She managed a choked laugh. “I’m here now.”
His mouth came back to claim hers, and again he kissed her deeply, until her body began to burn and she could hardly take a breath.
“The divan?” he suggested huskily.
Marietta gave it an uneasy glance, wondering how many dozens of men and women had coupled there.
He seemed to read her mind, and with a low laugh he turned her around, so that her back was to his chest. “Max?” she asked, thrown by his change in tactics. But instead of answering he cupped her breasts, molding their shape with his palms, and she arched into his hands eagerly. His open mouth was hot against the side of her neck, nuzzling into her hair, all the while his fingers caressing her aching flesh against her own clothing.
“Bend over,” he murmured, and she felt his pressure on her shoulders, easing her down to the table. Dizzy with the pleasure he was giving her, she did as he said, and then he was hauling up her skirts, what seemed like miles and miles of velvet and net and petticoats, until he finally came to her drawers.
His hands lingered on the thin cotton, cupping her bottom, caressing her hips. And then he reached around her waist and released the ribbon ties, and her drawers fell down to her ankles. The air was cool against her naked thighs and bottom, soothing the heated place between her legs. She felt his fingers against her skin but no longer just a feather-brush of sensation. He was caressing her strongly, and then he gripped her thighs, edging them apart, and she felt his own muscular thigh, pressing between hers, widening her still further.
“Max?” she said on a shaky breath, and then groaned as he began to stroke her firmly between her thighs, using his thumb to caress that swollen nub, until her legs trembled and shook. She gasped, her gloved hands clenched together in front of her, and jerked her hips, reaching for that pinnacle she could feel was so close.
But he wasn’t ready yet.
Max hadn’t taken off his breeches, for she could feel the coarse cloth of them against the soft skin of her thighs as he pressed against her. And then she felt the thick and rigid length of him probing her, sliding against her slick and swollen flesh. She went very still, hardly daring to breathe as he sought entry, and found it.
At first he entered her just a little bit, and at this angle she felt her body stretching to accommodate his size. He pressed harder, trapping her between him and the table, driving into her aching flesh until she was gasping and pounding her fists on the table, and begging him, “Please, oh please, do it now!”
His splayed fingers were hot against her belly, tilting her back against his groin, and then he slid his forefinger down between her swollen lips and rubbed against her. Marietta whimpered, and then wriggled against him, urgently trying to get him to hurry up.
He slid into her again, further this time, filling her. His breath was warm against her nape as he bent over her, and murmured in her ear, “Come with me to Blackwood.”
Startled from her all-consuming passion, Marietta half turned to gape at him, but almost at once his fingers stroked her again, playing her expertly, and all thought left her. He was thrusting into her more deeply now, and although she tried to push back, to keep up the rhythm, she felt as if she were being buffeted by a sensual storm.
And it felt perfect. It felt right.
Suddenly it was too much and she cried out, her body clenching around him. He stilled, groaned deep in his throat, and thrust one last time, so deep, and collapsed against her.
For a moment all was bliss, and then in another she realized she couldn’t catch her breath. She was gasping, the candle-lit room spinning about her, her tight stays preventing her from breathing.
“Max,” she choked. “Undo me…please…can’t breathe…”
He seemed to realize what she wanted, and with a curse, opened the buttons and hooks on her dress with swift, sure hands, roughly pulling apart her bodice, so that he could find the ties of her stays.
“Hurry,” she said weakly. She felt like a fish thrown upon the shore, floundering and flapping about uselessly.
He loosened the ties on her stays with quick, practiced fingers, and the pressure upon her lungs eased. She took a grateful gulp of air. And then another. He rubbed her abdomen, gently, keeping her from sinking to the floor, and gradually the room stopped moving and she began to feel herself again.
“Why do you wear these cursed things?” Max demanded, frowning down at her.
“Because I am not the right shape for my clothes,” she said, as if he was an idiot.
He blinked at her, then let his eyes slide over her body, at her breasts spilling out of the open dress, at her lush curves that were already making him hard again. “Wear clothes that fit then,” he suggested sensibly.
“If I wore my clothes without a corset then I would look…well, I am too plump, Max. The queen has been called fat all her life, and it is the same with me. We are both short, plump women, but she is a queen and at least people do not dare comment to her face. It is different for me. I have always been the short sister, the plump sister—the disgraced sister. The odd one out.”
He still didn’t look as if he believed what he was hearing. He shook his head, and when he replied he spoke in the reasonable tone one used for people who belonged in Bedlam. “Marietta, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. I grant you that you need to be covered, but only because otherwise all men will want you. If you came to Cornwall with me, you would never need to wear clothing—in fact I would insist that you did not.”
Her laughter was unrestrained.
“I am serious,” he retorted, but his eyes were warm. “I want access to you day or night…day and night.”
“Won’t the servants notice?” she asked, but there were tears in her eyes.
“Blackwood is a big house. I’m sure we could find lots of corners to hide away in while we continue our lessons.”
She shook her head. “I can’t come with you to Blackwood,” she said quietly.
“I’m asking you to marry me,” he replied a little desperately.
“I know you are. I will never marry. I cannot take the risk. Besides, you’re in a vulnerable position right now, you probably don’t know what you’re saying. You need to think hard about your future, Max, not saddle yourself with a fallen woman like me.”
“Don’t treat me like an imbecile,” he sounded cross. “I know what I want.”
“Max, there’s no point to this conversation. I have already made up my mind. Don’t spoil our time together. Just accept that you must go to Cornwall and I must learn to be a courtesan.”
He turned away from her and said nothing, but she could tell by the tension in his shoulders that there was much he was thinking.
“You want me,” he said quietly. “That won’t go away, Marietta. Believe me, it will only get worse.”
She shrugged as if she didn’t believe him, but there was a sinking feeling in her stomach. Because he was right, she did want him, and it was getting worse. But somehow she would have to learn to live with that, she would have to carry on with her life and forget Max. Depression sank over her like a London fog but she refused to acknowledge it. Instead she dredged up the memories of the pain she had suffered after her mistake with Gerard Jones, lingering over her misery and suffering, remembering how she had sworn she would never offer her heart up like a sacrifice again.
Max might seem the perfect choice but could she risk it? And in taking the risk, ruin all hope she might have of becoming a courtesan like her mother? She could end up alone and with no future. And yet…
Why is he tempting me like this!
Irritably she began to straighten her clothing, leaving her bodice undone and drawing her cloak around as protection against prying eyes. Her body was still throbbing and aching with the aftershocks of Max’s lovemaking, but she could not think of that now. She dared not imagine what it would be like to have him by her side always. What was the point in tormenting herself with romantic endings when her heart w
ould not survive being broken again?
Max was watching her as he rearranged his own clothing with a few sharp tugs and twists of buttons, and she suspected he was plotting her downfall. He held out his arm with an ironic, “Home, my lady?”
She tried a jaunty smile, and although he gave her a brief smile in return, there was something about the set of his lips that increased her suspicion that he had not given up. That he meant to have his way.
She opened her mouth to list again all the reasons it wouldn’t, couldn’t work, and then changed her mind. Max would just have to accept her decision, and if she stood firm then he would have no option but to give up. It was the “standing firm” part that was beginning to worry her.
Marietta could not sleep. She tossed and turned, remembering Max kissing her, holding her, and the hard strength of his body plundering hers.
I cannot go with him, she told herself.
Why not? If there’s a chance of finding the sort of happiness Vivianna has, then surely it’s worth the risk?
I promised myself I would never take such a risk again.
Promises can be broken. You’re a coward.
Maybe I am, but I cannot give in to him.
But still her body ached and tormented her, and her brain hurt with arguing against itself, until she gave up and lit the candle.
Aphrodite’s diary was there on the table, and she picked it up and began to read
I am alone, always alone. I do not want to be alone. Even though I cannot have Jemmy, I can have happiness. Can’t I? Am I growing so old that I long for the days I have left behind me? Perhaps I need a family—a family of my own—to love and care for.
F. is a gruff man, but I believe beneath that scratchy exterior there is a real warmth and longing to be loved. We have made a pact. He is without an heir and has no intention of marrying; I am alone and want a child and have no intention of marrying. So we will make a child together, he and I, and he will have his heir and I will have someone of my own to love.
A girl. I will call her Vivianna. F. is not so pleased, he had it in mind that I would give him a braw son, but I am content. We will keep her existence a secret until she is needed. I have been looking for a home in the country, somewhere she will be safe and happy and I can visit her very often.
Suddenly my life does not seem so bleak…
I have met A. He is sweet and gentle, and he tells me he worships me as the sun worships the moon. I do not quite know how that could be so, but still he makes me smile. I think I could have a child with A., if he is agreeable. We will see.
I saw Jemmy today.
It was as if my heart stopped, and started again with a cannon’s roar. It was Jemmy, I knew him, even though he is older. Now he is a man when I only knew him as a boy.
I was in my carriage, on my way to see A., when suddenly he was there, driving a wagon for a brewery. At first he looked as if his thoughts were weighty indeed, and then someone called out to him from the street, someone he knew, and he laughed. And then I knew him for Jemmy, my beloved Jemmy.
I could not go on to A.. I turned back for my home, and then I wept in my room for times gone and chances lost. Stupid, I know, but that is how I feel these days. A. will understand, he is always so sympathetic.
A. wants a child. He says there is no woman he loves more than me, and if he does not take this opportunity then he never will. And so I think, why not? Vivianna will have a playmate, and maybe this new child will ease the constant ache in my heart.
I have another daughter. A. wants to call her Marietta, after his grandmother, he says. She is beautiful, a delightfully happy child. And yes, she has eased my heart, how could she not? I will think of Jemmy no more; it does no good to grieve for something that cannot be changed.
It was I who left him, and I have no right to want him back again.
Marietta sighed and put the book down. It hardly had the cheering effect she had hoped for. Aphrodite was unhappy, longing for the one man she could not have. But despite that longing she had accepted her lot and made herself content; she had found another reason to live.
The balloon was on the ground, perfectly still—there was not a breath of air as Mr. Keith made preparations for the approaching fireworks evening. Lil watched Ian hurry about, checking this and that, then double-checking. He was working out the logistics of setting off the fireworks. They were to be placed underneath the wicker basket and everything must be just so. If one should go astray and strike the envelope that held the gas…well, to put it bluntly, they would fall to earth and die.
“I trust you,” Lil had said, when he expressed concern for her. “I wouldn’t be ’ere if I didn’t, would I?”
Ian smiled. “Thank you, Lil.” His smile wavered. “But you don’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, do you?”
She looked away, shrugged. “There’s nothin’ to tell,” she said.
Ian sighed. “I know that’s not true. I am very fond of you, Lil, and it hurts me that you can’t tell me about yourself without worrying that I might somehow think less of you. I couldn’t.”
It was very sweet of him, thought Lil, but the truth was she was terrified. If she told him that once she had walked the streets—well, huddled miserably in the streets would be a better description, selling her scrawny body to pay her Ma’s rent—he would…what? She tried to imagine it now. The worst scenario would be if he was so repelled that he never spoke to her again. The second worst would be if he looked upon her with gentle pity, as if she were dying of some dreadful disease. Yes, that would be bad.
She couldn’t risk it.
For the first time in her life Lil had found a man to love and admire—not a servant like Jacob or a gentleman who loved someone else, like Mr. Jardine. A man who loved her! Lil didn’t want to take the chance she might lose him.
And yet she was beginning to think that if she didn’t she might lose him anyway.
“Max, you must know you can’t possibly have anything to do with this girl! She is beyond redemption.”
Max cast his cousin so angry a look that Harold was taken aback. Good, it was time someone showed Harold he could not run the world to his liking. If Harold had his way, then everyone with an aristocratic pedigree would be on one side of the fence, and those without one on the other, and as for women like Marietta…they would probably be cast into the Thames. Well, if necessary, Max would be quite prepared to join her there!
“I can do what I like, Harold,” he said softly. “That’s the thing about being disinherited, you see. I no longer have to please my father, or my family. It’s quite liberating, actually.”
Harold clicked his tongue angrily, but Susannah reached to place a soothing hand upon his arm. “Please, stop it, both of you. Max, you are in a state. This girl has worked her way under your skin and now you cannot think clearly. You are not yourself. Won’t you please stop and consider what you’re doing?”
“But I am myself,” he said with a smile. “That’s the whole point. I am more myself than I have ever been.”
Harold straightened his sleeves and brushed a speck off his trousers. “Susannah, my love, would you mind leaving Max and I alone for a moment?”
She looked as if she would rather not, but then she gave an irritable sigh and rose elegantly to her feet. “I’ll leave you then, shall I? To speak of manly things?”
“Susannah,” Harold began.
But she waved a languid hand as she opened the door. “No, never mind. I will amuse myself by asking Mrs. Pomeroy for a list of the townhouse contents, for when we come to live—” She caught Max’s glance and gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry, but life moves on, Max. We must be practical about these matters. I love you dearly, you know, but I have always been a practical sort of woman.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I understand.”
She hesitated a moment more, but there was nothing further to say and they both knew it.
“She does her best,” Harold said quietly, when the doo
r had shut behind her. “She’s feeling a little low, and she’s never been strong. Sometimes she remembers the past, when she was a girl in Jamaica, and it upsets her. She dreams of going home. More than you think, Max.”
“I thought that was all behind her. She’s lived in England most of her life, this is her home now. Her real father died, didn’t he?”
“You don’t understand, and she doesn’t speak of it. Susannah is still a Creole at heart. I have promised myself that one day I will take her back to see the old plantation house where she grew up.”
“I thought Father pulled it down. He was never very sentimental about things like that. He never talks about those days, you know. I’ve asked him and he always avoids the subject. It’s as if he feels…guilty about it.”
Harold shrugged. “Maybe he does, maybe what he did in Jamaica wasn’t strictly legal, but he was only thinking of saving Valland House for his family.”
“Hardly comfort for Susannah though, was it?”
“She is very fond of you, Max. It’s not her fault that this has happened to you.”
“I know that, I’m not saying it is!”
Harold cleared his throat. “No need to get niggledy with me, cousin, this isn’t my fault either. I’m just trying to talk some sense into you. This girl is completely unsuitable and if you marry her it won’t just be your life that is affected. We will all suffer the consequences. Besides, how could you possibly support a wife without help from the family? You can’t have it both ways you know, Max; you can’t cast yourself off from the family without a backward glance, only to then turn around and beg for an allowance.”
“I don’t want an allowance.” Max was furious, and although he tried to moderate his tone, Harold’s eyes widened in mock-alarm.
“Now old chap—”
“I don’t want anything from any of you. Can’t you understand that? My life is no longer your business, Harold, and I won’t have you interfering!”
Harold stood up and his mouth was pinched, as it always was when he was upset. “Very well then, if that’s what you want, cousin. I am leaving now because you obviously can’t think straight. This girl has turned your brain. God knows what else she’s done to you—I don’t want to know—but I think you will be very, very sorry. Of course I will have to tell the duke.”
Rules of Passion Page 25
