by Jane Feather
The voices ceased and the door closed. Prudence struggled up against the pillows, holding the sheet up to her neck. “Where did the dressing gown come from?” It was a particularly elegant garment of brocaded silk and didn’t look as if it formed part of the guest supplies of this hostelry.
“I brought it with me.” He picked up the small valise that she now remembered noticing earlier.
“You mean you planned for this?” she demanded, not at all sure that she liked the idea that he had set out that morning completely prepared for seduction. Condom and all.
He shook his head. “You’re so suspicious, my sweet. No, I did not plan for this. I’ve spent most of the day trying to overcome our mutual dislike. But I am a motoring enthusiast, as you probably realized.”
“More of a fanatic, I would have said.”
“Yes, well we won’t quibble about the degree of my enthusiasm.” He was opening the valise as he spoke. “However, as an experienced motorist, I know that even the most reliable vehicle can strand one in the most inconvenient circumstances on a long drive, so I’m always prepared.” He took out a silk garment and shook out the folds. “This is for you.”
He laid the garment on the bed. It was a dressing gown of emerald green Chinese silk, beautifully embroidered with deep blue peacocks.
Prudence fingered it. “It’s lovely, but we have to go home straightaway.”
“No,” he said. “We have to have dinner straightaway. Roast duck, if you remember.”
She pushed aside the covers, casting an agitated glance at the clock on the mantel. It was close to nine-thirty. “Gideon, I have to get back. My family will be worried out of their minds.”
“No, they won’t,” he said with that calm assertive confidence that so often put her back up. Not this evening, though. “Milton knows the uncertainties of motoring, so he was not surprised to be told that if we had not returned by ten o’clock he should drive to Manchester Square and explain that we had been benighted and would return in the morning.”
She stared at him, still with some degree of incomprehension. “But what about the morning? It’s Monday, don’t you have to go to work?”
“My first appointment is at noon. We’ll leave early and we’ll be back in plenty of time.”
Prudence lay back again and pulled the covers up. “Is there any detail you’ve missed?”
“I don’t believe so,” he returned rather smugly. “I have hairbrush, toothbrush, tooth powder, and a nightgown for you. Although,” he added, regarding her consideringly, “I doubt you’ll need the latter.”
“Perhaps not,” she agreed. “If we’re going to eat roast duck, shouldn’t we dress and go downstairs?”
“No, we’re going to eat in here. It seems like too much effort to go downstairs, and they want to close the dining room soon anyway.”
“Ah.” She fingered the dressing gown again. “Then I suppose I’ll get up and put this on.”
“That might be a good idea,” he agreed. “The bathroom is right opposite. I don’t think anyone else is staying on this corridor, so we don’t have to share it.”
Prudence put on the robe, tying the girdle at her waist tightly. “Did you say something about a hairbrush?”
“I did, but I’d like to do that myself. There’s something about your hair that drives me wild.” He came up to her, tilting her chin on his forefinger and kissing the corner of her mouth.
She merely smiled and padded barefoot to the door. The bathroom was small but contained the necessities: a claw-footed tub, a basin, and a water closet. Prudence began to draw a bath and while the water was running twisted her hair into a knot on top of her head and returned to the bedroom. “What happened to the hairpins?”
Gideon took a handful off the dresser and stuck them judiciously into the piled mass. “Would you like company in the bath?”
“It’s very small,” she said doubtfully.
“We could wash each other’s back.”
“Irresistible.” She reached up and caressed his cheek, observing with a smile, “You’re stubbly.”
“Five o’clock shadow,” he said. “I usually shave in the evening as well as the morning.”
“I rather like it,” she said. “It adds a certain something . . . a je ne sais quoi. It gives you a more rugged look.”
He bent and rubbed his cheek gently against hers. “You prefer rugged to smooth, then?”
“Depends,” she said. “On circumstances. I must get the bath before it overflows.”
He followed her into the bathroom, watching her cast aside the dressing gown, stand for a minute naked, aware of his gaze, offering herself to it, before she stepped into the bath.
“There really isn’t enough room for two.”
“Nonsense,” he said, throwing off his own dressing gown and stepping into the bath at the opposite end. Water slurped over the edge as he struggled to sit down, drawing his knees up to his chin to fit.
Prudence pushed her feet under his backside and wriggled her toes. He grabbed her ankles and water cascaded over the edge of the bath onto the wooden floor.
“Stop that,” he said, squeezing her ankles. “It’ll leak through the floor to the ceiling below in a minute.”
“I told you it was too small for two.” She leaned against the back of the tub, still idly wriggling her toes against his nether parts.
Gideon heaved himself to his feet, sending a further wave of water onto the floor, and stepped out. He grabbed a towel from the rail and threw it into the puddle to soak up the mess. “I’ll shave instead,” he said, returning to the bedroom for his razor and strop.
Prudence soaped herself lazily, enjoying the intimacy of their shared ablutions. It had a wonderfully sensual undercurrent, one that built on the glory of their earlier lovemaking, somehow solidified it, while creating a delicious surge of anticipation. Her toes curled and she moved the soapy washcloth to her thighs . . . and between them, idly visiting the sites of her earlier pleasure.
“Would you like some help there?”
The quiet voice made her jump, and her eyes, that she hadn’t realized were closed, flew open. Gideon stood at the side of the bath, his own eyes darkened to a charcoal gray as they watched her.
“No, thank you,” Prudence said with as much dignity as she could muster. “We’ve already proved the bath is no place for games.”
He laughed and reached for a dry towel. He unfolded it and held it invitingly. “Out. Otherwise I’ll begin to feel superfluous.”
She stood up in a shower of drops and stepped out, trying to think of a snappy response to the statement and failing utterly. He wrapped the towel around her and then stepped into the bathwater.
Prudence dried herself vigorously, shrugged into the Chinese silk robe, and left him in the bath. In the bedroom she saw that a table had been set in front of the fire, with an already opened bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, a basket of hot rolls, a dish of butter. She poured the wine into the two glasses and sat at the table, breaking open a roll, spreading butter thickly. Sex seemed to stimulate the appetite.
Gideon came back as she took the first sip of the wine. “Is it good?”
“Delicious. Haven’t you tasted it?”
“No, but the landlord has made sure it’s not corked.” He took the seat opposite her. His hair was wet and Prudence noticed with some amusement that when wet it had a springly curl to it. It was rather frivolous, not at all suited to the fearsomely intimidating barrister she had first met.
A knock at the door heralded two waiters, who placed a three-tiered stand piled high with shellfish on the table. “Oysters, Sir Gideon, clams, cockles, shrimp, lobster claws, winkles, and smoked mussels,” one of the waiters intoned, pointing with a fastidious forefinger as he listed the offerings.
“Thank you.” Gideon nodded and the waiters faded from the room. He took a small pointed stick and selected a tiny shellfish. “These are quite delicious.” He picked the minute winkle from its shell and passed Prudence the stic
k.
She popped the winkle into her mouth. Ordinarily she considered these tiny shellfish barely worth the trouble to extract, but now she realized what she had been missing. She nodded and took one for herself. She was beginning to learn that Gideon treated the business of food with utter seriousness. They ate their way through the tiers of shellfish with a dedicated concentration, punctuated by the occasional appreciative murmur and the odd remark, and when a waiter returned to clear their plates and the stripped-bare stand, they merely sat back, sipped wine, and nodded with satisfaction.
“I would never have put you down as such a thoroughgoing hedonist,” Prudence said into the satisfied silence. “It doesn’t go with being a barrister.”
“Oh, now, there you’re wrong, sweetheart,” he said. “Barristers live as indulgently as the members of any other profession . . . and more than some. We have our own clubs, our own pubs, our own restaurants. We don’t have much conversation, I’ll grant you that. Mostly law talk, case discussions, but we do ease business along with the good things in life.”
Prudence nodded, reflecting how easily the endearments slipped off his tongue. She liked them, they made her feel special and enhanced the sensuality of this interlude, but she was not used to them. Her father had never been one for demonstrative speech, and even her mother had used endearments sparingly. She didn’t feel comfortable using them herself and wondered if Gideon would notice that she only used his name. But perhaps he would notice the different tone she had now when she spoke his name. Her tongue rolled the syllables around as she took the last sip of her wine.
Roast duck appeared, with orange sauce, succulent green beans, crispy roasted potatoes. A bottle of Nuits-St. Georges was opened, the waiters faded away once more. Gideon took the tip of his knife and slid it beneath the crispy skin of the bird. He sliced upwards and then took his fork to spear the golden brown paper-thin skin.
He leaned over, holding the fork to her lips. “Greater dedication hath no barrister than to give the best morsel of a roast Aylesbury duckling to his client.”
Chapter 14
Gideon was awakened in the morning by the slither of a soft body across his recumbent form, by lips pressed into the hollow of his throat. He didn’t open his eyes and he didn’t move as Prudence covered his face with tiny butterfly kisses, his eyelids, his nose, his cheekbones, the corners of his mouth, the cleft of his chin.
“Don’t pretend you’re asleep,” she murmured between darting flicks of her tongue into that fascinating cleft. “I can feel that the most important part of you is wide awake.” She moved her lower body over his in emphasis.
Gideon stroked down the length of her back as she lay long upon him, languidly caressed her bottom. “My mind, like the notable Oxford scholar’s, is generally considered to be the most important part of me,” he murmured into the fragrant mass of russet hair.
Prudence chuckled. “That depends on the circumstances. Right now, I have to tell you that your mind is of not the slightest interest to me. This is.” She moved a hand down, slipping it beneath her to grasp the jutting evidence of his wakefulness. “I’m wondering if it’s possible to do it like this.”
“Certainly it is.” The languid note in his voice was fading fast. “Move back and raise yourself just a little.”
“Like this?”
“Just like that.” With a leisurely twist of his hips he entered her as she hung above him.
“Oh, this is quite different,” Prudence said, sounding rather surprised.
“There are an infinite number of ways to enjoy each other,” he said. “Don’t tell me you haven’t read the Kama Sutra, because I wouldn’t believe it.”
“We have read it, of course, but some of those positions looked completely impossible, not to mention tortuously uncomfortable.” She pushed back onto her knees, circling her hips slowly around his penis buried deep within her. “Have you tried them all?”
“No. I’ve never found a partner willing to entertain the idea.” He clasped her hips, pressing his thumbs into the pointy hipbones. “Lean forward just a tiny bit . . . ah, that’s good.” He smiled, lifting his hips rhythmically as she pressed the cleft of her body against his belly, rising and falling with him.
He watched her face; her eyes were closed, and he said softly, “Open your eyes. I want to see where you are.”
She opened her eyes, fixing her gaze on his. He watched for the deepening glow in the light green depths, the spark of excitement as her pleasure grew closer to its climax, and when he saw it he touched her sex lightly with his fingertips. Her eyes widened and he thrust upwards, holding her bottom with his free hand, pressing her down hard upon him. Then, with a swift, deft movement just as she cried out in delight, he rolled her sideways to the bed, disengaging the instant before he allowed his own climax to rip through him.
Prudence felt the orgasmic shudders quiver through her body for several minutes. Her body was a weightless mass of delicious, languorous sensation, her muscles utterly powerless, her loins drained. She turned on her side, resting her head in the damp hollow of his shoulder as he lay on his back. With an effort, he reached a hand to brush strands of damp hair that were stuck to her cheek. Then his hand fell limply to her flank.
“I wonder if one could ever have too much of this good thing,” Prudence murmured when she could speak. She calculated that since eight o’clock last evening they had made love four times, and judging by the light in the window, it was only just past dawn.
“Not I,” he said.
“Nor I,” she agreed with a complacent chuckle.
“Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, daily life makes other demands,” Gideon said, sitting up with a groan of exertion. “We have to get on the road and get you home before your family calls out the police.”
“You said they would have a message.” Prudence forced her own muscles into action, struggling up against the pillows.
“They will have, but they’re still going to want to see you alive and well before the morning’s too much advanced,” he pointed out, swinging his legs to the floor. “Shall I run your bath?”
“Please.” She leaned back, exhausted by the simple effort of getting herself semiupright, and closed her eyes again. Soon she heard the sound of water running and her mind woke up to full consciousness. Where were they to go from here? It had been the most wonderful night, full of transcendent delights. But now what?
Almost as if he read her thoughts, Gideon reappeared. “Prudence, your bath is drawn. Get up now. We have to get moving.”
Her eyes shot open and she looked at him, startled by the imperative tone. During the long hours of their loving she had forgotten that he had that tone—assertive, authoritative, impatient. Now she caught herself wondering if perhaps this manifestation was his normal self and the soft, tender lover who issued only endearments in the exciting, sensual richness of the words of loveplay was an occasional visitor.
“I’m up,” she said, getting off the bed and reaching for the dressing gown. She brushed past him in the doorway and went into the bathroom. She wondered fleetingly if he would follow her, but was not surprised that he didn’t. The idyll was definitely over, and reality had once more reared its demanding head.
She performed her morning ablutions quickly and returned to the bedroom. Gideon was dressed once more, and even though he was wearing the casual morning dress suitable for weekend, it was clear he had reverted to his former physical self. The charming disorder of his curly hair had been tamed, he was clean-shaven, even his posture had somehow straightened, become more rigid. He was the barrister again, utterly in control, utterly sure of himself and his superiority.
Prudence went to the dresser and grimaced at the state of her hair. It was a wild tangle that she knew would take ages to return to order. She sat down on the small stool and picked up the hairbrush, dragging it through knotted strands.
“Let me.” He stood behind her, reaching over her shoulder for the brush.
She re
linquished it, observing, “Since you’re responsible for this mess.”
The gray eyes gleamed and she caught a glimpse of the lover. “Not entirely responsible,” he demurred, putting his hand on the top of her head and pulling the brush down with resolute strength. “Sorry,” he offered at her wince of pain. “Is there a gentler way of doing this?”
“No. Just do your worst.” She squeezed her watering eyes tightly shut, bent her head, and let him get on with it.
He laid the brush down after five minutes of tugging and pulling. “There. I think that’s the best I can do.”
Prudence opened her eyes and combed her fingers through the now relatively straight mane. “I’ll manage from here.”
“Right.” He went to the door. “I’ll order breakfast in the coffee room. Can you be ready in ten minutes?”
“In a pinch,” she said dryly.
“Put the robe and everything else in the valise when you’ve finished with them. I’ll send a boy up to take it to the motor.”
Prudence, coiling and pinning her hair, nodded, and he went out, his step energetic, and she could fancy there was an almost military click to his heels. She dressed quickly—trying not to think of those moments when she had undressed—and packed the valise, reflecting as she closed it and snapped the locks that there was something symbolic about this putting away and closing up. It was a neat tidying up of a delightfully untidy idyll. She glanced once around the room before leaving it. Nothing was out of place, apart from the wildly tumbled bed, where the sheets and coverlets straggled to the floor. Her eye caught a couple of hairpins on the floor and she remembered how Gideon had drawn them out. With a quick shake of her head, she left and hurried downstairs.
Gideon was reading the newspaper when she came into the coffee room. He rose politely as she sat down. “Newspaper? I ordered two.” He handed her a neatly folded copy of the Times.
Prudence couldn’t help a smile. This was a man who did not like breakfast conversation. She poured tea, buttered a piece of toast, and opened her own newspaper, offering her companion no distraction from his paper or plate of kidneys and bacon.
