A Lady Awakened

by Cecilia Grant

  Silence. Apparently she thought he spoke for his own benefit. Why did he keep trying? Why should her enjoyment matter to him, when it plainly didn’t matter to her?

  And what if he were to creep his fingers up the inner side of her thigh, farther and farther until they found her sweetest bit of flesh? The woman in the mirror would like that. She’d sigh, and tilt her hips to ask for more. Hell, the woman in the mirror already had her legs locked round him, urging him to grind against her there.

  That woman, he could tease. He took his hand from her leg and gripped the dresser’s edge. Both hands held on there, bracketing her and steadying him as he slowed; drew almost all the way out, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. Good. Let her wait and wonder.

  “Is something the matter?” That voice. If he looked now he’d find her watching him with quizzical distaste. The sight could murder all his efforts.

  “Nothing’s the matter. Please don’t talk.” Oh, he’d regret that later. Never a safe thing to say to a woman. But he needed to keep that mirror-widow clear in his mind, to see her eyes widen as he went back in with excruciating slowness, deeper and deeper until his groin brushed against her where she liked it best. Then he took himself away again, to keep her hungry, and hell and damnation, it felt so good.

  He drew a shuddering breath and let his head fall forward. When his eyes opened they met with her fichu, black and forbidding. Without a word he bent to catch it in his teeth—one could easily imagine a gasp of excitement in place of the continuing silence—and dragged it out from where it was tucked into her dress.

  A sudden catch in the linen stopped him. She’d pinned it. Pinned it. By all that was holy, what kind of woman pinned in her fichu prior to an assignation? But never mind—he found and freed the pin, and pulled out the cloth and dropped it beside her. More bared flesh to enjoy in the mirror now, her bosom rising and falling with each delicate breath.

  He turned from that vision and sank to meet the swell of her breast with his lips, trailing kisses over its butter-smooth surface. Just as she wanted him to. Just as she’d been dreaming he would from the moment she first spied him there in church and made up her mind to have him, in bed and everywhere else, to have him and have him and have him, propriety be damned.

  In small pulses he started to move again, and meanwhile dipped his tongue down into her bodice to feather it across one nipple. She stiffened, in every place but the right one. Good God. Had he ever met with such a pair of recalcitrant nipples in all his life? Could they continue so utterly unmoved by anything he did? With a desperate groan he brought up one hand to tug down her neckline, and took the nipple entirely into his mouth.

  A spasm of unmistakable revulsion shot through her. “Is that necessary?” she said, as a society matron might address a man who broke into drunken sea chanteys at her dinner table.

  “No.” He jerked his head away from the offended bosom. “And don’t talk. I beg you.” How had he come to be in this nightmare? Any ill-chosen word from her now might bring it all down in shambles; mortifying, unprecedented shambles. Even to look at her risked a stalling in his blood. So he closed his eyes and, God help him, he thought of other women.

  Of Mrs. Cheever and the way she would cling to him, if she were here atop this dresser, because his ministrations robbed her of her very balance. Of Eliza, who would arch away in an agony of helpless delight. Of women, numberless women, who would rake his back with their nails, and women who would bite down on his bare shoulder.

  She was paying for seed. He would give her seed, by whatever means he must contrive. Onward he drove his hips, a mere priapic machine now, thinking of women who would whisper filthy things in his ear. Delectable filthy things, all invitation and command.

  Better. Much better. He dropped his head to her shoulder and thrust harder. If he’d kept his head up he might not have heard it, but, his ear being just on a level with her mouth, he could not miss the one faint sigh, a thorough and walloping expression of patience tried.

  The sound pierced him, true as an arrow from the bow of … whatever was Cupid’s opposite. And he stumbled like a wounded stag. He hauled in a breath. “Can you please … not …” How would he even finish the plea? Can you please make some effort to hide your disgust? Can you not act so explicitly as though you’re waiting for me to just be done? He moved faster. If he could just finish while he still had—

  “Not talk, do you mean? You said that already. And I wasn’t.” She had no idea.

  “No, I didn’t mean …” Little energy to spare for words. “I’m sorry; it’s just …” Bloody hell, he really was going to lose it; he could feel it beginning to crumble like a derelict chimney. “You just make it …” Impossible. A punishment. A back-breaking chore. “So hard,” he finally got out.

  Like a plucked string she snapped away from him. “There is no need for moment-to-moment descriptions of your state,” she said, her voice frigid with disapproval.

  Mother of God. Could she really be so stupid? Couldn’t she feel it herself? “No, I mean difficult. You are making it … difficult … to proceed.” He couldn’t look at her. To own the fact aloud was so, so much worse than he could have imagined.

  Again he felt a snap in her; a violent start as she saw her mistake. For the span of a breath it seemed possible she might recognize her wrongs and do something, anything to help him recover and finish the job. Then she spoke. “I can’t see that I’m to blame.” Her voice rang cold and uninterested as ever. “It’s not as though I do anything to prevent your sport.”

  That was the end. He slipped out of her, he knew that much; slipped right out as useless as a dead eel. The rest was something of a blur. His hands, pushing blindly at the legs still crossed behind him. He must have got free because he staggered, under all the weight of masculine disgrace, to the nearby wall. Her fatal last remark rang in his ears and No, he thought, It’s not as though you do anything at all! I may as well be swiving a propped-up corpse!

  Those were the words he thought. Or … maybe … the words he said.

  He breathed hard, ragged, in the silence, and worked to bring the wallpaper’s fleur-de-lis into focus. Christ. Shit. Had he said that out loud?

  He ventured a look at her. Damnation. He’d said it out loud.

  “Hell,” he muttered, now leaning his forehead against the wall. “I’m sorry.” He glanced back.

  “No, it’s …” She sat very still, drained of color, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”

  “No!” He wheeled away from the wall. “For God’s sake, can’t you see? What pleasure do you suppose there could be for a man, in bedding a woman who has to try hard to bear it?”

  No reply came. Of course none came. She withheld herself at every opportunity; why should she give it up now? Even to look at him appeared to be more than she would grant: she merely sat, watching the toes of her slippers, with all appearance of waiting for him to finish out his indulgence of temper and get back to work.

  That was more than he could do. With a shake of his head, he leaned down and picked up his trousers where they lay on the floor.

  She saw. “What are you—”

  “It’s gone.” He cut off her panicky words with pleasure. Let her panic. Let her be the uncomfortable one in this bargain, just once.

  “Is there no way you can—”

  “No. No way. It’s gone; it’s done.” He watched her sidelong as he stepped into his trousers; saw her thinking hard, quickly as she could.

  “I believe there are some erotic novels in the library,” she said at last, her gaze fast on her slippers. “Perhaps you could—”

  “No. I could not.” One hand held up his undone trousers; the other scrabbled for his shirt, waistcoat, and cravat. “If I can’t stay hard with my cock in a woman, I surely can’t expect to look to erotic novels for the remedy.”

  She flinched at the language. Good. With his clothes gathered up he went away to the mirror. In the glass he could see her, as he pulled
the shirt over his head and thrust his hands through the sleeves. A strange bawdy spectacle she made, skirts still bunched above her stockings, legs still splayed. If she had other ideas for how he might arouse himself again, she did not offer them. She only sat with her head bowed, and finally, slowly, drew her knees together and plucked at the skirt to cover herself.

  She looked … so small, sitting there alone. He closed his eyes. Do not pity her, you idiot. Do not. But his temper had always been a quick one: by the time his waistcoat buttons were all done up, he felt sorry to have made her look like that.

  Still she did not speak. He wound his cravat without the usual flourish. What must it have cost her to mention the erotic novels? How many were there? And how did she know? Had she come across them by accident one day? Or were they perhaps flaunted before her?

  Damn his stupid sympathetic heart. What accommodations had she ever made for him? If he’d been her husband, he probably should have resorted to erotic novels too, sooner or later.

  He wished he hadn’t called her a corpse, though. That outburst had in no way alleviated his mortification, nor was it likely to inspire any feelings in her that could help him with what was proving to be a labor worthy of Hercules. And it ought to have been, he thought, now sitting in an armchair to pull on his boots. The first labor, to make all the later ones seem easy. Even the Hydra would be as child’s play, against the memory of breeding Mrs. Russell.

  His clothes were all on now, save for the hat. He sat for a moment longer. Perhaps he would think of something to say. Perhaps she would speak.

  The silent seconds ticked by. Finally there was nothing to do but stand and reach for his hat. He cleared his throat. “Shall I come again tomorrow?” The words sounded so loud in the room’s leaden stillness.

  “If you please,” she said to her toes.

  He left, then, and heavy thoughts of tomorrow went with him. Tomorrow and the tomorrows beyond, nearly a month of them to get through before his commission was complete.

  Chapter Five

  SURELY THIS congregation would run her out of church and chase her down the road with torches, if they knew what was the substance of her prayers. But she’d reckoned with that likelihood from the start.

  Please forgive me as far as You are able. Martha opened her eyes to see the pale knuckles of her hard-clasped hands, and shut them again. Please take into account that I am not, if one defines the word precisely, guilty of Lust. Please understand why I had to do this, and what was at stake. In addition, please compel Mr. Mirkwood to glance this way and notice that I am without my fichu.

  Not that she expected the sight to galvanize him with such desire as would sustain him into their appointment this afternoon. But he would see it, one hoped, as a signal of her willingness to … not try, because he didn’t want her to try … but to step away from her fixed position and meet him somewhere along that distance separating her wants from his.

  Was that the same as trying? Why must this business have so many arcane rules? Don’t try. But don’t do nothing; else you are no better than a corpse. Even in her own inward voice, the word slapped her. Not so painfully as yesterday, when it had come like a hard open hand to her face. Given time its power might fade further. One hoped.

  She opened her eyes again, angling her bowed head to peer across the aisle. He wasn’t looking at her. He sat straight and attentive today, his dress subdued, his countenance solemn, his prayer book opened to the right place. No one would ever guess he was a man who put women on top of odd furniture and expected them to enjoy it.

  She couldn’t enjoy it. Exotic acts with an unprincipled stranger. He oughtn’t to expect that of her. But he did have a right to expect civility, and there, admittedly, she’d been remiss. She’d do better next time. If there was a next time. She’d be polite, and solicitous, stifling all uncharitable sentiment for the duration of his call.

  If only he would look at her! She might even smile, quick and private, and he would know to expect a better welcome this afternoon than he’d had in the past.

  But he didn’t look. When the service ended he slid from his pew and made for the door without once turning his eyes her way.

  Would he even come to call today? He must—he’d asked if he ought—and yet what if, upon reflection, he’d decided he just couldn’t continue with her?

  She sat still in her pew, last to leave the church again. Mr. Atkins might notice her missing fichu, and wonder at her. As well he ought. She was a crude, grasping woman, reduced to attending Sunday services uncovered in hopes of catching a man’s eye. She’d disgraced herself, stooping to such a ploy, and gained nothing for her disgrace. Desperate as it was, it hadn’t been enough.

  THEO PLUCKED at the roadside hedge as he walked home from church, crushing its leaves and throwing them away. Someone would have a devil of a time cleaning his gloves. Perhaps he would ruin them altogether. The prospect left him strangely unmoved.

  He sighed aloud and scattered a handful of broken leaves. She’d robbed him of the one thing he did well, the widow had. That was the worst of it. He could laugh off his own ineptitude in those pursuits for which he cared nothing, as long as he could count himself a virtuoso in more important matters. But how was he to think of himself, faced every day with the way she shrank from his practiced touch? If he wasn’t a man who knew how to please women, then what was he at all?

  The rumble of cart wheels came up behind him: he stepped closer to the hedge and lifted his hat as some farm family drove past, festive in their Sunday best and animated as though they were bound for a pleasure-party instead of just come from a sermon about a farmer struck dead while celebrating his bountiful harvest. The man and several of the boys raised their hats in return. One girl waved, and ducked her head shyly when he waved back.

  Such charming looking people. Why couldn’t their sort live on his land, instead of the sullen Weavers? But some of the laborer families had seemed congenial enough, and perhaps even the Weavers improved on acquaintance. He ought to give them that chance. He might expend a little energy on duty today, and see where it took him. If he met with more disaster in the afternoon’s appointment with Mrs. Russell, he could at least have some sense of effectuality in other areas.

  The plan coalesced as he finished his walk home. Call on the laborers and pay them attentions, the widow had said, and this much he could certainly manage with competence. He set the cook to wrapping up some parcels of beef and tea and even a few lumps of sugar while he went about the house gathering up other odds and ends. A sense of benevolent purpose swept through him, bringing his first real relief from that debacle of yesterday afternoon. He would win these people over with his gentlemanly condescension, and reports of it would surely reach Granville’s ears and help his greater cause.

  An hour later he climbed the rise to the Weaver cottage with a slowing step. The calls had not gone precisely as he’d envisioned. He’d made a beginning, to be sure. No one could doubt the pleasure and surprise with which each humble housewife had received his parceled gifts. But neither could anyone miss the lingering distrust that met his visit. The husbands were all away at work—he ought to have anticipated this, by the absence of these families from church—and the wives answered his polite remarks and queries with uneasy monosyllables, for the most part.

  Well, one more stop would finish his tribute to duty, for better or worse. He pushed the gate open and went in.

  Even from this distance the baby’s cries were audible, making no great incentive to approach the house. The eldest daughter stood at one side of the yard, emptying a pail into the pig’s trough. She glanced up as he latched the gate, and dropped her eyes again before he had time to tip his hat. Poor thing. She must have come to expect neither courtesy nor any notice at all from such callers as the family did have.

  He crossed to that side of the yard and took off his hat. “Good day,” he said.

  The girl curtseyed silently, never raising her eyes from the pig, who applied itself to the
trough with fierce purpose.

  “How do you do?” He replaced his hat. Perhaps she was a mute?

  “Well, thank you.” She spoke without expression, as though it were a practiced response, and still her head was inclined swineward.

  So he considered the animal too. “How is your pig?” he asked after a moment.

  Here was a question for which the girl hadn’t any rote answer. She pursed her mouth, concentrating. “She’s wicked,” came the eventual reply.

  “Really?” She certainly smelled wicked. “What wicked things does she do?”

  For a half-second her eyes rose to his. “She sits on her young sometimes.”

  “Well, that is wicked indeed.” To say the least. “What can be done?”

  “I hit her with a stick. Then she might get up.”

  “But she doesn’t, always?”

  She shook her head. Theo took a moment to imagine it: the sow’s impassive bulk, the squeals of the desperate piglets, and this girl, powerless, despite her stick, against the brute whims of nature. Every day spent in the country made London look a little better, and no mistake.

  “Well.” Enough about the pig. “I’ve come to call on your family, and brought some things. And I brought something in particular for you.”

  She did not ask what it might be, or look anywhere but at the pig. Only her posture betrayed a heightened attention.

  “I wasn’t sure, you see,” he said, rummaging through his bag, “whether it was the gold or the paper you liked, so I brought you some of each.” He pulled out a length of gold ribbon. “I’ve no idea why this should have been in the house—some long-ago ladies must have left it there, I suppose—but I’ll make no use of it, and neither will Mr. Granville.” He put it in her hand.