The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  After supper, she had placed her hand on his proffered arm and made no demur as he led her farther from the house to admire the beauty of the lake with its white swans floating in their lonely sentinel on the still water which reflected the brilliant lights set out to illumine the park for the admiration of Osterley’s guests.

  As far as she could remember, she had conducted herself with commendable civility, concealing her dislike behind a wall of politeness.

  At length, he shook his head and turned her gently to face him. “Why do you set me at a distance?” he asked softly, his tawny eyes strangely hypnotic. “Is it something I’ve said? Have I done something to offend you? Why do you punish me with this show of coldness? Other men have won your smiles and favors. Am I less than nothing that you barely conceal your contempt from me?”

  She had been on the point of disclaiming, but some perverse impulse to humble him had goaded her to honesty.

  “Do you think that I am flattered to be singled out by a man of your…reputation?” When he remained expectantly silent, she went on a little more boldly, “Surely, that does not surprise you? Your indiscretions are common knowledge; your intemperance, a cause for scandal. Can you really believe that any decent woman would wish to associate with you?”

  “Oh, I assure you, many do,” he replied with maddening reasonableness.

  “Not this one,” she snapped back at him.

  When she observed his derisive grin, it suddenly became important to her to deflate his ego and her tongue became more scathing. “Your conceit is beyond belief. What do women see in you? You are a man who is known to be addicted to every sort of vice; your ambitions limited to the next wench you can coax into your bed, or possibly to cutting a figure on the field of honor. No one denies that your equestrian ability is exceptional, and on the ballroom floor you can pirouette with the best of them.” She paused for effect. “Don’t tell me, I know that in the privacy of your study you are addicted to Euripides—no, that will not suit. He is, after all, meant to be taken seriously. It would have to be Aristophanes. Like you, he is…comical.”

  There was a flash of something in the depths of his eyes, but it passed so quickly that Deirdre thought she had imagined it.

  His voice, when he spoke, was as smooth as satin. “You underestimate Aristophanes’ comedies, but no matter. It is a common failing to miss the truth of the jest that is spoken in earnest. That argument I would be pleased to pursue with you, but not at present. Your opinion of me is another matter. You have taken my measure as a man. What can I say? I would be loath to disappoint a lady.”

  His fingers moved like lightning to wrap around her wrists. She was jerked to the iron wall of his chest, and his mouth, hard and brutal, smothered her lips. It was Deirdre’s first kiss and a travesty of everything she had dreamed about. Devoid of tenderness, reverence, or love, it was a desecration, a violation of her innocence and meant to degrade her.

  It was too much. Never before in her young life had anyone tried deliberately to debase her. For the first time, she became aware of her impotence as a woman in the face of a man’s superior strength, and she tasted mingled fear and fury, dry and rasping, at the back of her throat. Hot tears scalded her eyes and coursed down her cheeks to the corners of her lips and she tasted the salt in them.

  His mouth eased its bruising pressure, and Deirdre sobbed her relief, gulping in the cool night air from the lake. She remained rigid in his arms, her head averted, her thick eyelashes shielding her hurt and bewilderment from his steady gaze.

  “Deirdre—oh damn!” he exclaimed softly. “I never meant to hurt you.” She remained obstinately silent. “Look at me,” he commanded.

  Deirdre reluctantly raised her eyes. It was then that she heard voices, and she glanced over his shoulder to see other guests moving toward them. It gave her the courage she needed. In one swift movement, she wrenched out of his grasp and her hand came up and caught him a stinging blow on the cheek. His head snapped back, but before she could flee, her wrist was caught in a bone-crushing grasp. She stood shivering, straining to even her rough breathing, waiting for some kind of retribution. None came. He returned her to the house in silence and left her with her mother. Nor did he approach her again that evening, but she saw him flirt with every pretty woman in sight. From time to time, he caught her eye and quirked one quizzical brow as if he had caught her out in some social solecism, and Deirdre was incensed.

  In the weeks that followed, Deirdre saw him everywhere—at the theater, in the park, on the streets of Mayfair, flaunting his lightskirts on his sleeve, and she was aware of his burning glances as they swept over her, or came to rest on her lips, or the exposed swell of her breast. In some small part, she had come to exonerate his insulting embrace at Osterley, acknowledging her own guilt in deliberately provoking his wrath. She was ashamed of her own behavior but could not bring herself to apologize to him, remembering the crushing fear which had choked her when he had punished her with his kiss. She forced herself to remain natural whenever they were in each other’s company, but she distanced him with an aloof acknowledgment or a cool absent smile. And then, he found her alone at Vauxhall.

  She had been with a party of friends, duly chaperoned, to see the famous gardens at night, but in the crush to take in the fireworks display she had lost her bearings and had become separated from them. Rathbourne had been there, but keeping his distance. But now he was at her elbow, appearing from nowhere, masterfully putting her hand into the crook of his arm, offering to lead her back to their companions. He hadn’t, of course. He led her to a secluded part of the gardens which was poorly lit, and blind fear had made her furious as she demanded to know what he was up to.

  His eyes had mesmerized her. There was not a trace of amusement in them, not a spark of his habitual sardonic humor. Their expression was soft and serious, devouring her. And she had stood transfixed, the breath suspended in her throat, her heart beating wildly against her breast like a bird beating its wings against a cage.

  “Deirdre…” His voice was a hoarse whisper as his strong hands encircled her throat. “If I don’t take my courage into my hands now, it will be too late. I’ve tried to fight your spell, but it’s no use. You have bewitched me. I feel like a callow youth in the throes of first love.” He gave a shaky laugh. “I know you are not indifferent to me. Don’t deny it.” His thumb brushed against her lips as if to silence her, but Deirdre was lost for words. Her senses were lulled by the satin smoothness of his voice and the soft breeze which warmed her skin in the darkness which shrouded them.

  “Deirdre,” he breathed against her mouth, his hot breath scorching her trembling lips, “I am on fire for you. Don’t deny your heart. Take pity on me.”

  For a long moment she remained immobile in his grasp, his honeyed words allaying her instinct to resist. This somber, gentle man was not what she had expected, and she felt no fear. She stirred in his arms in a feeble attempt to shake off the lethargy that seemed to be seeping through her veins, but his head bent toward her and his lips slowly captured her mouth, choking off her halfhearted denial. He kissed her gently, and it registered dimly in her mind that he had been drinking. Then his hands slid down her shoulders to the small of her back and he drew her firmly against the length of him. His kiss was sweet and questioning, and Deirdre wanted it never to end. But it did. She half listened to his caressing voice as he told her that he had to leave for Spain on the morrow, that he wished her to join him as soon as possible, that their time together was too brief to be borne, that he had wanted her from the moment she had thrust herself into his life.

  But she barely attended his words. She was lost in the sensation of his hands stealing over her back and shoulders, molding her to the hard contours of his body. She shivered, but whether in fear or anticipation, she could not tell. She had never before been held so closely by any man.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured thickly against her ear. “I swear I’ll honor this night. Only let me love you, Deirdre.�
��

  And then his lips sought hers with a hunger which frightened her. She wrenched her head away, but ruthless fingers twisted into the ropes of hair at her nape, holding her immobile. His kiss gentled, became persuasive, teased her lips to open to the sweet persistence of his invading tongue. With infinite patience, he soothed every halfhearted refusal, blocked each feeble attempt to evade him until she became pliant beneath his hands, allowing him the freedom of whatever he desired. Inevitably, he grew bolder. She felt his fingers brush aside the gauze of her bodice to release her breasts to his questing hands. His thumb caressed her swelling nipple and then his head came down and she felt a searing heat as he drew it into his mouth.

  Some vestige of conscience, of shame, forced a weak protest from her lips, but he ignored it and his hands slid to the flare of her hips to arch her into the hard thrust of his loins. She felt the swell of him against her thighs and her quivering body melted into his.

  The taste, the touch, the smell of him was like a drug, robbing her of rational thought, inducing longings she tried to suppress. She could not. Under the sweet torment of his hands and lips, her body became a thing apart from her with a will of its own. It welcomed him even as her lips tried to deny him. But he would not be denied and she was swept along on the irresistible tide of his passion, giving herself up to whatever he desired, heedless of who he was or what he was.

  And then she felt his arms go rigid, and his head came up. She looked up at him, still dazed from the ardor of his embrace, but his glittering eyes were staring past her. She heard a feminine voice call his name and she twisted in his arms to look over her shoulder. Even in that dim light, Deirdre recognized the dark-haired woman in the scarlet costume. She had seen her in Rathbourne’s company on several occasions, one of his lightskirts with the blatant sensuality which he seemed to prefer. The sight of her was like a douse of cold water bringing Deirdre back to her senses, and her arms dropped from Rathbourne as if the touch of him scorched her.

  The brunette’s amused smile was provocatively mocking as she took in the sight of the couple locked in each other’s arms and she said something to Rathbourne which brought an angry retort to his lips. He thrust Deirdre behind him, and she heard the fury in his voice as he addressed the woman who seemed to have a proprietary interest in him.

  But Deirdre did not wait to hear the lovers’ quarrel. She felt cheap and ashamed, and turned blindly to run deeper into the shadows, her breath catching in her throat as she tried to hide herself in the dense undergrowth. She heard his quick tread behind her and fearful sobs racked her body. He caught her easily and turned her into his arms. The tears were streaming down her cheeks. She twisted her head from him to conceal the evidence of her wounded pride, but her jaw was held firmly by his lean fingers as his eyes raked her in the dim light. She felt his gentle touch brushing away the tears, but she flung his hand roughly from her and clawed at the hand which held her fast.

  She heard his quick intake of breath and his soft appeal as he shook her gently, but she lashed out at him in fury. Then he swung her into his arms and his mouth, possessive, compelling, came down on hers as if to punish her for her rejection. His arms crushed her to his chest and Deirdre felt as if she was suffocating. She stilled, the fight knocked out of her, and he carried her unresisting form deeper into the shadows till he came to a stone edifice, a gardener’s storehouse or some such thing. He carried her across the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him, setting her down in the velvet darkness, and his arms went round her like a vise.

  She heard his murmured words of apology against her temple as he explained away the presence of the other woman, but Deirdre was in no mood to listen. She shook with cold rage, her emotions compounded of humiliation and revulsion at her body’s betrayal to his lovemaking. She said angry, bitter words, demanding to be set free of his loathsome presence, but each word she uttered seemed only to incite him to a greater resolve and his grip tightened cruelly as she fought to free herself.

  She tried to reason with him, but he was immune to her pleas, and she was defenseless against his strength. He was in the grip of some wild emotion, some raging fever, which threatened to sweep aside everything in its path. His lips burned her mouth and his hands slipped beneath her gown, searching her body with a relentless intimacy which left her shaken. She knew that she was beginning to yield to him, and she struggled within herself to marshal the vestiges of her bruised pride. She balled her hand into a fist and, with every ounce of her strength, struck him in the face, feeling the cut of the emerald on her finger as it smashed against bone.

  He released her with a savage oath and she ran from him, sobbing with shock and relief. She dragged the door open and fled, unheedful of his command at her back, groping her way along the dark walk until she came to lights and safety. How she found her companions in her near hysterical state, she could never afterward remember. But not one of them remarked on her overbright eyes or the flush of her complexion, and she said nothing to enlighten them.

  He came after her, of course, and she shuddered when she saw the blood-soaked handkerchief pressed hard against his cheek. He addressed her quietly, begging for a few minutes’ private conversation, but she would not permit it. He tried to apologize, turning his back on her companions to shield her from their curious gaze, his voice urgent as he told her again that he would be bound for Spain on the morrow and that there was much that he wished to say to her. But her raging sense of betrayal would not allow her to accept his contrite words. She despised herself for surrendering so easily to his caresses when he thought her no better than the lightskirt whom he had callously abandoned in pursuit of bigger game. And before she could stop herself, those terrible words had been uttered, words she had regretted as soon as they were out of her mouth. “Go to Spain! I hope a bullet finds you and you never return!”

  He had stood frozen, his brilliant tiger eyes narrowing to slits, glinting with some dangerous emotion he could scarcely contain. Then he had swung away from her, and she had watched him with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She said his name under her breath and made to go after him to take back the vindictive words, but a figure moved out of the shadows to join him, her scarlet costume unmistakable. And his arms went round her, and Deirdre watched as he kissed her fiercely. She turned away, the tears stinging her eyes, and she dashed them away with her balled fists.

  In the weeks that followed, she had flung herself into every pleasure that was offered in a vain attempt to banish him from her mind. When that failed, she had drifted into an engagement with one of the many suitors who clamored for her hand, no better, no worse, no different from all the other eligible men of her acquaintance. But it did not take her long to discover that the Earl had spoiled her for other men, and she broke the engagement.

  At the end of the Season, she returned home, weary and heartsore. She soon heard of Rathbourne’s exploits even in the quiet backwater of Henley. His daring conquests on the field and in the boudoir had made the dashing major something of a legend, and Deirdre congratulated herself on her lucky escape.

  And then, tragically, the following year, her mother had succumbed to some fever that the doctors had never positively identified. Armand, in his first year at Oxford, had come home only infrequently, and Deirdre had become something of a recluse. It was her aunt, half out of her mind with worry, who had persuaded the lonely girl to accompany the Fentons to Jamaica for a year. The year had stretched to two and she had tried to forget Rathbourne in the pleasure of discovering a new land and in meeting new people. But she had never quite managed to free herself from his insidious memory. She permitted other men to court her, other arms to hold her, other lips to smother her with kisses, to no avail. She was like an ice maiden, untouched and unassailable, through no choice of her own.

  Her one consolation was the knowledge that in resisting Rathbourne she had saved herself the fate of becoming just another string in his stable of women. That, she would never regret.


  As Deirdre quickened her steps along the Oxford Road, she felt again the sting of tears at the back of her eyes, and she gritted her teeth in anger, determined that he would never again have the power to abase her. She felt for the rose on her redingote and tore it from her collar, crushing it in her hand and throwing it aside as if by that one angry motion she could be free of him forever.

  Chapter Five

  It was an equipage calculated to inspire envy in the bosom of any young fashionable hopeful of making his mark in society. The sleek, ebony black curricle, as flawless as a new minted penny, was hitched to a pair of incomparable matched bays. As Deirdre slowed her pace to her aunt’s four-storied terraced residence which stood on the west side of the square, her glances, warm with mingled respect and approbation, were involuntarily drawn to the resplendent carriage and the finest horseflesh she had clapped eyes on since her sojourn in Jamaica. By slow degrees, the unpleasant memories of Rathbourne faded from her mind.

  A groom of indeterminate years in the livery of some great house or other was standing at the heads of the horses, and she watched with growing pleasure as he gently stroked the necks of the restive beasts, his voice subdued and soothing as the animals snorted their displeasure at being kept standing by their dilatory master. They made an impressive picture, and it registered in some dim recess of Deirdre’s mind that a gentleman of no small consequence was paying a morning call on one of her aunt’s neighbors. She approved the restrained elegance of his sporting conveyance no less than the glossy thoroughbreds which the groom handled with commendable care.

  With a polite word of dismissal, she dispensed with the services of her abigail, and crossed the cobbled street to the iron railing which enclosed the common gardens shared by the residents of the square. Tall stands of leafless English plane trees filtered the winter sun. In another month or so, it was to be hoped, with the advent of spring, that the delicate buds of narcissi and hyacinth would be pushing through the black earth. Deirdre breathed deeply. Spring was in the air, and at such a season, there was nowhere she would rather be than England. It was good to be home.