by Juliana Ross
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
“I won’t do it,” he said, his voice low and sure and utterly certain. “I won’t bend my life to suit their whims.”
“They only want what is best for you.”
“If they did, they wouldn’t be forcing that whey-faced bore of a girl on me.”
“That’s unkind of you, Leo—”
“I suppose it is. I don’t really care.”
“Then what do you care about?” I asked, and immediately regretted my boldness. Never before had I pressed him in this way, and to do so now, when he was under such terrible strain, was inexcusable. “Don’t answer. I spoke rashly.”
“No, it’s a reasonable question. What do I care about?” he mused. “Not that ball, for one thing.”
He walked across the room to my bed, which was low and narrow and covered with an ancient candlewick bedspread. Reaching down, he pushed on the mattress, pulled at the frame. It creaked, loudly.
Leo pivoted to face me, his eyes meeting mine without hesitation. “Open your bodice.”
As always, I was shocked at my eagerness to comply. I unfastened the innumerable hooks and eyes, loosened the ribbons of my corset cover and chemise and spread them wide so he could see my breasts. They were pushed high by my corset, and my nipples were already hard and pink in anticipation of what his mouth and fingers would soon do.
“I want you on your hands and knees on the bed. Pull your skirts above your knees.”
I hastened to obey, my hands shaking in anticipation of what was to come. Ever since that afternoon in the library, when I had watched him fucking Ida, I had dreamed of this moment.
He was behind me now, so close I could hear his every breath, feel the heat of his body. He pulled me back to the edge of the bed and threw my skirts over my back.
I waited, hardly able to breathe, acutely aware of what was to come. I burned for him, though he had hardly touched me. Simply hearing his voice, in the dark of the sitting room, had made me wet.
He parted the slit in my drawers. The hot, hard head of his cock pressed against the opening of my cunny. And then he took my hips in his hands, surged forward and buried himself deep inside me.
The feel of him was overwhelming, and I had to bite down hard on my bottom lip to keep from crying out. It didn’t hurt, not precisely, and after only a second or two I felt the urge to push back against him, to encourage him to fill me even more.
He wrapped one arm around my hips, holding me steady, and reached forward to fondle my breasts with his free hand. Then he began to fuck me in earnest, driving into me with sure, measured strokes that left me gasping.
“Reach between your legs and rub yourself,” he demanded. “I want to feel you come.”
Such was my state of arousal that it only took the lightest brush of my fingers against my clitoris to summon an orgasm. It broke upon me in wave after wave of swirling, silver-bright ecstasy, so intense that my knees threatened to crumple beneath me.
But Leo held me tight, never faltering, pounding into me so powerfully that I could feel the heavy weight of his testicles slapping against my cunny. His breathing grew ragged, his movements slowing even as the tremors inside me abated, and I realized he was trying to delay his own orgasm.
So I pushed back against him as hard as I dared, arching my back and twisting my hips, parrying his slow thrusts with my own frantic, passionate response.
“Witch,” he gasped.
He moved both hands to my hips, pulling me half off the bed. My breasts bounced and the bed frame creaked beneath us as he fucked me hard and fast. He came with a muffled roar, his legs shaking, and I thrilled at every pulse and shudder of his orgasm.
All too soon he was pulling away from me, covering me up, helping me fasten my bodice. Once he had attended to his own appearance, he drew me close and kissed my temple, smoothing my hair with his lips.
“You’re going, then?” I whispered.
“Yes, but not to the ball. I will not marry her.”
“You must marry someone, and by all accounts she is perfection. Why not Lady Alice?”
He shook his head, a wry smile playing across his face, and then, his touch wonderfully gentle, he circled my face with his hands and kissed my lips, something he’d never done before, not once in all the months of our liaison.
He deepened the kiss, his mouth pressing down on mine so firmly that my lips parted, then opened to the bewitching onslaught of his tongue. After all we’d done together, I shouldn’t have been shocked by a simple kiss, but as his tongue moved against mine, I felt my heart racing anew.
He pushed me against the wall next to the door, his hands still cradling my face, his legs pushing against mine so intimately that I could feel the ridge of his resurgent erection against my abdomen. His mouth was crushing my lips so decisively that I knew they’d be swollen for hours. I knew it and I didn’t care what his mother might say.
At last he dragged his lips from mine. Rather than set me aside, though, he drew me into his arms again.
“I should never have let things go this far…” he murmured.
An icicle of dread slithered down my spine.
“What do you mean?” I asked, prepared to cast aside what little dignity I still retained. “Please don’t say—”
“Hush, now. All will be well, I promise you that.”
“But you must—”
“Enough, now, else you’ll risk reminding me of my mother. Good night, sweet. I’ll speak with you tomorrow.”
Chapter Seven
The hours after Leo left me were the longest of my life, my mind and heart a tumble of hope and dread and the worst sort of anxious expectation. I dared not sleep, for Aunt Augusta would want me at her side when she returned from the ball.
She returned rather earlier than was usual, just past three o’clock in the morning. Normally she was jolly and talkative after a grand evening out, eager to describe the other ladies’ gowns and jewels. But tonight was different. Her face was drawn and set, and she seemed eager to shed her finery and go to bed. I considered asking her how the evening had gone, but something in her manner made me hold my tongue.
I slept fitfully, my dreams haunted by visions of a haggard, penniless Leo, cast out by his family and friends, begging me for sanctuary. I tried to answer him, tried to go to him, but unseen forces held me back and stopped my mouth.
I woke to the sound of raised voices in Aunt Augusta’s bedchamber. From the angle of the sun where it peeked through the draperies, it was still early in the day, no more than eight o’clock at the latest.
The door to my room opened, and before I had even rubbed the sleep from my eyes, a hand was at my shoulder, shaking me gently.
“Mrs. Bell, you must get up.” It was Aunt Augusta’s maid. “Her ladyship wishes to speak with you.”
“Yes, yes of course. I won’t be but a moment.”
What could have happened? Aunt Augusta rarely rose from bed before ten or eleven o’clock. There must be some news about Leo and Lady Alice. That was it—the engagement had been settled, despite his misgivings, and his mother wished me to write out the official announcement to send to The Times, as I had done a few months past for Cousin Arthur’s engagement.
I dressed hurriedly, sparing no thought for my appearance, and in no more than a few minutes was standing in front of Aunt Augusta’s desk, waiting for her to put down her pen and direct me in my morning’s tasks.
“Sit down.”
“Are you quite all right, Aunt Augusta? You don’t seem yourself this morning.”
“Pray do not address me in that fashion, Mrs. Bell.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You may call me Lady Dorchester. And, no, I’m not at all well.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Last night, as I returned home after the ball, after waiting for hours for my son to make an appearance, I was informed that Lord Alfred had been seen here. Here, entering these rooms, while he ought to have been paying his addresses to Lady Alice. Is that correct?”
“Yes, your ladyship. He was here.” There was no point in lying, for her manner made it clear I was a woman already condemned.
“Why on earth should he want to see you?”
“I’m not at liberty to explain the purpose of his visit,” I said, and braced myself for her response.
“What took place while he was here? Why was he here?”
I couldn’t answer, not without exposing Leo to his mother’s wrath.
“I knew you wouldn’t have the decency to tell me the truth, so I’ll put it to you. There was a witness to your meeting with my son. A witness who heard everything.”
It was even worse than I’d feared.
“I see now that you are the reason for my son’s reluctance to enter into an alliance with Lady Alice.”
“Your ladyship, please—”
“Shall I read you the note he sent over last night? I doubt its contents will surprise you in the least. ‘Dear Father and Mother, I apologize for my absence at Lady Sutherland’s ball tonight, but under the circumstances I felt it was only appropriate. I have been remiss in not communicating my true feelings on the subject of an alliance between Lady Alice and myself, and for that I apologize as well. I deeply regret disappointing you in this matter, but I must be clear: I have no intention of marrying Lady Alice, nor indeed of marrying any other of the young ladies you think suitable for me. Believe me when I tell you I will not be swayed, and nothing you do by way of retribution will alter my sentiments in this regard. Your wayward but affectionate son, Leo.’
“You are a viper in the bosom of my family, Mrs. Bell. I took you in, sheltered you, saved you from a life of penury. And this is how you repay my kindness.”
“I’m truly sorry for it, your ladyship. I never intended—”
“Silence! I’ll hear none of your lies. I expect you to leave this house today, without a word to my son or anyone else, and never return. In return, I’m prepared to furnish you with a character, as well as twenty pounds.”
“What if I refuse? What if Leo—”
“Lord Alfred, if you please.”
“What if he’s worth more to me than that?”
“If you defy me, if you go to him, I will see him cut off. He’ll lose his good name, his station in life, and will be as penniless as any beggar on the street. Is that what you want for him?”
“No,” I whispered, as tears of shame and despair rolled down my cheeks. No matter how desperately I wanted him, I would not see him ruined.
I would not be his ruin.
She folded the piece of paper on which she had been writing earlier and thrust it at me, not deigning to look me in the eye. From the drawer of her desk she took the strongbox in which she kept her monies for sundry accounts, unlocked it and withdrew a stack of gold sovereigns, which she placed on the far side of the desk.
“Take these and get out of my house.”
Part of me wanted to throw everything back in her face and walk away, my head held high. But the sensible part of me—where had it been hiding these last months?—knew it would be folly to leave empty-handed. I had no money of my own, nothing of value that I might sell or pawn. The letter and gold she offered were all that stood between me and the workhouse.
So I took the money and left her without another word, somehow managing to walk to my room without collapsing. But there was no time for histrionics. No time to reflect on what I had lost.
It didn’t take me long to pack, for everything I owned fit in one large carpetbag. A few dresses and undergarments, my nightgown, my spare pair of boots. I placed a single sovereign in my reticule, then slit the hem of my best petticoat and pushed the other coins inside, one after the other, like weights on a fishing net.
I slipped away silently, as she had asked. The only person I passed on my way out was Ida, who smiled and squeezed my arm in what was, I suppose, a gesture of sympathy. By now all the servants would have learned of my disgrace.
“Where are you bound, Mrs. Bell?”
“I don’t know, Ida. But I must go—for Lord Alfred’s sake I must.”
“You will write and let us know how you fare? Just a note? We’re all so worried for you.”
“I will, then, as soon as I’ve settled somewhere. And please don’t worry—I shall be quite all right.”
I left by the tradesmen’s entrance and turned north, having resolved to go to Paddington Station and take the next available train, no matter its destination. Where I ended up was of no consequence, as long as I was far away and no longer a temptation to Leo.
The walk to the station was not especially far, no more than two miles, but my bag was heavy and unwieldy and the sun beat down relentlessly. By the time I arrived at the station my arms were aching, perspiration had dampened my brow and I was beginning to feel faint from hunger.
I walked into the departures hall, which was wondrously light and modern and so different from Waterloo Bridge station, where I had often caught trains to Dorset with the family. The departures board was a maze of information, one word blurring into the next. How was I to make sense of it all?
The ticket office was at the far end of the hall, so I picked up my bag and made my way to the first open wicket.
“Where are you going today, ma’am?” asked the man behind the counter.
“I don’t know. That is, I haven’t decided. Which train is leaving next?”
“That would be the nine-forty to Bristol, stopping in at Maidenhead, Twyford, Reading, Steventon, Faringdon Road, Wootton Bassett, Chippenham and Bath.”
I’d visited Steventon as a girl. My mother had taken me to visit her elderly aunt one summer, and we’d returned the following year for Great-Aunt Charlotte’s funeral. It was quiet and peaceful and hadn’t changed one whit since Jane Austen had lived there some sixty years before.
It would do.
“How much is a single ticket to Steventon?”
“In which class, ma’am?”
“Third, please.”
He consulted his timetable. “It’s four shillings and seven pence.”
I handed over the lone coin in my reticule.
“Here you are, and here’s the fifteen and five I owe you. Train’s leaving from Platform Two in five minutes. Best go now, else you’ll risk not getting a seat.”
“Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am. Good day to you.”
The irony of his polite farewell wasn’t lost on me. I’d lost the man I loved, had been exiled from my home and everything that was familiar to me, was embarking on a journey that might well end in destitution, and it wasn’t yet ten o’clock in the morning. It seemed unlikely I would ever know a good day again.
I walked to the platform, showed the man at the barrier my ticket and found a seat in one of the gloomy third-class compartments. The seats were hard and wooden, as austere as my mood, and as the train lumbered west I closed my eyes and prayed that the journey would be over soon.
My fellow passengers appeared unaware of the torment I suffered, and for that I was grateful. From this moment on, I resolved, I would tell no one the truth, allow no one to comprehend the loss I had sustained.
I would face the barren days to come with steady resolve, as I’d always tried to do when life disappointed me. I would build a new life for myself, though my life was already over.
And I would never look back.
Chapter Eight
Steventon was as small and sleepy and quiet as I had remembered. It was so small, in fact, that it appeared to be little more than
a string of farmhouses along a narrow country lane. Unless I wished to seek employment as a dairy maid, I realized, I would have to move on.
The station master confirmed my suspicions. Fortunately, one of the local farmers was bound for Whitchurch, some seven miles to the west, that very afternoon. For tuppence I was able to secure passage on the front seat of his wagon.
It was a simple cart, with no shelter from the elements, and I’d nothing more than a thin shawl to protect me when it began to rain. Before long I was thoroughly wretched, both in spirit and substance, and was bitterly regretting my impulsive decision to travel to a part of the country so little known to me.
Farmer Dunn took me directly to the post office in Whitchurch, explaining that the postmistress kept a situations vacant board and should be able to direct me to suitable accommodation. It was late in the day when he set me down at my destination, a neat bow-fronted building on the town’s High Street, and bid me a friendly farewell.
I stumbled across the threshold of the post office, my sodden carpetbag held tight in my arms, and said a silent prayer that I did not appear as bedraggled and desperate as I felt.
“A good evening to you, ma’am, and how may I help you?” The voice was attached to a plainly dressed woman with a wide and welcoming smile.
“Good evening. I have just arrived—that is, I have just now come here, from London, and I need to find a place to stay, and also work of some kind. If there’s any to be had, of course…”
Suddenly it all felt so horribly overwhelming. The room began to spin, or perhaps I was the one who was turning, and I knew if I didn’t sit down soon I would disgrace myself entirely.
“Goodness gracious, my dear, you’ve gone as white as a sheet. Come with me, now, into my parlor. The stove is warm and the kettle is singing. Come, now.” The woman—I supposed her to be the postmistress—came round the end of the counter and, taking my arm, propelled me toward the beckoning warmth of the back room.
I sat huddled by the hearth, watching steam rise from my skirts as they and I grew warm, and tried to gather my thoughts. What now? I had already made a woeful first impression here, nearly fainting in front of the town’s postmistress, and doubtless she’d be happy to see the back of me.
