Somehow he was out of his chair and standing, arms braced on the wall on either side of her head, looking down at her as she pleasured herself. Her skirts hid her hand from him, but the obscenely contented look on her face was quite a view. So much for seduction. Just that deftly, she had turned the tables so that he was the one fighting his too-obvious lust. She was astounding.
As tests of endurance went, it was fiendishly designed. A good thing he had learned discipline, how to play the long game, to delay the immediate payoff in favor of the greater reward later on. That’s what he told himself as she sighed and played with herself, as her heat rose up to touch his skin, as he held himself rigid and hot and hard, never closing the few inches of distance between their mouths.
“Is this part of your pleasure?” he whispered after a while. “To torment me?”
“Oh no. My pleasure does not require you. But it is, I confess, much…more–” Here she gasped sharply – “More extraordinary, when you are part of it.”
“So you do this often? Without me, I mean.” Now he was just torturing himself.
She gave a brief, broad smile. “Oh, I always think of you,” she assured him. “I like especially to think of how it was to look down and see your head, your red hair between my legs.”
“Jesus.”
“Shh!” Her free hand came up as she made an urgent sound, dropping her skirts and pressing her fingers against his mouth. He kept his eyes on her, a relentless focus on her face so he could memorize the way she looked in this moment instead of imagining burying himself in her. He thought he might explode without her ever touching him, as she writhed and bucked against the wall, her fingers moving furiously, her hand now gripping his shoulder for support as she came.
When it was done, she sagged against the wall and looked up at him with that dreamy look that he’d seen on her in the aftermath of their lovemaking. He closed his eyes against the sight, afraid it would send him over the edge. He remained frozen on the edge of explosion, desperately trying to think of the least arousing things he could imagine in the hopes of keeping control.
“Satisfied?” he finally ground out.
“For the moment, yes.” She brought up the hand that had been between her legs and traced the fingers across his mouth, sending a new flare of lust shooting through his groin. She knew how he loved it above all, the smell and taste of her. “But I have a very great appetite.”
She patted his cheek fondly and slipped around him, wishing him goodnight over her shoulder as she closed the panel behind her.
He didn’t stop trying. As long as he didn’t put anything he saw here in the papers, she would give in sooner or later; he hoped with a bit of effort on his part it would be sooner. The game was less torturous and more enjoyable when it was played fully clothed and at a distance. He gave her heated looks every chance he got, and watched her respond. She was terrible at hiding it. He joked with her and with others in her hearing – absurd and playful, double entendres when he could manage it – anything that might make her laugh, because laughter was the way to Marie-Anne. She couldn’t resist it.
But it was flirting with Miss Wolcott, the somewhat unbearable poetess, that he suspected would yield the greatest returns. He made the mistake of complimenting a bit of her poetry, which meant he had to seem fascinated by every other bit of it she trotted out for his approval. Luckily, he was an uncultured American bumpkin, which meant he could just look suitably awed and mumble his appreciation of such fine words as pulchritude and how she managed to find a rhyme for contumely. Every time he did so, the awful poetess cooed and batted her lashes, while Marie-Anne very, very pointedly ignored him. It was a promising tactic.
One afternoon she waved at him from her place on the lawn, urging him to join her and the group of ladies who had set up their easels. They were painting in watercolor. Phyllida seemed to be trying to paint her hermit’s cottage, but the other girls were using Marie-Anne in her straw bonnet as their model. It was no easy task, as she kept talking and gesturing from her place on the grass.
Mason waved back at her but did not go out to join them. He felt an unexpected pang of envy to see the paints and canvases, the ease with which the girls pursued their pastime. They taught art to ladies here. Just so that they’d have something to do, apparently. None of them seemed to think it was a miraculous gift, the kind of thing that a grubby little criminal boy from a backwater would have given anything for.
“Do you miss her?”
Mason startled at the sound of St. James’ voice behind him, but hid it behind his well-worn expression of polite puzzlement. “Miss who?”
“Dahlia. You have hidden your wounds well, but…” St. James trailed off as he gazed at the ladies in the distance. He looked awful, or as awful as someone like him could look. His clothes were neat and his shave as close as ever, but there were hollows around his eyes as though he hadn’t slept in days, and his hair had less than half its usual buoyancy. He looked longingly toward the place where Phyllida and the others dabbed at their canvases.
“I wouldn’t say I was all that wounded,” Mason assured him. He’d barely even thought of Dahlia since she’d obligingly taken herself back to London a few days ago, the better to plan her wedding. “Are you all right, St. James?”
This produced a heavy sigh from the erstwhile poet, who turned to Mason and said, “Yes. Of course. Quite all right.”
He put on a brave face as he uttered this patent lie. Clenched jaw, painfully straight spine, mournful eyes – oh, God, the eyes. Damn it. Mason would have to draw him now, there was no avoiding it any longer. It had been easy to resist committing the perfect lines of that face to the page when all it did was spout fake sentiment in terrible verse, but there was no resisting real emotion.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Mason said, gesturing to seat beside him on the terrace, “Is it the girl you’ll miss more, or the poetry?”
St. James sat. “That’s a very ungentlemanly question.”
“That’s because I’m not a gentleman. Come on, I won’t tell a soul.”
“If I say it’s a wrench to lose the girl, my reputation as a libertine is rather ruined, isn’t it?” He smiled. “But since you’re sworn to secrecy, I’ll tell you it’s the poetry I’ll really miss. Or the attempt at it, I should say.” He glanced at Mason’s carefully composed face and chuckled. “You need not be so polite in hiding your thoughts any longer. I know I have no talent for it.”
Mason was at a loss for words for a moment until he finally blurted, “You do?”
“Yes.” His smile was perfect too, and it occurred to Mason that he hadn’t seen it before. Never this happy and unselfconscious, anyway. “It was dreadful. Execrable. Really just abysmal.”
“You seem awfully cheerful about it.”
“I do, don’t I? Well, I always knew I was bad. But I did think with practice, I would improve. I believe I did improve a little – but only a very little. And it’s hard to keep on mangling something I love as much as poetry.”
He continued to gaze at the cluster of girls painting their summer scene. Mason revised his opinion of the man to one of admiration. It took a special kind of courage to knowingly make an ass of oneself. Regularly, and publicly.
“But why would you do it if you didn’t have to?” he asked, curious. “Couldn’t you just study law from the start?”
“Well one has to try, doesn’t one? Or I suppose not, but I naturally incline to these sorts of romantic ideas. Flights of fancy, my father says. I thought if I really threw myself into it, you know…” He watched, wistful, as Phyllida leaned over Amy’s shoulder to say something that caused her to laugh. “If you want a thing so badly, if you love it like it’s a part of yourself – the best part of yourself… Well, you must try. What else can matter?”
He wasn’t sure anymore if St. James was talking about poetry or Phyllida, the way he was looking at her.
“That’s the most poetic thing I’ve ever heard from you.”
St. James gave a discouraged sigh. “Shame it doesn’t rhyme, though.”
Mason worked very hard not to laugh, and tucked it away to tell Marie-Anne later.
Chapter Fourteen
She had stopped coming into his room nightly, but at the end of a week she stepped through the panel and asked what he would give Freddy for their next paper. He showed her the sketches, which were based on London tidbits Freddy had written out in a letter to him.
“Nothing about the libertine St. James, or Phyllida,” he told her, and she nodded in satisfaction. He entertained her with the story of how St. James had been knowingly torturing them all with his verse all this time, and managed to make it so amusing that she snorted with laughter. “We’ll have to rely on Miss Wolcott for our poetry from now on,” he said. “She’s not nearly as bad at it as he was. I’ll encourage her to write an ode to Ravenclyffe’s snuffbox.”
It worked a little too well. The laughter was gone from her face in a blink. It would probably be a step too far to tell her how adorable she was when she was jealous.
“Ravenclyffe will take his snuffbox and leave here soon,” she said through tight lips that he very much wanted to kiss. “She will have to write the ode to the so handsome Mr. St. James instead.”
He reminded her that the two poets hated each other, and tried not to smirk at this evidence of her jealousy. She scowled and said goodnight, and left his room.
The next day, Ravenclyffe left and Marie-Anne wore a red gown to dinner. She sat beside St. James and asked him all about his plans to study law, lamented that he too would be leaving for London soon, and licked at her spoon while giving a coy look to Mason. It didn’t matter that he knew what she was doing, he was jealous nonetheless. She looked stunning in red.
Freddy sent word that rumor had reached London about the libertine St. James having dropped his latest girl, and speculation was rampant as to whom he’d seduce next. Mason made sketches that suggested the poet had renounced his ways and was considering a withdrawal from society and the life of an ascetic. In an effort to please Marie-Anne – and because, truthfully, it made for a better story – he added in an implication that St. James’ change in character was the result of having observed the lecherous Ravenclyffe up close, and wishing desperately not to be anything like him.
“Yes, this I love very much!” she grinned when she saw the drawings.
They were walking along the far side of the hedge maze, and he wondered what he could do to persuade her to slip behind a thicket for an afternoon tryst. How many pamphlets must be printed before she believed he would not exploit her friends? And more practically, how long could he stay here if he couldn’t exploit them? He was obliged to go where the usable stories were and that, very unfortunately, was far from Marie-Anne.
“You will meet with Freddy tomorrow to give him this?” she asked, and he nodded. “He will be annoyed that there is no more excitement from the Shipleys for him to put in the paper. But perhaps Dahlia’s mother will make a fool of herself at their engagement ball.”
“I believe you mean probably, not perhaps.”
She laughed in agreement and passed the sketch back to him. He could not help himself – he caught her hand and held it, palm up, while he traced a thumb lightly over the veins of her wrist. Her pulse leaped.
“You study me so closely. Are you thinking of drawing me?” Her skin was growing hot under his touch, so quickly.
“I’m thinking of pulling that dress down and sucking your breasts.” Her pulse leapt again, in time with her sharp intake of breath. “Since you asked.”
The best part – or the worst, he really couldn’t decide – was how obviously it excited her. He was learning that a blushing virgin couldn’t hold a candle to a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and felt no shame for wanting it. But then, no woman he’d ever met could hold a candle to Marie-Anne, in any sense.
“There is nothing to stop you,” she said, meeting his eyes steadily, “If you cannot resist.”
She probably had no idea that there was a spark of hope in her eye. It made him almost obscenely confident, so that he had to bite his tongue from saying something that might ruin it. He just took a step back, reminisced privately about the taste of her as his fingers stroked over her wrist, and smiled wide. A moment after her eyes went to the dimple that appeared in his cheek, he dropped her hand and wished her a good day. The sigh that came out of her as he walked away was extremely promising.
It was hard to think of anything else in the days following. If she would insist on this game of relentless teasing, he’d play for as long as it took to win. Assuming his heart and various other organs could withstand the pressure.
Meanwhile, Freddy grumbled about the inconvenience of coming out from London once a week to retrieve drawings. He was further annoyed by Mason’s lack of contribution beyond the illustrations. “You must have learned something at that manor that we can write about. What about that West Indian girl staying there?” he asked. “Why’s Lady Huntingdon so close with her, eh? Could be something there.”
But Mason lied and assured him there wasn’t. Days later, the priggish Mr. Harner returned from an afternoon in London clutching the latest pamphlet and noted approvingly that it was far less scandalous.
“Why does he still not make their engagement public?” Marie-Anne hissed to Mason under her breath while she stared daggers at Harner. “There is no reason his disagreeable uncle should not approve.”
Mason didn’t answer, being too busy calculating how much money he and Freddy would lose if they failed to drum up a scandal. But he noticed how Marie-Anne unconsciously leaned closer than was necessary to whisper to him. Close enough for him to feel the heat of her. He wanted to touch the soft place behind her ear, framed in her honey-gold hair. But the room was filled with people, stifling and proper, and she was so entirely focused on taking care of others that she played this game and denied herself.
“You know I’ll just keep resisting, don’t you?” he murmured to her, and felt her stiffen in surprise. It was thrilling, this little hidden moment of whispering to her while all the others were unaware. “I’ll keep resisting all the gossip – and you, day after day. Then the summer will end, and we’ll go back to London, and there won’t be any more secret passageways between our rooms.”
He walked away before she responded, lightly trailing his hand across the small of her back as he did so. She gave a delicious shiver, and he felt her eyes on him for the rest of the day.
In the evening it rained, and they all sat in the drawing room after dinner exhausting their options for entertainment. St. James had left the party to return to London so there were fewer poetry readings, a blessed relief. Instead, Amy played the piano for them, though the music seemed to bore her, and she abandoned the instrument to ask Mason for tales of America. He had learned to be careful when asked for this sort of thing; he’d once mentioned, when asked, that he’d known some Shawnee and Phyllida had taken the opportunity to rhapsodize about the noble savage. There was only so much brainlessness he could endure.
He settled on telling them about the music he’d grown up with. “It’s not anything like your elegant pianoforte,” he said. “Those are rare so far outside of the cities. A ways out in the country, we’d be lucky to have more than a fiddle, and I never learned anything more complicated than the jaw harp.”
“A jaw harp? Whatever is that?” asked Lady Huntingdon.
“I’m sure you know it,” he began, but as he described it none of them seemed to recognize it. He supposed it was a low sort of music, not the kind of thing that would be found in a lady’s drawing room. It almost made him laugh to think of hearing the twanging sound in a place like this.
“But how do you make music from it?” asked Marie-Anne, who looked up from embroidering a handkerchief. “It is very small, you say, and only a frame with one little string.”
“It functions like a reed.” He pressed his thumb and forefinger together lightly to form
the approximate an oval shape that came to a point. “It’s like a wire, here.” He indicated the place where the pads of his finger and thumb met. “You put this part to your mouth, just inside your lips.”
“And blow?”
He paused. “Yes. And suck. Among other things.” She dropped her eyes and he knew she was, like him, struggling not to smile knowingly.
“But what other things?” Now it was Phyllida who asked, looking down at her own hand which she’d formed into the same shape. “How is it done?”
“The secret is to be very gentle,” he explained, never looking away from Marie-Anne. “You can never bite down. You just hold it very gently between your lips in just the right way. At the tip of it,” he tapped the tops of his joined fingers, “That’s the magical spot. That’s where the music is made.”
Marie-Anne cleared her throat. She was refusing to look up at him now, biting her lower lip and concentrating on her needlework while innocent Phyllida continued to ask questions.
“But how does the breath produce sound, if it is only a wire set across the mouth?”
“That’s where your fingers come into play,” he said to the top of Marie-Anne’s head. “One finger just at the tip, to pluck at it gently. Or sometimes not so gently. Over and over again.”
“As you would a harp string, I suppose,” said Amy. “But how do you play the different notes? I cannot think how it is done.”
“I’m sure you can,” he assured her as he watched Marie-Anne’s needle falter. “Can you guess, Marie-Anne?”
She blinked up at him with those very blue eyes. She gave him a quelling look but when he only raised his brows in response, she looked thoughtful. Dreamy, even. “You use your tongue?” she answered softly.
He nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”
She had a lovely light flush on her cheeks, and now she couldn’t look at him at all.
“Are you very good at it?” asked Lady Huntingdon, who had a devilish gleam in her eye. “It sounds a difficult instrument to learn.”
House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Page 19