by Jill Jones
Suddenly, she sensed the presence of another being there, but at first she saw no one. Her heartbeat picked up in anticipation, but she was not afraid. She knew intuitively whoever it was would not hurt her.
He came to her from out of the mists, his face hidden in shadow but the shape of his unclothed body highlighted eerily as if it were under some ethereal spotlight. With a sharp intake of breath, she surveyed the width of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, the strength of his muscular arms and legs. He seemed somehow familiar, and yet she’d never known such a man, certainly never in such intimacy.
She heard him call out to her, although no words were exchanged. Come to me, he bid her. Unused to being alone with a man, she hesitated, although her body was responding in ways she’d forgotten it could. Looking down, she saw that she, too, wore no clothing. Her breasts, usually soft and supple, pointed slightly upward and were crowned with tight crests that seemed knotted with a desire to be suckled. Her skin tingled, her lips longed to be kissed, and she felt a blaze of desire inflame an unfamiliar sexual ache in that secret place which had received no visitors in many years.
Come to me!
She heard it again, and it did not occur to her not to go to him. She was supposed to be here, now, with this man. She took herself to him, although she trod not upon any floor. She was simply there before him, and she saw his eyes feast hungrily upon her body.
He took her hand and kissed her fingertips, arousing her passion further. She did not pull away. Instead, she nodded, ever so slightly, and allowed herself to flow into his embrace. It was an odd sensation, being held so fiercely by a stranger whose face she could not see. But she felt no fear. It was more than just being comfortable in his presence. It was as if she knew she should become one with him. He kissed her, and her lips melted against his, searing with a need to taste more of him. She parted them, invited him, and felt the strength of his desire harden as his kiss deepened.
She wanted to make love to him, with every inch of her body. Not just with her lips or her hands or her sex. She wanted to make love to him with her total being. She arched her back and felt herself begin to sway against him. Slowly, deliberately, she allowed her breasts to graze against the wall of his chest, the rasp of his dark hair against them hardening her nipples even more. She drew in her belly until her skin was scarcely touching him, then like an erotic dancer, let her navel trace a circular pattern over the flat hardness of his abdomen. Her efforts were rewarded when he cried out for her to end the sweet torture.
He swept her into his arms and seemed to place her upon a cushion of clouds, then lay down by her side. He kissed her again and murmured into her ear words that touched her heart, inflamed her body. She wanted this man, desperately, and she let him know it, by opening her lips to his impassioned kiss and her body to his desire. In one motion, she draped her leg around him and brought him into her fiery depths that raged with unquenched need. She felt him inside of her, filling the void, matching her passion. And for the first time in what seemed all eternity, she knew the delicious completeness of being a woman. She opened her eyes, hoping to see the face of the man who so fulfilled her, but his features remained veiled in the deepening shadows.
Simone’s eyes fluttered open, and she took in the reality of her surroundings. A small, high window with French lace curtains. Wooden tongue-in-groove walls, painted lavender. A pedestal sink, old and chipped, but still gracious by design. A commode. Towel racks. And herself, languid in a now-tepid bath. The dream, and that’s all it had been despite its intensity, was fading already, its delight and satisfaction vanishing as well with the return of consciousness.
And yet, a whisper of it lingered, as did a hint of the scented perfume oil, sending a shimmer of renewed sensuality through her. With an effort, Simone pulled herself out of the tub and dried her tingling skin on a thick towel. If only it could be like that in real life, she thought dolefully, missing her lover’s touch already. But could it be like that? Was it possible for a man and a woman to make love so totally, so completely, so selflessly that each not only fulfilled but almost became one another?
Her experience was limited, but she remembered that once she had given herself to someone she’d thought she loved, and that the loss of her virginity, as much as she would come to regret it later, had been in the arms of an equally passionate lover.
A lover whose real name she had not even known, she added in disgust as she donned bikini panties the color of the reddest rose and topped them with a matching silk camisole. Maybe it was better to stick to the kind of fantasy lover she’d just enjoyed.
It was a great deal safer, certainement.
But as she buttoned the front of the long, loose sundress she’d chosen from her closet, her body cried out for a real lover, a man in the flesh. Was there someone out there in that big world who would be right for her? Would she have the courage to try to find him? Or, she wondered, picking up the perfume bottle and eyeing it thoughtfully, would she have to be content to use a substance such as this to make her dreams come true?
With his usual unflinching discipline, after his initial probe into the trunk and its intriguing contents, Nick spent the rest of his day working to set up a complex accounting system on his computer. But he found it difficult to concentrate, wanting instead to explore the possibilities presented by the perfume with such potent aphrodisiac effects. What essences were contained in that vial that could cause such an instantaneous and erotic reaction? Would his ancestor’s diary, or the packet of letters, reveal the secret? His heart virtually leapt at the thought, but he kept to the task he had assigned himself for the day, before discovering the vial of perfume.
Only when the late spring sunshine filtered through the windows at a certain angle, indicating that twilight was not far behind, did Nick shut down his computer at last and straighten his desk. He had not, as he’d hoped, completed his task, probably because he was distracted by the perfume, but he reminded himself that he had plenty of time to accomplish all he must do before the main shipment arrived from Bombay.
Driven by his need to succeed where his father had failed, Nick felt compelled to make certain that each moment of his life was filled with accomplishment. Even his dreams were often interrupted by memos from his subconscious, telling him to do this or that the next day. He had made some monumental mistakes in his life, and he felt pressured to accomplish a lot very quickly to overcome his past errors. Every minute counted, now that he was free of Antoine Dupuis.
He slung his jacket over his arm and picked up the trunk. Pulling the outside door shut, he locked it behind him, a gesture made more from habit than need. Other than his computer equipment, there was nothing in the offices of Bombay Fragrances, Ltd. for anybody to steal, unless the thief was after second-hand furniture. Except for the few boxes of old records and papers he had stashed away in his junk room at home, most of which was likely useless, Nick’s life’s work, and the venerable firm that bore his family’s name, now belonged to Antoine Dupuis.
Now, for all intents and purposes, Nicholas Rutledge was a nobody, starting over with the scraps of an antiquated perfume factory, the money he’d been able to accrue through shrewd investments and divestments, and an indomitable will and determination to overcome the odds against him. Still, the thought of losing the House of Rutledge to Dupuis made his stomach burn.
Nick drove the short distance to his home, a modest two-story brick townhouse in a quiet neighborhood in an inner suburb of London. He’d bought it after his divorce for its very dissimilarity from the opulent mansion where he’d lived with Phyllis, where she still resided. It was decent enough, but unpretentious and certainly not the dwelling of one who by birthright could use the title “Lord” before his name. He could have afforded better, but chose not to. Part of his frugality stemmed from his desire to keep liquid as much cash as possible, in case he needed it for the new company. But there was more to it than conservative business sense. There was a part of him that said, “Y
ou don’t deserve better.”
And he wouldn’t provide himself with better until in his mind he’d earned it. It was part of the on-going punishment he seemed to keep inflicting on himself. He must make amends, for his father’s cowardice, for his own shameful behavior. For his failed marriage. For his inability so far to restore the dignity of the Rutledge name.
Maybe he ought to get a hair shirt.
He pulled his small, classic but high mileage Triumph roadster into the drive and braked abruptly, sending pebbles flying. His mood had darkened, subtly, just as the sky had let slip its last hold on daylight.
Opening the large oaken door, Nick went directly to the room at the rear of the house which he used as a study. He placed the trunk on a table beside a wall of bookshelves, eyed it briefly, then turned and went upstairs to change into more comfortable attire.
He hung his suit carefully in the immaculate closet, then slipped into his favorite black running pants and pulled a black tee shirt over his head. He left his socks on but donned no shoes. Going into the W.C., he bent over the lavatory and splashed cold water across his face, then peered at himself in the mirror. The face that peered back looked haggard, worried, tired. It needed a shave.
Nick didn’t want to look at it.
Hastily, he dried himself and returned to the tastefully decorated but too-quiet study, where he poured himself a stiff drink. He turned on his home computer and clicked on iTunes, selecting music to match his mood. Somber. Melancholy. Angry. Tchaikovsky. Mahler. And for good measure, Wagner.
All he needed now was a raging thunderstorm.
He turned his attention at last to the trunk and his thoughts to the perfume that lay hidden inside—the perfume that had caused the unmistakably erotic sensations in his body. Had that been just some kind of weird aberration? His deprived libido calling for attention?
Or could it really have been the effect of the perfume?
He allowed himself to consider that he might have experienced an actual physiological response to the chemistry of the essence. Nick lifted the trunk’s lid, determined to arrive at a logical answer.
With the darkly resplendent classical music framing the drama of the moment, Nick placed the cameo, the diary, the letters, and the perfume bottle side by side on the table that stood next to his favorite easy chair. He switched on the lamp, settled his drink into a coaster and himself into the leather seat, eager now to get to the task at hand.
Savoring the moment, he did not go straight for the perfume bottle. Instead, he again picked up the cameo first and studied the intricate detail of the woman’s face carved in the shell. She was a delicate beauty, with hair swept back from her slender neck, her lips pouting just slightly, her eyes, though tiny, swept with long lashes. Who was she? Nick wondered again, stroking her image lightly. A real person, or just the creation of the carver’s imagination?
A familiar ache washed through him, a symptom of the chronic loneliness in which he lived, and he pondered for a moment what it would be like to have in his own life such a woman as he fancied this one to be. His mind began to wander down that forbidden path, the one lined with regrets and self-recrimination, and he pulled himself together just short of the brink of the depression that descended upon him with those thoughts.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
But that perfume. If it proved to have a sustained capability of producing erotic responses in the wearer, he believed it would be his deliverance. With a deep sigh, he replaced the cameo brooch on the table and picked up his uncle’s diary. He was saving the perfume for last.
For the eyes only of John Hamilton Rutledge.
“Sorry, Uncle,” he said, opening the book with a small smile and turning to the first page.
Chapter Four
19 August 1846, Aboard HMS Valiant Lady
If I disliked my brother before, I swear I hate him now, for every dreadful event that has come to pass of late has been of his malevolent doing. Not satisfied with being the firstborn son, the favored one who will inherit all our father’s wealth and the title of Earl, he has always been consumed with a jealousy I have never understood, as if I somehow pose a threat to his inheritance. Always in our childhood days, he freely took or destroyed anything that I held dear, but this time he has gone too far. Perhaps it is best I shall spend the next two years with a vast continent between us, for if I were near to him, I fear I might kill him.
For this time he has managed to take from me what I treasure most in this world, nay, the only thing I truly treasure, my sweet love Mary Rose. Or should I say rather, he has arranged that I be taken far from her? My imperious mother and insipid father listen to everything James says, thinking him an appropriate guardian for their younger son, when in fact, he uses their trust to manipulate my life. He saw that I fell in love with Mary Rose the moment we came across her collecting mushrooms in the forest, and he took vicious delight in tormenting me with the fact that it was an impossible liaison. She was a commoner, he pointed out, and worse, it was said she was a witch. These things he duly reported to Mother and Father, embellished to my detriment no doubt, and set in motion the events that have torn my heart from my breast even as they have torn me from my native land.
I fear for the safety of my true love, now that I am no longer there to protect her. James is such a bastard when it comes to women, and I fear that he might attempt to harm Mary Rose, perhaps even ravish her. The thought sickens me. I expressed my anxiety to her on the eve of my leave-taking, but she only laughed. She swore that his arranging for my military assignment to India had already caused her the greatest hurt possible, and that nothing he attempted in the future could hurt her more. She is a strong woman, of independent will, and I pray to God she will be safe from that miscreant.
I also swear before God that I will find a way to be with Mary Rose again for the rest of our lives. She is the only woman I will ever love, and I scorn the chasm which my birth into the aristocracy has placed between us. A great deal of good that birthright is to me! I will find a way to bring her to India, or to rejoin her when my duty is completed. Perhaps an elopement to the Continent or America is to be our fate, although I must find a way to finance our lives if it is to be so. I swear on all that is holy I will find a way. I will. JHR
Nick lowered the book and stared unseeing into the subdued atmosphere of the room, uncharacteristically moved by what he’d just read. So it was true, that legend. John Rutledge had been in love with a commoner, a reputed witch. Mary Rose. Mary Rose who?
He picked up the cameo again. Was this Mary Rose, John’s beloved? He remembered the initials engraved on the back and turned the brooch between his fingers to study them again. M.R.H. Mary Rose H—. He smiled sadly, wondering vaguely what her last name had been, this woman who John Rutledge had loved and from whom he had been heartlessly torn, apparently through the machinations of his older brother.
The idea of their cruel separation inexplicably caused Nick’s throat to constrict with emotion, which he cleared with a sip of scotch and a warning to himself against becoming maudlin about the affairs of his long-dead ancestor. But the demanding voice of his curiosity would not be silenced. Had John been able to keep his oath to be reunited with her for the rest of their lives?
Nick flicked through several pages of the diary, but suddenly the weight of his own worries, the lateness of the hour, and the effect of the Scotch whisky landed solidly on his shoulders. If he hoped to get even part way through this material tonight, he needed some energy. Laying aside the relics, he padded in sock feet into the small kitchen where he threw together a sandwich of cheese and cold meat and wolfed it down almost without tasting it. He poured a glass of milk and drank it while he munched on several of his favorite shortbread wafers. But his mind remained somewhere in the nineteenth century, on the image engraved in the cameo, the outrage expressed in his uncle’s private diary, and most of all, the beguiling perfume.
He returned to the study, settling again into the chair
and propping his feet on an ottoman. He started to resume his reading, but he could no longer ignore the tantalizing vial containing the perfume that summoned him silently from the table top. He picked it up. If he smelled it again, would it have the same sexually stimulating effect he had experienced earlier? The erotic puissance that aromatically crossed the line between the sensual and the sexual?
Almost afraid that it wouldn’t, he gently removed the new cork he’d stuffed into the neck of the bottle to replace the disintegrated one.
He sniffed, lightly at first, and then with a deeper inhalation. To his satisfaction, he felt the same glow he’d experienced before as a distinctly sexual response began to arouse his body. Thoughtfully, he replaced the cork, then rested his head back against the supple leather of the chair, unable to repress the smile that seemed determined to cross his lips. He wasn’t sure what the smile was all about. Was it the lucrative prospect offered by the perfume if he should be able to discover its contents and reproduce it as the premiere fragrance to be introduced by Bombay Fragrances? Or the deeply sensual, pleasurable sensations it was sending in a warm wave throughout his being? He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of the beautiful woman on the cameo.
She came toward him silently, her feet bare, her body clothed only in the silken mist that swirled about her. Nick’s heart momentarily came to a standstill, then thundered in anticipation. He guessed that this was the woman whose face was etched in the cameo, and yet he could not make out her features. She was shorter than he, with exquisite feminine curves that moved in a natural seductive rhythm as she strode gracefully toward him through this haunting, shadowy place. Her dark tresses flowed around her face in appealing disarray.