The Bachelor List

by Jane Feather

  Max regarded the couple. “He looks old enough to conduct a conversation with a young woman without guidance,” he objected.

  “Yes, but Hester is so very shy and David's not very forthcoming at the best of times. I'll just go over and smooth the path for them.” She took her hand from his arm. “You really don't have to come.”

  “I do if I want your company,” he stated.

  Prudence came out of the house at this juncture and Constance beckoned her over. “Prue, I thought we might encourage David and Hester a little.”

  Prudence looked in their direction. “They need more than a little.”

  “Are you matchmaking?” Max demanded.

  “No . . . of course not,” Constance denied. “But we do have a responsibility to ensure that our guests are enjoying themselves in congenial company.”

  “And you've decided that those two are congenial company for each other? Sounds like matchmaking to me . . . arrant interference.” He shook his head. “Typical female nonsense. I shall go and join your father and Lord Barclay over the single malt.”

  Constance watched him return to the house with his long rangy stride. “Typical female nonsense, indeed!” she said indignantly.

  “The leopard doesn't appear to have changed his spots.” Prudence gave her a sister a shrewd look. “Or do you think he has?”

  Constance shook her head. “Oh, no. Not in the least.”

  “So you're still intent on taking him down a peg or two?”

  Constance glanced at the moon, then confessed, “Yes, absolutely. The problem, Prue, is that my body's not as much in my control as my mind. For some reason lust is on a rampage. I've never felt anything like it before. It's so perverse. I'm determined to use him; I dislike everything he stands for; but my body doesn't seem to give a damn.” She shook her head. “It must be the moon.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Prudence regarded her sister with fascination and a degree of alarm.

  “I have no idea.” Constance opened her hands in a gesture of hapless resignation. “Part of me says, sit back and enjoy the ride, but the rational side of me says, run like hell. Oh, well . . .” She shook her head again, reached into her handbag, and took out her bridge winnings. “By the way, this was my share of the game against Father and Lord Barclay, might as well put it back into the family coffers.”

  Prudence took it. “Circulation,” she said. “Now, that's an idea. Maybe if you could keep winning against Father we could keep his money circulating within the family and out of the clutches of the outside world.”

  “Nice idea,” her sister responded with a sardonic smile. “If you ask me, I think we'd do better to wean him off Lord Barclay. The man gives me the shivers. I know he and Father have been friends for years, but it seems to me he's always got some scheme that he wants Father to get involved in. Either that or he's gambling and carousing with him.”

  Prudence nodded. “I feel the same way. Mother didn't like him either. On a more hopeful note . . . what shall we do with those two would-be lovebirds?”

  “Tennis,” her sister said. “Tomorrow afternoon. We'll partner them together and Hester will see how masterful he is on the court, and David will be able to protect her and make her plays for her.”

  Prudence laughed, although she couldn't fault her sister's reasoning. They crossed the terrace to where the pair stood half facing each other, half facing away, their awkward uncertainty palpable.

  “David, Hester, isn't it a beautiful night?” Constance said cheerfully. “Have you looked at the moon?”

  “It's lovely, Miss Duncan,” Hester responded in subdued tones.

  “Hester, do call me Constance. ‘Miss Duncan' makes me feel so old.”

  Hester blushed and stammered that she'd had no intention of implying any such thing.

  Constance merely laughed. “David, I think you should take Hester across the lawn to the ha-ha and look at the moon on the river. It's always spectacular on the night of the full moon.”

  Lord Lucan was too well-bred to voice the objections that sprang to mind. His mother would not approve of his walking in the moonlight in such a secluded spot with a young lady, and besides, he didn't know what to say to her.

  Hester murmured that she should ask her mama but Constance said bracingly, “I'll tell your mama if she asks for you. But she's playing cards and I'm sure she won't notice your absence for at least ten minutes. Do go and look at the moon on the water.”

  Lord Lucan offered his arm and Hester took it with proper maidenly hesitation and they walked off across the lawn.

  “There,” Constance said, dusting off her hands. “That's done. And I'll lay any odds that Lady Winthrop won't object to the match.”

  “There's still the dowager to consider.”

  “Oh, she'll be easier than you think. We'll visit her when we're back in town and sing Hester's praises discreetly. We can hint that David seemed to find her congenial and then we can take Hester to visit her ourselves. She'll charm the old biddy with that sweet shyness. And the two mamas will get on perfectly well and have a wonderful time planning the wedding and arguing and competing over the arrangements. The lovebirds won't need to worry about a thing.”

  “How are we going to profit from this particular piece of Go-Between business?” asked Prudence. “Even assuming we pull it off.”

  “Well, I was thinking . . . if the mothers did decide that it was a good match, they might be grateful enough to make a contribution to a charity we support, one that helps indigent gentlewomen . . . poor spinster ladies down on their luck?” She raised her eyebrows at her sister.

  Prudence stared at her in astonishment. “Con! That is so . . . so devious!”

  Constance shrugged. “Needs must, Prue. And I don't really see that it matters in what guise we get paid. We'll still have performed the service.”

  “You're shameless,” her sister declared.

  “You may well be right,” Constance said, glancing once more up at the moon. “I have a feeling the rational side of me is going to yield the fight tonight. What have I got to lose, Prue?”

  “Your objectivity,” her sister responded promptly. “If you fall for him he'll be of no use to you. You won't even want to influence him.”

  “I'm not going to fall for him,” Constance declared. “I'm just going to get lust out of my system. I couldn't fall for someone who believes women should be kept pregnant, barefoot, and in the kitchen.”

  “He's not quite that bad,” Prudence remonstrated.

  “Perhaps not,” Constance conceded. “He believes we should devote ourselves to the nursery and the household and in exchange be kept plied with chocolates on silken sofas with pleasant little amusements like shopping and gossip.” She smiled. “What do you think it's going to do to his preconceptions when I grab the tiger by the tail?”

  “God knows!” Prudence threw up her hands.

  “I'm going to have a bath,” Constance said. “I'll tell Aunt Edith on my way upstairs.”

  “Since you can't be good, be careful,” Prue advised.

  Constance laughed, kissed her sister's cheek, and went back into the house. In the bathroom she shared with her sister she ran a bath and undressed as the water ran. She took out the pins from the chignon at the nape of her neck and removed the pads that had supported the mass of her hair piled elaborately on top of her head. She brushed it to loosen the tightness of the back-combing and then twisted it into a simple knot on top of her head and pinned it securely.

  She sprinkled lavender-scented bath salts into the hot water. The geyser labored and wheezed and complained but the hot water came out nevertheless. The soft glow of the gas lamp threw shadows across the vast space that was a converted bedroom. In winter the wind found its way under the door, through every chink in the window frames, and seemed to search out cracks in the plaster ceiling to chill every inch of a bather's skin exposed above the water, but on a warm summer night the bathroom with its huge wide-edged claw-footed tub w
as inviting.

  She stepped into the gently steaming water and with a sigh of pleasure lay back, resting her neck on the edge of the bath. The full moon was a great golden round filling the open window that faced the bath. She could hear the soft murmur of voices from the terrace below as the late-retiring guests continued to chat, and the sweet strains of a piano drifted upwards. Chastity was playing; she recognized her touch with the Mozart sonata. When would Max decide to retire, she wondered, closing her eyes.

  She reviewed the contents of her wardrobe, considering what to wear when she climbed the stairs to the South Turret. There was a robe of Chinese silk that had belonged to her mother. It was a wonderful emerald green that did very nice things to her eyes. A fiery orange dragon twisted and twined down the back, and it had lovely wide mandarin sleeves. But then there was the filmy muslin negligée over the white silk shift. Did she want demure or sexy; bold or artlessly seductive?

  There was a discreet knock at the door and she turned her head lazily against the rim of the bath. Prue or Chas would have an answer. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Max Ensor stepped into the soft glow of the bathroom.

  Constance was too surprised to move. She simply stared at him.

  He closed the door and turned the heavy key that the sisters always ignored. The bathroom was their private domain and no one but themselves would enter it except a maid in the morning to clean it.

  “Your sister told me I would find you here.” He leaned his back against the door and surveyed her through hooded eyes.

  That would be Prudence, Constance thought. It would never have occurred to her that Max would act on that information in such a breathtakingly brazen fashion. It hadn't occurred to Constance either. But once again he had whipped the initiative out of her hands.

  She didn't move as she considered what to do, aware that every moment she kept silent would make dismissing him that much harder. Pride warred with desire. She felt her nipples peaking below the level of the water as his gaze roamed over her. Her body beneath the lavender-scented water was clearly visible. Still she said nothing.

  Max pushed himself away from the door and slowly took off his coat. He hung it over the top rung of the towel rail and unfastened his diamond cuff links. He placed them on the top of the wooden chest, where they glinted in the glow of the gas lamp on the wall above.

  Deliberately he rolled up his sleeves. Constance watched him, mesmerized by the slow neat movements of his long fingers. His forearms were dusted with curly dark hair. He came over to the bath and sat on the edge, a half smile playing over his mouth as he looked down at her. He dipped a forefinger in the water then reached forward and touched her forehead where her hair grew back in a widow's peak. He drew the finger down over the bridge of her nose, over her lips, beneath her chin to the rapidly beating pulse in her throat.

  Ah well, Constance thought, closing her eyes. So much for pride. She waited, barely breathing. The finger continued its progress down between her breasts, dipped into her navel, slipped over her belly, to come to rest at the line of curly water-dark hair at the apex of her thighs.

  His hand slid beneath the water to cup the soft mound of her sex without pressure or demand, and he leaned forward, bracing himself with his free hand on the edge of the bath, to kiss her. A light, brushing kiss this time, his tongue sliding over her lips, not demanding entrance, dipping into the corners of her mouth. Then he straightened, kissed the tip of her nose, and withdrew his hand from between her thighs, but she could still feel the warmth of his palm, the light touch of his fingers.

  He reached for the large round sponge on the edge of the bath and soaped it. He didn't take his eyes off her and the golden silence enwrapped them. He drew the soapy sponge over her neck, then held one breast clear of the water and soaped it, watching the nipple stand up from the white bubbles, hard and pink against the dark brown circle of the areola. Her breast was firm and round in his hand, neither large nor small. He paid the same attention to its fellow, then dipped the sponge in the water, rinsed it, and reapplied the soap.

  “Shall I do your back?” The sound of his voice, soft though it was, was startling in the suspended silence of the bathroom.

  Constance sat up and leaned forward. Max moved behind her. She had an elegant back, long, narrow, curving gently at her waist and then flaring at the hip. Tendrils of damp hair escaping from the knot wisped on the back of her neck. He soaped her pointed shoulder blades and down her backbone to the base of her spine, where the cleft of her buttocks began. His breath caught in his throat and the deliberate composure that had accompanied him into the bathroom abruptly left him. He dropped the sponge into the water and stood up.

  “Don't be long,” he said, taking a towel from the rail and dropping it onto the stool by the bath where she could reach it easily. He picked up his coat and cuff links and left the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him.

  Constance exhaled slowly. Every inch of her body was sensitized from the tips of her toes to her prickling scalp. She traced the path of his finger down her body and between her legs. The slight brush of her fingertip against her sex sent a rush of sensation that almost engulfed her. She stood up in a shower of drops and reached for the towel, stepping carefully onto the thick, fluffy bath mat. She looked at herself in the mirror on the wooden chest and saw that her cheeks were flushed, loose tendrils of hair clinging to her damp forehead. Her eyes glowed with expectation.

  “God in heaven!” she muttered, leaning over to pull the plug from the bath. She was way out of her depth here. She had had the advantage of surprise for the briefest of time at the very beginning of this embryonic relationship, but now she was the one with the ground cut from beneath her feet. It didn't seem to matter what she wore up the stairs to the South Turret. Any message she might have intended to give had already been read and answered.

  She wrapped herself in a fresh towel and went into her bedroom next door. She smoothed a body oil scented with sandalwood into her skin, took the pins from her hair, and brushed it again until it fell in a gleaming russet cascade down her back. It occurred to her that she was preparing herself like some seraglio inhabitant for a night with the pasha. The thought brought her a flash of much-needed amusement and perspective.

  She chose the Chinese robe anyway. It had little mother-of-pearl buttons all the way down the front, but she stopped fastening them when they reached her knees. It would take far too long to undo them all. She turned the gas down low and left her room.

  The stairs to the South Turret were in shadow, the only illumination moonlight pouring through a window at the top, sending a narrow silver path down the middle of the stairs. Constance didn't knock on the door but lifted the latch and pushed it open.

  The round chamber was flooded with moonlight. The gas lamps had not been lit. Max lay in a dressing gown on the bed, propped against the carved headboard, his hands linked behind his head.

  “Welcome,” he said, swinging off the bed. He came towards her, hands outstretched. She put her hands in his and he drew her against him. “You smell delicious.”

  “Rather like a love slave in a harem, I was thinking.”

  He laughed against her mouth. “You do realize that laughter is the antithesis of an aphrodisiac.”

  She drew her head back and looked into his eyes. “Is it?”

  For answer, he unfastened the top six buttons of the robe. With remarkable dexterity, Constance thought. He slid his hands beneath to cup her shoulders, then brought his hands to her breasts, holding them as he had done in the bath. He flicked the nipples with his fingertips until once again they were hard and erect.

  “I don't know how slowly I can do this,” he murmured, lifting her breasts free of the robe that was now slipping off her shoulders. He bent his head to her breasts and she shrugged her shoulders slightly so that the partially unbuttoned robe fell down her arms to slide from her body in a silky rush.

  She stood naked in the warm light of the summer's full
moon. And now it became imperative that Max too should show himself. She unfastened the girdle of his robe and without finesse pushed it off his shoulders. Then they stood face-to-face, her breasts touching his chest, the slight roundness of her stomach curving into the hollow of his. Her arms were around his waist, her hands on his backside. His penis flickered against her belly. She stepped closer and stood on his bare feet with her own. Now they were so close their thighs were pressed together, their faces barely an inch apart.

  “We'll go slowly another time,” Constance said, flattening her palms on his backside and pressing him hard against her loins.

  He could feel the heat of her body like a forest fire. The scent of her arousal mingled with the scent of sandalwood. He put his hands to her waist and lifted her off his feet. She was no featherweight and he dismissed quickly any romantic notions of carrying her to the bed. He set her down and it was she who led him to the high poster bed.

  He fell down onto the bed and pulled her on top of him, having a vague notion that this might prolong matters a little. But he was mistaken. Constance swung astride him, and the minute the heated core of her body touched his belly, she bit her lip hard. She rose up on her knees, took his penis between her hands, and guided him in.

  For a moment they lay still, conjoined, neither daring to breathe as they learned the feel of each other. He was so big inside her, he seemed to fill her. He moved once, just the slightest lift of his hips, and the rush of the orgasm that had been waiting to explode for hours ripped through Constance, and as she felt the deep pulsing throb of his flesh within her it happened again. Another wave of intense orgasmic delight, smaller this time but just as blissful, brought a cry of pleasure to her lips and she fell forward, burying her face in his chest as his hand weakly stroked her hair.

  After a long and insensible time Max lifted her off him. She rolled to her side as they disengaged and lay inert, watching as he slid the protective shield from his now flaccid flesh.

  “I didn't think of that,” she said almost apologetically. She had been aware of the sheath when she'd held him but in the heat of the moment it had barely registered.