No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  “God,” Simon said hoarsely. His eyes had closed somewhere in the process. Joan wrapped her fingers around his shaft, and he said, “God,” again. This time it was considerably more emphatic. His cock pulsed in her hand, thick and rigid. When she slid her fingers upward, she found wetness at the head.

  When she ran her tongue around it, Simon cried out, and his fists clenched on the sheets. “You—ahh—don’t have to—”

  Joan laughed and slid downward, taking him into her mouth. He tasted musky, far from unpleasant, and she wanted to make him come that way sometime soon. Not now, though. Whether it was the aphrodisiac or Simon himself, she was hot again, wanting again, and she couldn’t wait much longer. She gave the head of his cock one final flick of her tongue, making him moan again, and then sat up.

  Straddling him again was wonderful. Taking him inside her was damn near mind-blowing. She cried out this time—once in pleasure and then startled when Simon caught her hips before she could begin to move.

  When she looked down, she saw that he was smiling up at her. “My turn now,” he said, and his hand, big and warm, moved down. He ran his fingers through the curls between her thighs, found the place that was stiff and eager for his touch, and slowly began to rub it. “Don’t move.”

  His voice was low, almost a whisper, a caress itself. And his touch was patient. Light. Skilled. Joan might have been surprised if she’d been able to think. Instead, she held very still, biting her lip, fighting the urge to arch forward and rub against Simon’s hand. All her attention focused on his touch and on making sure it didn’t stop—more so as he rubbed faster, a little harder, and suddenly the conclusion wasn’t just likely but fucking inevitable.

  Joan didn’t notice him leaning up, but suddenly his lips had closed over one of her nipples again. Then his hand was moving even faster, and she threw her head back, biting her lip. That time she managed to come without screaming, though she’d never in her life know how.

  As the surges inside her died away, she and Simon started moving. Now there was urgency. Simon seemed at the end of his patience, and that was fun too. His hands gripped her hips again, but this time they urged her on, faster and faster, with his eyes on her face or watching the way her breasts moved with each thrust. At the end, his eyes closed again, and he thrust upward one final time, letting go and taking Joan over the edge again as he went.

  ***

  “You don’t have any scars,” Joan said, sometime later. She was lying on one side, trailing the tips of her fingers over his chest. Even after two rounds of sex—and those quite the wildest Simon could remember—it felt wonderful. He thought he might start purring. “None. It’s pretty impressive. Didn’t you ever fall off anything?”

  “I did. And I do. Have a scar, I mean.” He wiggled his right foot and then caught Joan’s arm. “No, don’t get up. It’s not worth looking at.”

  She grinned. “What happened?”

  “Nothing terribly romantic. I slammed it in a window trying to sneak out of school one night.”

  “Why?”

  “I was twelve.”

  This time, her smile was rueful. “Okay, fair enough.”

  He ran a hand down her arm, brushing the long scar there. “I shouldn’t ask where you got yours, should I?”

  “Not this late at night,” she joked, but her eyes were serious, watching his face. Looking for any hint of disgust, Simon thought, and he met her gaze seriously. “There’s the flashgun, of course, where it fastens on. You know that one.”

  He glanced down at the scar in the crook of her elbow. “Is it always there?”

  “Not always. It has more of a kick with the major vessels and closer to the heart.” She rubbed the little circle absently with one hand. “I’ve attached to the femoral sometimes if I had time to prepare in advance and someone to supervise. And if I could eat a steak afterward.”

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not during. The gun’s got anesthetic. Aches a bit after, though. The tattoos hurt worse.”

  There was one of them on her back, high enough that he could see why her ball gowns were relatively modest: a spiraling blue shape near her spine. Another, also blue but more angular and runic, adorned the inside of each thigh. “They look like they took a while too.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She winced but with pride. “The priests tie you down when they do it. Only way to make anyone keep still. And you have to. They’re magic.”

  “What do they do?” he asked, stroking his finger over the blue spiral.

  “These? Speed. Strength. Protection. Other people get other things.”

  “But everyone has them.”

  Joan nodded. “It’s a sign that you’re grown up.”

  “Enduring pain,” he said dryly. “I suppose that’s a reasonable enough mark of adulthood. Particularly in your time—no offense intended.”

  “None taken,” she said, amiable and relaxed. “There’s a reason I came back.”

  Abruptly, Simon pulled her into his arms, rejoicing not in sensuality now but in the sheer feel of her, warm and alive and whole against him. He held her tightly, perhaps too tightly—in recompense, perhaps, for the time in the library before when he couldn’t.

  Joan sighed, contented, and rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m glad I got to meet you too,” she said.

  Then she sighed and pushed herself upward. Her body was shadow and silver, now that moonlight had replaced the dying fire, and her hair fell around her like Danae’s cloud. “I’d better head out. Before anyone wakes up.”

  “You could stay here,” Simon said. He told himself it was a sudden impulse, but he knew he was lying.

  And he knew what the answer would be, even before Joan shook her head. “If I could stay, I would.”

  Chapter 37

  There was always a morning after.

  Not that Joan had any regrets—even the faint damn-it’s-been-a-while soreness was good, since it brought back hot memories and gave her the satisfied feeling of hard work well done—but logistics had gotten a lot more complicated all of a sudden.

  The ripped dress, for one. Much as she’d enjoyed Simon’s company the night before, Joan looked at the shredded bodice and cursed him quietly. The tear was a simple one, but it was in a very revealing place. So, wincing inwardly, she stuffed the dress into the cupboard where she kept the rest of her more damning supplies. At least today was Betty’s day off. That gave Joan something of a reprieve.

  She found a blouse that would hide the bruise on her neck and a skirt, and then went downstairs.

  Eleanor was in the library. Her usual book was on the desk, but for once she was paying no attention to it, looking out the window instead. She jumped a little when Joan came in.

  Was Eleanor going back to her old nervousness? She hadn’t dressed in black or anything, and she smiled, but she did drop her eyes. Joan sighed inwardly even as she smiled. “Hey.”

  “Good morning.” At least that came without stuttering or hesitation. “Are you all right? Did the party go well?”

  “Pretty well,” said Joan.

  Eleanor looked her over, trying to be surreptitious. Her eyes lingered on the high collar of Joan’s blouse. “I’m sorry I wasn’t awake when you came back.”

  She was worried, Joan realized, and she was a lot less innocent than most people here thought girls were. It did look bad: a late night in the company of a bastard, followed by plainer clothing than usual with a high neckline.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. It came out sounding rougher than she’d meant it to, more like rejection. “I mean—”

  She reached over and put a hand on Eleanor’s. “Nothing happened. I swear. There was a crowd. Reynell tried flirting with me, like usual. That’s all.”

  Not exactly the truth, though, not about Simon and, more importantly, not about Reynell. Joan thought she’d done a fairly good job of hiding that, but Eleanor gave her a long, measuring look before she nodded. “I’m very glad to hear
it. Did you have a good time?”

  “Not really.” Joan sat down on the edge of the desk. “I don’t really like messing with spirits. Especially not when I’m with people who don’t know what they’re doing.”

  “You don’t think anyone there does?”

  Joan shook her head. “I think there were people there who can call things up. Reynell might be able to put them back down again. But eventually he’s gonna run across one that he can’t make go away or one that puts its mark on him before he does, and then—” She brought her hands together with a sharp clap.

  “Oh.” Eleanor frowned a little. “You seem to know a great deal about them.”

  “Yes,” said Joan.

  “It’s odd, really, that they should be so much the same between your world and ours. When yours is so different, I mean.”

  “Maybe,” said Joan. “But maybe they come from outside all worlds, so that wouldn’t be so strange.”

  Eleanor walked back to the desk and closed her book, smoothing her hand down the leather cover. “You’re here to do something very serious,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Joan.

  “It’s to do with Mr. Reynell.”

  “Yes.” She waited.

  Eleanor looked down at the book. “Oh,” she said, and left it on the desk. “Simon says we might go to the theatre tonight. Would you like that?”

  ***

  Theatre dresses were low necked, but a broad velvet ribbon hid the bruise all right, and Joan pinned on a brooch to make it look like jewelry instead of camouflage. She let Betty fuss over her hair a little more than usual too, and peered into the mirror for just a moment longer, looking at the masses of rose satin and the piled curls.

  Dumbass. You need infatuation right now like you need a hole in the head. Still, there it was. When she thought of Simon, her pulse sped up. Stupid, but undeniable.

  And when she met him in the hall and saw the way he looked at her, Joan found herself smiling like a complete moron. She couldn’t even be properly embarrassed about it. Not when he was smiling back the same way. On him, it looked gorgeous.

  “You’ll have a good time tonight,” Simon said, as he walked into the theatre with her and Eleanor. “It’s an excellent play—and has a very well-known actress in the lead part.”

  “That,” Eleanor said, quiet and wry, “will guarantee a packed house no matter what the play is.”

  She was talking more tonight, her small jokes more frequent. That might have been a good sign. There was energy there, nervous energy, though, Joan thought. She hoped that Eleanor hadn’t found out about her and Simon or that she wasn’t upset if she had.

  They tried not to be too obvious. Joan didn’t know how successful they were. Simon pointed people out to her and Eleanor alike, but when Eleanor was distracted, he sometimes bent close to Joan and told her something he’d never think of mentioning to his sister, or he ran his fingers up her neck for a moment. Joan thought it was fairly subtle, but she had no real way to be sure.

  Not that she was objecting.

  “It is a tragedy,” Simon said, leaning over to her when the curtain fell for intermission.

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “So are you.”

  “It’s a very thoughtful smile. I’m contemplating the meaning of life.” He straightened up as Eleanor got to her feet, turning to her with a slightly less joking look. “And how did you like it?”

  “Oh, very well, thank you.” They were heading out of their box now into a hall filled with richly dressed people. Joan strained to hear Eleanor as she went on. “I’ve seen it done before, but the staging here was—”

  She stopped short. A gaunt woman in ostrich feathers bumped into her, sniffed loudly, and stalked on. Eleanor didn’t seem to notice.

  Joan followed Eleanor’s gaze across the room and saw, as she’d expected, Reynell. He was standing in a small group of young people, holding a drink in one hand and leaning against a wall. When he saw Joan, he bowed—the drink didn’t even wobble—but he looked from her to Simon and Eleanor and didn’t step forward.

  Oh, Powers.

  All right. I’m supposed to be crazy about this guy. What do I do now?

  She turned to Simon. His hands were clenched at his sides now, and if she put a hand on his arm, Joan knew, she’d feel the muscles as tense as wire. Much as she wanted to touch him, though, to give him some kind of reassurance, she couldn’t. Too many people were watching, and one person in particular.

  It was time for the mission now.

  “I’m going to go and get some fresh air,” she said, just a little too loudly. “It’s a bit hot in here.”

  Simon frowned. “Would you like me to come with you?”

  “No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll only be a minute. Besides, I’m sure Eleanor could use some refreshment.”

  That much, at least, was true. Ellie was staring back and forth between them and then at Reynell, looking more troubled than she had in a long time. Hell, thought Joan, but she couldn’t worry about it now. I’ll just find the book and stab him, and this will all get better.

  First she had to make herself an opening. She patted Eleanor on the arm, then slipped through the crowd.

  Of course, she couldn’t actually go outside. Ladies didn’t do that. There was a small open window on the other side of the room and enough people to provide plenty of cover between it and Simon. Joan squeezed between people to get there, smelling rich food and heavy perfume, and tried not to think about what would happen in an attack.

  At the window, she stared outside, letting her hair blow back and taking deep breaths. It really was a relief—at least until she felt a gloved hand on her shoulder. “I’ve missed you horribly, you know.”

  “It’s only been a day,” she said, laughing nervously. The nerves supplied themselves, at least. She only had to fake the laughter.

  Reynell met her eyes as she turned and let his tongue slip out, passing over his lower lip for just a second. “A day can seem like an eternity,” he said, “especially without the company one desires. I can only count myself lucky that chance brought you here.”

  Does this really work on people? Maybe just on girls he’s drugged.

  “Why do you say that?” She dropped her eyes. “I do have to get back soon. The play will be starting.”

  “But before it does,” Reynell said, sliding his hand down along her arm, “perhaps we can make more private arrangements.” His hand reached hers, clutched it, and pressed a slip of paper into the palm. “Bring a maid, if that will satisfy your hosts. Only take care to bring a discreet maid.”

  He smiled at her, utterly sure of himself.

  “Nothing could keep me away,” said Joan.

  Reynell raised her hand to his mouth and slowly kissed the knuckles. “I’ll be counting the hours,” he said, and then he was gone.

  Turning back to the window, Joan opened the paper.

  Tomorrow night, it said, in perfect handwriting. Ten o’clock. And an address.

  Ten o’clock. Not horribly late for town life. Still too late and too private to be anything but sex. At least he was honest. Joan folded the note and slid it into her reticule. Her hands shook only a little.

  Calm down. You’re ready for this. You’ve been getting ready for years.

  That was the problem. Five years of training back home and more than a month here. Suddenly, time had weight, and Joan felt all of it at her back. Everything she did from now on would be important, either because it would affect the mission or because…well, because it would probably be one of the last times she did it.

  Here we go.

  She crossed the room again and found Simon standing by himself. “Where’s Eleanor?”

  “Over that way,” he said, gesturing roughly toward the area where Joan had been. “Talking with a friend from school, she said. I thought with so many people around, and since you were talking to Alex—”

  “‘Just a distra
ction.’ Goes great on a tombstone,” Joan said, and laughed a little too sharply.

  Then Simon’s hand was on the small of her back, firm and warm, and she felt her racing heartbeat slow. Arousal ran second now to relief. She looked up, met his eyes, and saw confirmation.

  “There are two of us, you know,” he said mildly. Then, frowning, “Are you all right? Did he—”

  “He didn’t do anything that wasn’t in the plan. And I’m fine.” She took a deep breath, hardly even feeling it. “But we’ll need to talk when we get home.”

  Chapter 38

  The note wasn’t surprising, really. Still, Simon read it slowly and then read it over again. If there was ever a time to have all the details of a situation down, it was now.

  Joan paced while he read. She picked up one book after another and set them down again, took a diffident sip of tea and then abandoned the cup, and finally took the poker and began, entirely without need, to stir up the fire. Color flamed in her cheeks, and her eyes were so bright that she looked almost feverish.

  She hadn’t bothered to take off her evening dress, but she had pulled the pins out of her hair, one by one, shortly after they’d entered the library. Now her hair hung loose and golden over the rose silk, completing the picture of a woman in an advanced state of distraction.

  Not that Simon could blame her. Not that he didn’t have his own inner maelstrom of relief that things were finally coming to an end, regret that it was this end, a now almost nonexistent glimmer of hope that Alex could be redeemed or at least could meet an honorable death, and what he could now freely admit was bitter jealousy where Joan was concerned.

  He spoke from the last. Everything else was too momentous, too intense. “If it’s possible,” Simon said, putting the note down, “I would rather not give him the chance to get very far.”

  Joan spun around and stared at him. For a second, her eyes were blank, and Simon waited for anger. She laughed, though. There wasn’t much humor in it, but it was laughter. “Powers help me, neither would I. If he weren’t a wizard, it might be a good idea, tactically speaking. But—you know what I mean?”