merest crimp of his perfectly sculpted lips or the faintest flash of green envy in his crystal blue eyes. “If there’s any way I can assist you, Milady, please let me know.”
Hettie felt her nipples harden and was grateful for the sheet tucked up under her armpits.
“Any way at all?” she inquired, her voice bland but her heart pounding and leaping.
“Anything,” he said softly, the lack of an honorific telling her that in a rare daytime moment, he was speaking to the woman and not the employer.
“I may just take you up on that.” She smiled as calmly as she could and reached for her tea. “Now I’d better get this drunk and get my act together. Time’s passing and we’ve got a fair journey ahead of us.”
“We certainly have, Ma’am,” murmured Starr as he turned on his heel and left her to her morning routine.
Leaving Hettie wondering just exactly what kind of journey he was referring to.
Hettie dressed very carefully to travel. Two days ago she’d just flung on a shirt and jeans to meet Darryl and ride in a car with him, but now she felt he was at least worthy of her making an effort and she adorned herself appropriately.
She was also aware of another, more compelling agenda. The simple desire to always look beautiful for Starr…
Her two-piece was black figured silk, with a full and swirling skirt and a matching top that flattered her breasts to perfection.
She tried in on first with a bra and then without. It was unsubtle of course, but she felt sensitized and sexual. She wanted to be more aware of her body than she would have been if all neatly trussed up in a bra. She had no doubt that both Darryl and Starr would enjoy the view, and that the tall blond would notice the younger man’s looks of admiration.
Stevie had talked about making Starr jealous in an attempt to compel him to reveal his feelings. Hettie wasn’t so sure about that tactic, but now that it was floating around somewhere in her subconscious she couldn’t ignore it. She had no intention of openly flirting with Darryl, because that would be unkind to both the men. But perhaps if Starr saw her houseguest making eyes at her, it might force him to rethink his own emotional repression, and consider the possibility that if he didn’t make a move, one day someone else would.
But then again, you might just suck it up and go on with your Mr. Cool Faultless Perfect Servant act, mightn’t you, you stubborn bastard?
Sighing, Hettie returned her attention her appearance.
After fluffing out her glossy hair, she painted her eyelids with a smoky shadow and stained her lips with cranberry pink. In her widow’s weeds, she knew she’d never looked better.
The men’s reactions were thrilling. Her body stirred with both excitement and a strange fear when Starr’s blue laser gaze raked her from head to foot in a way she’d never seen before. His demeanor out of the bedroom had always been the acme of perfect respect and discretion. He’d never once appeared to ogle her, even when she’d been going out with Piers and wearing the most risqué of cocktail dresses. But now his eyes were incendiary and seemed to possess every part of her, rendering the black silk ensemble transparent and revealing every inch of her intimate flesh. Hettie felt that it was the real man responding to her at last, the man behind the mask acknowledging her beauty and her desirability, his amazing eyes referring directly to what they shared when they had sex together.
Darryl was simply thunderstruck, his beautiful mouth dropping open in wonder and staying that way for a full ten seconds.
“Wow! You look amazing, Hettie,” he said, his voice awed and his eyes like hot coals. His body seemed suddenly tense as if acutely uncomfortable. Hettie could almost taste him wanting her. It was like a vapor in the air, thickening in intensity as they climbed into the back seat of the car together and the door was closed to seal them in a private world.
Hettie smiled, a little nervously, and thanked Darryl for the compliment.
I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I? Her body seemed to tingle under his scrutiny. I should have worn jeans after all. This is all too much. She twitched her skirt over her knees and shifted uneasily in her seat.
As if to deliberately make matters worse, Starr pushed a button and the tinted glass barrier rose up between him and his passengers. Hettie felt a pang of loss and then a rush of intense, female anger at him. He’d deliberately detached himself from her all over again.
Sitting in such an enclosed space with Darryl was like being in a pressure cooker. He wasn’t Starr, but he was near. Too near. And the scent of him, and the sudden tension, made her feel a bit dizzy. It was a familiar cologne—light and spicy—but she couldn’t put a name to it. She doubted if she could put a name to anything right now, her mind was in such a jumble.
“How long will it take?” Darryl said suddenly as the car began its glide through the London streets, guided by Starr’s experienced hand.
Will what take?
Hettie felt blood warm her face and throat. The question had caught her unaware, but she realized now it was an innocent enquiry. It was only in her mind that it had acquired significant overtones.
“A couple of hours,” she said, schooling her voice to casualness, “More if there are roadworks anywhere. Less if Starr’s feeling lucky. He likes to make the car earn its keep, so to speak. But don’t worry, he’s an expert driver. We’re quite safe.”
Safe on the road, she added silently, knowing that there was a different kind of danger in sitting next to a hot-blooded man in tight jeans and a chest-hugging T-shirt.
Especially when I can’t stop thinking about sex!
To distract herself, she launched into a sudden nervous description of the house they were heading for. She knew that she sounded like a robotic stately home tour guide, but the flow of words was a soothing distraction from her turbulent thoughts and feelings.
Whether Darryl understood her tactics or not she had no way of knowing, but he listened attentively nevertheless.
Dragonwood was a modest Queen Anne house, set in its own park and halfway between the South Downs coast and the village of Melton Parva. Talking about it was a therapy to Hettie, and as the car snaked its way steadily out of the metropolis, the images in her mind of the elegant pale-stoned building calmed her. Her pulse steadied as she cataloged its many joys and treasures—the warm-toned wood-paneled rooms, the paintings and furniture, the library full of rare and precious books, the gardens full of flowers and shrubs and trees.
“Can you swim, Darryl?” she asked him presently. “There’s a lovely pool.”
“I-I think so.” He hesitated, frowning, and Hettie realized he honestly didn’t remember. She felt a surge of pity and without thinking, reached out to touch his bare arm. What a nightmare, not to know what you’d done and what you’d learned. Even who you were, really.
Surprisingly her touch didn’t seem to startle him. His hand and arm remained still and warm beneath her fingers, but he rai
sed the other and started rubbing at a small area of his forehead. He frowned again, his smooth face crumpling in a way that Hettie found worrying.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her own fingers tightening on his forearm.
“Yes, thanks, I’m fine.” He smiled at her, slightly wan beneath his tan, “It’s just when I try too hard to remember things, I get a bit of a headache sometimes.” His fingers still circled at his forehead. “But I’m almost certain that I can swim!” He looked tired but quite pleased with himself, as if remembering a simple, everyday skill was a major achievement.
Hettie had a sudden acute awareness of the glass that divided them from Starr. Here she was sharing such closeness with one man while another man—her lover—was just inches away. The conflict tore at her and she felt a wild urge to smash the glass between them in an attempt to make an impact on him. To show him just what she thought of his emotional and physical barriers. She almost hated him for throwing her into the path of temptation with Darryl and for a second she wanted to punish him. To really give him something to be jealous about!
But before she could succumb to her irrational urges, Darryl suddenly began to rub his eyes more vigorously and grimace.
“Is the headache worse?” she inquired, flooded with guilt and shame at what she’d nearly done, “Is there anything I can do?”
“It’s all right.” Darryl smiled but it was clearly a manufactured one. “But I think I ought to take one of my tablets—” Reaching into the pocket of his tight jeans, he drew out a blister pack of pills. “I’ll need some water though.”
Hettie reached into the luxurious car’s small cocktail cabinet and brought out a bottle of mineral water. When Darryl popped a tablet into his mouth, she handed it to him and he drank down the cool water, his throat rippling as he swallowed.
“Would you think I’m an awfully bad guest if I tried to go to sleep again for a while? This medicine generally works better if I have a nap.”
“Of course, you’re not a bad guest,” she said with a soft laugh, “You have a sleep. I’m sure you’ll feel better for it.”
Lessons and Lovers Page 8
