Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection)

by Jennifer Blake

  Long minutes crept past. After what seemed a small eternity, Allain’s coachman, who had climbed down and vanished toward the back of the lighted house, materialized out of the darkness from the opposite direction. He climbed ponderously up to the box of the maroon barouche. A few seconds later the vehicle began to move. Their pace sedate, they pulled away from the Pontalba house and rolled off down the street.

  As the barouche rattled past the black carriage sitting in darkness, Allain turned his broad back to it, taking Violet into his arms. The embrace would serve, he whispered, to block them both from view while making it appear that they were lovers bound for a tryst.

  And wasn’t that true after all, Violet thought as she lay in his arms with her forehead pressed against the strong column of his neck. Wasn’t it?

  The thoroughfare where Allain lived was empty when they reached it. They left the carriage several doors down from his so as not to draw attention to it. It seemed strange to walk slowly arm in arm to his door after the haste and excitements just past; at the same time there was a naturalness about it, like a homecoming.

  The housekeeper opened the door for them. Her eyes widened as she saw Violet, but she spoke only to say that refreshments of wine and cheese with nuts had been set out in the studio against her master’s return. As Allain dismissed her she moved away toward the green baize door that led to the nether regions of the house, though she glanced back once with concern in her eyes.

  Together, Violet and Allain climbed the stairs. Their footsteps on the treads were neither quick nor dawdling but deliberate, as if they were there for a purpose they both knew and accepted. His hand under her elbow steadied and supported but did not urge her.

  Violet did not question what she was doing. That the two of them should be here at this late hour seemed inevitable; everything that had gone before had been but a prelude.

  There was a single candle burning on a table against the wall next to the fireplace. When the door had closed behind them, they turned to look at each other in its wavering light. Violet felt her breath trapped, encased in the whalebone cage of her corset. Her eyes were wide and pensive, purple-edged with trepidation, yet as resolute as those of a novice before the altar. She waited.

  Allain turned sharply from her. Moving to the candle, he picked up a handful of tapers from a box that sat beside it. He kindled one in the flame before moving to place it and the others in the tall corner candelabra. The blossoming flames as he touched the full row of candles to light enameled his face with gold and blue and orange, giving it the hard and lifeless look of an effigy in bronze.

  Violet felt the first stirring of doubt. She took a step forward.

  “Don’t,” he said, the word slicing even in its softness. “Please don’t.”

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  He moved back to where the tray was set with glasses and a dusty bottle of wine. He gave her a tight smile before he picked up the bottle and began to pour. His gaze on what he was doing, he said, “Second thoughts. An attack of conscience, or shame. I should be stripped and beaten for bringing you to this.”

  She watched him for long moments while her pulse thundered in her ears. At last she said, “If there is shame, I share it.”

  “No. I set out to seduce you from motives pure and impure, but most of all from base, overwhelming desire. I should have conquered it; I have no excuse for that failure.”

  “Must there be one?” She beat about in her mind for some hint of what he was trying to tell her, but could find few clues.

  “It is required, when so much is at risk.”

  “Is this risk mine or yours?”

  “Yours,” he said with roughness rising in his voice. “Yours alone, for mine was accepted long ago.”

  She gave him a wavering smile. “Can I do less, then?”

  “You must. Your safety depends on it.”

  Did he think Gilbert would harm her if they were discovered? Somehow she did not think it was a consideration so mundane that moved him. What it might be, she could not imagine. Regardless, it made no difference.

  “How can I think of safety when I am here?” she asked in low and strained tones. “How can I, and still be worthy of — of your roses?”

  She put her hand to the blossoms at the corsage of her gown as she spoke, feeling their cool petals against her fingers. He caught her meaning, for he took a quick, uncontrolled step toward her.

  “It’s I who am unworthy of your love,” he said, the words unsteady, “though you will always have mine.”

  She reached out to him. As she moved her hand the roses she had touched shattered, the petals loosening, falling, sliding down the full sweep of her skirts in a rain of rose red. They settled to the carpet, where they scattered at her feet, shimmering in the dimness like droplets of blood.

  She cried out with the sound of pain and loss and unreasoning fear.

  A spasm crossed his face of resolution hard pressed, defended, and then abandoned.

  An instant later he caught her close, murmuring softly as he leaned to lift her high in his arms. “Never mind, my heart, I’ll make you a path of roses, a bed, a bower. You will have roses all your days.”

  “And my nights?” she whispered.

  Carrying her toward the divan, he answered, “Especially the nights.”

  He placed her among the Persian garden of silk draperies that softened the couch. Her hair, as he loosened the pins that held it one by one, uncoiled and trailed down her shoulder, mingling with the fringes of the draped shawls. He spread the long, curling tresses around her, his gaze soft with wonder and appreciation as he watched the candlelight shimmer in prism gleams among them. He cupped her face in the warm strength of his hands, then leaned to touch her lips with his own.

  It was a benediction of sweetness, a salute of honor. Withdrawing a little, he held her gaze with the promise of his own while he lowered himself to recline beside her. She reached to press her fingertips to his mouth, tracing the line of his lips, their smoothness, their firm resilience.

  “I wish,” she said with a sigh catching in her voice, “that I could be pure and untouched for you.”

  “And would you have me untutored? It’s better as we are; we need neither of us fear pain or penalty, but can come to each other with only pleasure.”

  She loved him then as she had not before, as she allowed him entry to a portion of her innermost self where no other had ever been. He saw it, and caught her close with his face against the silken hair at her temple. They held each other tightly, breast to breast, thigh to thigh, while the beating of their hearts shook them with the hard, uneven strokes of despairing elation.

  He released her by slow degrees, murmuring in wonder as he brushed her forehead with his warm lips, touched them to the fragile skin of her eyelids, and explored the delicate ridges of her cheekbones. He sought the moist corner of her mouth, testing its sensitive folds before probing the sweetness within.

  She met his gentle foray, touching her tongue to his in conscious daring. She wanted to taste him, to know him, to encompass him with her body and mind and to become lost in him. The urge was so strong, so vital inside her, that she feared to shock him by permitting him to see the strength of it. It spread through her with the fiery potency of fine wine, so she shivered and her hands closed convulsively on his shoulders.

  His chest swelled as he took a ragged breath. He moved his hand to her back, where he began to free the tiny buttons of her bodice from their loops. His touch on her cool skin as it was slowly bared was incredibly intimate, unbelievably tantalizing. In the need to give him something of the same sensation, she trailed her fingers down along the collar of his coat and under its edge to reach the buttons of his waistcoat. She slipped them from their holes one by one.

  He drew down the sleeve of her gown, exposing the slender column of her neck and the slight hollow at its base. He pressed his lips to that depression, tasting its sweet frailty, testing with his tongue the pulse that throbbed
there as he freed her arm, then clasped his hand slowly upon the gently swelling curve of her breast. Her lips parted as she gasped. Spurred by that small sound, he brushed a trail of heated kisses along the lace-edged line of her camisole, which enclosed the warm curves rising above her corset. He moistened the thin lawn over one gentle mound with his tongue before taking a taut nipple into his mouth.

  Drowning, drowning in too poignant pleasure and the rise of her own unbridled need, Violet pushed her fingers into the vibrant waves of his hair and exerted stringent will to prevent herself from clutching him to her. She hardly knew when he pushed the gown sleeve from her other arm and untied her petticoats, sliding the mass of cumbersome, silken, rustling clothing from her body. As he eased from her to strip away his own garments, she made a soft, inarticulate protest. She watched him with lash-shielded eyes, however, absorbing the strength and virile beauty of his body. This, too, she wanted to know.

  She had to help him with her corset, pressing it at the narrow span of her waist while he unfastened the hooks. He breathed a soft curse as he saw the red ridges it had left in her skin, though he soothed them with caresses as she lay naked against him. His kneading, stroking fingers moved lower, skimming across the flat surface of her abdomen, coming to rest at the soft triangle at the apex of her thighs. His kisses followed.

  She closed her eyes tightly, trying to turn away, to close her thighs, but he would not permit it. Relentless in his fervor, delicate in his passionate exploration, he took her with him into unknown, unguessed realms of delight. By degrees, she gave him unimpeded access, and he took it, and in return gave unrestrained enchantment. Made bold by the totality of her surrender, she reached for him with urgent hands.

  He came to her in rampant grace, entering her in a controlled onslaught of purest, aching necessity. For long moments they were utterly still.

  She was full, but not complete, filled, but not sated. Passion burgeoned inside her, spiraling up from some deep internal well. She shivered with it, trembling as she spread her hands upon the muscles of his back. Under her sensitive palms she could feel the ripples of tension the restraint he was keeping upon himself caused. They fueled her desperation, so she made a soft sound of distress deep in her throat.

  He raised above her then, drawing ecstasy to its outermost limits as he remained poised, shuddering and continent, at the edge of his control. She caught him with both hands, dragging him down, so he plunged into her, deep and deeper, sounding sanity and dreams, bringing the explosive, breath-destroying glory of surcease.

  Later, wrapped in silk-fringed shawls, they stood at the open window, breathing the fresh air and watching the night sky over Paris. Pinpoints of light glimmered in the darkness. Some, strung in rows and loops like exotic gold and silver beads, were the gas lamps along the streets and edging the Seine, while others were more scattered, appearing either vigilant or secretive. They gave a diffused glow to the night sky, shading it to gray blue in which the dimmest outlines of buildings could be seen. It was like a false dawn, though the real one would come soon, too soon.

  “I want to remember her like this, our lady Paris,” Allain said, his voice low and somber-edged with pain, “and I want to remember you just as you are — warm and beautiful, with your hair down your back—”

  “Don’t,” she said, turning her head that lay on his shoulder so she could look up at him, reaching at the same time to place her fingertips on his lips. The words he spoke were a reminder of the parting that must come, and she was not ready to think of it.

  He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips before holding it close against his heart. His chest expanded with the deepness of the breath he took, one it seemed he would never let go. When at last he did, he released her hand and reached to place the flat of his palm at her waist, spreading his fingers wide and then closing them gently on her flesh as if he needed to grasp and hold the very essence of her.

  “You are so lovely, so very loving and lovely,” he murmured in husky confession, his warm breath brushing her forehead. “I love you, I do love you, I have loved you these many long weeks. Believe me, please, believe me. Sometimes, when I stood putting paint on canvas and looking at you on the dais, I had to stop and turn my back and remind myself of many truths — or else I would have gone to you and ravished you there on the floor.”

  She rubbed her forehead gently against his chin. Her voice not quite steady, she said, “Sometimes, as I sat there on my pedestal, I wished that you would.”

  “And shall I?” he asked, his hands moving upon her in firm entreaty.

  “Would you?” The flush that spread through her body was one of anticipation.

  “If it is your desire. If your desire is the same as mine.” The words were a vow.

  “Now,” she whispered in anguished longing. “My desire is the same as yours now, at this moment, and ever after.”

  Repeating her name like a paean, he carried her to the dais and, placing her there, lowered himself beside her.

  Decadent, immoral, immortal; they were all those things, and more. In lust and love, they used the fleeting minutes, and could not tell the one thing from the other, so fine was the line that separated them.

  Regardless, the night ended.

  Allain helped Violet to dress, tightening her corset, buttoning buttons, straightening her skirts over the width of her hoop. He used his own silver-backed brush to straighten the tangled mass of her hair while she stood still with her back to him and her head held high so she could breathe against the constriction around her heart.

  Holding the warm weight of her shining tresses in his hands, he said abruptly, “Come away with me.”

  “Oh, Allain,” she whispered. Tears gathered behind her eyes, crowding into her throat.

  “Will you? If it’s my desire?”

  She turned slowly to face him. “I do love you,” she said with difficulty.

  He watched her, his blue-gray eyes limpid with the pain. He looked down at the ends of her hair that he still held, then slowly he let them go, so they drifted in a soft skein to lie against her skirts. His voice near cracking, he said, “You love me, but you are married to him. And this, among my many desires, is not possible.”

  “Gilbert loves me, too.” She could not look at him.

  “Oh, yes; how could he not? But as much?”

  She shook her head in slow denial. “Yet there were vows made.”

  “Until death parts you,” he said, adding with quiet surety, “I could remove him — on the field of honor.”

  Her head came up. Holding his gaze, she took his hands in hers, brushing the swordsman’s calluses on his hands with her thumbs. She said, “If you could, you would not be the man I love — any more than you could love me if I disregard a sacred promise.”

  “You underestimate us both, I think.”

  “That may be, but it doesn’t change anything.”

  He sighed, the tension going out of his body. “No, but perhaps I will be lucky, and he will have returned before you. And he will be — unloving.”

  For that, there was no answer.

  Silent, his face chiseled to still restraint, Allain walked with her down the stairs and handed her into the carriage. He held only her hand through the short drive back to the hotel. And he seemed not to notice the dark carriage that sat before his house, and that followed them, at some distance back, until they reached the hotel. Violet did not speak of it, either. It made no difference, now.

  Allain wanted to go inside with her, to see her safely to her room. She would not permit it. She had not forgotten the prospect of a duel. Alone, she might prevent it; it would be much more difficult if Gilbert and Allain should come face-to-face.

  He went because she begged him to go. She watched him get into the carriage, watched it pull away, then she turned to enter the door that was being held for her by the night porter.

  The door of the sitting room was unlocked, the room itself dark and still. Violet stood listening for long moments.
Then her heart leaped in silent dread as she noticed the smell of tobacco smoke.

  The red end of a cheroot glowed in the direction of a chair near where the open casement windows looked out over the courtyard. Gilbert’s solid form was outlined against the increasing dawn. When he spoke, his voice rasped with contempt.

  “You are up in good time, my darling wife,” he said.

  She hesitated. “Yes, I—”

  “Spare me the explanations, please; there’s no time for them. It’s as well you are wakeful. I have been thinking in these past hours that it’s time we moved on to Switzerland. We leave today, as early as it may be arranged.”

  13

  GILBERT DID NOT MENTION THE NIGHT of the ball on the journey to Switzerland, nor would he permit Violet to speak of it. Each time she tried, he either changed the subject or else rose and left her. It was as if he wished to pretend it had never happened. He was, in public, as attentive to her comfort and generous with trifles as he had ever been. In private he punished her with cold politeness, brooding silences, and his ever-watchful presence.

  In Geneva he bought carpets and a gold pocket watch for himself that was engraved with a scene of the Alps. He bought a great carved box like a coffin, actually a marriage chest, which he said would be perfect for Violet’s bedchamber. He bought a cuckoo clock that was supposed to be for her pleasure, though she thought the thing monstrously ugly.

  They took a small chalet outside Lucerne, and every day they walked across the flower-strewn mountain meadows. It should have been peaceful there, in the pure air where the sound of cowbells echoed against the transcendent blue of the sky. Gilbert would not allow it. He made their mountain walks endurance tests, striding ahead with long angry steps, slashing at the grass and flowers with his stick, calling back at her not to dawdle. When the clouds rose above the mountains and the rain showers came, he refused to take shelter, but marched onward through the mud and wet without looking back to see if she followed.