A plan in mind, he knew he needed to visit the market the next morning for a few supplies.
After dawn and freshening up John left the cottage, hailed a hackney, and got all the things he'd need to patch things up with Fleur. This was, he imagined, the last chance he'd get to change her mind about him. Maybe they couldn't be lovers. It just wasn't right. He could never ask that of a woman who couldn't say no. There was no mandate, however, stating they could not be friends. He'd like that.
He walked up to her front door, his few purchases in hand. Again the door creaked open at his first knock although the view that greeted him was decidedly different. She was wearing a simple day dress and, at this rate, he surmised he'd probably seen her entire wardrobe. Over the day dress was a paint splattered apron. She had a smudge of paint on her cheek, and this caught him off guard. She looked like a warrior princess, all dark hair done hastily up and consumed in her work. The seductress from the night before was gone, but he wasn't sure which woman he found more appealing.
He could see her scrap canvas laying again on the table, and he asked to take a closer look as she shut the door behind him. She gestured for him to, not saying a word.
He moved to the table and leaned over the painting. What he saw was masterful. She'd somehow managed to capture the haunting allure of St. Louis' Cathedral in the middle of a downpour. The work was grey and moody, the lines both wavering and harsh. He'd studied works of Da Vinci that hadn't moved him so much. If her painting reflected her innermost thoughts, as artists were wont to do, she was a mess. A beautiful mess he couldn't draw his eyes away from.
"Fleur, you are gifted," John said, a hint of a smile on his face. He kept his voice low and his expression mellow as if he were approaching a lamb he didn't want to spook.
"That's just not so. I've seen art around the city that's much better. Are you trying to flatter me?"she asked, her eyes on the canvas.
"If you're flattered I'll certainly take it," he said, his smile growing, "but I was being an honest gent. In fact, if you'd be willing I'd like to propose an exchange of skills."
"And what skills are you offering to me?" Fleur said as she took a mistrustful step away from him. He couldn't blame her for being uncertain about his intentions.
"I'd teach you the alphabet, maybe some basic reading if we can get to it, if you'll teach me the rudiments of painting. I know you're not formally trained, but what you do have is leaps and bounds ahead of my quite limited understanding of art," he answered.
He dug through the bags he carried and revealed a set of paints, two stretched canvases, a set of different sized brushes, and paper. He'd also bought a children's educational primer, which seemed to be the easiest way to start introducing phonics to her. He didn't say that out loud, of course. Instead he watched as something lit behind her eyes. She couldn’t take them away from the paint supplies, the rainbow of watercolors separated by little tin walls in the larger tray. She rubbed the pad of her thumb over her other four fingertips, and it was easy to translate the movement as eagerness.
"You will teach me to read?" she asked, though she'd already taken a step closer to the empty canvases.
"I will try. I'm an unpracticed teacher, but I imagine we can get there together," he said honestly, knowing he couldn't promise that he'd be able to teach her the skill.
"Then I accept, Sir John. Would you like to play the instructor first or should I?" she asked.
"Let me just take off my coat and I think painting should be our first lesson of the day. After some lunch we'll switch focuses if that's to your liking," he knew she wanted to touch the paints, try them out. She'd probably never had a real set before. If she could make such captivating work with whatever substance she'd concocted, her work with real paint would certainly be something to see.
However earnest she may have been to dive into the paints, she put teaching John first. She said, "Let's start with some basic shapes and shading." She instructed John to draw a triangle, then draw where the sun or source of light would go over the triangle. He'd drawn a rudimentary ball in the upper edge of the paper, and he noticed her pretty lips quirk up at the corner. If his sad attempts could make her smile he was willing to skip her letter lessons and draw all day. She fixed his misshapen sun with a few quick strokes of her brush.
Then she told him to think about how the sunlight would hit the triangle and draw in a shadow. He thought about it, angled a shadow on the ground, and drew an exact replica of his triangle.
"The thought is right," she said, and her voice was less quiet than ever. It had a rich alto quality to it, one he liked immensely.
"I sense a however coming," John said.
She nodded her head and went on, "However, a shadow isn't just the same shape repeated on the ground. A shadow is either shortened or lengthened by the angle of the sun. Where you sketched in your light source would lengthen it. I'll show you."
She moved next to John, careful not to touch him but close enough that her dress brushed against his leg. Her skin looked so soft up this close, and he had to clench his teeth as a reminder that it would be inappropriate to reach out and stroke the back of her hand, her cheek.
She repeated his triangle and shadow, though hers stretched to a point, making it more obtuse. Instantly hers looked more believable. The thought crossed his mind that if every aspect of painting took such intricate planning he was doubtful he'd ever discover a talent for it.
For lunch he'd bought rum cakes and pralines and the satisfaction that he felt at her delight with the treats was vast. As he set out the food she disappeared into the kitchen to fetch some drinks. He watched her depart, the ease of her movement hypnotic. Only then did he realize how stiff she'd been, how leery.
They sat opposite of each other, and this time the silence was rather affable.
"Will you be coming by to continue lessons tomorrow, sir?" she asked him, surprising him. This was the first time she'd spoken without prompting.
"If you'll have me, I will. And please call me John. I am not a sir," he said.
"I'll plan to make lunch then. Do you like lamb navarin?" she asked.
"Do I like...have you lost your mind? Is there a man that doesn't like lamb navarin?" he asked in a dramatic, fake exclamation.
She smiled at him, a real one that showed her teeth, and he chose to surprise her with a,
"but if we're honest I do prefer a gumbo."
"You do?" she asked, as startled as he expected.
"Yes, whenever Pa would order some terribly spicy thing from Cook she'd make a bit of gumbo and sneak it to me. I never told him I couldn't stomach the food he liked, but I guess she could tell. I was spoiled by those that worked around his estate," he said.
"You spoke often with those who worked in the big house?" she asked, her tone giving no hints to her thoughts.
"Of course. They were my family, my friends. They raised me," he shrugged his answer.
She smiled at him and let the thread of conversation go. They sat for a while longer, enjoying the sweet gin she'd served. That reminded him-
"Were you able to go out to buy this gin or was it already in the cottage?"
She met his eyes warily, "It was in the house. I have not been endowed my budget."
"Dratted man!" he cursed himself and began to dig in his pocket, "How much do you need or want?"
"I, umm, I thought this was already decided," she answered, and he could tell she was looking for the tactful response.
"Yes, yes, it was. I just never looked. I was so concerned with the sum I would receive, I totally forgot about the sum you needed. Whatever it is, let me give it now," he said, pulling out money.
"What do you mean, the sum you would receive? You were paid to take me on?" Fleur asked, noting that strange circumstance.
"I received my inheritance in order to set up my profession on the signing of the placage contract. In fact, I received half. The other half I'll receive after our first month of the covenant," he explained, suddenly
in fear that he'd behaved as though he thought of her as chattel again, as though she was nothing but the commodity in an arrangement that benefited him from every angle.
"Oh," she said, her eyes swiveling.
After a moment she said, "This placage contract, you were bought into it as well?"
"Am I benefiting from it monetarily, yes. Did I buy you? I think of it as no. You are your own. I am my own. For now, we're enjoying one another's company and exchanging sets of useful skills. Are we making it look, from the outside in, as though we're behaving as convention would dictate? Yes. Do I plan to do what convention would dictate? Rarely ever," he answered with his best roguish grin.
"John," she said and he held himself still waiting for her deserved rebuke, "I believe you're alright."
He'd never heard a more pleasurable compliment.
She also never gave him a sum so he left what he thought she'd need by her paints. He knew she'd find it there.
She sat, after he left, alone with her thoughts. There were many of them. They all had one thing in common. John.
John's smile. It was rakish. It invited whoever he turned it on to be in on the joke, to see the world in his unworriedy, easy way.
John's admission that he was receiving his starting money because of the placage. She could tell he had been worried she'd hate him for it, upbraid him for being exactly the same as she. This placage was put in place by her father to provide for her. Apparently, it's condition also provided for him.
John's scent. He'd been close to her, very close, during their two lessons. He'd even put his hand over hers while teaching her the alphabet. His hands had been warm, and she'd been fascinated by the size of them. In comparison to his, her hands were miniatures.
John's intentness. He'd put thought into his purchases, thought into bringing paint to her but not presenting it as some sort of buyoff. He'd been clumsy during his art lesson, sure, but he'd gotten better. He'd listened to her, didn't chafe at following her directions. It was a rare man that was confident and humble enough to learn from a body so below him in social gradation.
John. Would he mind that she'd dined with her neighbors, Elijah's family, the night before, that she'd enjoyed herself among people that seemed more her own. The whole family had welcomed her, enveloping her in a sense of warm domestic chaos she, as an only child to a single mother, was unused to. She'd liked it. Would John? Should she care?
That first day set up a routine for John and her. They'd both spend mornings alone or out in town. She'd found the money he'd left for her and knew she'd never accept that sum. She could easily live for the month on half of it. Even allowing for a few furniture purchases, all bought from fellow quadroons in the neighborhood or just beyond, there was just too much. She'd slipped the overage into his jacket as it was slung over a chair while he was distracted.
They'd come together for late morning art lessons, and Fleur was sure she'd never laughed so much or so hard. John, she suspected, purposefully was a terrible artist. His gaffes made her merry, sometimes in spite of her trying to be a stern teacher. She imagined she would never equal the strictness of his schoolmasters at William and Mary.
They'd break for lunch, and they fell into the habit of her cooking. Not long after they developed their routine John had pulled a chair into the kitchen to be with her while she worked. He'd opened a book, told her it was one of his favorites, and started to read what he later identified as Shakespeare aloud. She really only absorbed about half of what he read, but listening to the intonations of his deeply masculine voice was captivating.
She loved the writing and reading lessons, more than she would allow herself to admit. In two weeks she was able to recognize all the letters, though writing their choppy lines sometimes still alluded her. John would help her hold the pen correctly and sit closely so he could write a basic sentence, show her what to pick out for guessing it's content, and then read it to her. He'd have her repeat it, telling him what letter started each word, what sound that letter was meant to make. The impish smile that split his chiseled face whenever she got a word right was near intoxicating.
It was in one of those moments, while she was sitting with her squiggly letters before her, that she managed to write her name for the first time. She sounded out each letter as she put it on paper, and John's hand hovered near to hers to swoop in to correct something if needed. It was never needed. F- l- e- u- r she wrote, and he grabbed her out of her chair when it was done.
"That's right!" he cheered as he wrapped his arms around her back and swung her like a child.
She laughed her excitement and his, let him support her weight in his arms. It felt good, so good. More, it felt right. John felt like a paintbrush that had been too long out of hand. He just fit against her, felt both heatedly new and comfortingly familiar. Something sparked inside her, jumping like a newborn flame. It was warm and wanting. It longed to be filled and caressed and stoked by John. The feeling was new but not unwelcome.
He set her back on her feet, but she made no move to step away. It felt too good right there next to him, breathing in the same air. She smiled up at him, reacting by instinct, and put her hand on his chest. Hard. Underneath his shirt, divested of his coat as he was, she could feel his pulse, feel the solid unforgiving muscles of his chest. She wondered if his whole body would feel like that, every inch of him unyielding steel. She wanted to find out.
John took a moment to react to that touch. He looked at her, their gazes meeting in a burst of even greater fire. He wrapped his hand about the back of her neck, never pulling, but present. It was as if his body were asking her to come closer, to take that next step, but he struggled to listen to it.
She parted her lips, not knowing if it was to put them on him or say something. What she would have said she didn't know. That tiny movement of hers drew his eyes to her waiting lips, was like a magnet that drew him swiftly to her.
He said one thing, her name, before their lips crashed against each other.
There was so much sensation. There was the hot velvet of his mouth, opening and sucking at hers. There was the rasp of his shaved chin over her cheeks, her chin. It was the smell she'd come to associate with him. It was the buried sound of his wanting, rumbling up from his throat, vibrating against her own.
She had never been here, in this intimate space with a man before, but her curiosity only made her more adventurous. She reached forward and pulled the hem of John's shirt from his pants. Underneath, she slipped her palms up the crags of his stomach, surprised by how deep the ridges of each of the hard muscles were. She realized he was clenching, holding himself back. If this kiss was holding himself in check, she both feared and longed for him to let go. In a daring move, one she would never have considered making a week before, Fleur dipped a finger underneath the waistband of his trousers, following the thin, intriguing line of hair she could feel. His noises went from a pleasing rumble to a growl. He crushed her hand against him, but not before she grazed his throbbing hardness.
He moved his hands from hers to her shoulders, which he used to spin her around. He pressed her back against his chest, and she could feel his irregular breathing. Even in this position, unable to reach his lips, Fleur felt good, so good. He fit into the crescent of her back perfectly.
"I won't be able to stop myself if I see you wanting me," his breath in her ear triggered nerves she didn't know were there, sending a bolt of lightning through to her most secret of places. That part of her, it was begging for his attentions.
She rocked back, listening to the demands of her body, pressing her behind onto the hardness she'd discovered earlier. His hands fisted in her skirts for a moment, drawing the fabric into a bunch. He took a deep breath, kissed the back of her neck in another lightning causing caress, and began to gather more and more of the fabric up. Her ankles were bare, her knees, her thighs. He moved a hand until she knew he could tell how much she wanted him by the damp of her skin. He stopped, his hand splayed on her mound, unmoving. She
could feel those clenching muscles again, that rigid restraint he was trying to force to the surface. Not now. She was convinced she'd melt into a puddle if he stopped.
"John," she tipped her head back onto his shoulder so she was whispering hot need right into his ear, "you can't stop now. Please."
With another growl, this one a sound of breaking, John scraped the tender flesh at the place where her neck met her shoulder with his teeth. At the same moment he flicked a thumb over the nub at her core. It was powerful. It took away thought. It took away caution. When he moved from that tender spot to having a finger deep within her, she nearly screamed her approval.
She would have been happy if it lasted forever. It didn't. John broke the embrace, though it seemed as if he had to separate their bodies by inches. First his exploring lips were gone, then his torso was no longer an anchor against her, and finally he dropped his hands to his side. The look in his eyes was ferocious.
"John..." she started, and her voice was husky, wanting.
He turned on his heel, grabbed his flippantly discarded jacket, and was out the door. She thought she heard a "my apologies" before he was gone, but she couldn't be sure.
He didn't come back that night, and she found herself sorely disappointed. The only knock at the door, which had her racing to pull it open, came from Elijah. She tried not to show her letdown in her expression, and made sure that a friendly smile somehow broke through.
"Are you busy, Ms. Fleur?" he asked.
"No, Elijah, not at all. What can I do for you?" she answered, curious.
"My sister is sewing together a dress and wanted to copy the lines of the one you wore on your first day here, the red one. Would you mind bringing it over for her to see?" Elijah asked.
"Of course. Tell Lydie I'll be over tonight," she answered, not surprised. The girl, just a year younger than Fleur, had complimented the dress over dinner.
Sold To The Dragon Princes: The Novel Page 79
