Hidden Paradise

by Janet Mullany

  He tossed the gloves onto the table, needing both hands now to roll the condom on, while Vivian moaned and writhed on the table. One hand on his cock, he reached forward to pull Vivian’s T-shirt up and pinch her nipples.

  Lou’s own nipples tingled, reminding her rather forcefully of their existence.

  Darcy positioned himself and pushed forward.

  Lou’s breath caught. She imagined that slow slide, the sensation of being filled, stretched, penetrated, invaded, fucked. Oh.

  And then the withdrawal, right to the brink, almost out—and back with a sudden push, a vigorous back and forth, a hearty, galloping sort of rhythm while Vivian moaned and he groaned—pausing to slap her ass—and then off again. The muscles stood out on his arms as he braced himself, palms flat on the table. His buttocks clenched and flexed.

  This man knew what he was doing. Lou could see him assess Vivian’s pleasure, wait for her, adjust to a rhythm that pleased her and bend to whisper in her ear, and bite it, maybe—she couldn’t quite see—and sustained her rather noisy orgasm for what seemed like a long time.

  Once upon a time, Lou had done that, too. Or rather, had it done to her. Her clit and nipples had particularly vivid memories of that sort of thing, and were whining at her that they wanted some now, right now.

  Now he increased the speed of his thrusts—his turn.

  Darcy turned his head to the doorway where Lou stood, looked her straight in the eye, grinned and winked seconds before he came.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mac

  When Mac looked at the doorway next, the skinny blonde woman had disappeared. He’d liked seeing her interest, her shock and, above all, enjoyed the fact that she’d blatantly watched, her nipples poking through her shift like bullets. She hadn’t done anything overly porno like feeling herself up while she watched, and somehow her restraint had made it more exciting. He’d got that tingle-at-the-back-of-his-neck feeling that someone was watching quite early on in the game. Vivian, he suspected, had known all along, even though she had been as noisy as usual.

  He disposed of the condom and pulled on his shirt again.

  “Bloody hell,” said Vivian. “I’ll be black and blue, you bastard.”

  “And pantyless.” He snagged her thong from the floor and stuffed it into his pocket. “Spoils of war.”

  “I do have other pairs, you know.”

  “There you go, ruining my fantasy.” He helped her off the table and aimed a kiss at her mouth. As he expected, she dodged away.

  “Don’t get all sloppy over me,” Vivian said. “Cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks, but I’ll use the bathroom.” He said it purely to see her reaction, knowing the blonde was in there. He guessed Viv had got an extra thrill from knowing someone might walk in any moment.

  “Go outside. There’s a guest using it.”

  “You mean, I could have had a threesome?”

  “Dream on.” She picked his vest and coat from the chair and handed them to him. “I have things to do.” She took his neckcloth and tied it expertly around his neck, far better than he could do, straightening out his collar and lapels.

  “When can I interview you?” he asked.

  “You keep coming to interview me and fucking me instead. Maybe you should just send your editor a video of us.”

  “Can I check my email?”

  “No. You’ve had enough fun for the day. Sod off back to the nineteenth century.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  She evaded another friendly kiss and shoved him out the door.

  Typical Viv. She didn’t like kissing, didn’t like affection; she liked fucking—no, she liked orgasms. She made sure she got one, too, one way or the other. This time, he felt she’d fucked the table—grinding her pussy against the wood—as much as she’d fucked him. She didn’t even like to talk much after she’d come, when she’d revert back to being efficient, tough Viv. He could understand in a way why she wanted to play the victim in fantasy, all quivering lips and downcast eyes, when she was such a ballbuster in real life.

  Trouble was, he wanted to laugh half the time. And some of the time, he wanted to shout “What about me, Viv? There’s a guy at the other end of this dick. Talk to me, for Christ’s sake.” Perhaps it was some sort of karmic payback for acting like a jerk in the past with women who’d wanted affection and conversation and cuddling in bed. He’d always done his best, but quite often he drifted off to sleep while wondering what the hell they really wanted.

  Had he been the male equivalent of Viv? He hoped not. Women liked him, and not just to gratify themselves on his dick, or so he’d always thought. But Viv didn’t seem to like him particularly, and that bothered him. Maybe his last divorce, ostensibly so amicable and rational and grown-up, had changed him in some way.

  Uncomfortable, he ran a finger around his neckcloth and contemplated removing it as he strolled along the drive, beneath the branches of the huge horse chestnuts that grew on either side. He hated ties and this was far worse. But a gentleman should be properly attired at all times. Yeah, he was a gentleman, or at least he’d been one for five days (the amount of time he and Viv had been fucking) and would be one for another couple of weeks. Maybe becoming a Regency gentleman, all testosterone and manly pursuits, had brought out his inner bastard. You wore clothes like this, you strode around as though you owned the universe and you became what you imitated.

  Hell with that. He was a journalist, one of a dying breed of those who wrote for print, a modern-day Grub Street man—not that the prestigious magazine he was writing for would appreciate the term—not some rich jerk from two centuries ago. He should really get down to work, making notes and writing up stuff. Although, it was refreshing to be mostly out of touch with his editor.

  The house came into view, creamy stone and a red sandstone portico and steps at the front. Two figures dawdled across the gravel in front—Rob the footman and Di the ladies’ maid. Local kids, nice, mistrustful of him, of course. He remembered his mom, at his last birthday, raising her glass and crowing, “Never trust anyone over thirty!” He’d given her a smacking kiss and called her an unrepentant old hippie.

  He extricated his watch—he couldn’t bend, shoulders rounded, to get it from his pocket, not with this tightly fitting coat—and saw he had enough time to duck into the kitchen and beg some bread and cheese before the afternoon’s activities. He couldn’t believe he’d once wondered what people did all day long back then, being gentlemen—he still wasn’t sure what the ladies did. Riding lesson, dancing lesson, boxing lesson, change for dinner and then maybe he’d meet the new arrival formally with his pants on. He remembered her name now, Louisa Connolly, Paradise’s historical adviser. Peter and Chris referred to her as Lou. Loulou. He had her résumé somewhere in his notes. He remembered them saying they’d met her at some Jane Austen conference in the States.

  As if on cue, Chris appeared on the portico and descended the steps, resplendent in his Regency outfit that included the tightest of tight pants and a gaudy striped vest. He stopped to chat to the two servants and straightened Rob’s collar. That was Chris, all touchy-feely and flirty, while poor old Peter glowered in the background.

  And there were lots of people in this house to get touchy-feely and flirty with, whatever your sexual orientation.

  * * *

  Lou

  STAYS MADE YOU STAND UP straight, and that wasn’t all. Lou found she couldn’t bend particularly easily and her breasts were presented ridi
culously high, like apples on a tray. She had to negotiate a reticule, a parasol and a bonnet that wanted to slide off her head, and walk along the gravel drive that led from Vivian’s gatehouse to the main house, wearing thin slippers that reminded her of childhood ballet lessons. The posture, too—shoulders back, head up, don’t look at your feet if you could even see them past your ridiculously upthrust breasts. Bosom, that was the word. Now she had a bosom. Never one for lounging on beaches, she now had to worry about tender skin presented to the ravages of the sun, and was glad of both the parasol and the lawn scarf tucked into her neckline to protect her pair of apples. She was thankful she didn’t have a Montana rancher’s tan, thanks to daily, religious applications of sunscreen on exposed flesh.

  The gown, though, was gorgeous—fine cotton, a pale blue stripe on a cream background, simple yet elegant. It floated as she walked and it rustled in a seductive whisper.

  The house was stunning in the glow of late-afternoon sun, friendly and impressive all at once. Had Austen really stayed here? She knew Chris and Peter longed to substantiate the myth, but now, after the house had passed through several sets of hands and suffered the ripping away of walls and floors during renovations, she doubted any new evidence could be found. No, let the myth remain. At the very least, it was a good conversation point.

  She lifted the skirt of her gown to negotiate the steps, wondering if she were revealing her garters, ridiculous ribbons that had already untied once on the walk. The door of the house swung open, and Chris, resplendent in a gold-and-maroon vest, a blue coat and buff leather pants, bounded out to meet her.

  “Loulou, my love, how wonderful you look!”

  “You, too, Chris. I love that watch fob pointing straight at your package.”

  “Isn’t it fabulous! Come on in, darling, we’re gathering for dinner and you can meet the others. Rob, dear, take Miss Loulou’s—or rather, Mrs. Connolly’s—parasol and gloves and bonnet for her. This is Rob, our head footman, ready to meet your every need. He’ll take you upstairs so Di can get you ready for dinner.”

  The young man bowed and took the items from Lou. “If you’d like to follow me, ma’am.”

  She followed him up the stairs, noting his broad shoulders and muscled calves. If he felt uncomfortable in his livery, showy gold braid and dark blue velvet, he didn’t show it. He seemed remarkably self-possessed. And cute. Heck, he was cute in the same way that some of Julian’s students had been—young and serious and clean.

  “How long have you been at the house, Rob?”

  He stepped onto the first landing. “A couple of weeks, ma’am.”

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a sweet smile.

  “Do you come from around here?”

  “Yes.” He stopped and opened a door. “Yes, ma’am, I mean. This is your room. Miss Di is your maid.”

  He handed the parasol and other items to a young woman who stepped forward and curtsied. “I’ll help you get ready for dinner, ma’am,” she said.

  The room held a beautiful four-poster bed hung in a toile fabric, red print on cream, which was also used for drapes and to upholster a couple of chairs in the room. In authentic style, the room was sparsely furnished, with a washstand in one corner and a chest of drawers with a mirror against the wall. A table and a chair stood at the window, a location for ladylike pursuits such as writing letters or reading the latest fashionable novel. Lou moved to the bed and patted its surface—a modern mattress, to her relief. She opened the drawer in one of the small cabinets on either side of the bed, and found an assortment of condoms.

  So much for ladylike pursuits. She slammed it shut, annoyed and touched that Peter and Chris were anticipating sexual escapades for her. Or perhaps everyone received a condom care package. She wouldn’t put it past them.

  “Great room,” she said to Di, who had looked up, startled at the sound of the slamming drawer.

  Di unpicked the tacked-on sleeves on the dress Lou wore, and deftly brushed and pinned up Lou’s hair and twisted a scarf and a couple of artificial flowers into a headband. She removed the lid from a small pot, revealing a red, waxy substance. “This is for lips or cheeks. It’s made from beeswax, very authentic. I’d recommend you rouge, ma’am.”

  Lou agreed; all her efforts with sunscreen and more recently, weariness from travel, had left her looking pale. She turned down an offer of lamp blacking for her eyelashes. Di told her, grinning, that none of the ladies had wanted to use it, but at least one of them had smuggled in some mascara.

  Peter, clad in clothes similar to Chris’s, but slightly less showy, moved forward from the shadows of the hall and tucked her hand into his arm as she descended the staircase. Lou kissed him with great affection. “You look great, but you look tired, honey. Is that distinguished gray I see at your temples?”

  He smiled. “Oh, it’s been a strain, dealing with everything. You know, construction and permits, or rather the mysterious English equivalents thereof. Thank God, Chris understands this stuff. But we’re nearly there. I feel like a proud papa. Julian would have loved the place.”

  “I know.” She paused as they entered a drawing room. “Oh, it’s gorgeous. Look at that plasterwork. Is it original? And the furniture—not all antique, surely.”

  “Most of it. Not the beds, though,” Peter said, “as you probably noticed. Modern, to withstand ‘heavy bonking’ as they say here. Now let me introduce you to the others.”

  It was truly like going back in time. The group of people at the other end of the room looked as though they had stepped out of an old painting or a Jane Austen movie. Some of the men still wore their daytime buckskins and blue coats; others wore satin britches with matching coats, white stockings and buckled shoes. The women shimmered in low-cut gowns.

  She met a good-looking couple from London, Ben and Sarah, both actors, who were there primarily for their decorative appeal, Lou suspected. Another couple, Cathy and Alan, who seemed shy and uncomfortable in their Regency clothes, were also recent arrivals. The design team, Jon and Simon, Lou figured were probably gay and a couple in more than their professional lives. She wondered exactly who Chris and Peter, with the most loving of intentions, had in mind for her.

  Vivian, wearing a shot silk gown that gleamed dark blue and green as she moved, and with her hair tucked into a matching turban topped with a scarlet ostrich feather, gave Lou a brief inspection. “Very nice. I’ll send the rest of the clothes up tomorrow.”

  Another man stepped forward from the shadows of the room. He’d changed from his buckskins into equally formfitting trousers, made out of some sort of silk knit, breathtakingly clingy, with an elaborately ruffled shirt and a swallowtail coat above. Only a man with such a gorgeous body—and she’d seen most of it earlier that day—could get away with that style. The silk knit revealed the subtle outline of his genitals, which stirred against the fabric as he walked toward her. Christ, sex on a stick.

  “Mr. Darcy, I presume,” Lou said, hand outstretched.

  He stopped and blushed. “Uh…”

  “He does look the part,” Peter said in appreciation. “Lou, this is Mac Salazar. He’s doing an article on us for Georgian Living, so be nice to him. Mac, this is Lou. She’s our Austen expert, so you must spend some time with her.”

  Peter stepped away and sent Rob over with a tray of champagne.

  Mac handed her a glass. “Should we be discreet and pretend our first meeting didn’t happen?”


  “It’s certainly not the sort of meet cute Austen wrote about.” He might talk of discretion but his eyes shone with mischief and energy. An attractive man, she thought, and not only because she’d seen him half-naked and lustily enjoying sex.

  He grinned. “Chris and Peter told me a lot about you.”

  “Yes, we’re good friends. Where are you from?”

  “Chicago by way of London. I got this commission to do an advance piece on the house, so here I am. What are you doing in…Montana, I think Peter said?”

  “Oh, long story.” She sipped her champagne. “My husband and I lived on a ranch and we taught at a school a couple of hours away. He died suddenly last year.” She could say it now, the short version, stark and matter-of-fact.

  “I’m sorry. Do you think you’ll stay there?”

  “I don’t know.” Her glass was empty. “Don’t you want to ask me about historical authenticity at Paradise?”

  “I guess so. After you’ve settled in, we should set up a time for an interview. It’s an interesting concept, time travel with no chance of getting stuck in the past, or treading on a bug and changing the course of history.”

  “It’s a very sexy period.” She was halfway down another glass now and the room was beginning to take on a subtle, mellow glow that was half sunset, half alcohol. “Mainly because of popular culture, of course. People say there’s no sex in Austen. They’re wrong. Her books are full of sex, but it’s all subsex. Subtext.”

  “That’s the champagne talking.” He took her glass from her hand.

  “Champagne and jet lag. I can’t drink. Never could. You should have seen me at Julian’s faculty parties.” She focused on his face. “Why does she call you Darcy?”