A Secret Passion

by Sophia Nash

  “But I do like the grandmother. She seemed taken with you at the picnic,” said Clarissa as she hid her long hair in the confines of a lace cap. Jane picked a piece of lint from the dull brown-colored gown Clarissa almost always wore.

  “When one’s only competition is Mrs. Gurcher for friendship, I am not sure it is a fair game,” retorted Jane.

  “Yes, well, I have never been invited to tea at Hesperides until now. I am sure you are the reason,” Clarissa said as she moved through the passageway toward the door of the cottage.

  Jane changed the conversation as she adjusted the tilt of her black silk bonnet. “It is only a tea. They cannot hold us longer than the appointed hour.”

  Thomas was at war within his own mind. Propriety and good sense told him he must attend his host’s modest entertainment of tea this afternoon. Anger and pride insisted that he be anywhere but in the conservatory overlooking the tiered gardens of Hesperides at four o’clock. The meager hunting party consisting of the earl, the gamekeeper, and himself had proved unfruitful. And he was not in a mood to attempt to lighten the earl’s typical brooding frame of mind. He gave thanks for the hundredth time that hunting was a silent venture by necessity.

  As they walked up to the large oak doors of the Hall, Thomas reviewed all his proposed excuses for not attending the ladies at tea. A glance at the earl’s harsh, squinting profile above the deep gray collar of his long hunting coat resolved him to his purpose. As he opened his mouth to make his excuses, Graystock interrupted him.

  “You’re not considering retreat, are you?” The earl accepted the bows of the footmen and continued, “You are my friend and guest. And as such, you must endeavor to entertain me.”

  “That’s what the chits will do, Graystock.”

  The earl preceded Thomas into the conservatory and added under his breath, “Ah. But you will outdo them if recent history is any indication.” The ladies all rose upon the gentlemen’s entrance, save the dowager countess. The earl moved to his grandmother, whose large frame was ensconced in a deceptively delicate love seat. He raised her hand to his lips. Rolfe bowed to the other two ladies as Thomas moved forward to pay his respects to at least two of the ladies.

  The party of five somehow managed to offer a contorted view of refined society for the first half of the visit. The usual topics of weather and the small upcoming and past country entertainments were discussed at length, with nary a blush or a frown. If one looked closely, thought Thomas, one might have noticed he and Miss Fairchild did not direct questions to one another. Graystock did not follow suit with Mrs. Lovering. It was clear the earl enjoyed provoking her in a very mild way.

  Lady Graystock sighed loudly, drawing everyone’s attention.

  “Whatever is it, Grandmamma?” asked the earl.

  “I daresay I have overexerted myself today. I think I must be escorted to my chamber. But I would dearly like to continue the pleasure of our guests’ company.” She paused to look at Jane. “My dear, would you be so kind as to do me the honor of reading to me again? Your voice is exquisite, and I long to hear the next chapter of the novel we started during our last outing.” The dowager countess lowered her eyes in a pitiful expression.

  Graystock appeared exasperated. “Really, Grandmamma, you cannot impose upon Mrs. Lovering again.”

  The lady insisted, “No, it is not an inconvenience. I should be delighted above all things to give you this small pleasure. And I, too, delight in the works of Burney.” She rose to her feet and set her cup and saucer on the tea tray.

  The earl looked at Thomas and indicated to him with a nod toward Clarissa that decorum necessitated someone escorting her to her cottage. Thomas ignored the suggestion and turned to offer his arm to the dowager countess.

  “Miss Fairchild, please allow me to escort you to your door,” offered the earl.

  “Oh, goodness, my lord, no, thank you. It is entirely unnecessary,” responded Clarissa with a slight blush. As she placed her hand on the earl’s sleeve to be led to the main hallway, Thomas watched her but refused to bid her good day.

  The dowager countess’ old, faded eyes fluttered open as Jane closed the volume.

  “That was lovely, my dear. Thank you so much for reading to me. Your voice is excellent, and you read with such animation.”

  “You are too kind,” Jane responded.

  “It has been many years—too many years—since I have had female company in residence with me.” With a sigh, she continued, “But it is a fate I am resigned to.”

  Jane wondered if the dowager countess was trying to draw her into a conversation or if she should refrain from making a comment. After an uncomfortable silence of a few moments, Jane asked, “But the young countess provided you with companionship for at least a short while during the last decade, did she not?”

  “Good heavens, no, my dear. She was a mere child, all giggles and bounces, and altogether afraid of me. Her greatest pleasure was evening soirees and balls before she married.”

  “But who can blame her? I assure you I was the same at her age,” Jane said with a smile.

  “Yes, well, she was very young,” she agreed. Then the dowager countess looked out toward the darkening light of the window. Jane thought she heard the older woman mutter, “But she was never capable of bringing happiness to Hesperides.” Then louder, “But I shall not speak ill of the dead, as I must face Mr. Gurcher on Sunday. Surely God will punish me by forcing me to endure tea with Mrs. Gurcher again.” With a twinkle in her eye, she looked at Jane. “But then, you will save me by proposing a walk to your aunt’s cottage to admire the garden, will you not?”

  Jane smiled. “If it would please you. We would be delighted by a visit.”

  “Yes, and it will infuriate Mrs. Gurcher,” noted the dowager countess without any remorse. “Help me arrange these pillows, my dear, will you? I will take my afternoon lie-down now, I think.”

  Jane hastened to her side and helped the elderly lady retire before moving to the adjacent sitting room. She walked to the window before departing. A light spring rain tapped against the windowpane as she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool glass.

  She still did not know what to make of the conversation. It seemed to be in conflict with what her aunt had intimated about the earl’s marriage. Jane wondered why the young countess had not brought happiness to the Hall while she was alive, but then decided it was likely the grandmother had not known the true feelings between the young couple. She shook her head. Jane had enough worries of her own to sort out. The trials of the earldom were not her affair.

  She closed the outer door to the dowager countess’ sitting room and bedchamber. With the approaching dusk, long shadows filled the carpeted hallway. Leaning against the paneled wall opposite her, a tall, broad-backed figure stood with crossed ankles. His silver eyes stared at her from a brooding face before he said something incomprehensible to her. With two long strides, he was in front of her. He grasped her shoulders in a firm if not painful grip. Jane, in her embarrassment, felt rooted to the spot and was unable to think of anything to say.

  And then he said it again—”Come with me,” in a commanding, harsh whisper. He led her farther down the hall into a sitting room and adjoining chamber, then closed the door. She noticed the beautiful blue toile curtains and tapestries lining the windows and walls of the spacious room. Beyond a short corridor, she could see a massive carved wooden bed with the same toile curtains. With shock, she realized she was in an inappropriate position. A position she had avoided her entire life.

  The earl fingered the soft silk of her sleeves. His large, warm hands slowly slid down her arms. Jane felt the callused palms and inched away. “Are you afraid?” he asked.

  She tilted up her chin and lied. “No. Should I be?”

  “I would reconsider your answer,” he whispered. His forefinger traced a line from her lips to her breast. Her nipple hardened as she gasped in surprise. She knew she was blushing.

  “What on earth do
you think you are doing, my lord?”

  “Trying to get my face slapped, Madam.”

  “Well, I should think…” she started.

  “No, don’t think,” he interrupted. The earl’s shadow fell across her face as his warm breath reached her cheek, giving her ample time to draw back. When she did not, his full lips met hers as he drew her into the circle of his arms. Her mind raced with shock as the reality of the scene unfolded. She must take hold of herself. But she could not. The effort to say no was too far away. She felt drugged by the raw, male, familiar smell of him. In embarrassment, she felt his tongue curl against her own and tasted brandy. Harry had never kissed her like that. His kisses had always been chaste and brief. This was intoxicating and knee-weakening. His hands were loosening her gown while he looked into her eyes. She felt paralyzed by the excess of emotions coursing through her.

  “Are you more inclined now, Jane?” he asked, whispering into her ear as he placed one of her hands on his shoulder. The intimacy of hearing her given name on his lips was almost more provocative than what he asked.

  She was too embarrassed to answer. All she knew, for some unfathomable reason, was that she would not back down now.

  He lowered the edges of her dress and shift and sucked in his breath. He seemed almost dazed, Jane saw, when he leaned down to taste the tip of her breast. His hand rose to trace the contours of the other. The twin sensations of overwhelming shyness and an unfurling desire made her stand perfectly still. He suckled her and gently touched the sensitive tips with the palm of his hand. Jane felt a rush of heat and a painful longing run through the core of her body as his rough face etched itself on her breasts. She stopped breathing as she combed her fingers through his thick black silky hair and arched her back.

  Rolfe paused and looked up at her with half-closed eyes. “You must tell me to stop if you so desire.” She stared back at him.

  “I insist, my lord…” she whispered.

  “You must say it with more force, Mrs. Lovering,” he said dryly.

  “Are you intoxicated, my lord?” she retorted with as much dignity as she could muster, considering her state of undress.

  He smiled and picked her up like a child then made his way through the passage to lay her on the bed in the darkened room. He pushed off his coat and undid his white neckcloth. As he pulled the linen shirt over his head, she noticed the large bulge in his buff-colored breeches. She felt goose bumps on her arms as fear waged war with desire.

  He leaned over the bed and peeled back the layer upon layer of dress clothes, petticoats, underclothes, and her shift until she lay naked upon the bedcovers. She watched his gray eyes dilate with passion as he drew the pins from her hair. Waves of her hair fell past her shoulders onto the pillow.

  He sighed. “I want you. I want all of you right now.”

  She lay still on the silk comforter, her mind and body torn between an unknown, intense need and complete embarrassment.

  In a haze, she remembered spying on a stallion and her mare in heat in the middle of the hot summer stable when she was fourteen years old. She had stared in shock and wonder as the stallion nipped the mare on the shoulder, forcing her to submit to the mounting. Then, the earsplitting squeals from the animals as the male entered and pumped his seed into the female. She had stayed hidden long after the men overseeing the breeding session had separated the animals and departed. She loved her horse and had wanted to know everything about her. But it had been more than she could have imagined. And now she wondered how she would endure this interlude, which was sure to embody pain.

  Rolfe looked into her half-closed aquamarine eyes as he edged onto the bed and pulled her body close to his. He wondered how much of his intense attraction to her was due to his five years of self-imposed celibacy. His mouth followed the trail left by his hands as he discovered her body. As he kissed her soft, small waist, his hands caressed her slim, firm thighs. Her legs trembled as his fingers moved up along her inner thighs and pushed them apart. When he reached the downy, darker curls of her femininity, she gasped. He massaged the center of her womanhood and was gratified to feel wetness. He leaned forward to tease the tip of her high, full breast to tautness again with his lips and heard her indrawn breath. She lay silently as he tried to enter her with two fingers. He was stilled by the realization of untried tightness. His mind reeled, and for the first time in many years, he felt very unsure of himself.

  But then, it could not be true, he reasoned. He knew it could not. She was a widow. As he probed further, he could feel her stiffen.

  He withdrew his fingers and sat up. He leaned over her to pick up his fine lawn shirt off the floor and drew it over his head. “Mrs. Lovering, we must stop this nonsense, immediately.” He paused before adding, “I do not take pleasure in deflowering virgins. And I am not on the marriage mart.”

  She lay on the bed and looked up at him. “I would not have you as a husband, my lord,” she said low. “But you yourself brought me here, and proposed a rendezvous not long ago. Have you forgotten?”

  “You are an innocent. I should have recognized the signs.”

  “You said I was a widow and you a widower. You suggested a liaison, and now you lack courage? Is that it?”

  His eyes drifted to her beautiful breasts once more, and he felt drugged as he once again cupped the curls of her womanhood. A jolt of raw desire raged through his body when he felt a rush of dampness. He swore and raised himself from the bed to strip off his boots and breeches and to take off his shirt for the second time. In the dark, faraway recesses of his mind, he knew he would come to regret this inability to deny himself.

  He spied apprehension in her eyes at his nakedness. As he moved onto the bed again and eased his body close to hers, she tensed.

  “Please tell me what to expect,” she said in a small voice.

  “You will feel pain. That is certain,” he murmured in her ear, giving her one last chance to stop. He wondered which would be worse, stopping now or finalizing the act. He accepted her silence as an invitation to continue.

  He grasped her hand on the silk covers and slid between her legs. The fingers of his other hand delved between the folds of her femininity. He dipped his head to suckle her breast again. She reached for his face as he closed his eyes and breathed deeply her faint lavender scent. He fought to control the hard edge of his desire as he pushed her hands back and kissed her. The pressure within him pulsated with need. A rosy blush overtook her porcelain face as his fingers explored the most intimate places on her person. He kissed her delicate neck as he stretched the barrier within her and massaged the firm bud of her desire.

  Suddenly he heard her breath catch and she seemed to be on a precipice, hanging by a thread. He felt the unfulfillment of all the years gone by dissolve in that suspended moment in time. In that instant Rolfe pushed inside of her. She clung to him and held her breath as he began the necessary, painful stretching. Breathing hard, he strained to maintain control. He moved slowly in and out of just the mere edges of her for long moments. Then, closing his eyes, he firmly plunged inside her, past her barrier, past her innocence, filling her completely. In a fog, he could hear her calling him.

  “Please, oh… wait, wait, please.”

  He stopped and looked down at her face. Her expression filled him with pain. With more control than he knew he possessed, he rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “Jane, I shall stop if you insist. But, my dear, the damage is already done.”

  “Is it over?” she asked in a high, nervous voice.

  “Not for me, no.”

  “Will it hurt if you continue?”

  “Possibly, a little, I think,” he said hoarsely. He felt that the slightest movement might cause him to explode. He continued, “Jane, hold me, and let me take you.”

  She wrapped her arms around his back, and he guessed she was keeping her panic at bay. Slowly, he withdrew and massaged just the outside edges of her again. He teased the opening until she could bear it no longe
r. She pulled his buttocks down toward her, and he began an excruciating, slow rhythm.

  Now the aching pleasure he felt was almost painful in its intensity. As he broke rhythm, he pressed deep into her. She gripped his shoulders and twined her long legs around his. He strained to move the last fraction of an inch closer to her being.

  Abruptly, he stopped, and pulled out of her. He savored the intense release of his seed onto her soft belly, and listened to her breathing.

  Wiping away the evidence of his passion with the sheet, he moved to cover her again with his body as he buried his face in her golden hair, breathing in her feminine scent. She loosened her grip on his shoulders and caressed his back. He felt satiated and at peace—sensibilities that had eluded him for such a very long, long time.

  He arranged her in the cradle of his arms as he withdrew her arms from around him. The strain of holding back had taken its toll. He had used the last drop of his innermost resources of strength in his care of this woman. The loss of her innocence had tasted bittersweet. An overwhelming feeling of protectiveness enveloped him as he held her in his arms and tucked the bedcovers over both of them. He pulled her body close to his. His hand found its way to her breast, and he could feel her erratic heartbeats.

  She covered his hand with her own. In a low voice she whispered, “Thank you.”

  The cold stirrings of doubt battered his thoughts as he stared up at the bed hangings overhead. “Thank you? Is that really what you should be saying to me? Should it not be, ‘Damn you’?”

  “Perhaps. However, all I can feel at this moment is a sense of gratitude.”

  He continued as he sat up in bed. “What could you have been thinking to allow, nay, encourage, your own seduction when you were a virgin?”

  He watched a deep blush suffuse her face as she sat up, holding the bedcovers to her breasts. She pulled her shift from the top of the heap on the floor and put it on. “I am sorry to have troubled you, my lord. But do not forget it was you who brought me here,” she added with a tight smile. She trembled despite her attempt to portray a cool exterior. She rose from the bed and stepped into her gown.